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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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He wondered for a moment what he’d do if Pauli got up, but his vatarh only blinked again and laughed as if startled.
“Well, you didn’t need to do
that
,” he said.
“You may have whatever opinion you want of Matarh,” Jan told him. “I don’t care. But from now on, Vatarh, keep them to yourself or we will have more than words.” With that, before Pauli could rise from the carpet or answer, Jan turned and rushed from the room.
He felt strangely exhilarated. His hand tingled. The rest of the day, he expected to be summoned into his vatarh’s presence—once the wine had passed from the man’s head. But when he was told that the carriages were ready and waiting for him, he had heard nothing. He looked up to the windows of his vatarh’s wing as he entered the lead carriage and the servants traveling with him piled into the others. Jan thought he glimpsed a form at the window, watching, and he lifted his hand—the hand that had struck his vatarh.
Another form—a feminine one—approached his vatarh from behind, and the curtain closed again. Jan stepped up into the carriage. “Let’s go,” he told the driver. “We’ve a long journey ahead.”
He looked out from the carriage window again now. For most of the journey, he’d brooded on what had happened. He was nearly sixteen. Nearly a man. He’d even had his first lover—a ce’ girl who had been part of the estate staff, though his matarh had sent her away when she realized that they had become intimate. She’d also given Jan a long lecture on her expectations for him. “But Vatarh—” he’d begun, and she cut off his protest with a sharp slash of her hand.
“Stop there, Jan. Your vatarh is lazy and dissolute, and—forgive my crudeness—he too often thinks with what’s between his legs, not with his head. You’re better than him, Jan. You are going to be important in this world,
if
you make the choice not to be your vatarh’s child. I
know
this. I promise you.”
She hadn’t said all that she could have, and they both knew it. Pauli might be Jan’s vatarh, but for him that was just another title and not an occupation. It had been his matarh whom Jan saw each day, who had played with him when he was small, who had come to see him each night after his nursemaids had tucked him into bed. His vatarh . . . He was a tall figure who sometimes tousled Jan’s head or who gave him extravagant presents that seemed more to be a payment for his absence than true gifts.
His vatarh was the A’Gyula of West Magyaria, the son of the current Gyula, the ruler who Jan saw about as often as he saw his other great-vatarh, the Hïrzg. People bowed in Pauli’s presence, they laughed and smiled as they talked with him. But Jan had heard the whispers of the staff, and of their guests when they thought no one was listening.
His right hand throbbed, as if with the memory of the slap to his vatarh’s face. He looked at the hand in the dying light of the day: an adult’s hand now. The slap to his vatarh’s face had severed him from his childhood forever.
He would not be his vatarh. That much, he promised himself. He would be his own self. Independent.
Varina ci’Pallo
V
ARINA STOOD ALONGSIDE Karl in the Archigos’ plush reception room, but—as was nearly always the case when Ana was in the same room—she seemed invisible to him. All his attention was on the Archigos. Varina wanted to lean over to Karl and slap him.
“Can’t you see what’s in front of your face? Are you that oblivious?”
It seemed he was. He always was, and he always would be where Ana was concerned. Over the years, Varina had come to that conclusion. It would perhaps have been different if Varina didn’t like and admire the Archigos herself, if she didn’t consider the woman a friend. Still . . .
“You’re sure of this?” Karl asked Ana. He was glancing at a parchment that Ana had handed him, a forefinger tapping the words written there. “He’s dead?” There was no trace of sadness in his voice at all; he was, in fact, smiling as he handed the paper back to her.
Ana frowned. If Karl found the news pleasant, it was obvious to Varina that Ana’s own feelings were more conflicted. “Hïrzg Jan’s dying,” Ana said. “And likely dead by this point, I suspect, if this information is accurate. The téni who sent this message has the healing touch; he should know if the man’s beyond saving.”
“About time the old buzzard passed on,” Karl said. He glanced around the room thoughtfully, but not at Varina. “Have you talked to Allesandra? Will she contest Fynn’s claim to the throne?”
“I don’t know.” Ana seemed to sigh. Ana had never been beautiful; at best, as a young woman, she’d been plain. Even she would have admitted that. Now, approaching her middle years, she’d settled into a matronly figure, but there was something striking and solid and compelling about her. Varina could understand Karl’s attraction and devotion to the woman, even as part of her resented it. Ana’s reputation had only grown over the years. Kraljiki Justi had been mocked behind his back, and his son Audric seemed to be faring no better, and there were those in the Faith who felt Ana’s tolerance and openness were heretical, but the common people of Nessantico and the Holdings seemed to adore their Archigos and had taken her to their hearts. Varina had seen the crowds around the temple whenever Ana was to give an Admonition, and she’d heard the cheers when the Archigos’ carriage passed by on the Avi a’Parete.
“If Allesandra were on the throne of Firenzcia, I’d feel better about everything,” Ana continued. “I’d feel there was some hope that the Holdings could be restored. If Allesandra were Hïrzgin . . .” Another sigh. She looked over her shoulder at the huge, ornamental cracked globe that dominated the far corner of the room: gilded and bejeweled, with carvings of the Moitidi—the demigods who were the sons and daughters of Cénzi—writhing in agony around its base. Her voice was a half-whisper, as if she were afraid someone might overhear her. “Then I might consider opening negotiations with Semini ca’Cellibrecca, to see if the Faith could also be reunited.”
Varina sucked in her breath and Ana glanced at her sympathetically. “I know, Varina,” she said. “I assure you that the safety of the Numetodo would be a nonnegotiable point, even if I were willing to step aside as Archigos for Semini. I wouldn’t tolerate a repeat of the persecutions.”
“You couldn’t trust ca’Cellibrecca to keep those promises,” Varina told her. “He’s his marriage-vatarh’s son, all the way through.”
“Ca’Cellibrecca would be bound to keep a public pledge, as well as his vows to Cénzi.”
“You have more more faith in him than I do,” Varina answered. That caused Ana to smile.
“Strange to hear a Numetodo speak of faith,” she said, her hand reaching out to touch Varina’s shoulder through her tashta. She laughed pleasantly. “But I understand your concern and your skepticism. I ask you to trust me—if it came to that, I will make certain you, Karl, and all your people are protected.”
“
Will
it come to that?” Karl interjected. He’d watched Ana’s hand as if wishing she were touching him. “You think there’s a chance, Ana?”
She looked at the paper in her hand as if searching for an answer there, then turned to drop the scroll on a nearby table. It made little sound—a strange thing, Varina thought, for something so heavy with import. “I don’t know,” Ana said. “There’s no love lost between Allesandra and her brother—given how long Allesandra was here with me while both of them were growing up, they’re more strangers than siblings, and the way Hïrzg Jan treated Allesandra when he
did
ransom her . . .” Ana shook her head. “But I don’t know what Allesandra wants anymore, or what her desires and aspirations might be. I
thought
I knew once, but . . .”
“You were a matarh to her,” Karl said, and Ana laughed again.
“No, I wasn’t that. Maybe an older sister or a tantzia. I tried to be someone she could be safe with, because the poor child was all alone here for far too long. I can’t imagine how much that hurt her.”
“You were wonderful to her,” Karl persisted. Varina watched Karl’s hand reach out to take Ana’s. It hurt to watch the gesture. “You were.”
“Thank you, but I always wonder if I could have done more, or better,” Ana said. She moved her hands slowly away from his. “I did what I could. That’s all Cénzi can ask, I suppose.” She smiled. “We’ll see what happens, won’t we? I’ll keep you informed if I hear any more news.”
“You’re still available for dinner tomorrow?” Karl asked her.
Ana’s gaze slid from Karl to Varina and back. “Yes,” she said. “After Third Call. Would you like to join us, Varina?”
She could feel Karl staring at her. “No,” Varina said hurriedly. “I can’t, Archigos. I have a meeting with Mika, and a class to teach . . .” Too many excuses, but Karl was nodding. His satisfaction at her answer was like the cut of a small blade.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it. We should probably go, Varina. I’m sure the Archigos has other business. . . .” He inclined his head toward Ana and started toward the door. Varina turned to follow him, but Ana’s voice called out behind them.
“Varina, a moment? Karl, I’ll send her along directly, I promise.” Karl glanced back, puzzled, but he bowed again and went to the doors. The two massive panels were carved with bas-reliefs of the Moitidi in battle, with swords clashing and overlapping at the join. Karl pulled and the combatants separated. Varina waited until the polished, dark wood had closed behind him and the Moitidi were once again at war.
“Archigos?”
“I wanted a moment with you, Varina, because I’m worried,” Ana said. “You look so tired and so drawn. Thin. I know how caught up you’ve become in your . . . research. Are you remembering to eat?”
Varina touched her face. She knew what Ana was saying. She’d seen her face in the small mirror she kept on her dressing table. Her fingertips traced the new lines that had emerged in the past several months, felt the coarseness of the gray hairs at her temple. She was afraid to look in the mirror most mornings—the face that looked back at her was an older stranger she barely recognized. “I’m fine,” she said reflexively.
“Are you?” Ana asked again. “These ‘experiments’ Karl says you’re doing, attempting to recreate what Mahri could do . . .” She shook her head. “I worry about you, Varina. So does Karl.”
“So does Karl . . .”
She wished she could believe those words. “I’m fine,” she repeated.
“I could use the Ilmodo if you’d like—it might help. If you’re in pain.”
“You’d disobey the Divolonté and heal me? An unbeliever? Archigos!” Varina smiled at Ana, who laughed in return.
“I can trust you to keep my secrets,” Ana said. “And the offer stands, if you ever feel the need.”
“Thank you, Archigos. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nodded her head toward the silent, battling Moitidi. “I should catch up with Karl.”
“Yes, you should.” Ana started to give the sign of Cénzi to Varina, then stopped herself. “I could tell him,” she said.
“Archigos?”
“I have eyes. When I see you with him . . .”
Varina laughed. “You’re the only one he sees, Archigos.”
“And I’m bound to Cénzi,” Ana said. “No one else. I’m not destined for that kind of relationship in this life. I’ve told him that. I treasure his friendship and all he’s done for me and Nessantico. I love Karl dearly, more than I ever loved anyone else. But what he wants . . .” Her head moved slowly from side to side as her lips pressed together. “You should tell him how
you
feel.”
“If I need to tell him, then it’s obvious that the feeling isn’t shared,” Varina answered. She managed to force her lips into an upward curve. “And I’m bound to my work, as you’re bound to Cénzi.”
Ana stepped forward and gave Varina a quick hug. “Then Karl’s a fool, for not seeing how alike we are.”
Audric ca’Dakwi
E
VEN A KRALJIKI could not avoid his lessons, nor the examinations designed to scrape away whatever essence of knowledge clung to the inside of his skull.
Audric stood before the Sun Throne with his hands clasped behind his back, facing his tutor, Maister ci’Blaylock. Behind the brittle, chalk-dusted stick of the maister, the audience gazed at Audric with smiling encouragement: a few chevarittai bedecked with their Blood Medals, the ca’-and-cu’, the usual courtiers, Sigourney ca’Ludovici, and a few other members of the Council of Ca’ . . . all those who wished Audric to notice that they had attended the young Kraljiki’s quarterly examination. At fourteen, Audric was all too aware of the flattering attention that came to him because of his lineage and his title.
They weren’t there for the examination; they were there to be seen. By him. Only by him.
He enjoyed that thought.
“Year 471,” ci’Blaylock intoned, looking up from the scroll-laden lectern at which he stood. “The line of the Kralji.”
An easy one, that. No challenge at all. “Kraljica Marguerite ca’Ludovici,” Audric answered quickly and firmly. He coughed then—he coughed often—and added: “Also known as the Généra a’Pace.”
And also my great-matarh . . .
Marguerite’s uneasily realistic portrait, painted by the late master artisan Edouard ci’Recroix—who had also created the large canvas of a peasant family that adorned this very Hall of the Sun Throne—hung in Audric’s bedroom. Marguerite watched him every night as he slept, and gave him the same strange, weary half-smile every morning when he woke. He’d wished many times that he’d had the chance to actually know her—he’d certainly heard enough tales regarding her. He sometimes wondered if all the tales were true: in the memories of the people of Nessantico, Kraljica Marguerite had presided over a Golden Age, an age of sunlight compared to the storm-wrapped politics of the present.

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