by S L Farrell
She had to act now.
When the response came, telling the A’Hirzg that Elissa ca’Karina was long dead, she either had to be gone, or she had to have something that she could use as a weapon against that knowledge. The new gossip around the palais was how often the A’Hirzg and the Archigos seemed to be together lately. The looks that she’d seen between the two certainly hinted that they were more than friends, but even if she could prove that, there was nothing there she could use-they were too powerful, and she had no intention of being locked up in Brezno Bastida.
No, she would be the White Stone, as she should be. She would honor her contract and she would vanish, as the Stone always did.
She heard mocking laughter inside her with the decision.
The Moitidi of Fate were with her, at least. Fynn wasn’t particularly a man of deep habits, but there were certain routines he followed. She’d come to the court prepared to do whatever it took to become Fynn’s lover, but she’d found that an impossible task. Jan had been the next best choice, as the Hirzg’s current favorite companion outside his bed.
She’d also found herself genuinely liking the young man despite all her attempts to focus on the task for which she’d been so well-paid. She would have drawn out this contract for as long as she could, because she found herself comfortable with Jan, because she enjoyed his talk, his affection, and the attention he paid her during their nights together. Because she enjoyed pretending that maybe, maybe, she could have this life with him, that she could remain Elissa forever. She had wondered-skeptically, almost with fear-if she might love the young man.
The voices had howled with that, roaring with amusement.
“Fool!” the voices inside railed at her now. “How stupid can you be? Did you care about any of us when you killed us? Did you regret what you did? No! Why should you care now? This is your fault. You don’t have emotions; you can’t afford them-that’s what you always said!”
They were right. She knew it. She’d been stupid and left herself vulnerable, something she should never have done, and now she would pay for her own folly. “Shut up!” she shouted back to them. “I know! Leave me alone!”
They only laughed, spewing back their hatred to her.
Focus. Think of only the target. Focus, or you’ll die. Be the White Stone, not Elissa. Be what you are.
Fynn… Habits… Vulnerabilities…
Focus.
She’d watched Fynn follow his patterns for the past two weeks: at least twice during the rotation of days, Fynn would go riding with Jan and others of the court. She had been on those rides, and saw the attention that Fynn paid to Jan, who also rode alongside the Hirzg, the two of them conversing and laughing. On their return, Fynn would retire to his rooms. Not long afterward, his domestique de chambre, Roderigo, would emerge and go to the stables, bringing back Hamlin, one of the stableboys who-she could not help but notice-was nearly the same age, build, and complexion as Jan. Roderigo would escort Hamlin to the doors of Fynn’s chambers and depart as soon as the boy entered, returning precisely a half-turn of the glass later, by which time Hamlin would have left once more.
She’d watched the routine play out four times now, and she was relatively confident in its security. And today… today the Hirzg and Jan were going out riding. She pleaded a headache and remained behind even though Jan’s visible disappointment made her resolve waver. While they were gone, she moved through the corridors near the Hirzg’s rooms, smiling gently at the courtiers and servants she passed, then sliding quickly into an empty corridor. The main hallways were patrolled by gardai, but not those small corridors used by the servants, and at this time of day, the servants were busy in the massive kitchens below or were working in the rooms themselves. A picklock plucked from her tresses quickly opened a secured door, and she slid into the Hirzg’s apartments: an empty private office room just off the bedchamber. She could hear Roderigo giving orders to the under-servants in the next room, telling them what they needed to clean and how it was to be done. She slid behind a thick tapestry covering the wall (on the cloth, mounted chevarittai of the Firenzcian army trampled the soldiers of Tennshah underneath hooves and spears) and waited, closing her eyes and breathing slowly.
Listening to the voices. Listening to them mock her, cajole her, warn her…
In the darkness, they were especially loud.
A turn of the glass or more later, she heard Fynn’s muffled voice and Roderigo answering him. A door closed, and then there was silence, not even the interior voices speaking. She waited a few breaths, then slid the tapestry aside, padding in her suede-soled shoes to the door of Fynn’s bedchamber.
“My Hirzg,” she said softly.
Fynn was seated on his bed, his bashta half-undone, and he leaped up at the sound of her voice, whirling about. She saw him reach for his sword-on the bed in its scabbard, the belt looped next to it, then stop with his hand on the hilt when he recognized her. “Vajica ca’Karina,” he said, his voice nearly a purr. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” His hand had not left the sword hilt. The man was careful-she had to give him that much.
“Roderigo… let me in,” she told him, trying to sound flustered and uncertain. “I… I met him in the corridor just now. It was Jan who… who talked to Roderigo first, my Hirzg. I’m here at his behest.”
She watched his hand. His fist relaxed around the hilt. He frowned. “Then I need to speak to Roderigo,” he said. “What is this about our Jan?”
She lowered her gaze as a demure and slightly frightened young woman might, looking at him through her lashes. “We… I know we both love him, my Hirzg, and I know how much he respects and admires you. Even more than his own vatarh.”
Fynn’s hand had left the sword hilt; she took a step closer to him. “You know that he’s asked the A’Hirzg to speak to my family?” she asked him. Fynn nodded and stood erect, turning his back to the weapon on the bed. That made her smile genuine as she took a step toward him. “Jan has tremendous gratitude for your friendship,” she told him. Another step. “He wished me to give you a… a gift in appreciation.”
Another. She was within arm’s length of him now.
“A gift?” Fynn’s gaze slid from her face to her body. He laughed as she took a final step, her tashta brushing against him. “Perhaps Jan doesn’t know me as well as he might think. What gift is this?”
“Let me show you,” she said. With that she put her left arm around him, pulling him tight to her. With the same motion, she reached to the belt of her tashta and took the long dagger from its sheath in the small of her back. She plunged the blade between his ribs and twisted it. His mouth opened in pain and shock, and she stifled his shout with her open mouth. His arms pushed at her, but she was too close and his muscles were already weakening.
It was already over, though it took his body a few breaths to realize it.
When he stopped struggling and went limp in her arms, she laid him on his bed. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She shook two small stones from a pouch tucked in her bosom and placed them over the eyes: the pale one that Allesandra had given her over the left, her own stone-the one she’d carried for so long-over the right. She let them stay there: as she stripped the bloodied tashta from her body and flung it into the fireplace, as she washed his blood from her hands and arms in his own basin, as she dressed herself quickly in the tashta she’d left in the other room. Finally, she plucked the stone from his right eye and placed it back in its pouch, tucking its familiar weight under the low collar of the tashta. She thought she could already hear Fynn, wailing as the others welcomed him…
Then, silent except for the voices in her head, she fled the way she’d come.
She heard poor Hamlin’s terrified scream just as she reached the main corridors, and the shouts of hurried orders from the gardai offiziers as they rushed to the Hirzg’s chambers.
She turned her back on them and hurried from the palais.
MOTIONS
Allesandra c
a’Vorl
“ The White Stone…”
“It must have been the Kraljiki who hired him…”
“The Numetodo hired him…”
“The Tennshah hired him…”
“I heard that the A’Hirzg has been targeted herself, and her son. ..”
Allesandra heard the rumors. They were inescapable, choking Firenzcia like the fog that rose every evening from the woods around Stag Fall Palais, where Starkkapitan Armen ca’Damont and Commandant Helmad cu’Gottering of the Garde Hirzg had ordered the family be taken after the assassination. “The Commandant and I can protect you best there, A’Hirzg,” ca’Damont had said. She’d nodded stone-faced to him.
Pretense… She had to keep up the proper face. She had to make the ca’-and-cu’ believe that she grieved. She had to make them believe what she would ask of them.
Soon. Even if there was little hope now.
Security was visible everywhere around the palais, with gardai seemingly at every corner. Allesandra stood on the high balcony of the palais now, staring down to the tops of the fir trees below her on the steep flanks of the mountains, and to the gray-white strands of mist that wound between them, lifting as the sun set. She rubbed a pale-colored, flat pebble between her fingers.
She heard the door to the balcony open, followed by the murmuring of male voices. She turned to see Semini approaching her like a green-clad and sober-faced bear. He said nothing, padding softly toward her and stopping an arm’s length away-there were gardai to either side of them, a careful several strides away. He put his arms on the railing of the balcony and stared off into the mist coiling like sinewed arms around the trees, as if ghosts were tending a garden, reaching down to pull the weeds from between the wanted plants. Occasionally, a wisp would reach the level of the balcony, and cold, damp air would slide around Allesandra’s ankles as if trying to pull her down into the gathering dark.
“So…” The word sounded like a low wind through the pine needles. “Will the White Stone be coming for me, now?” She saw his gaze flick down to the stone she held in her fingers.
“I didn’t hire him, Semini,” Allesandra said. Him… She wondered about that now. Elissa had seemingly vanished the same day Fynn had died, devastating Jan with another emotional hammer blow atop the death of his Onczio Fynn. Two days later, a frantic message came from Jablunkov saying that Elissa, daughter of Elissa and Josef (nee ca’Evelii) ca’Karina had died six years ago and could the A’Hirzg possibly have made some mistake.
Allesandra wondered. It was possible that ‘Elissa’ had fled only because she knew that Allesandra had sent a letter to the ca’Karina family. It was possible that she’d run only because she knew her deception would be exposed. It was possible there was no connection between her disappearance and Fynn’s death. Still, being close to Jan meant that Elissa had also had access to Fynn, and in Allesandra’s experience it was dangerous to believe in coincidence. It was safer to see instead the knife-edge of conspiracy under coincidence’s veil.
The White Stone’s voice… Could it have been a woman’s, pitched low?
Semini was nodding as he glanced at the pebble in her hand. “Is that…?”
She lifted the stone so he could see it. “Yes,” she said. “This was what the White Stone left behind. It… reminds me of Fynn, and it reminds me that I will find who hired the White Stone and punish them.”
Another nod. Semini was staring down again into the trees. “The Council of Ca’ will be unanimous in naming you Hirzgin. Congratulations.” His voice was flat. “But you could have had that weeks ago, if you hadn’t sent Jan to save Fynn.”
“I’m glad someone remembers that. But… I have no intention of being Hirzgin, Semini.”
That brought his face around to her again. A hand rubbed the silver-flecked beard as his dark eyes searched hers. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I thought-”
“You think entirely too much, Semini,” she told him, then softened her rebuke with a smile. The garda behind was looking the other way, and her body shielded the one behind her. She reached out to stroke his arm, once. “I intend to renounce my title of A’Hirzg. After all, too many people will be thinking just as you’re thinking right now. There would always be whispers that I had Fynn killed so that I might take the throne in Brezno. If I step down, that gossip will die with my abdication. I will leave it to the Council of Ca’ to name a new Hirzg for Firenzcia.”
One thick eyebrow curved high on Semini’s forehead. “Have you spoken to Pauli?”
The mention of his name threw a cold barrier between them, or perhaps it was the fog. She withdrew her hand. “It’s not my husband’s decision to make,” Allesandra told him sharply, then smiled again. “But it will be interesting to watch his face when I stand up in front of the Council and say this-and I expect it to be entirely a surprise to him, Semini. I also expect that he’ll be rushing back to West Magyaria in a rage the next day, complaining to Gyula Karvella how the wife that he and Hirzg Jan handpicked for him has ruined him.”
“You’d truly leave the decision to the Council?”
“Oh, I’ve already spoken to some of them. Enough of them for my purposes, anyway. I’ve suggested that-after due deliberation-the Council might come to believe that my brother’s recent actions have shown them whom he currently favored as successor: someone who had amply demonstrated his loyalty and skill. Why, Jan would grow into a fine Hirzg, don’t you think?-one who would rule strongly and well for many years to come.”
Semini chuckled, softly at first, then more enthusiastically. “So that’s your intention.”
The stone felt like ice in her hand. “Not entirely. I’m thinking of the future, Semini. Perhaps when the Holdings and the Coalition are united again and a competent ruler sits on the Sun Throne, and there is a righteous Archigos in the Temple of Cenzi who has also reunited the severed halves of the Faith, then Jan would be that Kralji’s perfect strong right arm.”
His face was split with a wide smile now. “Allesandra, you surprise me.”
“I shouldn’t,” she told him. “You and I, Semini, are on the same side in this.” She rubbed the stone between her fingers and tucked it into a pocket of her tashta. She would have it mounted in gold on a fine chain. She would wear it under her tashta when she spoke to the Council, wear it alongside the broken globe of Cenzi that Archigos Ana had given her. It would be a reminder of guilt, a reminder that she had acted in haste and done worse to her brother than her vatarh and he had ever done to her. I’m sorry, Fynn. I’m sorry that we never really knew each other. I’m sorry…
She placed her hand on the railing, close to Semini’s hand, as she looked down again into the mists. A few breaths later, she felt the warmth of Semini’s hand carefully covering hers.
They stood that way until darkness came and the first stars pricked the dark blue of the sky.
Eneas cu’Kinnear
The mouth of the A’Sele was its widest here. The city of Fossano sat on the southern bank, the hills to the north tiny and hazed with blue on the far side, fading into invisibility as they curved away across the yawning gulf of A’Sele Bay. Dozens of trade ships plied the silt-brown water, traveling upriver to Nessantico or downriver toward Karnmor or other countries to the north or south, or even across the Strettosei itself. The water of A’Sele Bay was colored by the soil the A’Sele carried from its tributaries, with its sweet freshness coiling and fading eventually into the cobalt salt depths of the Nostrosei.
Eneas was at last back in Nessantico proper. Back in the Holdings. Back on the mainland. The scent of salt was faint here, and he stayed well away from it. From here, he would travel the main road east to Vouziers, then north to Nessantico herself at last.
Home. He was nearly home. He could taste it.
In Fossano, everything felt familiar and comfortable. The architecture echoed the solid, ornamented buildings of the capital city just as the temples were smaller replicas of the great cathedrals
on the South Bank and the Isle of the Kralji, thirty-some leagues up the rushing waters of the A’Sele. There was nothing of the square, flat buildings of the Westlanders, or of the odd spires and whitewashed flanks of Karnor.
The Hellins and the battles Eneas had experienced felt distant to him as he looked out from a tavern in South Hills, as if they had happened to someone else in another life. He was floating detached from the memories; he could see them but couldn’t touch them, and they couldn’t touch him.
But… always in his head there was this faint voice, the voice he knew now was Cenzi. Yes… I hear you, Lord of All. I listen.. .
Eneas heard His Voice now, as he touched his pack, the niter he’d purchased in Karnor heavy at the bottom. He stood at the open window of his room in the Old Chevaritt’s Inn, and he could faintly catch the scent of burning nearby, and the Voice called to him to go out. Go out. Find the source. Find what was needed now.
He obeyed, as he must. He put on his uniform, buckled his sword around his hip, and left the inn.
Fossano’s streets angled up and down steep inclines, and wandered as if laid out by a drunken man. This area of town, outside the old city walls and away from the densely-packed center, had been farmland until recently. The houses and buildings were still widely separated by small fields where sheep, goats, and cows grazed or where farmers planted crops. The smell of sharp burning intensified as Eneas followed the road farther out from the town, until the houses vanished entirely and the road became no more than a rutted, weed-overgrown path.
Eneas rounded a knob of tree-dotted granite. A bluish trail of smoke was visible, coiling from near a ramshackle hut set in an unworked field. Cords of hardwood littered the yard, and three men were piling the cords into a rounded pile-already twice a man’s height and several strides around. Nearby, another mound of wood had been covered with soil and turf, and smoke drifted from vent holes around the perimeter of the mound and from the covered chimney at the top. The men glanced up as Eneas approached, and he swept back his travel cloak to reveal the crest of the Garde Civile and the hilt of his sword: coalliers were known to be a rough and untrustworthy lot, living in small groups in the forested areas outside the town. A mound of cordwood might take two or three weeks to smolder and fume through the transformation to hard, pure black charcoal, and required constant tending or the coalliers would remove the earthen covering to find only ash. Coalliers stayed to themselves, venturing in only to sell bags of the charcoal they produced, and moving on to new areas of forest as the suitable trees nearby were depleted. Their poor reputation was enhanced by the fact that they’d often mix the charcoal with lumps of dirt and rocks so that the quality of the coal might be less than desirable. In Nessantico, there were e-teni whose task it was to produce the fine, gemlike charcoal used in the smelting furnaces of the great city, and to heat the houses of the ca’-and-cu’. Here, the work wasn’t done through the power of the Ilmodo, but through the back-breaking and dirty labor of common people.