by S L Farrell
As he spoke, Nico’s voice also rose in power and volume. Varina had to force herself not to step back from him, as if his very words might catch fire and ignite her. She could not deny the power he had; she could feel the cold rage of the Scáth Cumhacht surrounding her—what he would call the Ilmodo—and she realized that she had lost here, that he was beyond any poor capability she had to convince him. The sparkwheel sagged heavily on the belt under her cloak, and she realized that she had no choice. No choice. Her own life didn’t matter. But Nico was the heart and the will of the Morelli sect, and if he were gone, the body would collapse.
She took out the sparkwheel. She pointed it at his chest, her hand trembling. He glanced at it, contemptuously. “What is this?” he asked. “Some foolish Numetodo thing?”
She could not hesitate—if she did, he would call up a spell and the moment would be over. Sobbing at what she was doing, weeping because she was about to kill someone both she and Karl had loved, she pressed the trigger. The wheel spun, sparks flared.
But there was only a hiss and sputter from the black sand in the pan, and she saw with despair the dampness beaded on the metal. She dropped the sparkwheel; it clattered on the marble tiles of the floor.
Liana laughed, but Varina could feel Nico studying her face. “I’m sorry,” he said to her. “It should never have come to this between us. I’m sorry,” he repeated, and it was the voice of the boy she remembered. Nico turned; he unbarred the door and opened it: outside, the wind threw rain across the plaza and black clouds rolled overhead. “Go, Varina,” he said. “Go for the sake of our old friendship. Go and tell the Kraljica that if she wants battle, she shall have it—and the blame will be on her head.”
Varina was staring at her hand, at the sparkwheel on the floor. Stiffly, she bent down and picked it up again, placing it back on her belt. She took a step toward Nico, and she hugged him. “At least let Liana come with me, for the sake of the child she carries. I’ll keep her safe.”
“No.” The answer came from Liana. “I stay here, with Nico.”
Nico smiled at her and his arm went around her again. “I’m sorry, Varina. You have your answer.
“I’m sorry, too,” Varina told him, told both of them.
She nodded once to Liana, and went out into the storm, drawing her hood over her face.
Jan ca’Ostheim
THE STORM SHOOK THE TENTS like a dog worrying at a stubborn bone. Canvas boomed and rattled above Jan so fiercely that everyone glanced up. “Don’t worry,” he told Brie. “I’ve been out in worse.”
“I know it’s silly, but I worry that this storm’s an omen,” Brie answered, and Jan laughed, drawing her close and embracing her.
“The weather is just the weather,” he told her. “It means that crops will grow and the rivers will run fast and clean. It means that the men will grumble and curse and the roads will be a muddy ruin. But that’s all. I promise.” He kissed her forehead. “Paulus and the staff will escort you back to Stag Fall,” he told her.
“I’m not going to Stag Fall and Brezno. I’m going with you.”
He was already shaking his head before she had finished. “No. We have no idea how serious a threat we’re facing at Nessantico. I won’t have our children orphaned. You’re staying with them.”
“They’re my children as well,” Brie persisted. “And I will have to answer to them when they’re older. If you were to die, they’d want to know why I was so cowardly as to stay behind.”
“You didn’t go with me when we put down the rebellion in West Magyaria,” he countered, though he knew immediately the answer to that. It came as swiftly as he expected.
“I had just given birth to Eria then. Or I would have. Besides, Jan, you need me to be between you and your matarh. The two of you . . .” She shook her head. “It won’t be a pretty sight, and you’re going to need a mediator.”
“I can handle my matarh.” He grasped her shoulders, holding her gaze. “Brie, I love you. That’s why I can’t have you there. If you’re there, I’ll be too worried about you.”
He saw her soften at that, though she was still shaking her head. She wanted to believe him. And it was true, at least part of it. He did love her: a quiet love, not the burning intensity he’d once felt for Elissa, not even the lust that arose with the lovers he’d taken. He hurried into the opening. “Give Elissa, Kriege, Caelor, and little Eria kisses for me, and tell them that their vatarh will be back soon, and not to worry.”
“Kriege will want to come after you,” Brie told him, “and so will Elissa.”
He knew then that he’d won the argument. He laughed, pulling her close. “There’s time enough for that,” he said, “and given the way of things, there will probably be ample opportunity as well. Tell them to be patient, and to study hard with the arms master.”
“I’ll do that, and I’ll be waiting for you as well,” she answered.
She rose on her toes and kissed him suddenly. Since Rhianna’s sudden departure, since it had become obvious that it was unlikely that the young woman would be found, Brie had been far more affectionate toward him. He’d said nothing to her about what the girl had stolen—though he suspected that Brie knew. He had especially not told Brie about Rhianna’s shocking, unbelievable last words. He was still reeling from them, though he’d made every effort to pretend otherwise. “I’m your daughter. Elissa’s daughter. The White Stone’s daughter.”
He wanted to shout his denial of that to the world, yet he found that the words stuck in his throat like a burr on the hem of his bashta. You found Rhianna attractive because she reminded you of Elissa—the Elissa you remembered . . . Was it possible? Could she be his daughter? Could she, or could Elissa, have been responsible for Rance’s death?
Yes . . . The word kept surfacing in his mind.
When this war was over, he told himself, he would find her again. He would put a thousand men on her trail, he would track her down, he would have them bring her to him, and he would discover the truth.
And if she is your and Elissa’s daughter? There was no answer to that question.
So Jan smiled at Brie and pretended that there was nothing between them, as Brie pretended the same, as he knew she’d pretended before with the other mistresses he’d taken. They kissed each other again, and Brie tucked his rain cloak around him as she might have for one of the children. “You must be careful,” she told him. “Come back to me a victor.”
“I will,” he told her. “Firenzcia always does.”
He embraced her again for a moment, inhaling the scent of her hair and remembering, instead, the smell of Elissa. Then he released her, and Paulus lifted back the painted flap of the tent, and he went out into the rain, pulling his hood over his head.
Starkkapitän ca’Damont and the a’offiziers stiffened to attention and saluted as he emerged, and he saluted them in return. Sergei ca’Rudka was there as well, dry in a carriage. “It’s time,” Jan said simply, and ca’Damont and the offiziers saluted again, and ca’Damont barked orders at them as they scattered off to ready their divisions. Jan strode through the muck to Sergei’s carriage. In the shadows of the vehicle, Jan could see the gleam of Sergei’s nose. “Ambassador?” Jan said. “You have what you need?”
In the dimness, Sergei’s hand touched his diplomatic pouch. “I do, Hïrzg. Your matarh will be pleased to see this.”
“I suspect she’ll be more pleased to see the army of Firenzcia,” Jan said. “You’re certain you don’t want to travel with the army?”
Sergei shook his head. “I need to return to Nessantico as soon as I can,” he said, “if only to let her know that help is coming. I can travel much faster this way. I’ll see you there.”
Jan nodded, and gestured to the driver. “May Cénzi speed your path,” he said. “And may this rain stop before the rivers rise.”
Sergei was about to respond, but they heard a voice hailing the Hïrzg. Jan turned—Archigos Karrol’s carriage had arrived. The Archigos was helped down by h
is téni attendants, holding a large umbrella over him. Despite that, Jan could see the gold-threaded hem of the Archigos’ robe was spattered with mud, and the man seemed out of breath. “My Hïrzg,” the Archigos called out, waving toward Jan.
“The Archigos seems upset,” Sergei said. He’d poked his head out from the carriage window. Rain plastered the few strands of his gray hair to his skull and bounced from his nose. “I wonder . . .”
“You wonder what?” Jan asked, but the the Archigos reached them before Sergei answered.
“My Hïrzg,” Archigos Karrol said again, giving the sign of Cénzi. “I’m glad that I found you. I . . .” He stopped, glancing at the carriage and seeing Sergei. He scowled.
“Go on, Archigos,” Jan told him. “If you’ve something to say, I’m certain the Ambassador should hear it as well.”
“Hïrzg . . . I . . .” The man paused as if to catch his breath. His eternally bowed head strained to look Jan in the eyes. “I had ordered the war-téni to meet with me this morning, to give them a final blessing and my orders, but . . .” He stopped, let his head drop again. The rain beat a quick rhythm on the umbrella above him.
“But . . .” Jan prompted, but he already knew. He glanced at Sergei, who had withdrawn back into the shelter of the carriage.
“Most of them . . . They’re gone, my Hïrzg. The ones who stayed told me that a message came during the night, that most of them left the camp afterward. The note . . .”
“Was from Nico Morel,” Jan finished for him. He spat. “Cénzi’s balls.”
The profanity brought Karrol’s head up again. Rheumy eyes looked at Jan reproachfully. “Yes, my Hïrzg,” Karrol said. “The note was from Morel. The man had the audacity to order the war-téni to stand down, as if he were the Archigos. I tell you, Hïrzg, once we find these traitors, I will punish them to limits of the Divolonté. They will never again listen to a heretic.”
“And in the meantime?” Jan asked him. “What is my army to do for war-téni?”
“There are still two hands of them, Hïrzg.”
“Two hands of ten. How impressive. Two hands obey you, and eight hands obey Morel. Perhaps Morel should be the Archigos. He seems to have more influence than you.”
Archigos Karrol blinked. “I’m confident that the others will soon see the error of their ways. Cénzi will punish them, will make them unable to perform their spells, will haunt their dreams. They will come back, repentant. I’m confident of that.”
“I’m so pleased to hear of your confidence,” Jan replied flatly. He heard Sergei chuckle softly in his carriage.
“What will bring them back is Nico Morel’s death,” Sergei commented. “If we kill Morel, we end whatever authority he has.”
“Or we make him a martyr,” Archigos Karrol retorted, but Sergei answered quickly.
“No. Nico Morel says that Cénzi is leading him, that Cénzi protects him, that he is the voice of Cénzi. If Cénzi allows him to die, then that gives the lie to everything that Morel claims to be. The Morellis will vanish like a spring snowstorm.”
“It seems, Ambassador, that you and the Kraljica have but one answer for any problem that faces Nessantico,” Karrol muttered.
“And it seems, Archigos,” Sergei retorted, “that you have none.”
“Enough!” Jan snarled. He waved his hand through the rain. A lightning stroke sliced down nearby, and he waited until the thunder passed. “I expect that you, Archigos, are willing to accompany me—so that I don’t lose more war-téni than I already have.” The sour look on Karrol’s face was enough to tell Jan what the Archigos thought of the idea, but the man managed to lift his hands into the sign of Cénzi, and said nothing. His attendants all glanced at each other. “Ambassador, we’re delaying your departure. Tell my matarh to send either Commandant ca’Talin or one of his a’offiziers riding toward us as soon as possible, so we can coordinate with the Holdings’ Garde Civile.”
“Certainly, Hïrzg,” Sergei said. “And I give you my own thanks—you’ll be a fine Kraljiki.” With that, Sergei tapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane. “Driver!” he called out. The driver slapped the reins and the carriage lurched forward, its wheels digging long and deep furrows in the mud. Jan turned back to the Archigos, still dry under his umbrella while the cold rain dripped from the oiled fabric of Jan’s hood.
“We’re leaving before Second Call, Archigos,” he said. “I would suggest you make yourself ready.”
“Hïrzg Jan, I’d ask you to reconsider. I’m an old man, and I have duties to attend to in Brezno. Perhaps if my staff remains with you . . .” The umbrella shook as his attendants’ eyes widened.
“I appreciate your frailty, Archigos,” Jan told him, “but perhaps it’s time you go examine your temples in Nessantico, since you need to replace A’Téni ca’Paim, and since once I’m Kraljiki, the seat of the Faith will be returning there.” Archigos Karrol didn’t reply, his eternally-bowed back making it appear that he was examining the muddy hem of his robes of office. “You’re wasting time, Archigos,” Jan told him. “I’ll expect to see your carriage join the train of the army in a half-turn of the glass, without any more complaints or suggestions.”
With that, Jan spun on his heel. He called out for his horse and weapons, and made his way to where Starkkapitän ca’Damont waited for him.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
ALLESANDRA HAD COMMANDEERED a balcony that overlooked the plaza. The Old Temple loomed across the way, though it was difficult to see much in the driving rain and the gloom of the storm. Erik stood behind her and at her shoulder, and his solicitude nagged at her.
“Really, Allesandra, you should move back from the window. Those are war-téni inside the Old Temple, and you’ve no idea what they can do, especially if they notice that the Kraljica is watching.”
“I know exactly what war-téni are capable of,” she told him tartly. “Probably better than you, Erik. And I don’t appreciate you talking to me as if I were a child.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, but there seemed to be no apology in his voice at all. “I’m just concerned for your safety, my love.”
“And I’m concerned for the safety of my people,” she answered. “The Garde Kralji isn’t the Garde Civile. Their job is to police Nessantico—they’ve never faced war-téni before, they haven’t faced an armed insurrection in a century and a half, and their Commandant is a prisoner in the place they’re about to assault.”
“That’s why I suggested that you place me in charge of them,” Erik said. “They need a strong hand guiding them.”
So I’m not a strong hand, in your estimation? “You’ve never commanded an organized force either,” she reminded him. Truly, the man was becoming tiresome. She was beginning to wonder what she’d seen in him. “I’m the symbol of Nessantico. I rule the Holdings. They deserve to see that I am here, with them. I’d appreciate it if—” She stopped, peering into the rain. “Ah, Varina’s returning . . . And there’s the signal from A’Offizier ci’Santiago—Morel has refused to negotiate.” Allesandra sighed. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that somehow Varina would be able to negotiate the removal of the Morellis from the temple—she couldn’t see this ending well, no matter how it was resolved. Yet she had no choice. She especially had no choice if Jan were bringing the Firenzcian army here—she had to end this now or she would appear to be extraordinarily weak.
Talbot had placed two flags on the balcony on which she stood: one a deep blood-red, the other a pale green. Both dripped rain from sodden folds. Allesandra plucked the green flag from its holder and let it fall on the stones of balcony. As if in response, a red star rose from below, arcing high above the plaza. It lingered there for a moment, lending a bloody hue to the gloomy afternoon and hissing audibly in the rain.
A breath later, triple arcs of flame shot out from nearly directly below the balcony—from the Numetodo. The flames guttered and spat, trailing a noxious smoke, and arrowed away to slam into the front portico of the Old Temple.
There were terrible explosions as they hit their target, flashes of white that shook the entire plaza. Allesandra could feel the balcony shudder under her feet. A moment later, a wave of heated air rushed past Allesandra, lifting her hair. Through the rain and the smoke, it was difficult to tell what had happened, but now the gardai of the Garde Kralji were rushing toward the Old Temple from all around the plaza, shouting as they ran. She could see ci’Santiago leading them—whatever she might think of the man’s competence, he was at least brave.
The gardai were only a quarter of the way across the plaza when the response came from the Old Temple. A dozen fireballs shot from the smoke surrounding the main entrance and from the windows of the buildings attached to the temple. Allesandra heard the Numetodo call out their release words, and all but two of the fireballs from the war-téni sputtered and failed. But those two careened down into the mass of onrushing gardai. Shrill screams rent the storm as they exploded. For a moment, there was chaos in the plaza, the gardai pausing. She could hear ci’Santiago shouting orders as the Numetodo sent their own spells shooting forward toward the Old Temple. The gardai surged forward once more, but choking, acrid smoke was now obscuring the temple plaza, making it difficult to see. Allesandra leaned forward, her hands grasping the rails.
Almost too late, she saw a globe of fire rushing out of the smoke toward her. She recoiled, throwing herself backward into the room. The fireball crashed against the side of the building, billowing out in a great gout of flame a little below and to the right of the balcony where she’d been standing. The building shook, knocking Erik from his feet. The chandelier in the room swayed madly, the cut-glass ornaments clashing and falling. Chunks of plaster and lathework cascaded down from the ceiling, and two long, gaping cracks snaked from floor to ceiling of the outside wall. Part of the balcony on which she’d been standing fell away.