A Magic of Nightfall Page 14

  Enéas’ thrashing did no good. The heat flared until he screamed with the pain . . .

  . . . and the fire abruptly went out. Enéas tore at the cloth again, and it was only cloth and nothing more. He unwrapped his leg while the nahualli watched impassively, expecting to see his flesh blistered and black and crushed. But the bruises that had mottled his leg were gone, and the swelling around his ankle had subsided.

  “Now get up,” the nahualli said.

  Enéas did. There was no pain and his leg was whole and strong.

  Cénzi, what has he done? I’m sorry . . . “Why did you do this?” Enéas said angrily.

  The man looked at Enéas the way one regarded a witless child. “So you could walk.”

  “Healing with the Ilmodo is against the Divolonté,” Enéas said angrily. “My recovery was in Cénzi’s hands, not yours. It is His choice to heal me or not. You savages use the Ilmodo wrongly.”

  The nahualli scoffed at that. “I used a charm that I could have used on one of my own, O’Offizier. You’re standing, you’re healed, and yet you’re ungrateful. Are all of your people so arrogant and stupid?”

  “Cénzi—” Enéas began, but the man cut him off with a gesture.

  “Your Cénzi isn’t here. Here, Axat and Sakal rule, and it is the X’in Ka and not your Ilmodo that I’ve used. I’m not one of your téni. Now, you’ll walk with me.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “No place you would know. Walk, or die here if that will make you feel better.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway. I saw what you did to the ones you captured.” Enéas gestured toward the devices on the man’s belt. The nahualli touched them, his fingers stroking the curved bone.

  “Believe what you will,” he said. “Walk with me, or die here. I don’t care which.”

  He began to walk away. Standing, Enéas could see the Westlander encampment being broken around him in a gloomy, rain-threatening morning. Already, many of the Tehuantin troops were marching away to the northeast: their offiziers mounted, the men walking with long spears over their shoulders. Enéas could see the blackened circle that was the remains of the great campfire he’d seen the night before, still smoking and fuming. The unmistakable blackened, spoked arches of a rib cage rose from the embers. He shuddered at that, knowing that the skeleton must be ca’Matin or another of his fellow soldiers.

  Enéas saw the nahualli gesture to one of the warriors he passed, pointing back to Enéas. Cénzi, what should I do? What do You want of me?

  As if in answer, the clouds parted to the northwest and he saw a shaft of sun paint the emerald hills in the distance before vanishing again.

  “Wait,” Enéas said. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Audric ca’Dakwi

  “YOU CAN’T TELL ANYONE that I speak to you, Audric,” Gremma said. The painted eyes in her portrait glinted in warning, and her varnished face frowned. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “I could . . . tell Sergei,” Audric suggested. He stood before the painting, holding a candelabra. He’d dismissed Seaton and Marlon for the night, though he knew that they were sleeping in the chamber beyond and would come if he called. His breathing was labored; he fought for every breath, the words coming out in gasping spasms. He could feel the heat of the fire in the hearth on his front. “He would . . . believe me. He would . . . understand. You trusted . . . him, didn’t you?”

  But the face in the painting shook her head, the motion barely perceptible in the erratic candlelight. “No,” she whispered. “Not even Sergei. That I am speaking to you, that I am advising you must be our secret, Audric. Our secret. And you must start by asserting yourself, Audric: as I did, from the very start.”

  “I’m not . . . sixteen. Sergei is . . . Regent, and it is . . . his word that . . . the Council of Ca’ . . . listens to . . . Sigourney and the others . . .” The effort of speaking cost him, and he could not finish. He closed his eyes, listening for her answer.

  “The Regent and the Council must understand that you are the Kraljiki, not Sergei,” Marguerite interrupted sharply. “The War in the Hellins . . . It is not going well. There is danger there.”

  Audric nodded, eyes still closed. “Sergei has . . . suggested withdrawing . . . our troops, or perhaps . . .” He paused as another fit of coughing took him. “. . . even abandoning the cities . . . we’ve established in . . . the Hellins until . . . the Holdings are . . . one again, when we can . . . give them the resources . . .”

  “No!” The word was nearly a screech, so loud that Audric clapped hands to ears and opened his eyes wide, surprised to see that the mouth in the painting wasn’t open in rage and that Seaton and Marlon didn’t come rushing into the bedroom in panic—but hands over ears could not stop her voice in his head. “Do you know what they called me early in my reign, Audric? Did your lessons maister tell you that?”

  “He told me,” he said. “They called you . . . the ‘Spada Terribile’ . . . the Awful Sword.”

  The face in the painting nodded in the candles’ pale gleam. “And I was that,” she said. “The Awful Sword. I brought peace to the Holdings first through the sword of my army, before I ever became the Généra a’Pace. They forget that, those who remember me. You must be strong and firm in the same way, Audric. The Hellins: theirs is a rich land, and it could bring great wealth to the Holdings, if you have the courage to take it and keep it.”

  “I will,” he told her fervently. Images of war fluttered in his mind, of himself on the Sun Throne with a thousand people bowing to him, and no Regent by his side.

  “Good,” she answered. “Excellent. Listen to me and I will tell you what to do to be the greatest of the Kraljiki. Audric the Great; Audric the Beloved.”

  At her smile, he nodded finally. “I will be that,” he said. He took in another gasping breath and coughed. “I will.”

  “You will what, Kraljiki?”

  Audric spun about with the question, nearly dropping the candelabra with the motion, so violently that two of the candles were snuffed out. The effort sent him into wheezing spasms, and Regent Sergei rushed forward to take the candelabra from his hands and support Audric with an arm around his waist. In the Regent’s burnished and polished nose, Audric glimpsed Archigos Kenne lurking concerned in the shadows near the door with Marlon holding the door open for them. Ca’Rudka helped Audric fall into one of the cushioned chairs in front of the fireplace. Marguerite stared down at him, her expression unreadable. “Here, my Kraljiki, some of the healer’s draught,” ca’Rudka said, pressing a goblet to Audric’s lips as he stared at the painting. Audric shook his head and pushed it away.

  She says that the healers won’t help, he wanted to say but did not, and Marguerite’s tight-lipped mouth curved into a slight smile. Audric’s eyelids wanted to close but he forced them open. “No,” he told ca’Rudka.

  The Regent frowned but set the goblet down. “I’ve brought the Archigos,” he said. “Let him pray for you . . .”

  Audric glanced up at the painting and saw his great-matarh nod. He echoed it himself, and Archigos Kenne hurried into the bedchamber. As the Archigos busied himself with his chanting and gestures, Audric ignored both of them. He could see only the painting and his great-matarh’s serene gaze. She spoke to him as Kenne touched his chest and the warmth of the Ilmodo lessened the congestion in his lungs.

  “We can do this together, Audric. You are the great-son I always wanted to have in life. Listen to me, and in all history there will be no Kraljiki who can be called your equal. I will help you. Listen to me . . .”

  “I am listening,” he told her.

  “Kraljiki?” Regent ca’Rudka said. He followed Audric’s gaze back to the painting. Audric wondered if he’d heard the whispering, too, but then the man’s silver nose glinted in candlelight as he turned back, Audric’s own reflection visible there. “None of us said anything.”

  Audric shook his head. “Indeed,” he told the man. “And that is why I listen.”

 
Ca’Rudka smiled uncertainly. Kenne, in mid-incantation, shrugged. “Ah, a jest,” ca’Rudka said. He chuckled dryly. “You’re feeling better, Kraljiki?”

  “I am, Sergei. Yes. Thank you, Archigos. You may go.” The Archigos didn’t move, and Audric scowled. “I said, Archigos, you may go. Now.”

  Kenne’s eyes widened, and Audric saw him glance at Sergei, who shrugged. The Archigos bowed, gave the sign of Cénzi, and retreated.

  “That was rude,” Sergei said to Audric after Marlon had closed the doors to Audric’s bedchamber behind him. “After the Archigos’ efforts and prayers—”

  “The man’s prayers were done,” Audric said, more brusquely than he’d ever spoken to Sergei before. He glanced at the painting and saw his great-matarh nod as if she were pleased. Her voice muttered in his head. “Sergei does not care for you, Audric. He only wants to keep your power. He doesn’t want you to be what I know you can be. He wants you to remain weak, to always need him so he will stay Regent.” Her strength seemed to flow through him. He found that he could speak without the pauses, without the coughs. He spoke as strongly and well as Sergei himself. “I need to talk with you, Regent, about the Hellins. I have been considering the situation there since our last discussion. I have decided to send another division of the Garde Civile to supplement our troops there.”

  Audric was proud of how his voice sounded: regal and strong and fierce. He smiled up at Marguerite, and in the candlelight she nodded back to him.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  “I WANT...TO SEND another . . . division of the . . . Garde Civile . . . to supplement . . . our troops . . . there,” Audric said.

  The boy could barely get the words out through the wheezing and coughing. The anger in him seemed to make the affliction worse than usual, as if Archigos Kenne’s prayers had done nothing at all.

  Sergei forced his features to close, to reveal nothing of what he was thinking. Let the boy have his tantrum. But the words made him worry: this didn’t seem to be Audric talking; he was hearing someone else’s words. Who had been speaking to the boy? Whose advice was being whispered in his ear for him to spout? One of the chevarittai, perhaps, looking for glory in war. Perhaps Sigourney herself, since her brother was commandant there.

  Audric was staring past Sergei’s shoulder; he glanced back to the grim portrait of Kraljica Marguerite over the hearth. “I thought I had made my thoughts on this clear to you, Kraljiki,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, carefully bland. “I don’t think that’s wise, not with the size of the army the Coalition could raise if they decided to do so. This war in the Hellins is like a seeping wound; it cripples us and takes our attention away from where it should be: east, not west. We should be looking at what we can do to restore the Holdings.”

  The boy’s gaze flicked from the portrait to Sergei and back again. “The Hellins provide us riches and goods that we can’t find elsewhere.” “riches . . . and goods . . . [cough] . . . that . . . we can’t . . . find elsewhere.”

  “Indeed they do, Kraljiki, but we could obtain those goods by trade with the Westlanders as easily as by war. Easier, in fact. Once the Holdings are unified again, then will be the time to look across the Strettosei to the Hellins once more. We have lost too much ground there, because we can’t give the territory the attention we should.”

  Audric’s face was flushed, either from the effort of speaking or from anger, or both. “That’s not what my vatarh said when the Troubles started, Regent. Do you think that because I was just a child then that I wouldn’t remember?” “. . . just a . . . child . . . then . . . [wheeze] . . . that I . . . wouldn’t. . . . remem . . . ber?”

  The mask of his face showed nothing. “When the Troubles started, Kraljiki Justi believed he had no choice but to respond. He believed what the a’offiziers told him, that the Westlanders were little more than savages, that they would soon be pushed back past Lake Malik. But I’d remind you that I didn’t share that belief. The news continues to worsen despite the best efforts of Commandant ca’Sibelli. We have misjudged the Westlanders, and it’s time to save what we can from a poor decision.”

  “My vatarh did not make a poor decision!” The boy shrilled the words, managing to get them all out in one breath. He coughed then, long and deeply, and Sergei waited. “I want another division sent,” Audric persisted. “That is my will. That is your Kraljiki’s will.”

  “You are the Kraljiki,” Sergei told him. He kept his voice low and soothing against the strident, high screeching of Audric. “But the Council of Ca’ named me Regent on your vatarh’s death until you reach your majority.”

  “I’m nearly of age,” Audric answered. His face was so pale that Sergei thought the boy might faint. “Less than two years now. I could petition the Council to have you removed, to be permitted to govern fully. They’ve done that in the past. Maister ci’Blaylock told me: Kraljiki Carin dismissed his Regent at fourteen, the same age I am.”

  Sergei lifted his hand. Gently. Smiling under his silver nose. “Yes, that’s been done. But you and I needn’t be at odds here, my Kraljiki.”

  “Then don’t defy me, Regent. I will go to the Council. I will. I will have you removed.” The boy gesticulated wildly, and that sent him into another paroxysm of coughing.

  “Audric . . .” Sergei responded patiently while the young man fell back on his pillow. Marlon, lurking in the rear corner of the room, was staring wide-eyed at Sergei, shaking his head. “Perhaps I’ve been remiss in not engaging you fully, in not having you take part in all the briefing and discussions. That can be changed; it will be changed. I promise you; if you wish to take part in all discussions of state, to read all the reports, to listen to all the councillors, to really see what it means to govern, then I will accommodate that. But the Hellins . . .” He shook his head. “It’s been almost seven years now, Audric. Seven years and the Westlanders have taken back most of what we’d originally gained there. Seven years, and we’ve lost far too many gardai and squandered far too many gold solas and red blood trying to hold back the tide. At the end of the day, I want what you want. I want the Holdings to have the riches of the Westlands. I do. But this isn’t the time. And this isn’t the time for us to discuss this. Tomorrow, when you’re feeling better . . .”

  “Then get out!” Audric shouted at him, loudly enough that the hall attendant opened the door slightly to peer in. Sergei shook his head at the man. “Get out and leave me alone.” He turned his head, coughing into his pillow.

  “As you wish, Kraljiki.” Sergei bowed to the young man. As he turned to leave, he saw the Kraljica’s portrait once more. She seemed to smile sadly at him, as if she understood.

  Allesandra ca’Vörl

  THE CEREMONY AT BREZNO Temple was excruciatingly long, as was Fynn’s speech of welcome to the A’Gyula of West Magyaria: Pauli, her husband. Allesandra’s face ached from maintaining a smile throughout Fynn’s droning greetings—written, undoubtedly, by one of the palais scribes, since Fynn sometimes peered quizzically at the parchment in front of him as he stumbled over unfamiliar words. Her spine ached from the uncomfortable, straight-backed pews of the Temple. Jan, sitting between Allesandra and his vatarh, fidgeted endlessly, enough that Pauli finally leaned over to the young man and whispered something in his ear. Afterward, Jan stopped his restless shifting in the seat, but the scowl on his face was noticeable even as Allesandra and Pauli proceeded from the temple behind Fynn, Archigos Semini, and his harridan wife, with the ca’-and-cu’ of Firenzcia following them like an obedient flock of sheep.

  Then came the fête at the Grand Palais of Brezno. Now it was her feet that ached, and Allesandra imagined that the whalebone stays of her fashionably-cinched tashta were going to leave permanent furrows in her waist. The ballroom was a furnace on the stifling and humid evening, more like mid-Summer than the Spring the calendar insisted it was. The Archigos had stationed e’téni around the room to keep the ceiling fans a-swirl with the energy of the Ilmodo. The movement of the fan blades seemed to intensif
y rather than diminish the heat, churning the air into a fetid cologne of sweat, pomades, and perfumes. The night was raucous with the music of the orchestra at the far end of the room, the sound of feet dancing on the wooden floor laid down over the tiles, and a hundred separate conversations, all reflected back at them by the dome overhead.

  Allesandra wished fervently to be elsewhere, but if the discomforts bothered Pauli, he hadn’t allowed it to show. He had separated from Allesandra as soon as propriety allowed, as he always did, and was standing in a cluster of young women around Fynn. Jan was there also, at his vatarh’s side, and Allesandra noted that he was receiving nearly as much attention as the Hïrzg, and certainly more than Pauli. Fynn was regaling everyone with the tale of the stag hunt, his arm cocked back as if he were sighting down a bow as he laughed, slapping Jan on the back. “. . . the boy is nearly as good a shot as me,” she heard Fynn say, and Jan’s face was alight with a broad grin as the young women applauded and made the appropriate compliments.