A Magic of Dawn

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A Magic of Dawn Page 30

by S L Farrell


  “We have won a victory, as I promised Tecuhtli Citlali,” Niente told him. “The path I was shown was true.”

  “There was another path,” Atl insisted. “I saw our ships caught. Why didn’t you see that? I saw their troops waiting for us at the shore. Why didn’t you see that also, Taat? Why did you tell me that I’d seen wrong, and why did I believe you?”

  “Why didn’t you see that?” Memory assaulted him again.

  They lost too many warriors to the river, as the warriors were already dressed in their armor for the coming assault. The weight dragged down those who fell into the water even if they could swim. The ships that managed to drop sail and anchor in time sent out their small boats to rescue those they could. Everyone could see the Easterner warriors on the walls of the city, so tantalizingly close, and even Niente shuddered, waiting for the fire of their war-téni to come shrieking down on the disabled ships and the helpless warriors and sailors. They were a dead, unmoving target, and the téni-fire would be devastating. The river would become a conflagration, a death trap.

  That was what Niente himself would have done, in their place: he would have rained death on the helpless enemy, ripe for the plucking. Impossibly—as Axat had shown him in the bowl’s water—only a very few spells were actually cast, and the nahualli easily turned them.

  The ships at the end of the fleet’s long line turned away from the wreckage, sliding toward the shore well below Villembouchure’s walls, and the small boats poured out from the rest of the fleet, the warriors shrieking and pounding their shields as they landed, a furious Tecuhtli Citlali leading the charge. Niente was with him, as was his place, and his spell-staff cast fire toward the walls that shattered them and sent men screaming to their death. The catapults from the closest stable ships tossed their black sand, though much of it fell short.

  The gates of the city opened, and the army of the Easterners poured out, then Niente’s world was enmeshed in the chaos of battle, all the plans the Tecuhtli and the High Warriors had devised gone to ash. The fight was brutal and bloody, but they had the advantage of numbers, of magic, and of the black sand.

  In the end, they prevailed at great cost, as Niente had known they would.

  “Axat showed me that if we had landed the fleet a day’s march from Villembouchure, we could have marched in on them intact—without having our fleet fouled and blocking the A’Sele, without the great losses we sustained there and in the initial attack,” Atl insisted. “Why didn’t you see that in the scrying bowl, Taat?”

  “I’m sorry, but you saw wrongly, Atl,” Niente insisted again, hating the lie. But he had no other choice.

  Atl was already shaking his head, glancing over toward Tecuhtli Citlali, who was staring in their direction. Atl’s voice was raised and heated, and his gestures were as sharp as a dagger’s edge. “I had one of the metalsmiths make me my own bowl, Taat, since you’re so reluctant to let me borrow yours. In that bowl and in yours also, I saw the same events, and they were clear. Had we landed the fleet earlier, this would have been a far easier victory, and the A’Sele would still be open to us. Your path was the wrong one, and it cost the lives of too many good warriors and sailors and has taken away our water path to the great city. Taat, I’m concerned. I look at you and I see how Axat has crippled your body; I see how weak you’ve become. I wonder . . .” He gave a huff of exasperation, or perhaps it was only concern. “I wonder if your far-sight has become as poor as your true sight.”

  No, Niente wanted to tell him. My future sight has become sharper than ever before, and I can see further down the possibilities that Axat reveals than you can. And that is the problem . . . But he could say nothing of that to Atl. He wouldn’t understand and he wouldn’t believe. Niente wasn’t entirely certain that he understood it himself.

  “What is this?” a gruff voice interrupted: Tecuhtli Citlali. He had come over to them; behind him, Tototl and two others of the High Warriors stared at Niente and Atl impassively. Citlali’s broad head, the red eagle bright against his flesh, turned from one of them to the other. The bamboo ridges of his armor were scratched and scarred from the battle, many of the steel rings set in it missing. “What are you saying to the Nahual, Atl?”

  “I was asking Taat if perhaps there hadn’t been a better path for us to take, Tecuhtli,” Atl answered.

  “He promised us victory,” Citlali said. “We have that.” He glanced around, his nose wrinkling at the odor of death and smoke. “Though not a pleasant one.”

  “Yes, we do,” Atl answered. “But sometimes there is more than one road that can be traveled to the same place, and one might be easier than the other.”

  The Tecuhtli’s regard turned back to Niente. “Nahual? What is the young man saying?”

  Niente looked more at Atl than at Citlali. “I gave the Tecuhtli advice that led to our victory. If he wishes to follow another path next time, that is his choice. I am the Nahual, and I speak with Axat’s voice, as I always have. I know that Axat has given me true far-sight. I have proved that too many times already, at great cost to myself.” His voice was quavering at the end: an old man’s tired voice. His emptied spell-staff trembled in his hand. Niente stared at his son, and finally the young man’s gaze lowered.

  “The Nahual found victory for us,” Atl said. “What else can be said?”

  Citlali stared, but Atl kept his own gaze to the ground. Finally, the Tecuhtli coughed up phlegm, spitting on the ground and using his booted heel to grind it in. “Good,” he said. “Then there is no more discussion.” He gestured with his head to the High Warriors and they moved off. Tototl stared for a moment longer, then moved away to join Citlali. Atl lifted his head again, but there was no remorse and no apology in his eyes.

  “I hope your victory pleased you, Taat,” he said. The words were thick with sarcasm, and they clung to him as if Atl had spat upon him. He turned and left, stalking away through the blue-gray smoke and the stones and bricks strewn over the square.

  Niente sat on the ground, abruptly. The exhaustion rolled over him and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He huddled with his spell-staff clutched in his hands, and when one of the nahualli came to see if he could help, he simply grunted and sent the man away.

  He stared at his wrinkled, ancient hands, and he tried to think of nothing at all.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  HE FOUND THE CAMP IN AN UPROAR. The Hïrzg’s new aide, Paulus, gave him the news in a rush. “The White Stone murdered Rance, my predecessor, back at Brezno Palais. We moved to Stag Fall, then out here into this forsaken emptiness, and now Rhianna, who was one of the most trusted servants we had, has stolen a dagger that dates all the way back to Hïrzg Karin, taken it from the Hïrzg and threatened him with it, and now she’s gone. I’m terribly understaffed as it is, and out here where there’s just nothing, and the Hïrzg and Hïrzgin are in a terrible upset, and it’s just an impossible situation . . .”

  Sergei soothed the whining man as much as he could—thinking that Paulus wouldn’t last another turn of the glass as aide if it were up to Sergei—and asked that word be sent to the Hïrzg that he had arrived.

  The journey from Nessantico had been long, made even more tedious by finding that the Hïrzg had abandoned Brenzno first for Stag Fall and then the southern border with the army. He’d followed that trail, escorted by a few dozen chevarittai from the north of Firenzcia who were belatedly joining the army.

  He’d expected that Jan and Brie would be delighted by the agreement he carried in his diplomatic pouch. Now, he was not quite so certain. Jan, behind his field desk, had a dour look as Sergei entered. Despite that, Sergei caned his way into the tented room and set the pouch on the desk. He opened the lock—noticing how old his hands looked, holding the key—and slid out the rolled parchment inside. “Your treaty, Hïrzg Jan,” he said. “Signed by the Kraljica. She has agreed to all the major points and had it read publicly in the temples of Nessantico. All it needs is your signature and the Holdings and the Coalition will be one
again.”

  Jan stared at it. His finger stroked the seal that held it closed. “Tell me, Sergei,” he said. “Do you think that the past must always haunt the future? Do you think we can ever escape what we did before?”

  Sergei frowned. “I’m not certain what the Hïrzg is asking, I’m afraid. If you’re referring to your relationship with your matarh . . .”

  “We tell ourselves that we’ll make our own history, that we can completely change things. But all we do is continue to weave from the same threads we’ve been using all along.”

  Sergei waited, silent. Jan took a long breath, seeming to stare through Sergei. “The White Stone killed Rance.”

  “I heard that from Paulus.”

  “You wouldn’t know who hired her, would you, Sergei?”

  The accusation buried there was obvious—and startling. Sergei straightened himself as well as he could, pushing against the knob of his cane. In truth, he had complained to Allesandra about Rance’s stubbornness, and had laughingly suggested that if the man slipped down the palais stairs and died, he wouldn’t mourn. He wondered, for a moment, if perhaps Allesandra had hired the White Stone. But he allowed none of that suspicion to show on his face. “Hïrzg Jan, I assure you that I had nothing to do with Rance’s death.”

  “Rance advised me against this treaty and against any reconciliation with the Holdings,” Jan interrupted, tapping the scroll. His eyes smoldered with a dark fire. “You knew that, and you knew the high regard I had for Rance’s opinion. Perhaps it wasn’t you who hired the Stone, but surely you told Matarh about Rance’s stance. Perhaps she decided to silence the man? Perhaps she would decide to silence me as well, once this treaty is signed—that would relieve her of any obligation to abdicate the throne, wouldn’t it? Did you happen to mention that to her, Sergei?”

  Sergei was already shaking his head. “Hïrzg, who has been whispering this poison to you? Is it Paulus? Frankly, I don’t think the man’s competent to judge whether his eggs are sufficiently cooked . . .”

  Jan stopped Sergei with a sharp slice of his hand, halfrising from his seat. The field desk shivered with the motion, the scroll rolling across the polished surface. “Not Paulus,” he said. “The man’s a dullard; I know it. I’ll replace him as soon as I can. But I have my reasons for this suspicion, I assure you.”

  “Then tell me what they are, so I can refute them. Hïrzg Jan, I had nothing to do with Rance’s death. I swear it before Cénzi.”

  “And my matarh? You can swear for her also?”

  Sergei lifted a hand from the cane, let it drop again. “No, but I believe that if Kraljica Allesandra were responsible, she would have told me her plans, and she has said nothing.” That, at least, was the truth. He was fairly certain that Allesandra would have told him. At least, he hoped so.

  Jan sniffed derisively, as if he’d read Sergei’s mind. “Oh, believe me, Matarh is quite skilled at keeping her intrigues to herself. I know that one from my own history. I know it very well.” He tapped the treaty again. “I don’t know that I’ll be signing this, Sergei. I might be signing my own death notice.”

  “Hïrzg, I assure you—”

  Jan scowled and stiffened in his chair. “With all due respect, Ambassador, your assurances mean very little at the moment. I will look at the document with the Hïrzgin, and we will talk.”

  Sergei nodded. “Then I will meet with you tomorrow, Hïrzg. It’s been a long ride here . . .”

  But Jan was shaking his head. “Not tomorrow. I’ll give you my answer in my own time, when I’ve had a chance to investigate other matters, or when . . .” He stopped. Frowned. “You may return to Stag Fall or Brezno if you wish, Ambassador, or wait here. I don’t care which. I can have Paulus give you field accommodations, if you feel you can trust him that far.”

  Stag Fall would be far more comfortable, and Brezno would be more pleasing in other ways, but Sergei shook his head. He had no choice here; over the decades, Sergei had become well-versed in the reading of faces and the lies and half-truths concealed in words. There was something Jan wasn’t telling him, something else that was driving his conviction that Allesandra had hired the White Stone. Sergei couldn’t entirely deny the possibility, but found it unlikely. He’d never mentioned Rance in such ominous terms that Allesandra would have felt compelled to take action. No, if the murder had been the White Stone’s work and not that of some impostor, then there was another explanation.

  And if there was something else driving Jan’s anger and irritation. Sergei couldn’t uncover that in Brezno or Stag Fall. “I’ll remain, Hïrzg,” he said. “I would like to talk with you further on this—the choice we make here is crucial for both the Holdings and the Coalition, and is time critical. The Tehuantin attack is an issue that can’t wait.”

  “That’s an issue critical for the Holdings, yes,” Jan agreed. He tapped the scroll again, staring at it as a miner might inspect a chuck of rock for the presence of gold. “But for the Coalition?” He shrugged. “I assure you, Ambassador, the Coalition will survive that problem, whether the Holdings does or not. Good day, Sergei,” he said, and pointedly began to examine a map laid out on his desk.

  Sergei watched him for a breath, then bowed to him. His cane pressed deeply into the carpet-hidden grass as he left.

  Varina ca’Pallo

  “I NEED YOUR HELP, VARINA.”

  It was not a statement that a person expected to hear from the Kraljica. In the years that Varina had known Allesandra, she’d come to consider the woman a friend, yet there was always a necessary distance and deference to that friendship due to her title. Allesandra wasn’t someone who asked for help; rather, she generally expected help to be offered without the necessity of a request, or she would instead issue an order for the aid. Yet here was Allesandra, sitting in Varina’s sunroom as if on a social visit, and asking.

  The room was warm with the sunlight pouring through the glass, and full of the scent of blooming flowers. Varina had watered them little since sending the servants away, and the stress and neglect seemed ironically to have startled them into bloom. She had never seen the room so vibrant and alive.

  It was almost a mockery. The plants flaunted their color and brilliance against the gray, wrinkled bag of her own flesh and against the gray plain of her continuing grief.

  “I need your help.” Varina was afraid that she knew exactly what Allesandra wanted, and she wasn’t certain it was something she could do. “If this has to do with Nico and the attack on the Old Temple . . .”

  “It does,” Allesandra replied flatly. She stroked the yellow petals of a sunrise flower on a stand alongside her chair. “Very pretty,” she said. “The ones in the palais garden are just beginning to bud.” She laid her hand back in her lap, her gaze on Varina again. Varina could see the steel of the ca’Ludovici line in her face: the sharp nose, the jutting chin. “Nico Morel doesn’t only threaten the Faith and me,” Allesandra said. “He also threatens you and the Numetodo, and he does so directly. If he has his way, the persecution of the Numetodo by the Faith would begin once again. He wants to see your tortured bodies hanging in cages from the Ponticas, as they did when Orlandi held the Archigos’ throne.”

  “You wouldn’t allow that, Kraljica,” Varina answered. “I know you that well.”

  Allesandra gave an audible sniff, as if searching for the perfume of the flowers in the room. “I wouldn’t, no. But if Morel has his way, then my refusal would be mean that there would be someone else on the Sun Throne, a lackey who would bow first to the Archigos’ throne rather than to the people of the Holdings, who would place religious issues before political ones. If that happens . . .”

  “How can it?” Varina said. “Nico can be charming and persuasive; I know that well. But this tiny group of followers taking over the Faith?” She shook her head. “Surely that’s not a serious threat.”

  “You underestimate both Nico, and the Morelli influence among the téni and the populace. They aren’t a ‘tiny group,’ Varina. Wh
en A’Téni ca’Paim called for the war-téni of the Holdings to join the Garde Civile to defend Villembouchure, few of them answered. Most of those who ignored her are now in the Old Temple with the Morellis. My people are telling me that the Garde Kralji doesn’t have the capacity to deal with the raw power Morel has gathered there. I suspect they also don’t have the will to do so—I know that some of the offiziers within the Garde are actually sympathetic to the Morellis and their stance.”

  The bright colors of the sunroom plants filled the air behind Allesandra, discordant. Varina’s hand had gone to her throat. She felt a sour burning there, deep inside: a remembered fear that she’d thought long extinguished and forgotten. She remembered Sergei’s advice to her; she wondered whether she should have listened, if once again he’d been right when everyone else had been wrong. “It’s that serious? How did we miss this?”

  “When things don’t go well, people look for scapegoats to blame. They never blame themselves, they never blame Cénzi, they never blame circumstance, they never blame chance. They blame others.”

  “And the Numetodo have always been convenient scapegoats. Is that what you’re saying?”

  A nod. “The way to ensure that the Numetodo survive is to make certain that the Nico Morel and his people receive the justice they deserve. Strength is the other quality that people respect. If you show that the Numetodo are stronger than the Morellis, then you’ll see the blame shifting the other way; all the talk will be about how it’s the Morellis who have caused the problems and who are endangering the Holdings. Not you. Not the Numetodo. The affection of the people is fickle. We can change it.”

  “You’ve become a skeptic, Kraljica. Or a pragmatist.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t changed at all. In this, I’ve always been a realist. And I’m right. That’s why you need to help me.”

  “How?”

 

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