A Magic of Dawn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  LAMENTATIONS

  INCARNATIONS

  PROGRESSIONS

  ERUPTIONS

  REALIZATIONS

  MANEUVERS

  ILLUMINATIONS

  PRETENSIONS

  FAILINGS

  RESURRECTIONS

  Epilogue: Nessantico

  APPENDICES

  Raves for the novels of the Nessantico Cycle:

  “S.L. Farrell delivers a vast, sprawling but riveting novel in A Magic of Nightfall, taking the storyline to an 11 in every way. The plot is complex and intricate, demonstrating masterful skill at the finer points of world building, and the cast is strongly drawn; there is no risk that any given character will be mistaken for another. Each has clearly defined qualities and needs, many of which are in sharp conflict with several others. Farrell may well be taking points from George R.R. Martin (who happens to be his editor in the Wild Cards series); Farrell’s work compares favorably to Martin’s Song of Fire and Ice epic, with equivalent complexity, sophistication and luxurious detail. Fans of one will absolutely want to read the other. In any event, books like this define the new generation of epic fantasy. Farrell has brought forth a terrific new series, one wherein the reader is kept guessing up to the last page (and beyond). I’m already eager to read the next installment. Strongly recommended.”

  —SF Revu

  “Farrell easily wields an immense cast of characters, many of whom take narrative turns. Readers who appreciate intricate world building, intrigue and action will immerse themselves effortlessly in this rich and complex story.’

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A thoroughly enjoyable ride.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “It’s always refreshing to read a fantasy where neither side in a conflict has much of a moral edge on the other, and the cast of characters is an enjoyable mix of the sympathetic, the villainous and the ambiguous. There’s definite potential here for a satisfying series.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  ALSO FROM S.L. FARRELL:

  The Nessantico Cycle

  A MAGIC OF TWILIGHT

  A MAGIC OF NIGHTFALL

  A MAGIC OF DAWN

  The Cloudmages

  HOLDER OF LIGHTNING

  MAGE OF CLOUDS

  HEIR OF STONE

  Copyright © 2010 by Stephen Leigh.

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1505.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA)

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  First Paperback Printing, April 2011

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

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  —MARCA REGISTRADA

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  S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47760-1

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  To Devon & Megen—

  Who have more influence on my work than they probably realize

  And, as always, to Denise

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve read several books for inspiration and reference in writing this series. The books I read prior to starting the Nessantico Cycle as well as those read during the writing of A Magic Of Twilight and A Magic Of Nightfall are listed in those books; obviously, they too have also influenced this one. I’ve continued to read historical and other nonfiction texts for inspiration and research—it’s something I enjoy, in any case. Here are the books read during the writing of this book, all of which to some degree influenced this story.

  • The Lucifer Effect by Philip Zimbardo. Random House, 2008

  • Paris In The Middle Ages by Simone Roux, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009

  A trip to France in 2005 also served as inspiration for much of the Nessantico Cycle. In particular, the Loire Valley region, with its chateaux and lovely countryside, sparked several ideas, as did our days in Paris. I would like to recommend that anyone going to France see the Loire Valley and spend time exploring not only the chateaux, but the small villages in the surrounding countryside such as Azay le Rideau or Villaines les-Rochers. Nessantico is not specifically France, but many details are drawn from our experiences there. Hopefully they have enriched the book.

  It may sound strange to acknowledge a piece of software, but I will. Early in writing A Magic Of Nightfall, I stumbled across the most useful novel-writing software to have ever graced my computer: Scrivener. For those of you on the Macintosh platform, I can’t recommend it highly enough. Scrivener thinks the way I think, and allowed me to manage the monumental task of writing an epic fantasy far, far better than any word processor ever could. Thanks, Keith Blount, for creating this program! This book, in all its drafts and revisions, was written using Scrivener. For the curious, Scrivener can be found at http://www.literatureandlatte.com/

  My gratitude to my first readers, Denise Parsley Leigh, Bruce Schneier, Justin Scott, and Don Wenzel, who labored through the draft (Denise, through all of them!)—thanks for your input, folks. It was much appreciated!

  Many thanks, as always, to my agent Merrilee Heifetz of Writers House, who has been my partner-in-writing for many years now—without her, none of this would have been possible.

  And lastly (but certainly not last in importance) I’d like to express my gratitude to Sheila Gilbert, a most excellent editor and someone I also consider a friend. We’ve now worked together on several books, and her input and criticism has made each a richer book than it would have been otherwise. Thank you, Sheila!

  The Holdings Year 563

  Nessantico City Year 563

  Prelude: Nessantico

  IF A CITY CAN HAVE a gender, Nessantico was female . . .

  She had experienced the flowering of all her promise and her beauty during the long reign of Kraljica Marguerite. In that magnificent half century, Nessantico’s long childhood and even longer adolescence culminated in mingled elegance and power, unmatched anywhere in the known world. For fifty years, she brooked no peer. For fifty years, she believed that this glorious present would be eternal, that her ascent would—no, must—continue.

  Her superiority was ordained. It was destined. It would last forever.

  It would not.

  Kraljica Marguerite, like all those who ruled within Nessantico’s confines, was human and mortal; Marguerite’s son Justi and then Justi’s son Audric, both of whom inherited the Sun Throne, didn’t possess Marguerite’s gifts. Without Marguerite’s strong guidance, without her guile and her wisdom, Nessantico’s flowering was sadly short-lived. The blossom of Marguerite’s promise withered and died in far less time than it had taken it to bloom.

  Worse, rivals rose to challenge Nessantico. Firenzcia betrayed her: Firenzcia, the brother city who had always envied her; Firenzcia, who had always been her companion, her strength, her shield, and her sword. Firenzcia left her to form its own empire.

  And from the unknown west strode a new, harsher challenge: an alien, unguessed empire as strong as Nessantico herself. Stronger, perhaps; for the Tehuantin—as they were called—not only ripped away Nessantico’s hold on their shores, but sent an army over the sea to plunder and rape and destroy the cities of the Holdings and to shat
ter the walls of Nessantico herself.

  The assault left Nessantico shaken and afraid. She was stained by the soot of magical fire and twice trampled by the boots of foreign soldiers: first the Tehuantin, then the Firenzcians. The architectural beauty of her buildings morphed into toppled columns, broken domes, and roofless husks. The A’Sele was clogged with bodies and refuse.

  Nessantico . . . she was a woman exhausted by her struggles, worn by her cares, and clothed in the shredded tatters of her old supremacy. Her sense of security and inevitability was lost, perhaps—she feared—forever. The smell still lingered in her streets: a malodorous stench of rotting flesh, blood, and ash.

  A lesser entity would have collapsed. A lesser entity might have looked at her sad reflection in the fouled waters of the River A’Sele and seen a skeletal death mask staring back. A lesser entity would have given up and ceded her supremacy to Firenzcia or to the unglimpsed cities of the Tehuantin.

  Not her.

  Not Nessantico.

  She gathered the tatters around herself. She drew herself up and cleansed herself as best she could. She cloaked herself in pride and memories and belief, and vowed that one day, one day, the rest of the world would again bow to her.

  One day . . .

  But not yet today.

  LAMENTATIONS

  Allesandra ca’Vörl

  Varina ca’Pallo

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  Allesandra ca’Vörl

  Nico Morel

  Brie ca’Ostheim

  Allesandra ca’Vörl

  Rochelle Botelli

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  Jan ca’Ostheim

  Varina ca’Pallo

  Niente

  Allesandra ca’Vörl

  GSCHNAS—THE FALSE WORLD BALL—swirled below Allesandra in the Grand Hall of the Kraljica’s Palais. The hall was still partially under construction, but that only lent depth to the ambience.

  After all, the False World Ball was where reality was turned on its head. Costumes—the stranger and more creative, the better—were required of all attendees. The cracks in the walls had been filled with sculptures of demons or miniature pastoral landscapes, as if the foundations of reality itself had broken, the cracks providing glimpses of entire new worlds set at odd angles to their own. A flock of flightless birds had been brought in from Far Namarro: as tall as a man, with tufts of grandly colored plumage rising from their rumps. They wandered among the revelers. Several téni from the A’Téni’s Temple had been set to keeping a river of crystalline water flowing in a sweeping curve above the dancers’ heads, with large goldfish swimming placidly in the magic-driven currents. The musicians sat on chairs perched within a huge gilded frame hung on the wall at one end of the room, their backdrop a beautifully-painted landscape, so it appeared that a painting of musicians had magically sprung to life.

  Gschnas: a fantasy created for the entertainment of the ca’-and-cu’—the wealthy and important people of the city and of the greater Holdings. They had come bearing the Kraljica’s gilded invitations: they packed the floor below Allesandra bedecked in their glittering costumes: A’Téni ca’Paim, the highest ranking téni of the city; Commandant Telo cu’Ingres of the Garde Kralji; Commandant Eleric ca’Talin of the Garde Civile; Sergei ca’Rudka, once Regent and now Ambassador to Firenzcia; all of the members of the Council of Ca’ except the Numetodo Varina ca’Pallo, who was home with her desperately ill husband . . .

  “Kraljica, you look stunning.” Talbot ci’Noel, her aide, came up alongside her as she peered over the balcony at the gathering. He was dressed as a monkey, an ironic costume for a man who was always exceedingly proper and elegant, and who ruled the palais staff with a fist of iron and a voice of fire. Behind the furred snout of the mask, his lips smiled. “Are you ready for your entrance?” Already, the dozen or so téni had begun their chanting. Talbot tested—for what seemed the hundredth time—the ropes attached to the harness concealed in Allesandra’s gown: a flowing, billowing fantasy of chiffon and lace ribbons, so that when she moved, trails of shimmering color rippled in vain pursuit.

  “I’m ready,” she told Talbot. Two servants came forward, each with a glass ball enchanted with Numetodo spells—Talbot was a Numetodo himself, and Varina, the A’Morce of the Numetodo, had herself placed the spells in the glass balls. Allesandra took one in each hand. Talbot gestured to another of the servants on the floor below, who in turn signaled the musicians. The gavotte they had been playing abruptly ended, followed by an ominous, low roll of the drums like thunder. The chanting of the téni increased, and the ceiling of the palais was suddenly obscured by dark, roiling clouds from which lightning hissed and arced. Allesandra spoke the spell-word Varina had given her, and the globes in Allesandra’s hands blossomed with pure, white light—so bright that Allesandra, wearing glasses with smoked lenses as protection, could barely see for the coruscating brilliance. Anyone looking up at these sudden twin suns was momentarily blinded. Allesandra felt the ropes pull and lift her: she was gliding up and over the balcony rail, then descending slowly toward the floor. The glass globes were cold in her hand with the Numetodo magic, and the globes now flared brilliant trails of sparks, as if two slow meteors were descending from the heavens to earth, a human figure trapped in their intense radiance. Allesandra heard the applause and cheers welling up to greet her. Her feet touched the marble floor (she was certain she could almost hear Talbot’s sigh of relief), and the light within the globes blossomed—an iridescent and almost painful blue, followed by pure, aching gold: the colors of the Holdings. At the same time, servants hurried from the sides of the hall to remove the ropes from the harness catches and take her glasses. The ropes were hastily pulled up as the globes maintained their brilliance, then finally went dark.

  And there, as eyesight slowly returned to the onlookers, was the Kraljica, her crown on her head. The ovation was pleasingly deafening. “Thank you all,” she said as they bowed and cheered. “Thank you. Now, please—enjoy the ball!” She gestured, and the music began once more, and the couples on the dance floor bowed to each other and resumed the dance. The ca’-and-cu’ pressed around her in their costumes, bowing and murmuring their appreciation, and she smiled to them as she passed among them.

  She saw Sergei and gestured for him to join her. He bowed—awkwardly, his arthritic body no longer as supple and flexible as it had been when she’d first known him—and he came over to her, leaning heavily on his cane. He smiled at her, the reflective silver paint on his face cracking slightly as he did so. Sergei’s silver nose—the false one he always wore to replace the one of flesh he’d lost in his youth—seemed almost to be part of him tonight. A patchwork of small mirrors covered the bashta he wore. Crazed, broken reflections of herself and the dancers and crowd behind her moved madly around him. The lights of the hall flared and shimmered in the tiny mirrors, dancing from the nearest walls.

  “That was quite an entrance,” Sergei said. Allesandra slowed her pace to his as they moved through the crowds.

  “Thank you for suggesting the method, though you had poor Talbot terrified that something would go wrong. I must say, however, that I’ll need to retire for a bit soon to have my attendants get rid of the harness; it’s rubbing my poor skin raw.”

  He smiled. “The Kraljiki’s entrance should always be dramatic,” he said, smiling. “A little discomfort is fair payment for a stunning appearance. You should know that.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Sergei, when you don’t have to endure it.”

  “I’ve always loved the Gschnas,” Sergei told her. “I’m glad you’ve brought back the tradition, Kraljica. Nessantico needs her traditions, especially after the last few years.”

  Especially after the last few years. The comment tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You needn’t bring that up now, Ambassador,” she told him. The history was never far from anyone’s mind in Nessantico: the horrible cost of recovery after the Westlanders nearly destroyed the city, the continued separatio
n of the Holdings and the Coalition nations, and most recently, the political and military disaster in West Magyaria.

  “Then I won’t,” he answered. “Though I do need to talk with you about the Firenzcian spy that Talbot believes he’s discovered . . .” As Sergei talked, she looked away from the images of herself on his clothing to the crowd that pressed in around them. She saw a man staring at her. He was handsome, his skin somewhat darker than most of those in the hall, his head entirely shaved, though his beard was full and midnight-black. His clothing was loose and wildly-colored, and feathers sprouted from the shoulders as if he were some exotic bird. His eyes—behind a beaked demi-mask—were strangely blue and light, his gaze piercing and keen. He saw her attention and he nodded slightly toward her.

  Sergei was still talking. “. . . already has the traitorous servant in the Bastida, so he’ll be no more trouble. But there are still the Morellis—” He stopped as she raised her hand.

  “Who is that man?” she whispered to Sergei, glancing again at him. “He looks Magyarian.”

  Sergei followed her gaze. “Indeed, Kraljica. That is Erik ca’Vikej. He’s just come to Nessantico yesterday. There’s undoubtedly a note on your desk from him requesting an audience. I haven’t had the chance to speak to him myself yet.”

  “Stor ca’Vikej’s son?” The man had truly wonderful eyes. He continued to regard her, though he made no move to approach.