A Magic of Dawn Page 2

  “The same.”

  “I will see him,” she told Sergei. “In the south alcove, a mark of the glass from now. Tell him.”

  Sergei might have frowned, but he bowed his head. “As you wish, Kraljica,” he said. His cane tapped on the marble floor as he left her side, his costume sending motes of light fluttering. Allesandra turned away, nodding and conversing with others as she moved slowly around the hall. Talbot came to her side, having paid and dismissed the téni who had helped with her descent, and she told him to clear the south alcove. She continued on her procession around the room. A’Téni ca’Paim, the head of the Faith in Nessantico, dressed tonight as one of the Red Moitidi, was approaching. “Ah, A’Téni ca’Paim, so good of you to attend, and your téni have done a wonderful job this evening . . .”

  A mark of the glass later, Allesandra had made a circuit of the hall and moved past the line of servants Talbot had set around the alcove to keep away the crowd. She took a seat there, listening to the music. A few moments later, Sergei approached, with ca’Vikej just behind him. “Kraljica, may I present Erik ca’Vikej . . .”

  The man stepped forward and performed a deep, elaborate bow. She remembered that bow: a Magyarian form of courtesy. The ca’-and-cu’ of West Magyaria had bowed the same way for her late husband Pauli, who had become Gyula of West Magyaria after their rancorous separation, only to be assassinated by his own people eight years later. Two years ago, Eric’s vatarh, Stor, had tried to step into the vacuum left by Pauli’s death.

  Allesandra had made the decision to back him. That choice had turned out to be a poor one, the full extent of which was still be determined. She’d made the choice to send only a small part of the Holdings army to support Stor ca’Vijek’s own troops. That had doomed them, and the effort had ended in a military defeat for the Holdings at the hands of Allesandra’s son, Hïrzg Jan.

  “Especially after the last few years . . .” Sergei’s comment still rankled.

  “Kraljica Allesandra, it is my pleasure to meet you at last.” The man’s voice was as stunning as his eyes: low and mellifluous, yet he didn’t seem to notice its power. He kept his head down. “I wanted to thank you for your support of my vatarh. He was always grateful to you for your championing of our cause, and he always spoke well of you.”

  Allesandra searched his voice for a hint of sarcasm or irony; there was none. He seemed entirely sincere. Sergei was looking carefully to one side, hiding whatever he was thinking. Close, she could see the gray flecks in ca’Vikej’s beard and the lines around his eyes and mouth: he was not much younger than she was herself—not surprisingly, since Stor ca’Vikej had been elderly when he’d tried to take the Gyula’s throne. “I wish events had gone differently,” she told him. “But it wasn’t Cénzi’s Will.”

  The man made the sign of Cénzi at that statement—he was of the Faith, then. “Perhaps less Cénzi than circumstances, Kraljica,” he answered. “My vatarh was . . . impatient. I’d counseled him to wait for a time when the Kraljica and the Holdings could have supported us more openly. I told him then that the two battalions you sent were the most he could expect unless he waited, but . . .” He shrugged; the motion was as graceful as his manner. “I warned him that Hïrzg Jan would come down with the full fury of the Firenzcian army.”

  Yes, and Sergei told me the same thing, and I didn’t believe him. She nodded, but she didn’t say that. Handsome, modest, polite, but there was ambition in Erik ca’Vikej as well. Allesandra could see it. And there was anger toward the Coalition for his vatarh’s death. “You are more patient than your vatarh, perhaps, Vajiki ca’Vikej, but yet you want the same thing. And you’re going to tell me that there are still many Magyarians who support you in this.”

  He smiled at that: graceful, yes. “Evidently my head is entirely transparent to the Kraljica.” He swept a hand over his bald skull. He managed to look almost comically bemused. “Next time, I should perhaps wear a hat.”

  She laughed softly at that; she saw Sergei glance at her oddly. “Supporting your vatarh as much as I did nearly brought me to war with my own son,” she told him.

  “Family relationships too often resemble those between countries,” he answered, still smiling. “There are some borders that must not be crossed.” He cocked his head slightly as the musicians started a new song out in the hall. He held his hand out toward Allesandra. “Would the Kraljica be willing to dance with me—for the sake of what she meant to my vatarh?”

  Allesandra could see the slight shake of Sergei’s head. She knew what he was thinking as well: You don’t want reports to get back to Brezno that you are entertaining Stor ca’Vikej’s son . . . But there was something about him, something that drew her. “I thought you were a patient man.”

  “My vatarh also taught me that an opportunity missed is one forever lost.” His eyes laughed, held in fine, dark lines.

  Allesandra rose from her chair. She took his hand.

  “Then, for the sake of your vatarh, we should dance,” she said, and led him from the alcove.

  Varina ca’Pallo

  IT WAS DIFFICULT TO BE STOIC, even though she knew that was what Karl would have wanted of her.

  Karl had been failing for the last month. Looking at him now, Varina sometimes found it hard to find in the drawn, haggard face the lines of the man she had loved, to whom she’d been married for nearly fourteen years now, who had taken her name and her heart.

  Because he was so much older than her, she had feared that their time together must end this way, with him dying before her.

  It seemed that would be the case.

  “Are you in pain, love?” she asked, stroking his balding head, a few strands of gray-white hair clinging stubbornly to the crown. He shook his head without speaking—talking seemed to exhaust him. His breath was too fast and too shallow, almost a panting, as if clinging to life required all the effort he could muster. “No? That’s good. I have the healer’s brew right here if that changes. She said that a few sips would take away any pain and let you sleep. Just let me know if you need it—and don’t you dare try to be brave and ignore it.”

  Varina smiled at him, stroking his sunken, stubbled cheek. She turned away because the tears threatened her again. She sniffed, taking in a long breath that shuddered with the ghost of the sobs that racked her when she was away from him, when she allowed the grief and emotions to take her. She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of her tashta and turned back to him, the smile fixed again on her face. “The Kraljica sent over a letter, saying how much she missed us at the Gschnas last night. She said that her entrance went better than she could have wished, and that the globes I enchanted for her worked perfectly. And, oh, I forgot to tell you—a letter also came today from your son Colin. He says that your great-daughter Katerina is getting married next month, and that he wishes . . . he wishes you . . .” She stopped. Karl would not be going to the wedding. “Anyway, I’ve written back to him, and told him that you’re not . . . you’re not well enough to travel to Paeti right now.”

  Karl stared at her. That was all he could do now. Stare. His skin was stretched tautly over the skull of his face, the eyes sunken into deep, black hollows; Varina wondered if he even saw her, if he noticed how old she’d become as well, how her studies of the Tehuantin magic had taken a terrible physical toll on her. Karl ate almost nothing—it was all she could do to get warm broth down his throat. He had difficulty swallowing even that. The healer only shook her head on her daily visits. “I’m sorry, Councillor ca’Pallo,” she said to Varina. “But the Ambassador is beyond any skill I have. He’s lived a good life, he has, and it’s been longer than most. You have to be ready to let him go.”

  But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t certain she would ever be, could ever be. After all the years she’d wanted to be with him, after all those years when his love for Ana ca’Seranta had blinded him to her, she was to be with him only for so short a time? Less than two decades? When he was gone, there’d be nothing left of him. Karl and V
arina had no children of their own; despite being twelve years younger than Karl, she’d been unable to conceive with him. There’d been a miscarriage in their first year, then nothing, and her own monthly bleeding had ended five years ago now. There were times, in the last several weeks, when she’d envied those who could pray to Cénzi for a boon, a gift, a miracle. As a Numetodo, as a nonbeliever, she had no such solace herself; her world was bereft of gods who could grant favors. She could only hold Karl’s hand and gaze at him and hope.

  You have to be ready to let him go . . .

  She took his hand, pressed it in her fingers. It was like holding a skeleton’s hand; there was no returning pressure, his flesh was cold, and his skin felt as dry as brown parchment. “I love you,” she told him. “I always loved you; I will always love you.”

  He didn’t answer, though she thought she saw his dry, cracked lips open slightly and then close again. Perhaps he thought he was responding. She reached for the cloth in the basin alongside his bed, dipped it in the water, and dabbed at his lips.

  “I’ve been working with a device to use the black sand again. Look—” She showed him a long cut along her left arm, still scabbed with dried blood. “I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. But I think I may have really stumbled upon something this time. I’ve made changes to the design and I’m having Pierre make the modifications for me from my drawings . . .”

  She could imagine how he might answer. “There’s a price to pay for knowledge,” he’d told her, often enough. “But you can’t stop knowledge: it wants to be born, and it will force its way into the world no matter what you do. You can’t hold back knowledge, no matter what those of the Faith might say . . .”

  Downstairs, she could hear the kitchen staff beginning to prepare dinner: a laugh, a clattering of pans, the faint chatter of conversation, but here in the sickroom the air was hot and still. She talked to Karl mostly because the quiet seemed so depressing. She talked mostly because she was afraid of silence.

  “I spoke to Sergei this morning, too. He said that he’ll stop by tomorrow night, before he goes off to Brezno,” she said in a falsely cheery voice. “He insists that if you won’t join him at the table for dinner, he’s going to come up here and bring you down himself. ‘What good is Numetodo magic if you can’t get rid of a little minor illness?’ he said. He also suggested that the sea air in Karnmor might do you some good. I might see if we could take a villa there next month. He said that the Gschnas was ever so nice, though he mentioned that Stor ca’Vikej’s son has come to the city, and he didn’t like the way that Kraljica Allesandra paid attention to him . . .”

  She realized that the room was too still, that she hadn’t heard Karl take a breath for some time. He was still staring at her, but his gaze had gone empty and dull. She felt her stomach muscles clench. She took in a breath that was halfsob. “Karl . . . ?” She watched his chest, willing it to move, listening for the sound of air moving through his nostrils. Was his hand colder? She felt for his pulse, searching for the fluttering underneath her fingertips and imagining she felt it.

  “Karl . . . ?”

  The room was silent except for the distant clamor of the servants and the chirping of birds in the trees outside and the faint sounds of the city beyond the walls of their villa. She felt pressure rising in her chest, a wave that broke free from her and turned into a wail that sounded as if it were ripped from someone else’s throat.

  She heard the servants running up the stairs, heard them stop at the door. The sound of her grief echoed in her ears. She was still holding Karl’s hand. Now she let it drop lifeless back to the sheet. She reached out and brushed his eyelids closed, her fingertips trembling.

  “He’s gone,” she said: to the servants, to the world, to herself.

  The words seemed impossible. Unbelievable. She wanted to take them back and smash them so they could never be spoken again.

  But she had said them, and they could not be revoked.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  THE BASTIDA A’DRAGO STANK of ancient molds and mildew, of piss and black fecal matter, of fear and pain and terror. Sergei loved that scent. The odors soothed him, caressed him, and he inhaled deeply through the nostrils of his cold, silver nose.

  “Good morning, Ambassador ca’Rudka.” Ari ce’Denis, Capitaine of the Bastida, greeted Sergei from the open doorway of his office as Sergei shuffled through the gates. He moved slowly, as he always did now, his knees aching with every step, wishing he hadn’t decided to leave his cane in the carriage. Sergei held up a piece of paper in his right hand toward ce’Denis. Under his left arm was tucked a long roll of leather.

  “Good?” Sergei asked. “Not so much, I’m afraid.” He could hear his age in his voice, also: that unstoppable tremor and quaver.

  “Ah, yes,” the Capitaine said. “Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death. I’m sorry; I know he was a good friend of yours.”

  Sergei grimaced. His head ached with the worries that assailed him: the deteriorating relationship between the Holdings and the Firenzcian Coalition over the last few years; the Kraljica’s cold reception to his suggestion to repair that rift finally and completely; the rising presence of Nico Morel and his followers in the city; even the way that Erik ca’Vikej had dominated the Kraljica’s attention during the Gschnas . . .

  Poor Karl’s death had merely been a final blow. That had been a reminder of his own mortality, that soon enough Sergei would have to face the soul-weighers and see what his own life had come to. He was afraid of that day. He was afraid he knew how heavy his soul would be with his sins.

  “It’s Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death, yes,” Sergei answered, holding up the paper again as he approached the Capitaine. “Certainly. But it’s also this. Have you seen it?”

  Ce’Denis peered myopically at the paper. “I noticed some of these posted around the Avi on my way in this morning, yes. But I’m afraid I’m a plain man of battle, Ambassador. I don’t have the skills of letters, as you undoubtedly remember.”

  “Ah.” Sergei scowled. He had forgotten—ce’Denis’ illiteracy had been one of the reasons that he was only the Capitaine of the Bastida and not an a’offizier in the Garde Kralji or Garde Civile; it was also the reason he wasn’t a chevaritt and why his rank was only ce’. Sergei’s hand fisted around the parchment, crumpling it with a sound like brief fire, and tossing it on the ground. Deliberately, he stepped on it. “It’s a repulsive piece of trash, Capitaine. Vile. A proclamation from that damned Nico Morel, railing against the Numetodo and insulting the memory of Ambassador ca’Pallo. Gloating at my good friend’s death . . .”

  Sergei grimaced. Memories of Nico Morel came back unbidden even as he railed. The boy he’d known a decade and a half ago during the great battle for Nessantico had little resemblance to the charismatic, raving firebrand who had surfaced recently. Still, those had been awful times, and Nico had been lost during them—who knew what the boy had experienced? Who knew how life might have twisted him?

  Life twisted you, didn’t it? Sergei’s headache pounded at his temples. “Nico Morel believes he’s the incarnation of Cénzi himself,” he said, rubbing his brow with one hand. “I swear, Capitaine, I will have Morel here in the Bastida one day, and I will take great delight in his interrogation.”

  Ce’Denis pressed his thin lips together. He looked up at the skull of the dragon, mounted on the wall and glaring down at the courtyard in which they stood. “I’m sure you will, Ambassador ca’Rudka.”

  Sergei glanced at the man sharply. He wasn’t sure he liked ce’Denis’ tone. “I want you to take any of your gardai not on duty and send them out along the Avi,” he told the Capitaine. He nudged the paper on the ground with his foot. “Have them tear down any of these proclamations that they find. That will be the request of Commandant cu’Ingres when I return to the palais, but if you could start before the order comes, I would appreciate it. The fewer people who see this filth, the better.”

  “Certainly, Ambassador,” ce’Denis said
, saluting. “Will you be with us long this morning?” He glanced at what Sergei carried under his left arm.

  “Not long,” Sergei answered. “My day is busy, I’m afraid. And ci’Bella?”

  “He is two levels down of the tower, Ambassador, as you requested.” Ce’Denis inclined his head to Sergei and went back into his office, calling for his aide. Sergei shuffled toward the main tower of the Bastida, saluting the gardai who opened the barred door for him. He moved slowly down the stairs that spiraled into the lower chambers, bracing himself with a hand on the stone walls and groaning at the strain on his knees, wishing again that he’d brought his cane. At the landing, he reached into the pocket of his overcloak to pull out a small ring of keys; they jingled dully in his hand.

  Two levels down he stopped, allowing the pain in his head and his knees to subside. When it had, he thrust the key into a lock—there were flakes of rust around the keyhole; he made a mental note to mention that to Capitaine ce’Denis when he left—there was no excuse for that type of sloppiness here. As he turned the key in the lock, he heard chains rustling and scraping the floor inside. He could see the image in his head: the prisoner cowering away from the door, pressing his spine to the old, damp stone walls as if they might somehow magically open and swallow him.

  Suffocation in the embrace of stone might have been a more pleasant fate than the one that awaited the man, he had to admit.

  Sergei glanced around before he opened the cell door. A garda was approaching from the lower levels. He nodded to Sergei without saying anything. The capitaine and the gardai of the Bastida knew that Sergei usually required an “assistant” when he visited the prison; those who had the same predilections as Sergei often helped. They understood, and so they said nothing and pretended to see nothing, simply doing whatever Sergei asked of them.