Authors: S. L. Farrell

A Magic of Nightfall (24 page)

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall

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Perhaps it had.

Allesandra prayed to Cénzi as well. She prayed that the day might turn out as she hoped it would, that she had not misread the signs. And though she prayed, she also made certain that a dagger was sheathed to her forearm under the frilled and lacy sleeve of her tashta. She had learned long ago from her vatarh to never be without a weapon.

The day would be a long one for Fynn—and for those, like Allesandra, who were required to attend to him. First came the ceremony in Brezno Temple at First Call, where the Archigos gave the new Hïrzg the Blessing of Cénzi. Then there were the required state visits: to the Tomb of Hïrzg Kelwin, first Hïrzg of Firenzcia; to the temple near the Hïrzg’s Palais that held a vial of blood from Misco, the founder of Firenzcia; to the great cracked boulder near Brezno’s main square, where it was said that the Moitidi—at Cénzi’s request—sent a furious lightning bolt down to earth to smite the army of Il Trebbio when it invaded Firenzcia in 183 during the midst of the Three Generation War. At each location, there were the obligatory speeches and ceremonies, and the ca’-and-cu’ listened attentively, grateful that there was no driving rain or bitter cold or humid heat to endure beyond the stultifying, expected phrases.

Then there came the final procession to the new statue of Falwin I, erected by Allesandra’s vatarh Jan after he declared Firenzcia’s secession from the Holdings—it was Falwin who had led the tragically unsuccessful revolt against Kraljiki Henri VI in 418, and it was there that Fynn had erected the dais where, at last, the Crown and Ring of Firenzcia would be officially declared his to bear.

As Archigos ca’Cellibrecca passed Allesandra in his téni-driven carriage on his way to his place in the line of dignitaries, he leaned from the window and ordered the driver to halt. The e’téni stopped her chanting and the wheels slowed. The Archigos beckoned to Allesandra over the broken-globe symbol of Cénzi painted in gold and lapis. “Excuse me a moment,” she told Jan and Pauli. Jan shrugged at his matarh; Pauli, deep in a conversation with a pretty young woman of the ca’Belgradin family, gave no acknowledgment at all. Allesandra went to the Archigos’ carriage and gave the sign of Cénzi to Semini. Francesca was sitting next to the Archigos, in shadow. “A beautiful day for the ceremony,” she said to him, to Francesca. “Cénzi has smiled on Fynn.”

“Indeed,” Semini answered. His voice dropped, low enough that Francesca could not have heard him, barely audible over the tumult of the musicians beginning the processional march. “However, A’Hïrzg, I would not stand too close to the new Hïrzg on the dais.”

“Archigos?”

He glanced to the rear of the line, where Fynn’s carriage—drawn by four white horses, one of them riderless—waited. “It’s a beautiful day indeed,” he said, more loudly now. “A good one for all of Firenzcia, I think,” he said. “Driver—they’re waiting for us.”

The e’téni began chanting again; the wheels creaked as they began to turn once more. Allesandra stepped back from the carriage as Semini nodded to her and sat back again on his cushioned seat next to Francesca, who gave Allesandra a sour look as they passed. She watched them move into line just before the Hïrzg’s carriage.

She had been on edge all day, wondering if ca’Cellibrecca truly intended to carry out what he had hinted at—he would do nothing himself, of course, but work through layers of intermediaries; if something were to happen, the Archigos would also want it to occur in public, where he could be seen not to be involved, and where it would have the most impact. It was exactly what she would have done herself.

“I would not stand too close to the new Hïrzg . . .”

A thrill of fear overlaid with excitement went through her. She wanted to run back to the Archigos, to whisper three words to him:
“The White Stone?”
If he nodded yes to that, then what she had planned would be a dangerous ploy indeed, given the legends of the assassin. The White Stone, it was said, would kill anyone who tried to interfere with his completion of a contract The White Stone, those same rumors declared, was a master in the use of every weapon; there was no one who could safely cross blades with him. But the White Stone always struck his victims in isolation, not in the midst of crowds. It couldn’t be him . . . at least Allesandra hoped not.

Whatever the case, it would happen soon, then. Soon. And any way this might play out, she would be the one who profited the most—if she was careful. In time. All in time. She returned to her family. “What’d the Archigos want, Matarh?” Jan asked her. Pauli continued to chat with the ca’Belgradi woman.

“To talk about the weather and—according to Francesca—take credit for it,” Allesandra told him; Jan laughed at that. “Yes, I know, the woman is nothing if not predictable. Let’s get to our coach, darling. The procession is about to move. Pauli, I hate to interrupt your attempts to impress the young Vajica, but we have our duty . . .”

With a grimace of irritation, Pauli broke off his conversation and strolled over as Allesandra was following Jan to the open carriage just ahead of the Archigos. She could see Semini and Francesca watching them, and she nodded to him. “You needn’t be so
strident
, my dear,” Pauli said.

“And you needn’t be so obvious,” Allesandra answered. “But this isn’t a conversation we should be having in public, Pauli.”

“It’s not a conversation we need to have at all, as far as I’m concerned.” Pauli pulled himself into the coach. He shifted uncomfortably on the plush leather of the seat, tapping at the cushions with his fingers. The sound was as bright and loud as if he were rapping on wood and the cushion barely dimpled. “Firenzcia has a knack for making something appear enticing when it is actually extraordinarily uncomfortable,” he commented. “But I realize you’re already intimately familiar with that quality, my dear.”

“Vatarh!” Jan said sharply, and—strangely—Pauli turned to stare out from the carriage’s window. Allesandra felt her cheeks grow hot, but she said nothing. They would be at the dais before a quarter turn, and the day would become what it would become. Either way, Pauli would eventually be no more irritating to her than a summer fly, and she would dispose of him as easily when the right time came. With relief.

The carriage lurched into motion then, and for the next half a turn they rode along the main avenue of Brezno, lined thickly with the inhabitants of Brezno and surrounding towns, all of them cheering and shouting, pushing and jostling against the utilino and gardai stationed there in their efforts to see the elite of Firenzcia, the grand visitors from other countries of the Firenzcian Coalition, and their new Hïrzg.

The square around Falwin’s statue was packed shoulder to shoulder, the royal carriages moving along an open path kept cleared by the gardai. At the side of the dais, they were escorted up the wide temporary staircase to their places in the shadow of Falwin’s statue. The ancient Hïrzg lifted his bronze arms over them, his massive sword held aloft. Allesandra could
feel
the sound of the crowd, their shouts and applause cresting as Fynn appeared on the platform, hands widespread as if embracing them all. He basked in their adulation, spotlighted in bright sun. She felt a brief pang of envy, watching him.

Allesandra was just to Fynn’s left with Jan next to her, then Pauli (already turning backward to speak with the ca’Belgradi girl again); Semini stood to Fynn’s right in his brilliant gold-and-emerald ceremonial robes, the crown of the Archigos on his head. Allesandra glanced at ca’Cellibrecca, standing next to the dour Francesca, who seemed to be the only one entirely unimpressed with the proceedings. Semini nodded, faintly.

When? Who? How?

Fynn had begun to speak, his voice amplified through the efforts of two softly chanting o’téni to either side of him. His voice boomed over the masses, the stentorian voice of a demigod shouting from the heavens. “Firenzcia, I stand before you as your servant, and I humbly thank you for the gift of your confidence.”

A roar answered him, and he lifted his arms again. But Allesandra’s attention drifted away. She scanned the front of the crowd, scanned those standing with her on the platform. There were gardai at the rail of the dais to either side of Fynn, staring outward and down—surely they would see anything troubling there before it was visible to her.

“I would not stand too close to the new Hïrzg . . .”
A magical attack, then? A fireball like that of the war-téni? Semini had been a war-téni, after all. But the Archigos certainly wouldn’t use the Ilmodo himself, or dare to have someone else do so when it would draw suspicion toward the téni and thus to him.

“As your Hïrzg, I promise you that I will continue my vatarh’s desire to make Firenzcia first among all nations. . . .”

Allesandra glanced over her shoulder. The ca’-and’cu and the visiting dignitaries were arrayed behind her, and at the rear, the servants waited. There was nothing unusual there. She started to turn back when motion caught her eye.

“. . . a dream that would see Brezno as the center of the world . . .”

One of the servants was moving forward, bearing a tray with a pitcher of water. He moved slowly through the ranks, murmuring apologies as he pushed carefully through the rows. Moving toward Fynn. The servant’s attention never seemed to leave her brother and something in the intensity of that gaze alarmed her. Semini, in the most telling action of all, muttered something to Francesca and was sidling away from Fynn, toward the far edge of the platform.

There are those who use magic and are enemies of Firenzcia, who would gladly kill the new Hïrzg and would cast no suspicion on the Archigos at all.
Allesandra felt a chill of fear; she was no longer so certain of this plan of hers. She had expected the attack to be physical: a knife, a sword, an arrow.
Vatarh wouldn’t have hesitated, not if he thought there was still a chance of success. And you are his daughter, the one who is most like him . . .

“Jan,” she said, leaning over to her son. “That man—the servant, behind us, moving forward with the tray—no, don’t look at him directly, but do you see him?”

Jan’s head moved quickly left, then back. “Yes.”

“He’s a Numetodo. An assassin.”

Jan blinked. “What?”

“Believe me,” she whispered furiously. At the dais, Fynn was still declaiming:
“A new day for Firenzcia, a new dawn . . .”
“When he puts the tray down, all he’ll need to do is speak a word and make a motion with his hands—we can’t let that happen. I’ll confront him to slow him down; you come from the side. Go!” She pushed at him. With a glance, Jan turned and muttered apologies as he slipped backward through the ranks of the ca’-and-cu’. Pauli glanced over at them, curious, then returned his attention to the young ca’Belgradi woman. Allesandra stepped carefully behind Fynn, and turned to face the servant.

There were only a few people between them. The servant with the tray stopped, seeing her swivel to face him, and his face tightened. She thought for a moment that she was mistaken, that the man was nothing more than what he pretended to be. But the next few breaths would be ones that Allesandra would never forget.

. . . the servant tossed the tray aside (the ca’-and-’cu’ next to him reacting belatedly as tray, pitcher, mug, and water cascaded over them). He lifted his hands as if he were about to pray . . .

. . . as Allesandra flung herself toward him, only to be impeded by those between them, pushing back against her advance . . .

. . . fire bloomed between the assassin’s hand as he roared a single word that sounded like the téni language. Allesandra expected to die then, consumed by the téni-fire that would also take her brother . . .

. . . but Jan slammed into the man at the moment the Numetodo opened his hands, bearing him down. (Around them, mouths gaped in mid-shout, most of them not yet realizing what was happening and wondering why this rude young man had shoved them aside, or why this clumsy servant had despoiled their fine clothing. Behind her back, Allesandra heard Fynn falter and go silent. She could imagine him turning, slowly, to see the commotion behind him.) The mage-fire arced sideways and up rather than toward Fynn and Allesandra. Ca’-and-cu’ screamed as the fire touched them, tearing through them and blossoming into a fireball that exploded at eye level to the statue of Falwin. Red light pulsed and died, brighter than the sun, and now the crowds screamed also.

“Jan!” Allesandra called in panic, and she pushed forward to get to him. He seemed unhurt, struggling with the Numetodo though the man seemed curiously lethargic in Jan’s hands, as if stunned by the turn of events. Around them, there was chaos. She heard Fynn shouting.

Allesandra slid her own dagger from its sheath on her sleeve. Kneeling quickly, she plunged it under the jaw of the Numetodo and yanked it viciously sideways. Blood spurted and fountained, sticky and hot as it streamed over her hand and arm. “Matarh!” Jan said, and she heard the horror in his voice as the blood splashed over him as well. Hands were grabbing at them; the gardai had arrived, their swords drawn, shoving ca’-and-cu’ aside. Fynn bellowed orders.

“Who did this!” she heard him shout at her back. She turned to him, the front of her clothing ruined with gore.

“My son saved your life and mine, my Hïrzg, my brother,” she told him. “And I’ve made certain that this assassin will never strike at you again.”

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall

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