by V. Briceland
A number of the household members began yelling and running for the door, trying to escape. From the lower bridge, Risa heard the shout of the guards and a number of the stable men as they began frantically running from the caza’s outbuildings.
“The horn, you fool!” Mattio shouted in Fredo’s ear.
Her cousin looked nearly as panicked as the most frightened kitchen servant. “I—I don’t know … ” he stammered, the words audible only as the rumble once again began to subside. Below them, on the bridges, servants and craftsmen yelled in terror as they began to stream from the doorways, fleeing the caza.
“Blow the bloody horn!” Mattio roared. He took four long steps to the pedestal and removed the copper lid. “Blow it before we’re all killed!”
“It will be the glass,” Risa said, suddenly sure of herself. She turned to Milo and Camilla, who regarded her with alert eyes. “For Portello it was their buildings that failed. They’re architects. For us it will be the glass. All of it.”
Though she did not know from where it came, she had a sure instinct of how their doom would unfold. First the Divetri windows—centuries of metal and glass undamaged by even the strongest of storms—would explode and collapse. Every item of glass in the household would burst and shatter, sending shards of glass everywhere. The great dome over the family’s hallway would disintegrate, splintering and falling in a deadly rain of slivers that would pierce flesh and bone alike. Mirrors, bowls, goblets, the tiny menagerie of hand-blown animals in Petro’s old room, every object in her father’s workroom and the hundreds upon hundreds of sheets of glass waiting to be cut and used in the storehouses—each would become a deadly weapon. Loosed of their enchantments, they would fracture and fly in every direction, destroying the caza and all those who could not escape its deadly trap.
“Get away!” Milo yelled to Amo and Ricard, who were only an arm-span away from a stained glass window, the very window Petro had almost broken a week before. “Stand back!” he yelled to Emil, who stood in shock, unable to move.
Camilla also seemed to understand Risa’s warning, for just as the third rumble began to shake the caza’s foundation, she ran to herd the remaining servants to the farthest end of the balcony. “Lie down!” she commanded. “Cover your heads! And keep your eyes closed!”
The windows began to rattle in their frames. Risa felt as if she could hear every individual piece of glass shaking in the lead channels that held them. Near the pedestal, she saw Fredo struggling with the horn. He held it to his lips as had her father, every night for year upon year. No sound came from its bell.
From the bridges, the shouting increased in volume. The earth began to shudder in anger. Tania and Ricard huddled against the balcony edge in each other’s arms. Once more, Fredo placed his lips against the horn’s narrow mouthpiece. It was a struggle for him even to stand upright, much less muster enough breath to blow.
Risa watched in astonishment and anger as he crumpled to the ground, folded over the horn. From below she heard the sound of a single pane of glass shattering. Fredo could not complete the rite.
She felt Milo grab her by the shoulders. “You’re a Divetri!” he yelled at her. “You’re more Divetri than your cousin!”
“It’s too late!” she shouted back, choking down the lump in her throat.
“Not yet!”
She saw something in her mind, then: a glass marble streaked with red. The terrible din of the island’s mad roar diminished as cool determination flooded through her limbs. “Not yet,” she repeated, feeling the confidence stir her to action. “Not ever!” Vaulting over to Fredo, she attempted to take the horn from his terrified grasp.
“We’re all going to die!” He struggled against her, shouting the words over and over again.
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” With a mighty twist, she wrenched the instrument from his hands. Fredo protested, then crumpled into a ball and squirmed to get away.
There was not much time left. Planting her legs firmly against the angry earth, she lifted the instrument to her lips.
She blew.
A single pure tone floated into the night air, soothing the ground’s savage temper. The note grew louder, pealing through the pandemonium. With barely a hesitation, the tremors came to a standstill. Risa heard the shouting cease from the bridge and piazza below.
Yet again she felt an imperceptible cord fly from the caza to the center of the city, anchoring her to the palace. It stretched taut between them, holding the household in its grip.
She blew until her trembling arms could no longer hold the horn and its musical tone faded into memory. In the distance, atop the palace, she thought she could sense displeasure, as if the prince had been willing her caza to fall and raged when it did not. But as her father had often told her, the palace was too far away. It was probably just her imagination.
She had done it. She had completed the rite. A moment later she heard the answering cry from Catarre, but it was all but drowned out by a sudden roar from the bridges below. Risa looked down to find the Divetri servants cheering and applauding madly. It took another moment before she realized that they were celebrating none other than her.
Ricard was standing, helping Tania to unsteady feet. Once up, he was the first to speak. “That was the most marvelous feat I have ever witnessed. You are a wonder, Cazarrina!” he breathed, his voice astonished.
“Cazarra,” corrected Mattio. He turned to the balcony rail and with his mighty voice cried into the night. “Risa, Cazarra of Divetri!”
“Risa! Cazarra of Divetri!” echoed Milo. He was grinning from ear to ear. Soon Camilla joined him in the cry. “Risa! Cazarra of Divetri!”
From the bridges it echoed. “Cazarra! Cazarra of Divetri!”
“I knew you could do it,” Milo said under his breath. “I think you could do anything.” She turned in surprise, unexpectedly touched, but Milo was looking at the crowd below. For a moment it flashed through her mind that perhaps she had overheard something not intended for her ears. He was joining in the cheering, bellowing her name at the top of his voice.
Amidst the cheering and the commotion, a steely hand clasped her on the shoulder. “Nicely done, cousin,” said Fredo. His white face was wreathed in the most funereal of smiles as he leaned in close. “But I doubt your father would be well pleased. You know how he feels about girls performing a man’s job. If I were you, I would hope he will overlook the dishonor when he returns.” He stalked away, whipping Ero’s robes angrily about him.
His speech was like a slap. She watched as he vanished through the doorway, and shivered once he was gone.
At that moment, Mattio grabbed Risa around the waist. She gasped in surprise when he hoisted her to his broad and comfortable shoulder. “Cazarra of Divetri!” he shouted once more to the crowds below. He deposited Risa upon the balcony rail, where she stood illuminated by the lamps burning on both sides of the canals and the bridge below. Directly above her head flew the banners of her household. Above them shone the two moons, already marking their course across the night sky.
Face after face beamed at her for as far as she could see. The cheering sounded as if it would never stop. “Risa! Cazarra!” She should have been enormously happy.
Why then, could she only imagine her father’s face turning from her in disappointment?
17
—
I will not dissemble. It frightens me, Nivolo, that I am grown so old and yet have never found an apprentice to whom I can pass on the arts that only I can practice. But no matter. You once told me I was the answer to a prayer you made. Let us hope the gods are willing to answer all such prayers in the future.
—Allyria Cassamagi to King Nivolo of Cassaforte,
from a private letter in the Cassamagi historical archives
Don’t cry. You must sleep.” The man’s whisper cut through th
e darkness. “Please don’t cry, my darling. She’ll be fine.”
“She’s only a baby,” said the other voice, tantalizingly familiar. “She’s all alone.”
“She’s not all al—”
The man’s voice was interrupted by a sound, and then the intrusion of another speaker, his voice dark and sharp. She had heard it before, too. “Have you reconsidered? Or do you really want to endure another sunset like tonight’s?” She heard a slight, unamused laugh. “The others are ready to talk.”
What others? The question, formed in her dreams, pulled her from the depths of sleep. She woke and found herself surrounded by silence.
“Who’s there?” she whispered back into the night. The voices faded. The only sound was a symphony of crickets from the canal banks.
Risa listened carefully, but the voices were gone. With weariness, she thought of rising from bed to see if anyone might be conducting a conversation on the waters below. Her limbs, however, were too heavy and tired to move. It must be several hours until dawn yet. Already her mind was drifting back to sleep … She didn’t even remember the dream the next morning.
“Good morning, Cazarra,” a servant murmured as she walked toward the outdoor garden room her family used for the morning meal. Her entrance caused a stir. At the sideboard, a number of the staff were busily folding cloths and sweeping away crumbs, but they instantly set down whatever they held and dropped into deep curtseys and bows.
“Good morning, Cazarra,” they all said in low voices, staring at the ground.
“Have I missed breakfast? I’m sorry. I slept late.” Risa’s stomach rumbled just then, making her wince in embarrassment. They must have heard it. “I’ll just get something from the kitchens, then.”
“If you please,” said the first servant, curtseying once more, “it is not fitting for the Cazarra to eat there. I will fetch the housekeeper for you.” With another dip, she vanished indoors.
At the head of the table, a male servant pulled out the carved, elaborate chair belonging to her father. “No, thank you, I’ll just sit there,” Risa said, shuffling in the direction of her usual seat near the foot.
“If you please, Cazarra.” The servant’s entreaty halted her progress. He gestured to the chair and gave her a pointed look. At last she sighed and walked the length of the table to take her father’s seat. The half dozen attendants bowed in unison and left the garden room. Risa felt stunned. Never before in her life had she received such deference; she was used to politeness, but not awe. The servants were treating her as they would her father or mother.
“Cazarra.” The housekeeper entered the room with her head low. “I apologize that a tray was not sent to your room. We are short-staffed after last night’s events. It will not happen again.”
“Oh no, I overslept.” Risa yawned and blinked. “Why are we short-staffed?”
“After what happened to Cazas Portello and Dioro—”
All her sleepiness vanished. Risa lurched erect. “Not Dioro too!”
Fita nodded gravely. “And Piratimare.”
It was true, then. The prince wanted the cazas to fall. Three of the seven, destroyed in one night. It was unthinkable. The only thing worse was knowing how close to the precipice Caza Divetri had staggered. Thinking of it only frightened her, though. She instantly reminded herself that they had not failed to complete the rite of fealty. They would not fail tonight, nor the next. When her parents returned, they would find the caza just as they had left it.
“We’ve lost several servants,” Fita continued. “They’re afraid to work here. But I shall find one to bring your meal, Cazarra.” She nodded and glided from the room. Normally the old servant loved nothing more than to gossip and scold, but today she was curiously abrupt.
It was because of last night, Risa realized. Everyone was treating her differently now. Before, she was just Risa. Plain, unwanted Risa. Risa the nuisance whose experiments in the furnaces were a waste of glass and time. Risa the helpless little girl, the daughter who had disappointed them all. Now she was Risa the Cazarra, head of household. Protector of Divetri and bearer of its horn.
“Breakfast, Cazarra,” said the voice of an old man, a few moments later. Dom stumbled in, his steps shuffling and tentative. In his trembling hands he carried a bowl stuffed with fruit and bread. For a moment Risa nearly jumped up and took it from him, but she noticed another servant in the doorway, observing Dom’s performance—most likely so he could report back to the eagle-eyed Fita. She remained seated, holding her breath in the hope he would pass whatever test he was undergoing.
He tottered forward and set the bowl on the table in front of her. It landed a little unsteadily and without any of the invisible grace she had taken for granted with the other servants. His glance caught hers briefly as he bowed low. She smiled encouragingly at him just before the servant snapped his fingers. Dom’s head inclined toward the ground as he backed away, then he turned and hobbled from the room.
When the servants had thought her of little importance, they’d treated her like a normal human being, if not quite an equal. Today, now that they respected her, the distance between herself and them had increased. She was not certain if she liked the new arrangement better.
Footsteps sounded in the garden beyond the pillars. She turned to find Milo in his crimson uniform. “Cazarra,” he said in a formal, bored tone. “You have a visitor awaiting you at the far end of your upper bridge.”
Still clutching half of a sweet bun in her hand, Risa rose from her chair. Why was Milo sounding so stiff and reserved? He did not offer smile for smile when she stepped in his direction. Surely he, of all people, would not treat her differently.
His eyes flicked back over his shoulder. “Captain Tolio,” Risa said carefully, understanding her friend’s sudden formality. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Cazarra,” said the captain. He was civil, but only just. “I trust you slept well after last night’s … distressing events?”
“Oh yes, quite well, thank you,” she said.
His smile was so slight that she wondered why he even exerted the effort to feign it. “I do not intend to keep you from your visitor,” he murmured, stepping in front of Milo. “I only wished to verify that our guards were not intruding upon your … good will. Certain guards, that is.” Milo assumed a look of bland rigidity.
“The Sorranto boy?” She shrugged. “Oh no. He’s been very … businesslike.” On instinct, she affected the bored, snobbish tone used among many families of the Thirty. “Someone of his class would scarcely bother someone of mine, would he?”
The captain relaxed somewhat. “I just wanted to hear it from you, Cazarra.”
She shooed Tolio away with her hands. “Leave me. I would see my visitor.” She sounded so much like the social leaders she mocked that she nearly laughed.
With a quick, respectful bow and a dark look at Milo, the captain stepped from the garden room. Scarcely had he left when Milo let out a deep breath and grinned. “You can lay it on thick!” he whistled.
“Don’t underestimate me,” she said.
Milo laughed abruptly. “Oh, believe me, I’m learning not to.”
18
—
History claims that it was the enchantments of the so-called Piratimare ship builders that enabled a minor principality such as Cassaforte to turn back the Azurite invasion after two years. The Piratimare crafts are said never to sink, or take on too much water in a storm. I have seen the ship builders at work, however, and save for a few prayers made at regular intervals, their techniques are no different from our own.
—Comte William DeVane, Travels Sundry &
Wide Beyond the Azurite Channel
The interior of the carriage reeked with the nose-tickling scent of must and the sweet, heavy decay of old velvet. There was another odor as well—a sharp and faded perfume
that lingered in the low ceilinged space like a whisper. With the door closed, every breath of air seemed hot in her lungs. Risa shifted uncomfortably on the backward-facing seat, hoping that in the dim light the old man could not see her perspire. He did not seem to be warm at all; if anything, beneath his old-fashioned cloak and layers of thick clothing, he gave the appearance of shivering.
His spectacles had spectacles. In front of each of the thick lenses held upon his nose with twisted wire sat another, smaller circle of glass. He was peering through both sets of lenses now, regarding her from the other carriage seat. His overgrown gray eyebrows furrowed in concentration for several moments until, at last, he moistened his lips and began to work words from his mouth.
“But you are a child!” he exclaimed. His voice made him seem even older than his withered and frail appearance would indicate. To Risa it sounded like leaves rustling in the breeze, come autumn’s end.
There was no possible polite reply to this. “You’re Ferrer, Cazarro of Cassamagi,” she said at last. He seemed surprised that she recognized him. “You’ve come to the caza before, to see my parents. Not for a long while, though.”
“Ero is your father?” He seemed to be puzzling out the relationship. “You must forgive me, my dear. It is easier to remember children when one is young. When one reaches my age, everyone seems like a child.” He peered at her through the curious spectacles once more. “And you blew the Divetri horn, last night?” When she nodded, he said gently, “It is indeed fortunate that you did. I admit to being frightened, however. Seven houses—once so strong—diminished to four, kept alive last night only by children and old men.”
Through the glass of the carriage’s window, beyond the deep crimson of Camilla’s cap where she stood guard outside, Risa could see past the canal to the distant ruins of Caza Portello. Smoke still poured from sections of the rubble. At the center of the residence, visible now in the daylight, the great dome over the caza’s center had collapsed. Only a few ribs still arched skyward. Ferrer leaned forward and followed her gaze. “My people tell me that only the caza itself suffered. The other works, by generations of Portello craftsmen, have endured—half the city would be lying in dust if all their enchantments were destroyed. Still … it is a pity so much of their property was fortified with enchantments. The caza would not have suffered so much, otherwise, when the pact was broken. Piratimare suffered comparatively little.”