by S L Farrell
“I have lost a lover, but that was a long time coming and I had the memory of a long time with Karl. I had time to prepare, to expect the end,” she told him. “Still, I really can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”
He stared at her, choking off the tears and sorrow, his eyes hardening. “And children… I’ve never had one, though I sometimes thought of you as my child. I would have taken you as my own, Nico, after those awful days when the Tehuantin came and killed your matarh, but you’d vanished, and when I finally heard your name again, you were already a grown man. I don’t know what you went through or what you endured… I can only imagine what happened to you to turn you into what you’ve become.”
He tried to speak, but all the words were distorted and unintelligible around the silencer. The sound tore at her.
“I made certain that Liana’s body was taken care of with respect. The Kraljica…” Varina paused. Her legs ached and she stood again, afraid that if she didn’t she might have to call the garda to help her up. “The Kraljica was having many of the bodies gibbeted and displayed.” She saw him recoil visibly at that. “I know, but it’s what is always done and I can’t entirely blame her; the public anger against the Morellis is strong. But I want you to know that I didn’t let that happen to Liana. I had her cleaned and dressed, and paid for the o’teni at the Archigos’ Temple to give her the proper service, though they didn’t want to do it. I was there when they cremated her in the Ilmodo-fire. I might not believe, but I know it’s what she would have wanted. I will do the same for you when the time comes, if I can. But I don’t know…”
She stopped again. She could hear the garda outside the cell door: the creak of his leather armor, the jingle of the keys at his belt, the sound of his breathing. She knew he was listening, and she wondered whether he was amused by her sympathy for Nico. “As for you. .. I don’t know that I’ll be allowed to have your body. You’re too famous, Nico. They need to make an example of you, so someone else doesn’t do what you did. But if there’s anything I can do, I will do it. I tell you this, Nico: I’ll make certain that Serafina is safe, too. As long as I’m alive, she will have a home, and I’ll make provisions for her on my death. I promise you that much. She’ll be safe, and she’ll be loved.”
She stared down at him, huddled at her feet, his head still averted.
“I hate what you’ve preached and what you’ve done in the name of your beliefs,” she told him. “I hate the death and injury that have been suffered in your name. I despise what you stand for. But I don’t hate you, Nico. I will never hate you. I can’t. I wanted you to understand that, to know that before… before…”
She stopped. His head had turned, and he looked her once in the eyes before his gaze slid away again. She wasn’t certain what she saw there, his expression too distorted by the silencer around his head and the dimness of the cell. This wasn’t the Nico she’d met before, not the self-assured Absolute confident in the favor of his god. No, this was a shattered soul, wounded inside as well as outside.
She wondered whether that internal wound might not be as mortal as the one that would eventually kill him. There would be no trial for Nico-he was already judged and condemned. The Faith would insist on having his tongue and hands first, to pay for his disobedience of the Archigos; the state would demand the end of what was left for the death and destruction he’d caused. It would almost certainly all be done publicly, so the citizens could watch and cheer his torment and death. His body would swing in a cage from the Pontica Kralji until there was nothing left but his disconnected bones.
Nico was already dead, even though there was still misery he must endure.
She was crying. The sob pulsed once in her throat, a sound that the stone walls of the Bastida seemed to absorb greedily, as if it were the prison’s cold nourishment. She wiped at her face almost angrily. “I wanted to tell you about Liana and Serafina,” she said to him. “I hoped it would give you at least some small peace.” She wanted him to lift his head again, to look at her and perhaps nod, to give her at least that tiny recognition that he heard her and that he understood.
He did not. The iron chains around his hands rattled dully as he clutched them to his chest.
She called out through the tiny, barred window of the cell door to the garda. “Get me out of here,” she said.
Niente
The flap of Niente’s tent was thrust back, and Atl came stalking through. He was holding a brass scrying bowl-a new one, the metal still bright-and it dripped water onto the trampled grass at his feet.
“You lied, Taat,” he said. There was as much dismay in his voice as anger. “Axat has let me look at the path you’ve set us on. I looked at it again and again, and there is no victory for us down that road. None.”
“Then you’ve seen wrongly,” Niente told him, even though fear shivered through him. “That is not what Axat has shown me.”
“Then take out your bowl now,” Atl insisted. “Take it out and let us look together. Prove to me that you’re leading the Tecuhtli to where he wishes to go. Prove it, and I’ll be silent.” Niente could hear desperation in his son’s voice, and he rose from the blankets, using his spell-staff to steady him. He went to Atl, who was standing at the tent’s entrance like a bronzed statue. Outside, he could hear the army stirring in the early morning, striking the tents to prepare for the day’s march. The rain from the day before had ended; the air smelled fresh and clean.
Atl stared down at Niente as he approached. He clasped his son’s arm with his free hand, bringing him close. He could feel the young man resisting, then yielding to the embrace. “Atl,” he said quietly, finally releasing him and taking a step back. “I ask you to trust me: as your Taat, as your Nahual. Trust that I would not lead the Tehuantin to death. Trust that I want what you want: I want our people to prosper and to be safe. I love you; I love your brothers and sister, your mother. I love Tlaxcala and the lands of our home. I would not see those I love hurt or the land I know so well destroyed. Why would I want that? Why would I do that to you and to the Tehuantin?”
Atl was shaking his head. “I don’t know, Taat. It makes no sense to me either.” He lifted the bowl in his hand, and his voice was full of anguish and confusion. “But I know what I’ve seen. It was as clear as if I saw it happening before me. I had to tell the Tecuhtli what I saw. I had to, because you wouldn’t listen to me, and Axat was showing me what you insisted wasn’t true.”
“I know,” Niente told him, nodding. “You only did as I would have done in your place. I’m not angry with you.”
“I don’t care if you’re angry or not, Taat. You keep telling me that I’m not seeing correctly, but I know I have the far-sight. I know it.”
“You do,” Niente told him. “Though that makes me more sad than pleased. It’s a terrible gift to have, Atl. You don’t believe that now, but in time you will.”
“Yes, yes,” Atl waved the bowl between them. “ ‘Look at what it did to me,’ You keep saying that, but you had years before it disfigured you so badly. I remember, Taat. I remember what you looked like when I was young. I know the pain of it; I’ve already felt it, and I can bear it. If you’re going to insist that I’m not seeing correctly, then show me! ” The final words were nearly a shout through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, opened them, and his voice was a soft plea. “Damn it, Taat, show me. Please…”
He had seen this moment in the scrying bowl. He had seen his son’s fury, his disbelief. He had heard the accusations flung at him, had seen Atl rushing to Tecuhtli Citlali and telling him all-and he had seen where that path led. Yet the other path, the other choice he could make here, was far less clear, clouded with blood and the haze on the long sight, and he could only hope that somewhere in the mist was the Long Path he wanted.
There is no certainty to the future. There is only Possibility. It was what old Mahri had told Niente when he’d first begun to use Axat’s gift, before Tecuhtli Necalli had sent Mahri to Nessantico. Then, Niente had been much
like Atl, scoffing at Mahri’s warnings, not quite believing the older man. He was young, he was invincible, he knew better than those who had come before him, who were timid and frail.
After all, Tecuhtli Necalli had raised Niente to the title of Nahual after he’d sent Mahri away-but only after forcing him to confront the nahualli who currently held that title: Ohtli, whom Niente had killed.
Tecuhtli Citlali, who had in turn killed Tecuhtli Zolin in challenge, would likely do the same with the next Nahual: force challenge on Niente. He had seen that in visions, also, and he was afraid that he knew the mist-clothed person who stood over his broken body. He was terrified to see that face, and he would turn his eyes from the scrying bowl before the mists cleared.
“Get your bowl, Taat,” Atl said again, “or use mine, but let’s do this together. Show me what you say I fail to see. Prove it to me.”
“No,” Niente said. It was the only answer he could give.
“No? By the seven mountains, Taat, is that the only answer you can give me? ‘No’-just that single word?”
“I’ve given you my answer. Be content with it.” He turned and started to pack his things for the day’s march.
“Is that my Taat’s answer, or is that the Nahual’s answer?” Atl looked deliberately at the golden band on Niente’s forearm.
“It is both.”
“It’s not sufficient. I’m sorry, Taat. It’s not. Don’t do this. I beg you.”
“It’s time for us to break camp,” Niente answered, not looking at him. He couldn’t-if he did, he’d be lost. “Go, and prepare yourself.”
“Taat-”
Niente was holding his own scrying bowl. His hands were trembling around the incised rim, the animals carved there seeming to move of their own accord. He thrust the bowl into his bag. “Go,” he repeated.
He could feel Atl staring at him, could feel the anger rising in him. “Why are you forcing this on me?”
“I’m not forcing anything on you, Atl.” He turned, finally. He wanted to weep at the look on his son’s face. “You must make your own choices. All I’m asking is that you believe in me as you once did.”
“I want to do that, Taat. I want that more than anything. And all I’m asking is that you show me that I should. I want to learn from you. I want that more than anything. Teach me.”
“I have,” Niente told him. “And if I’ve taught you well, then you know to obey me.”
Atl’s face changed then. It went stern and closed, as if Niente were staring at a stranger. “There are other authorities I have to obey, Taat,” he said. “I’ll ask only once more. Take out your bowl. Show me.”
Niente only shook his head. Atl’s face went to stone. His hands tightened around his own bowl. “Then you leave me no choice, Taat. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you take us down to defeat. I can’t let the deaths of thousands of good warriors be on your head, and on mine because of my silence. I can’t…”
With that, Atl turned. “Atl, wait!” Niente called after him, but he was already through the flap of the tent and gone. “Atl…”
Niente sagged to the ground. He prayed to Axat to take him now, to end his stay here and carry him up to the starheavens. But that was nothing he had ever seen in the bowl, and Axat remained silent.
PRETENSIONS
Rochelle Botelli
She started at the beginning. “Rochelle is what my matarh called me. Rochelle was also the name of the first woman my matarh ever killed. I didn’t realize that for a long time, didn’t realize I’d been named after the first female voice to ever haunt her.”
The tale had come far easier than she’d thought it would. Perhaps it was because Sergei listened so well and intently, leaning forward eagerly to hear her words; perhaps it was because she found that it was something she’d wanted to share with someone, all unknowingly, for a long time. Whichever it was, the long story came tumbling out, with Sergei prodding her occasionally with questions: “Your matarh was the White Stone? The same?” or “Nico Morel? You say the boy was your brother? ” or “You’re Jan’s daughter…?”
The first half of the tale took the rest of the day, as she told him about her apprenticeship with her matarh, about the White Stone’s madness and eventual death in raving insanity, and how she herself had taken up of the mantle of the White Stone-though given Sergei’s position, she didn’t mention the promise that Matarh had extracted from her on her deathbed.
Once the carriage had stopped at Passe a’Fiume, Sergei hadn’t pressed her for more. He told the staff at the Kraljica’s apartments to prepare a meal for two and a separate room for her, and had sent the servants out for a new tashta, cosmetics, and some jewelry for her, saying that they’d lost her luggage during the storm. She stared at herself in the mirror afterward, nearly not recognizing herself. She wondered what payment Sergei might demand, and made certain that her vatarh’s dagger was accessible under the tashta.
The town’s Comte joined them for dinner; Sergei introduced Rochelle as “Remy, my great-niece from Graubundi,” traveling with him to Nessantico; she felt him watching her as she followed his lead, making up tales of their relatives. He seemed mostly amused by her efforts and the polite responses by the Comte and his family. The talk around the table was mostly of old politics and the coming passage of Jan’s army through the town, as the servants served them dinner in the dining room and various personages of distinction paraded through to give their greetings. After the Comte and the last of the dignitaries of the city had left, Sergei had pleaded exhaustion and a desire to retire for the evening.
That, she discovered, was a lie. Rochelle heard the door of his room open not long after; she’d slid Jan’s dagger from its scabbard then, ready to defend herself if he came into her room, but she heard his cane and footsteps recede down the hall; not long after, she heard the groan of the main doors on the floor below. From her window, she watched him go out along the dark streets of the town.
She locked the door to her room anyway.
She didn’t know when he returned. She woke in the morning to the horns of First Call and the knock of one of the servants. She dressed, and found Sergei already at breakfast. A half-turn of the glass later, they were back in the privacy of the carriage, and he asked her to resume her tale. She did, beginnings with her wanderings from the site of her matarh’s grave, her first tentative contracts as the new White Stone, and how she felt when she heard the tales of the White Stone beginning to arise again, and her wanderings through the Coalition.
There were details she still kept to herself, certainly. Yet… This was catharsis, releasing the story. Once she started, she didn’t think she could have stopped. She hadn’t realized the strain of holding it all in. She’d thought that perhaps one day she might have been able to tell a trusted lover, but with Sergei… He was a stranger, and yet she could tell him.
She wondered if that was because-if she decided it would be necessary-she could keep it all still a secret, wrapped in the silence of a dead man. She kept her hand close to the hilt of Jan’s dagger, and she watched the Silvernose’s face carefully.
By the time they were approaching Nessantico’s walls, she was telling him of the final confrontation with Jan, though she left unsaid the details of how physical it had become. He seemed to understand, his face sympathetic and almost sad as he listened.
“Poor Jan…” he’d said, and his empathy for her vatarh irritated Rochelle. “I came to Firenzcia not long after Fynn’s assassination, and there were already whispers about this Elissa whom the new Hirzg had loved, and who had vanished. I don’t think he’s ever entirely stopped loving her-or at least loving the person he thought she was. I heard the gossip that perhaps she was the White Stone, then when Jan saw her again in Nessantico, that became certain.” He stopped, clamping his mouth shut as if to hold back more that he might have said, the folds under his chin waggling with the movement. She wondered whether what he had decided not to tell her was how Kraljica Allesandra, Rochelle’s great-mat
arh, had been the one who had hired Matarh to kill Fynn. She wondered whether he realized that she must know that as well.
If so, neither of them mentioned it.
“So now you’ve come to Nessantico,” Sergei said. His rheum-filled eyes held her own, close enough that she could see her warped reflection crawl over his nostrils. “The White Stone’s daughter. Jan’s daughter, and the great-daughter of the Kraljica, too. Nico Morel’s sister. I have to ask why you’ve come.”
“Everyone comes to Nessantico eventually.”
He seemed to chuckle inwardly. “Once, you might have been able to get away with that answer, Rochelle. Not now. Not with the Coalition as her great rival. Not with the Tehuantin pressing on her borders once again. Not with your brother’s people making their violent presence known here. You’re being disingenuous, Rochelle, and it doesn’t become you.” He stared; Rochelle’s fingertips brushed the smooth, worn hilt of Jan’s dagger. Will you have to kill him now? Can you let him walk away knowing what he knows?
“I don’t know why I’ve come,” she answered, “and that’s only the truth, Sergei. I couldn’t stay where I was and I didn’t know where else to go, and I just started walking. Nessantico seemed to be calling to me.”
“Calling for what, ” he persisted. “Revenge? A reunion?”
“Neither,” she said. Yes, revenge… She could almost hear her matarh’s voice whispering that inside. “I didn’t know for certain that Nico was here. I swear that by Cenzi.”
“Ah, a murderer swearing by Cenzi. How ironic. Your brother might appreciate that. If he’s still alive.”
That sentence sent a winter breeze swirling down her back, causing the newly-chopped hairs at the back of her neck to rise. “What?”
She couldn’t tell if he shrugged or only adjusted himself on the bench seat of the carriage. “You left the encampment before the news came,” Sergei said. “Your brother and his followers assaulted the Old Temple in Nessantico. They took it over and barricaded themselves inside. By now, Kraljica Allesandra will have ordered the attack on them; they wouldn’t have been able to hold out there. I would suspect that Nico Morel is either dead or in the Bastida by now. I’m sorry; I see that worries you, but I’m sorry-I’ve no sympathy for him, I’m afraid.”