by S L Farrell
None of it convinced Jan. He knew what they were thinking, all of them, and when the suspicion settled in his gut, he also knew they were right. A pretender in the court, a pretender who was the lover of the King’s favorite companion—the conclusion was obvious. Elissa had been the White Stone’s accomplice, or she was the White Stone herself.
Either thought made Jan’s head whirl. He remembered the time he’d spent with her, the conversations, the flirtations, the kisses; the rising, quick breaths as they explored each other; the slick, oily heat of lovemaking, the laughter afterward . . . Her body, sleek and enticing in the warm bath of candlelight; the curve of her breasts beaded with the sweat of their passion; the dark, soft and enticing triangle at the joining of her legs . . .
He shook his head to banish the thoughts.
It couldn’t be her. Couldn’t. Yet . . .
Jan put his hand on the sealing stone of Fynn’s tomb, letting his fingers trace the incised bas-reliefs there. “I’m sorry,” he said again to the corpse.
If it had, somehow, been Elissa, then the question still unanswered was who had hired The White Stone. The Stone would not kill without a contract. Someone had paid for this. Whether Elissa had been the knife or simply the helper didn’t matter. It hadn’t been her who had made the decision. Someone else had ordered the death.
Jan bowed his head until his forehead touched the cold stone. “I’ll find out who did this,” he said: to Cénzi, to Fynn, to the haunted air. “I’ll find out, and I will give you justice, Onczio.”
Jan took in a long breath of the cold, damp air. He rose on protesting knees and took the torch from its sconce. Then he began the long climb back up toward the day.
Sergei ca’Rudka
“THERE IS TRUTH IN PAIN,” Sergei said. He’d spoken the aphorism many times over the years, said it so the victim knew that he must confess what Sergei wished him to confess. He also knew the statement for the lie it was. There was no “truth” in pain, not really. With the agony he inflicted, there came instead the ability to make the victim say anything that Sergei desired him to say. There came the ability to make “truth” whatever those in charge wished truth to be. The victim would say anything, agree to anything, confess to anything as long as there was a promise to end the torment.
Sergei smiled down at the man in chains before him, the instruments of torture dark and sinister in the roll of leather before him, but then the perception shifted: it was Sergei lying bound on the table, looking up into his own face. His hands were chained and cold fear twisted his bowels. He knew what he was about to feel; he had imposed it on many. He knew what he was about to feel, and he screamed in anticipation of the agony. . . .
“Regent?”
Sergei bolted awake in his cell, the manacles binding his wrists rattling the short chain between them. He reached quickly for the knife that was still in his boot, making sure that his hand was around the hilt so that if they’d come to take him for interrogation, he could take his own life first.
He would not endure what he had forced others to endure.
But it was Aris cu’Falla, the Commandant of the Bastida, who had entered the room, and Sergei relaxed, letting his fingers slide from the hilt. Aris saluted the garda who had opened the door. “You may go,” he told the man. “There’s lunch for you on the lower landing. Come back here in half a turn of the glass.”
“Thank you, Commandant,” the garda said. He saluted and left. Aris left the door open. Sergei glanced at the yawning door from the bed on which he sat. Aris saw the glance.
“You wouldn’t get past me, Sergei. You know that. I have two hands of years on you, after all, and it’s my duty—not to mention my life—to stop you.”
“Did you leave the door open just to mock me, then?”
A smile came and vanished like spring frost. “Would you rather I shut and locked it?”
Sergei laughed grimly, and the laugh morphed into a cough heavy with phlegm. Aris touched his shoulder with concern as Sergei hunched over. “Would you like me to send for a healer, my friend?”
“Why, so I’m as healthy as possible when the Council orders me killed?” Sergei shook his head. “It’s just the dampness; my lungs don’t like it. So tell me, Aris, what news do you have?”
Aris pulled the single chair in the room over to him, the legs scraping loudly against the flags. “I’ve a garda I trust implicitly assigned to the Council—for my own safety in this troubled time, frankly. So much of what I know comes from him.”
“I don’t need the preamble, Aris—it’s not going to change your answer, and I suspect I already know it. Just tell me.”
Aris sighed. He turned the chair backward and sat, his arms folded over the back, his chin on his arms. “Sigourney ca’Ludovici is pushing the Council hard to give the Kraljiki the power he asks for. There’s to be a final meeting in a few days, and a vote is to be taken then.”
“They’ll actually give Audric what he wants?”
A nod wrinkled the bearded chin on his hands. “Yes. I think so.”
Sergei closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone wall. He could feel the chill of the rock through his thinning hair. “They’ll destroy Nessantico for the sake of power. They’re all—and Sigourney especially—thinking that Audric won’t last a year, which will leave the Sun Throne open for one of them—assuming I’m gone.”
“Sergei,” he heard Aris say in the darkness of his thoughts, “I’ll give you warning. I promise you that. I’ll give you time to—” He stopped.
“Thank you, Aris.”
“I would do more, if I could, but I have my family to think about. If the Council of Ca’ or the new Kralji found out I helped you to escape, well . . .”
“I know. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Sergei opened his eyes again, leaning forward. He cupped a hand on Aris’ face, the manacles jangling with the motion. “I’ve had a good life, Aris, and I’ve served three Kralji as well as I could. Cénzi will forgive me what I must do.”
“There’s still hope, and no need to do anything yet,” Aris said. “The Council may come to their senses and see that the Kraljiki’s sick in his mind as well as his body. They may yet release you; they will, if the effort of Archigos Kenne and the others loyal to you have any effect at all—Archigos Kenne has already pleaded your case to them, and his words still have some influence, after all. Don’t give up hope, Sergei. We both know all too well the history of the Bastida. Why, the Bastida held Harcourt ca’Denai for three years before he became Kraljiki.”
Sergei laughed, forcing down the cough that wanted to come with it. “We’re practical men, both of us, Aris. Realists. We don’t delude ourselves with false hope.”
“True enough,” Aris said. He stood. “I’ll have the garda bring your food up to you. And a healer to look at you, whether you want him or not.” He patted Sergei on the shoulder and started for the cell door, stopping with his hand on the handle. “If it comes to it, Sergei, I’ll send word to you before anyone comes to take you down to the donjons below.” He paused, looking significantly at Sergei. “So you can prepare yourself. You’ve my word on that.”
Sergei nodded. Aris saluted him and closed the door with a metallic clash. Sergei heard the grating of the key in the lock. He put his head back again, listening to the sound of cu’Falla’s bootsteps on the winding stairs of the tower.
He remembered the clean sound of screams echoing on stone, and the shrill, high pleading of those sent for questioning. He remembered their faces, taut with pain. There was an honesty in their agony, a purity of expression that could not be faked. He sometimes thought he glimpsed Cénzi in them: Cénzi as He had been when His own children, the Moitidi, had turned against Him and savaged His mortal body. Now, like Cénzi, Sergei might face the wrath of his own creation.
But he would not. He promised himself that. One way or the other, he would not.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“THE COUNCILLORS ARE HERE and seated, A’Hïrzg,” the aide told them. “They’ve asked me to bring you to chambers.”
Allesandra stood in the corridor outside the council chamber with Pauli and Jan on either side of her. Her hand touched her tashta, low on the throat where—under the cloth—a common white stone hung surrounded by golden filigree, next to Archigos Ana’s globe. Even Pauli, who had been chattering contentedly about how West Magyaria and Firenzcia, when he was Gyula and Allesandra was Hïrzg, would together solidify the Coalition, went silent as the aide nodded to the hall servants to open the double doors and they peered into the shadowed dimness beyond, where the Council of Ca’ was seated at the great table.
Jan, for his part, was solemn and quiet, as he had been since Fynn’s death and Elissa’s departure. Allesandra put her arm around her son before they entered. She leaned over to him and whispered: “When I leave here, you must go to your rooms and wait. Do you understand?”
He looked at her strangely but finally gave her a small, puzzled nod.
The chamber of the Council of Ca’ in Brezno was dark, with stained oak paneling on the walls and a rug the color of dried blood: an interior room of Brezno Palais with no windows, illuminated only by candled chandeliers above the long, varnished table (not even téni-lights), and cold with only a small hearth at one end. The room was dreary and cheerless. It was not a room that invited a long stay and slow, leisurely conversations—and that was deliberate. Hïrzg Karin, Allesandra’s great-vatarh, had intentionally assigned the room to the Council. He found the Council of Ca’ sessions tedious and boring; the lack of comfort in the room ensured that they would at least be short.
“Please, come in, A’Hïrzg,” Sinclair ca’Egan said from the head of the table. Ca’Egan was bald and ancient, a quaver-voiced chevaritt who had ridden with Allesandra’s vatarh before Hïrzg Karin had even named Allesandra’s vatarh as A’Hïrzg. He’d been on the Council of Ca’ for as long as Allesandra had known him; as Eldest, he was also titular head of the Council. Four women (one of them Francesca), five men; they rose as one and bowed to her as A’Hïrzg, a nicety even the Council of Ca’ could not ignore, then sat once more. Six of the nine, especially, nodded and smiled to her. Allesandra, Pauli, and Jan stood—as etiquette demanded—at the open end of the table. Ca’Egan rattled the parchments set in front of him and cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. We certainly needn’t be long. A mere formality, actually. Hïrzg Fynn had already named Allesandra ca’Vörl as A’Hïrzg, so we only need to have your signature, A’Hïrzg, and those of the councillors here . . .”
“Vajiki ca’Egan,” Allesandra said, and ca’Egan’s head came up wonderingly at the interruption. At her right side, Pauli grunted at the obvious breach in etiquette. “I have a statement to make before the Council puts its stamp on that document and sends it to the Archigos for his acknowledgment. I have thought about this ever since my dear brother was killed, and I have prayed to Cénzi for His guidance, and everything has become clear to me.” She paused. This is your last chance to change your mind. . . . Semini had argued with her for a long turn or two, as they lay in bed together, but she was convinced that this was the right strategy. She took a deep breath. She could feel Pauli staring at her quizzically and impatiently. “I do not wish to be Hïrzgin,” she declaimed, “and I hereby revoke my claim on the title.”
Ca’Egan’s eyebrows clambered high on his bare, wrinkled skull and his mouth opened soundlessly. Francesca, in shock, reared back in her seat, stunned by the announcement, but most did not. They only nodded, their gazes more on Jan than on Allesandra.
“Cénzi’s balls!” Pauli shouted alongside her, the obscenity almost seeming to draw lightning in the dark air of the chamber. “Woman, are you insane? Do you know what you’re doing? You’ve just—”
“Shut up,” she said to Pauli, who glared, though his jaw snapped closed. Allesandra raised her hands to the councillors. “I’ve said all I need to say. My decision is irrevocable. I leave it to the Council of Ca’ to decide who is best suited take the throne of Brezno. However, it won’t be me. I trust your judgment, Councillors. I know you will do what is best for Brezno.”
With that, she gave the sign of Cénzi to the Council and turned, pushing the doors open so abruptly that the hall servants on station outside were nearly knocked aside. Pauli and Jan, surprised by the suddenness of her retreat, followed belatedly. Allesandra could hear Pauli charging after her. His hand caught her arm and spun her around. His handsome face was flushed and distorted, made ugly with anger. Behind him, she saw Jan standing at the open door of the chamber watching their confrontation, his own features puzzled and uncertain.
“What in the seven hells is this?” Pauli raged. “We had everything we ever wanted in our hands, and you just throw it away? Are you mad, Allesandra?” His hand tightened on her bicep, the tashta bunching under his fingers. She would be bruised there tomorrow, she knew. “You are going back in there now and you’re telling them that it was a mistake. A joke. Tell them any damn thing you want. But you’re not going to do this to me.”
“To you?” Allesandra answered mockingly, calmly. “How does this have anything to do with you, Pauli? I was the A’Hïrzg, not you. You are just a pitiful, useless excuse for a husband, a mistake I hope to rectify as soon as I can, and you’ll take your hand from me. Now.”
He didn’t. He drew his other hand back as if to strike her, his fingers curling into a fist. “No!” The shout was from Jan, running toward them. “Don’t, Vatarh.”
Allesandra smiled grimly at Pauli, at his still-upraised hand. “Go ahead,” she told him. “Do it if you’d like. I tell you now that it will be the last time you ever touch me.”
Pauli let the fisted hand drop. His fingers loosened on her sleeve and she shook herself away from him.
“I’m done with you, Pauli,” she told him. “You gave me all I ever needed from you long ago.”
Enéas cu’Kinnear
VOUZIERS: A LANDLOCKED CITY, the largest in South Nessantico, the crossroads to Namarro and the sun-crazed southlands of Daritria beyond. Vouziers sat at the northern edge of the flatlands of South Nessantico, a farming country with vast fields of swaying grain. Vouziers’ people were like the land: solid, unpretentious, serious, and uncomplicated.
The coach took several days to reach Vouziers from Fossano. In a village along the way, he purchased all the sulfur the local alchemist had in his shop; the next night, he did the same in another. At each of their nightly stops, Enéas would take a private room at the inn. He would take out a few chunks of the charcoal and begin, slowly, to grind it into a black powder—he could hear Cénzi’s satisfaction when the charcoal had reached the required fineness. Then, with Cénzi’s voice warning him to be gentle and careful, he mixed the charcoal powder, the sulfur, and the niter together into the black sand of the Westlanders, tamping it softly into paper packages. Cénzi whispered the instructions into his head as he worked, and kept him safe.
The night before they reached Vouziers, he took a few of the packs out into the field after everyone was asleep. There, he poured the contents into a small, shallow hole he dug in the ground—the result reminded him uneasily of the black sands on the battlefields of the Hellins and his own defeat. As Cénzi’s Voice instructed him, he took a length of cotton cord impregnated with wax and particles of the black sand, buried one end in the black sand and uncoiled the rest on the ground as he stepped away from the hole. Later, he heard Cénzi say in his head, I will show you how to make fire as the téni do. You should have been a téni, Enéas. That was My desire for you, but your parents didn’t listen to Me. But now I will make you all you should have been. You have My blessing. . . .
Taking the shielded lantern he’d brought with him, Enéas lit the end of the cord. It hissed and fumed and sputtered, sparks gleaming in the darkness, and Enéas walked quickly away from it. He’d reached the inn and stepped into the common room when the eruption came: a sharp report louder
than thunder that rattled the walls of the inn and fluttered the thick, translucent oiled paper in the windows, accompanied by a flash of momentary daylight. Everyone in the room jumped and craned their heads. “Cénzi’s balls!” the innkeeper growled. “The night is as clear as well water.”
The innkeeper went stomping outside, with the others trailing along behind. They first looked up to the cloudless sky and saw nothing. Out in the field, however, a small fire smoldered. As they approached, Enéas saw that the small hole he’d dug was now deep enough for a man to stand in up to his knees, and nearly an arm’s reach across. Stones and dirt had been flung out in all directions. It was as if Cénzi Himself had punched the earth angrily.