A Magic of Nightfall (60 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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Then, finally, he tidied the room, so that it would look neat for those who would come to look at it afterward.
As he walked to the Kraljiki’s palais for his audience, he let himself take in the sights of Nessantico, absorbing everything the city he loved so much had to offer. He strolled along the North Bank of the Isle a’Kralji from his rooms, gazing fondly at the gated towers of the Pontica Mordei and watching a flatboat piled high with crates slide under its stonework span. The A’Sele gleamed in sunlight, wavelets sparking and dancing. Couples sat with linked arms on the grassy bank, lost in the presence of each other. A quartet of e’téni hurried past him on their way to some task, their green robes swaying around their ankles and the faint smell of incense trailing after them. Enéas could hear the chaotic, eternal voice of the city, the sound of thousands of voices speaking at once.
He passed the Old Temple, gazing upward at the impossible dome the artisan Brunelli was constructing, the largest in the world—if it didn’t collapse under the terrible weight of the masonry. He frowned once, at the sight of a street performer who was juggling balls that he had set aglow with a spell—that was Numetodo work, not done with the prayers of a téni, and it bothered Enéas to see such a thing done publicly, without any of the onlookers being upset by it.
Archigos Ana allowed the people to lose sight of truth and faith. She coddled the Numetodo and allowed their heresy to spread—and that’s why the Holdings and the Faith are now split in two and broken. I have sent the Westlanders as a sign and a warning. Today, you will bring them a final warning for Me
.
The voice spoke low and sinister in his head. Karl made the sign of Cénzi, scowling at the juggler and the audience around him before walking on.
The Kraljiki’s Palais was white and gold against a sky that looked painted. Enéas had been to the palais once before, as an e’offizier aide accompanying his a’offizier to a meeting with the Council of Ca’, but this would be the first time that he would actually be before the Sun Throne. He gave his Lettre a’Approche to the garda at the side gates, who scanned it, ran a finger across the embossed seal, and saluted Enéas. “You are expected, O’Offizier cu’Kinnear,” he said, gesturing. A servant boy came running, in the gold-and-blue livery of the Kraljiki’s staff. Enéas followed the boy across sculpted, polished grounds set with topiaries and flower gardens, with several ca’-and-cu’ courtiers strolling the white-pebbled walkways. Enéas’ guide took him through a side door and into the palais itself, and down a corridor of pale pink marble, the floor burnished to a high sheen and téni-lamps set every few strides, though there was enough light coming through the windows at either end that the lamps were unlit. “Wait here, O’Offizier,” the boy said, pausing at a door where two gardai were standing at attention. “The public reception is nearly over. I’ll see if the Kraljiki is ready to meet with you.” The gardai opened the door and the boy slipped inside. Enéas glimpsed the crowd of supplicants and heard the quiet hush of whispered conversations; faintly, someone was talking more loudly: a boy’s voice, hoarse and broken with coughs. He thought he saw the Sun Throne, bright against the shuttered half-twilight of the hall beyond. The door closed again before he could see more.
“How goes the war, O’Offizier?” one of the door gardai asked. “Everyone’s been waiting for a fast-ship from the Hellins, but it hasn’t come.”
“It
won’t
come,” Enéas told him.
The two gardai glanced at each other. “O’Offizier?”
“It won’t come,” Enéas repeated. “Cénzi has already told me that.”
Another glance. Enéas saw a quick roll of eyes. “Oh,
Cénzi
told you. I see.”
“You don’t talk to Cénzi, E’Offizier?” Enéas asked the man. “Then I pity you.”
The door opened again and cut off any rejoinder the man might have made. It wasn’t the boy, but an older man, his livery marked with the Kraljiki’s insignia. “I’m Marlon,” he said. “The Kraljiki’s ready for you. Follow me.”
The gardai held the doors open for Enéas to pass through. The hall was still crowded, clustered with ca’-and-cu’ and those lucky enough to have their names placed on the Second Cénzidi list of supplicants. They watched Enéas enter behind Marlon, their faces reflecting mingled curiosity and resentment as it became apparent that he was being taken directly to the Sun Throne.
The windows of the hall had been partially shuttered, so that the room was both dim and sweltering. At the far end of the hall, the Sun Throne shimmered with a sun-yellow glow, outlining the form of a young man. Enéas had known that Kraljiki Audric was young, but still his appearance startled him. He seemed small for his years, barrel-chested but otherwise thin, his cheeks sunken and the hollows of his eyes dark. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but the boy looked more feverish than warm.
One of the Council of Ca’ stood at his left hand: an older woman with obviously-dyed black hair who stared at him with the predatory eyes of a hawk, though Enéas didn’t recognize her. A portrait of Kraljica Marguerite was set at Audric’s right hand. The impact of the painting was stunning: Enéas had never seen anything so lifelike and solid—more of a presence than the woman on the other side of the throne. Enéas could imagine the Kraljica staring at him as he came near, and the feeling was not a pleasant one. It made him want to cradle the pouch he carried; it made him want to turn and flee.
You cannot. I will not let you.
Cénzi roared in his head, and Enéas shook his head like a dog trying to rid himself of fleas.
The Kraljiki cleared his throat as Enéas approached, a liquid sound. He coughed once, and Enéas heard phlegm rattling in the boy’s lungs. His mouth hung half-open, and he clutched a lace cloth spotted with blood in his right hand. “O’Offizier cu’Kinnear,” the Kraljiki said as Enéas came to the dais and bowed. “I understand from Archigos Kenne that you have come from the war in the Hellins with news for us.” The Kraljiki spoke haltingly and slowly, pausing often for breath and occasionally stifling a cough with the handkerchief. “We have heard of your fine record in the Garde Civile, and we salute you for your service to the throne. And I am happy to tell you that I have signed your Lettre a’Chevaritt, effective immediately.”
Enéas bowed again. “Kraljiki, I am humbled, and I praise Cénzi, who makes all things possible.”
“Yes,” the Kraljiki answered. “We have also heard of your great devotion to the Faith, and that you once considered a career as a téni. The Holdings are pleased that you chose a martial career instead.”
“I continue to serve Cénzi, either way,” Enéas told him, inclining his head.
The Kraljiki, looking bored, seemingly listening to someone else. He glanced over at the painting of Marguerite and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I would think so.” Enéas wasn’t certain whether Audric had addressed him or not. He hesitated, and Audric’s attention came back to him. “Your news, O’Offizier? What of the Hellins? We’ve heard nothing for over a month now.”
“I have brought you something,” Enéas told the Krlajiki. He patted the leather case: gently, almost a caress. He took the strap from around his head and held the pouch out toward Audric. “If I may approach . . . ?”
Audric nodded, and Enéas stepped up onto the platform of the Sun Throne. Closer now, he noticed the smell of sickness lingering around the Kraljiki: the odor of corruption, a foulness of breath. He pretended not to notice, handing the pouch to Audric, who put it on his lap. The Kraljiki peered inside, putting his hand inside to feel what was there. “Bricks of sand?” he asked, his forehead creased with puzzlement. His nose wrinkled at the smell. “Dark earth?”
“No,” Enéas told him softly. “Let me show you . . .”
With the voice of Cénzi calling in his head, he began the chant: quickly, his hands darting. From the corner of his vision, he saw the woman at the Kraljiki’s left startle, then step away from the throne. He heard someone behind him in the audience shout. Audric’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak.
Fierce fire bloomed between Enéas’ hands. He leaned forward, held it over the open lips of the pouch, and let it fall.
Cénzi roared His pleasure. The world exploded into eternal light and sound.
The White Stone
S
HE WATCHED Talis over the next few days.
She found that she couldn’t simply return Nico to the man and let the boy go. The voices from the stone taunted her for her concern. Fynn especially was derisive and bitter.
“You want a family? So now the assassin is going to care about others? The murderer has found love now that she has a
bastardo
in her womb?”
He cackled merrily.
“You’ve become a fool, woman. Look at what my family has done to me! The child you carry will happily betray you the same way one day. Family!”
He laughed again, the others joining in with him, a mocking chorus.
“Shut up!” she told them all, causing people on the street around her to glance at her. She scowled back at them. She hugged her stomach protectively, startled—as she always was—by the swelling curve in what had once been an athletic, flat abdomen. Already, she sensed the fluttering of movement there: Jan’s child. Her child. “You don’t know. You can’t know.”
When she thought of her child, born and alive, it was always a girl but with some of Nico’s features, too, as if they were strange siblings. “I took the boy in when he needed someone,” she told the voices. “I’m responsible for him now. I made that choice.”
They snorted derision. They howled.
She had watched Talis’ rooms since she left Nico there. She’d abandoned the rooms she’d taken, and had rented a room above Talis’ own, though she was careful not to let Nico see her enter or leave the building. She had bored a hole in the floor so she could both watch and listen to them below . And she did so, ready to act if she heard Talis mistreating Nico in any way, ready to appear as the White Stone to take the man’s life, furious and vengeful. But she had heard nothing to make her fear for Nico.
Not directly, anyway.
She already knew from Nico that the Numetodo had been hunting Talis. She knew that he was a Westlander and a user of their magic, and the Holdings was at war with the Westlanders in the Hellins. That would be a danger for Nico, all by itself. So she watched.
On the second Cénzidi of the month, she trailed them when Nico took Talis to her old rooms, watching from the shadows of the alley across the way as they emerged again with Nico shaking his head in confusion, his arms waving as he spoke to Talis. That afternoon, through the borehole, she heard them talking below. “I don’t understand,” Nico said. “That’s where Elle lived, Talis. Really. I was there.”
“I believe you, Nico,” Talis replied. “But she’s not there now.” She could hear the concern in the man’s voice. She imagined him rubbing at the healing cuts on his neck as he spoke. She heard the unspoken commentary underneath:
She’s dangerous. She might have killed me.
“I liked Elle,” Nico said. “She was nice to me.”
“I’m glad she was. I’m glad she brought you to me. But . . .”
Whatever his objection, he kept it to himself. She smiled at that.
“But she’s mad,”
the voices said.
“And the madness is growing.”
She clutched at the stone in its pouch as if she could strangle the voices with the white pressure of her fingers.
She didn’t want to hear any more. She would continue to watch, yes, but for now it seemed that Nico was safe with Talis. She slipped out of her own room quietly, hurrying down the stairs and out the rear door of the building. She moved quickly through the streets of Oldtown, away from the main areas and into its twisted bowels where narrow streets curved and snarled and the buildings were dark, ancient, and small. She listened to her own thoughts, to the voices inside her head, to the conversation around her. “Matarh!” she heard a child’s voice cry, and for a moment she thought it was Nico. She turned with a smile, her arms open to embrace him.
It wasn’t Nico. It was some other child, nearly the same age. “Matarh,” the boy cried again, and a young woman rushed from the door of a nearby building, gathering up the child in her arms, the boy’s feet dangling as she hugged him.
She watched the scene, her arms unknowingly hugging herself in sympathy. She wanted to feel pleasure at this scene that must be common enough, but what she felt was the hot flush of jealousy.
“Yes, that’s what you’ll never have,”
Fynn crowed inside her, and the others joined in.
“You can never have that. No one will ever love you that way. Not even the child you carry. Never.”
“That’s not true,” she told them, feeling tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, it’s not true.”
“It is. It is.”
A chorus of denial.
“It is.”
She turned and fled them, pursued by the voices. She walked hurriedly, not even knowing where she was going, pushing through crowded street markets and along half-deserted avenues, past shops and businesses. She found herself finally on the northern bank of the A’Sele near the Pontica Kralji. There, uncaring of the mud and the foul smell, she sat hugging her knees to herself, trying to ignore the screaming voices in her head as she rocked back and forth. If anyone saw her, they thought her deranged and left her alone. She sat there for a long time, her thoughts frayed and chaotic until pure exhaustion calmed her and the voices receded. She sat panting, rubbing the swelling mound of her belly and imagining the life inside.

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