Ana cu'Seranta
"HAVE YOU A COSTUME yet for the
Gschnas, Ana?" Kenne asked.
Ana shrugged. She glanced past Kenne,
seated at his paper-strewn desk, to the open door of the Archigos'
reception room, where she could see Archigos Dhosti and three of
the a'téni: Joca ca'Sevini of Chivasso, Alain ca'Fountaine of
Belcanto, and Colin ca'Cille of An Uaimth. Also in the room was a
tall and rather handsome man she didn't recognize. All five of them
were in the midst of what appeared to be an energetic discussion.
"Beida and Watha tell me that they have something put together for
me, but they won't show it to me yet. What about you?"
Kenne shook his head. "Not going. The
Archigos has me working here tomorrow evening." He tapped the
nearest pile of paper. "Going through reports from
Firenzcia."
Ana felt a guilty blush creep up her
neck from the high collar of her green robes. "I'm sorry," she
said. "If I'd known, I'd have told the Archigos to have you
accompany him instead of me."
Kenne chuckled at that. "Do you think
you're not going to be working? Believe me, you will be, and
far more visibly than me. No, I'm quite content with my lot, Ana.
Besides, you're the new celebrity and he has to show you
off."
Her blush heightened and Kenne laughed
again. "And before you go apologizing for that, too," he continued,
"let me tell you that I'm not even slightly jealous. I'm happy
where I am, where I can pass along any difficult problems to the
Archigos or the a'téni." He must have noticed her gaze drifting,
for he glanced over his own shoulder to the open door. "Envoy Karl
ci'Vliomani is with them," he said.
That made Ana's eyebrows rise. "The
Numetodo?"
Kenne nodded. "For a heretic, he's on
the attractive side, don't you think? He speaks very well also.
I've always found the Paeti accent enchanting." Ana's eyebrows
lifted even higher on her forehead, and Kenne grinned at her. "I'm
just telling you what I'm thinking. I'll wager you'll feel the same
way."
Ana decided not to answer, but she
continued to stare at the man. "Why is he here?"
"The Archigos asked to see him. I
think the Archigos wanted to allay fears that what happened in
Brezno would be repeated here. He wanted the envoy to know that not
all the a'téni have the same opinion as A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca. Ah,
here they come."
The group was moving toward the door.
Ana caught a hint of the envoy's speech, colored—as Kenne had
intimated—with a strong accent and a pleasing, sonorous baritone.
The man had a voice any téni at the High Lectern would envy. ". . .
pleased to have been able to speak to you, Archigos, A'Téni. I
would appreciate it, too, Archigos, if you could speak to the
Kraljica on my behalf. I would be most grateful for the chance to
meet with her and directly address any concerns she might
have."
"Perhaps after the Jubilee is over,
Envoy," the Archigos answered.
The envoy smiled—he had a pleasant
smile, one that seemed genuine and guileless. Lines creased around
his eyes and the corners of his mouth, well-worn and telling Ana
that the expression was one comfortable and familiar for him. She
found herself staring at his features, imagining what he might be
thinking, trying to visualize him performing the forbidden Numetodo
magic or denying the existence of Cénzi. This was the enemy, yet it
was far easier to have imagined heretical thoughts being reflected
in a twisted, ugly visage, not this. Not this. "Ah, yes," the envoy
said, and his green eyes sparkled in the téni-light from Kenne's
desk lamp. "The Kraljica should have her much-deserved celebration
first. After the Jubilee, then—and I'm in your debt, Archigos. I
can see myself out. . . ."
With that, he turned to go. His gaze
swept momentarily to Ana with the movement, and he smiled and
nodded faintly to her before he began to walk away.
"Ah, Ana," Archigos Dhosti said. "I'm
glad you're here. I'd like to introduce you formally to A'Ténis
ca'Sevini, ca'Fountaine, and ca'Cille."
Ana tore her gaze from the envoy,
walking briskly down the corridor away from Kenne's desk. Kenne was
smiling at her; she ignored him. "Certainly, Archigos," she
said.
"Look!" Ana pointed and laughed with delight.
Outside the Grande Palais, the
shrubbery had been placed upside down, their greenery half-buried
in the earth and bare roots curling like gnarled fingers toward the
cloudless night sky. Téni-lighted globes were set inside the nest
of roots, surrounded by colored glass so that multicolored
root-shadows crisscrossed the grounds. The grass had been painted a
white that gleamed eerily, as if the moonlight illuminating the
city had been poured out on the land, while the fountains set
between the wings of the Grande Palais bubbled water that was jet
black and opaque. Ornate, brightly-colored birds from the jungles
of Namarro and South Hellin, their wings clipped and bound,
strutted and preened over the skeletal grass while several
well-groomed and jeweled-collared dogs, looking rather startled and
uncertain of their fate, were suspended by ebon strings from cables
strung between the palace roofs, so it appeared that they were
treading air.
It was the festival of Gschnas, when
reality was set topsy-turvy and nothing was as it seemed to
be.
The Archigos nodded and grinned at
Ana's excitement. "This is the Kraljica's favorite celebration," he
said. He was seated across from her, but instead of the usual green
robes of the téni, he wore the shrouds of a corpse, and his face
was hidden behind a porcelain skull mask. The eyes behind the open
sockets of the face startled Ana every time she glimpsed them in
the dim carriage.
Ana, with the help of Beida and Watha,
was dressed as a young male chevaritt, her breasts bound tightly
(and rather uncomfortably, she had to admit) under a frilled bashta
decorated with medallions, a wooden sword girt to a wide leather
belt, and leather boots that reached her knees. Her hair was pulled
severely back and braided like one of the Garde Civile, and a
floppy cap with a long feather teetered jauntily on her head.
"You look quite the handsome creature," Beida had said,
stepping back after they were finished dressing her. "Why,
you may have to fend off some of the ca'-and-cu' women who
are looking for a husband." She'd giggled at the
thought.
The carriage stopped, and a
footman—dressed, Ana recognized with a start, in the very outfit
that the A'Kralj Justi had worn for his official portrait, and with
a golden crown encircling his head—opened the door for them. Ana
peered around at the fantasy landscape, at the dark fountains and
bright grass, at the spidery cracks and fissures that had been
painted in the walls of the palais, so that it appeared the
building had been shaken and broken in an earthquake and the Grande
Palais was a ruin in a lost land.
As she stepped from the carriage, Ana
heard sudden discordant and strange music, and saw a trio next to
the main doors. The dulcimer player was striking her instrument
with the hammer held in her bare feet while she reclined on the
ground; the tambour player had set his drum on a stand in front of
him and was bouncing three metal balls onto the stretched goatskin
while juggling them—and keeping surprisingly good time, Ana had to
admit. The man with the sacbut seemed to be playing with the
mouthpiece of his device lodged in his nether regions; Ana decided
she didn't want to know how he was producing a sound. She grimaced
at the distressing blat of his instrument.
"They're not very good," Ana said to
the Archigos. His skull face peered up at her.
"The marvel," he said, "is that they
can play at all, isn't it?" She heard muffled laughter behind his
mask.
They handed their invitations to the
attendant—wearing a goat's head and mittens that looked like a
goat's feet—who promptly announced them by reading their names
backward—"Callim'ac Itsohd Sogihcra dna Atnares'uc Ana
Inét'o"—impressing Ana with his facil ity. Inside the ballroom, the
ca'-and-cu' milled in interweaving knots of conversation. For a
moment, Ana was overwhelmed at the sight of the upper society of
Nessantico in all their grand finery and elaborate costumes. At the
far end of the hall, an orchestra was playing—properly this time,
though they were seated high above the crowd in the frame of a
gigantic crystalline figure, his massive outstretched hands the
seats for the musicians, his flesh a carapace of colored glasses,
his bones white stone. A thousand candles blazed everywhere in the
statue's frame, and twin fires blazed in the sockets of his skull.
Red liquid poured from his open mouth and splashed into a pool in
which the giant knelt, as if praying.
Before the strange figure, the
crowd swayed and glittered and preened, their intermingled
conversations nearly overwhelming the musicians. They danced in
pairs and circles and lines; they gathered around the periphery of
the dance floor to talk—and many of them were staring at Ana and
the Archigos standing by the door. Ana began to feel intimidated
and a bit frightened, sweat beading on her forehead under the
powder she wore, but the Archigos took her arm. "Remember," he
whispered to her, "most of them are just as uncertain as you are,
maybe more so. They've just had more practice hiding it. You are
O'Téni cu'Seranta, and you arrived with the Archigos. That puts you
above nearly everyone you see."
"I'm not used to that." Her voice
cracked, barely above a whisper as she leaned toward him, his head
only level with her elbows.
"Get used to it," he whispered.
"And learn to use it to your advantage. Come. Let's go down . .
."
She linked her hand to his arm. They
went down the stairs together, into the whispering sea of faces and
costumes.
"O'Teni . . ." she heard from a dozen
directions as they reached the floor, and she nodded politely to
the greetings. A waiter dressed as an ape offered her a glass; she
took it and sipped sweetened, chilled wine. She stayed close to the
Archigos, following him as he made his way through the crowds, away
from the dancers and into the relative quiet of one of the
alcoves.
"Archigos," she heard a voice call. "I
must say that it takes a certain bravery to wear grave shrouds. I
would be too afraid to dress that way, thinking that I was tempting
fate."
A trio of shadows detached themselves
from near a fireplace along the wall, where cold green flames
leaped up from a pool of water set in the hearth—most likely
created by another téni-spell. Ana's eyes widened: in the uncertain
light of the water-flames, one of them appeared to be a muscular
and bare-breasted woman walking on her hands, but as they
approached, she realized that what she'd thought was skin was not
flesh at all, but cloth bound tightly to a frame and painted to
look realistic, that the "woman's" head was bewigged and waxen, and
that a man's features peered from just above the frozen skirt, his
hands encased in shoes and his feet clad in hosiery that looked
like hands. Ana shivered: the sight was not pleasant.
A genuine woman stood next to the man,
dressed all in colorful feathers that frothed around her attractive
face and accentuated her figure, with equally flamboyant wings
sprouting from her back. The third person was an older man, heavier
and double-chinned, and wearing a simple peasant's costume, with
his face artfully streaked with black paint that must have been
intended to represent dirt.
He was smiling at them, and Ana
recognized him suddenly: A'Téni Orlandi ca'Cellibrecca. "And my
guess is that this must be O'Téni cu'Seranta," ca'Cellibrecca said,
and Ana realized it was his voice that had spoken a moment
ago.
"A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca," the Archigos
said. "I appreciate your concern for me, and I hope that your rags
don't presage a loss of your own fortune. Death, at least, is over
and done with. Poverty lingers." Ca'Cellibrecca sniffed as the
Archigos waved a hand toward Ana. "I suppose I should be giving
everyone a formal introduction. A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, this is
indeed O'Téni Ana cu'Seranta."
Ca'Cellibrecca bowed his head and gave
the sign of Cénzi; Ana did the same, bending a bit lower with her
bow as etiquette demanded. "I was there when you intervened with
the assassin, O'Téni," ca'Cellibrecca said. "Very impressive, I
must say. You've been well-Gifted by Cénzi, if all the rumors are
true." His smile seemed as cold and false as the flames in the
fireplace. There was a predatory look in his eyes, as if he were a
snake looking at a mouse in front of him. Ana found herself wanting
to look away, and forced herself to lift her chin and return his
smile.
"Rumors tend to become exaggerated
with each telling," she said. "I wouldn't believe them,
A'Téni."
"Ah, and modest, too," ca'Cellibrecca
said. "I'm pleased to meet you in person at last; the Archigos has
sadly kept you away from me, though I know he must have had good
reasons to do so. And I forget myself. O'Téni cu'Seranta, I would
like to introduce my daughter, Francesca, and her husband,
Estraven, who serves here in Nessantico as U'Téni of the Old Temple
on the Isle A'Kralji. No doubt you've heard some of his
Admonitions, since I know your family occasionally attends services
there." The two bowed and gave the sign—Estraven doing so awkwardly
with his shoe-clad hands; Ana noticed that Francesca favored her
husband with an odd look of mingled amusement and
disgust.
A clot of people entered the alcove
and stood near the fireplace, looking at the watery fire and
holding their hands in the leaping, bright flames. Their laughter
took Ana's eyes toward them; one of them, a slim man dressed in the
robes of a téni and wearing a simple black domino mask, nodded to
her and she looked away again.
"The Kraljica has outdone herself this
year," ca'Cellibrecca was saying. "This is a very impressive
Gschnas, one we'll no doubt remember. She and the A'Kralj should be
making their entrance soon, and I understand the Kraljica's new
portrait is to be unveiled at midnight. Have you seen it
yet?"
"I've not had that pleasure," the
Archigos told him. "The painter ci'Recroix has insisted that it
remained covered until tonight. But I've seen other of his works,
and they are most impressive—the figures look as if they could walk
out of the very canvas."
"Then I will truly be looking forward
to seeing what he has done with our Kraljica. I wonder if she'll
dress again as the Spirit of Nessantico for the ball? That was an
impressive costume she wore last year."
"She has told me that tonight she will
be Vucta, the Great Night
Herself," the Archigos answered. "She has had several of our
more creative e'téni working with her."
"I'm certain that she will outdo
herself once more," ca'Cellibrecca responded. He turned back to Ana
then, looking her up and down slowly and obviously, as if
appraising her. He spoke to the Archigos as he did so. "Have you
given any more thought to our last conversation,
Archigos?"
"I have given it all the reflection
that it required, A'Téni," the Archigos answered, and that brought
ca'Cellibrecca's gaze back to the dwarf.
"Indeed," the man said. "Then I'd love
to speak further with you. If you'd excuse us? O'Teni cu'Seranta,
Francesca . . ."
The Archigos nodded to Ana as
ca'Cellibrecca ushered him away. U'Téni Estraven was obviously
fuming at ca'Cellibrecca's disregard of him, his face suffused
above the hem of the dress. "Francesca, I really think . . ." he
began, and stopped as the woman raised her hand.
"Not here, Estraven. Please." Her tone
was imperious and sharp, the u'téni's mouth snapped shut in
response. Francesca favored Ana with a smile. "I apologize,
O'Téni," she said. "If you'll be so kind as to excuse my husband.
So pleased to meet you, and I hope you enjoy the Gschnas tonight.
Perhaps we can talk later; I'd love to have a chance to get to know
you better. Vatarh has said so much about you."
"Yes," Ana said. "Of course, Vajica,
U'Téni. Later."
Francesca smiled, bowed, and gave the
sign of Cénzi, her husband doing the same a moment later. Ana
returned the gesture. Before the couple had gone four steps, she
heard Estraven start in again. "I won't be treated this way,
Francesca. Your vatarh . . ."
"They make a pleasant couple, don't
you think?"

Karl
ci'Vliomani
KARL ATTACHED HIMSELF to a group
that was moving in the direction of the alcove into which the
Archigos had disappeared with his companion. As Karl laughed and
joked with them around the water-fire, he watched the Archigos, who
was conversing with A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, his daughter and her
husband. He realized, with a start, that the person with the
Archigos was not a young man in a rather toogaudy outfit, but a
somewhat plain-faced woman dressed as a man—and with the
realization, he thought he knew who she might be. If she was
the cu'Seranta woman, she looked oddly familiar to him as well,
though he couldn't remember where he might have seen her before.
Once, she looked over at him, making eye contact, and he nodded
back. She glanced quickly away, as if embarrassed at being caught
staring at him.
He began moving closer: as the
Archigos and ca'Cellibrecca left the group, as Francesca
ca'Cellibrecca and her husband also departed, obviously arguing
with each other.
"They make a pleasant couple, don't
you think?" he said. "An argument against purely political
marriages. And that costume U'Teni ca'Cellibrecca is wearing . . ."
He tsked loudly, shaking his head.
She turned, startled. He inclined his
head to her. He could see puzzlement cross her face at the bow he
made, unaccompanied by the customary sign of Cénzi, then her mouth
opened in a soft breath and her eyes widened slightly. She took in
his costume, her eyes narrowing. "Envoy ci'Vliomani?"
He laughed. "I've been found out," he
answered. "I see I have more of a reputation than I might like. And
you have the advantage of me."
He thought he saw the ghost of a nod,
but she didn't give him her
name. She seemed strangely quiet, not like most of the
ca'-and'cu' he'd met, most of whom seemed anxious to dominate every
conversation. "You've chosen an odd costume, Envoy," she said, with
a gentle remonstrance underneath the words.
He brushed a hand over the green cloth
of his téni's robes. "I was going for irony. But I suspect I may
have succeeded only in achieving poor taste."
He watched her struggle not to smile,
then allow herself to show her amusement. He found himself smiling
in return. "Oh, you could have made a worse choice, as I think
U'Téni Estraven might tell you," she answered. There was bright
laughter in her voice, and the comment suggested that her opinion
of the ca'Cellibrecca family was no higher than his own. He thought
she was going to say nothing more, that she wouldn't ever give her
name and confirm his suspicion. Her gaze wandered past him to the
other room as the orchestra lurched into a gavotte and dancers
filled the floor. She seemed enthralled and terribly uncomfortable
all at the same time. He found the combination
intriguing.
"I'm O'Téni Ana cu'Seranta," she told
him, and her gaze returned to him. She had eyes the color of
long-steeped tea. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were
trying to decide how she should feel about him. "Just so we're
properly introduced. I saw you the other day, Envoy, when you were
at the Archigos' Temple."
He realized then why she had seemed
familiar. "Ah, the téni who was outside the room when we left, the
one with the Archigos' secretary. So you're the Archigos' new
protégée, and not just another handsome vajiki and chevaritt." His
smile widened, then he shook his head. Compared to most of the
women at the Gschnas, she was unremarkable and ordinary in
appearance, yet Karl found a compelling earnestness about her that
made him want to linger. You've been too long away. Now
what would Kaitlin think, you thinking about her like that?
"I owe you both an apology and my gratitude, O'Téni."
"Apology? Gratitude? I don't
understand, Envoy. We've never really met. How is it that you need
to either apologize to or thank me?" Puzzlement crossed her face
under the foppish, silly hat.
"It was you who saved the Archigos'
life last week. And it was, unfortunately, a Numetodo who was the
would-be assassin. I apologize on behalf of all the Numetodo for
that action—we're not murderers or insurrectionists, no matter what
the popular opinion might be. And I owe you my gratitude for
intervening: because had you not, I'm afraid I would be in a cell
in the Bastida or worse, and not standing here speaking with
you."
Her lips pressed together and her
cheeks were touched with a hint of color. "Am I supposed to be
flattered by that?"
"Are you?"
"No." Her answer came quickly and
without any leavening. Yes, she's honest to a fault. In
that, she's much like Kaitlin. Her head tilted a bit further;
she crossed her arms, her weight on one leg. "I'd also suspect that
it's no accident that we're speaking now, and that I really didn't
need to introduce myself. Would I be wrong?"
He thought of a pleasant lie, of
coming up with one of a dozen plausible excuses to have initiated
the conversation with her, but he decided instead to respond to her
with the same honesty. "I was watching A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and
the Archigos," he told her. "You can imagine how I might find their
conversation interesting, or that I would want to know who A'Téni
ca'Cellibrecca is having conversations with, given what happened in
Brezno a few months ago. And you might also imagine that I pay
attention to what happens within Concénzia—and that I would know of
you as a result. As to why I would introduce myself to you . . ."
He rubbed a hand through his hair, his shoulders lifting under the
green cloth. "Well, I'm not quite sure that I know the answer to
that. It was a whim, truthfully. I saw your face when you were
talking to Vajica ca'Cellibrecca, and I thought perhaps . .
."
An eyebrow lifted as he hesitated.
"You thought perhaps you might use me as a way to get to the
Archigos?"
And she has a bite when she wants
to . . . He spread his hands wide. "If I admit that, will you
at least admire my honesty and keep talking to me?"
"Talking to a Numetodo, even if he is
the Envoy of Paeti?" The response was less harsh than it might have
been.
"We're not all monsters who cause milk
to sour, eat children, and lace the city wells with poison. Very
few of us actually do that."
The barest hint of a smile touched her
lips. "And what do the rest of you do?"
This time, it was his turn to tilt his
head and regard her. "We search for explanations." She said
nothing. She waited, silent, as the gavotte ended and another dance
began. He reached into his pocket. "Have you ever been to the hills
east of your city?" he asked her. "I'm told that there, embedded
high up on the cliffs and days from the sea by even the swiftest
boat, you can find seashells made of rock. Here, look . . ." He
brought his hand from the pocket. In his palm was a closed clam
shell, formed in pale gray stone. "We have these in Paeti, too. I
brought a few of them with me when I left to remind me of my home."
He pulled out the necklace he wore under the green robes so she
could see it. "Our rock-shells have a different shape than those
here, but we also find them in the mountains, far from the ocean,
and they're different than the shells in our sea. But look at it .
. ." He held out the shell to her. "Go on. Take it. Look at it.
It's perfectly formed, little different than what might wash up on
the shore. Yet there are no seas in the mountains, and rocks don't
live and breathe and reproduce, as clams do."
She took the stony shell in her
fingers, turning it over in front of her and running her fingertips
over the thick ridges of the shell before handing it back to him.
"I've seen these before," she said. "The Toustour tells us that the
earth is alive and that it pulses with forces. Those forces are the
very ones Cénzi used to create the world. In the Final Admonition
of the Toustour, it says that the interior of the world is filled
with 'lapidifying juices, wet exhalations, and subterranean
vapors.' All the shapes in rock that mimic life are formed by
those."
"Why?" Karl asked. "Why do these
forces make shapes that look natural?"
She blinked at the question, startled.
"Why? There's no 'why' nec essary, Vajiki. It's written in the
Toustour. One doesn't question Cénzi's reasons; one accepts
them."
"I know a learned man—Stenonis, his
name is—who lives in Wolhusen, Graubundi. He claims that these
shells are incredibly ancient, that they form when shells are
buried in the silt and sand of the sea floor, and then more and
more layers fall on top of it until they're buried deeply. He says
that the shells are actually dissolved away and what you're holding
is an impression they left behind: like a sculptor's mold, filled
with the minerals dissolved in the water, while the soil and sand
compress them so tightly they turn to stone."
"And then the water sprites who live
under the sea quarry the rock and carry it up into the mountains at
night when no one is watching?"
Karl grinned and chuckled. "I must say
that was kinder than the reaction I usually get. No, according to
Stenonis' theory, the mountaintops where the rocks are found were
once at the bottom of the sea. Upheavals in the world have raised
the land in some places and lowered it in others. And I know your
next objection, too: why doesn't this great cataclysm show up in
any of our histories? Stenonis says that the world is untold
millions of years old, and these risings and fallings took place
long before any people were there to witness them."
She was already shaking her head.
"That's not possible. Archigos Pellin I studied the Toustour, and
he determined that Vucta created the world between ten and twelve
thousand years ago. Are you telling me you believe this Stenonis
and not the Toustour, which is the sacred word of Cénzi?"
Karl shrugged. "I think there's an
elegance to Stenonis' theory. I believe much of what we attribute
to Cénzi and Vucta and the Moitidi may have more . . .
natural causes."
"Like the Ilmodo?" she asked. "Or
whatever it is you call it."
He nodded. "The Scáth Cumhacht. I
could show you," he said. "If your mind isn't sealed shut with what
the téni have taught you."
"I think I'll decline your invitation,
Envoy," she answered. "I'm not easily duped by the tricks of street
magicians. My faith is stronger than that." She moved away from
him, with a backward glance, going to the marble railing that
separated the alcove from the main hall. She looked down at the
lines of dancers, knotting and unknotting in the intricate patterns
of the Cooper's Dance. When she looked up he was leaning against
the rail beside her, and he looked more at her than at the dancers.
The corners of her lips were turned up unconsciously, her eyes were
wide, and she leaned forward as she stared.
"Would you care to dance, O'Téni?" he
asked.
"With a Numetodo?" She glanced at him,
but the smile widened. "What would they say?"
"They would say that you'd chosen a
particularly ungraceful partner, but one who at least attacks the
movements with energy and enthusiasm. They would say, 'She must be
taking pity on him . . .' "
Now she did laugh. "Surely it's not as
bad as that?"
"Oh, it's far, far worse," he said,
and extended his arm to her. "May I demonstrate?"
He thought she'd take his arm, but
instead she stepped back. "I'm still not certain of your
intentions, Envoy." He could see the uncertainty still in her face,
and he suspected that it was more than his intentions that worried
her. She glanced around, as if looking for the Archigos.
"In my country, they say that there is
truth in music, that no one can lie while they're dancing. Ask me
your questions out on the floor, and I must tell the truth in
response. Think of the information you could bring to the Archigos
as a result."
That brought a faint smile to her
lips. "I don't think the Archigos would care to see one of his
o'téni dancing with the Numetodo Envoy."
"But the Kraljica herself sent me an
invitation to this Gschnas. Are you saying she made a mistake?" The
young woman shook her head. As she started to speak, Karl brought
his finger to his lips. "No, I won't listen to any more arguments.
Here's the bargain. I'll tell the Archigos you were attempting to
convert me, and that as a result I now find myself sorely tempted
to abandon my heretical ways. That should earn you the Archigos'
gratitude."
"I'm certain achieving your conversion
wouldn't be that easy."
"How will you know unless you try,
O'Téni? Or is that answer also in the Toustour?"
She looked around again, but the
Archigos was nowhere to be seen. She laughed, if a bit nervously,
and laced her arm in his. They went down the steps toward the
dancers.

Sergei
ca'Rudka
TO ONE SIDE of the hall, a massive
apple tree seemed to be growing from the wall, with sparkling juice
flowing freely from the ripe apples on its branches into a small
rocky pool below. Attendants dressed as squirrels handed out mugs
which the attendees could fill from the tree. Sergei shook his head
as he was offered a mug, and brushed his hands against the
overhanging leaves—the stiff silk was amazingly realistic, and he
wondered how long it had taken to sew the thousands of them on the
false tree. He glanced up at a large knot in the bole of the tree
and nodded: there, he knew, behind a mesh of black fabric, a pair
of eyes were carefully watching the Gschnas for any signs of
trouble. So far, the evening had been without incident, but with
the Kraljica and the A'Kralj about to make their entrance, Sergei
preferred to scan the hall himself.
He wore a hawk's head mask that
concealed his silver nose, but otherwise his athletic figure was
dressed only in simple black, and though all real weapons were
forbidden in the hall, he wore his own sword at his side.
He moved easily through the crowds,
who tended to part before him in any case, with a glance at the
fierce hawk's beak and the glittering eyes behind it. He nodded to
the ca'-and-cu' who guessed at his identity with a tight smile
under the mask, but he didn't linger for conversation. He saw the
Archigos and A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca in conversation in one of the
private alcoves and moved on. He saw other, more intimate trysts in
the shadows of the hall and passed them by also. He had nearly made
a circuit of the entire ball when he stopped.
There was something wrong about the
man: the manner in which he regarded the crowd; the frayed edges of
the jester's costume that he wore; the fact that his cape didn't
seem to move as freely as it should; the predatory gesture of
rubbing his fingertips together as he started to move toward a knot
of people in conversation near the kneeling glass statue holding
the musicians. Sergei watched the man seem to accidentally bump
against one of the men there, and apologize profusely before moving
away again.
Sergei sidled up behind the jester.
"I'm impressed," he said.
The man turned, startled. He looked as
if he were about to run, but Sergei waggled a forefinger in front
of the man's face. The jester stared at it, as if transfixed.
"You've a very smooth touch," he told the man "Chevaritt ca'Nephri
never noticed, but I did."
"What . . ." The man stopped, licked
his lips. His body was tensed, as if he were about to bolt. "What
are you talking about, Vajiki?"
"I'm talking about Chevaritt
ca'Nephri's purse that is now in there," Sergei said, pointing to
the man's cape. "And I wouldn't try to run. Look around you—do you
see the three men in hawk masks approaching us?" The man's gaze
flickered over the crowd, his mouth open. "Yes, I see that you do.
If you go quietly, it will be better for you. If you were to make a
scene and disturb the revelry, well, I would be very . . .
irritated. And I would make certain that my irritation was assuaged
back in the Bastida."
The man's shoulders sagged. "Vajiki,
please . . . All I wanted was to get a little money for my family.
To buy some food. The children . . ."
"I'm certain your motives were pure,"
Sergei told him softly, almost sympathetically. "But the law is
also clear. Take him," he said to the guards who had come up
alongside. "Chevaritt ca'Nephri's purse is in the lining of his
cape—please make certain it's immediately returned to him—the
chevaritt is a good friend of the A'Kralj, after all. You'll find
other purses there as well; hold them until you can locate the
owners."
With that, Sergei turned as the man
was escorted quietly from the hall. He allowed himself a small
smile as he regarded the hall once again. The orchestra was playing
the Cooper's Dance, one of his favorite of Darkmavis' songs, and he
watched the dancers for a bit. A couple, late onto the floor,
caught his eye. One of them was dressed as a fashionable young man
but was obviously a woman; the other, dressed as a téni . . . his
gait, his bearing were familiar. Sergei strolled slowly toward them
down one side of the dance floor, watching. The attention they were
paying to each other was a more subtle and sensual dance than the
one to which they moved. He sniffed once through his silver nose in
quiet amusement, realizing who was wearing the téni's
robes.
The man certainly was brazen. He
admired that in an enemy.
When the dance ended and the two
paused at the edge of the floor, he came up to them.
"Have you been tending to your plant,
Envoy?" he asked the téni. "Has it bloomed for you yet?"
He'd expected more of a reaction, but
the man only smiled. "Commandant. As you can see, I've discovered a
flower all on my own." He indicated the woman next to him. "O'Téni
Ana cu'Seranta, this is Commandant Sergei ca'Rudka, whose name I'm
sure you've heard."
"You flatter me, Envoy ci'Vliomani,"
Sergei said, smiling politely. He bowed and gave the sign of Cénzi
to the woman, whose gaze kept moving from one of them to the other.
"O'Téni, I don't believe we've formally met, though I certainly
know of you. It seems that you're as much a protector of the
Archigos as I am of the Kraljica."
"The Archigos doesn't need my
protection, I'm afraid," the o'téni replied. "He's quite capable on
his own."
Sergei nodded. "I hope your family
home has been repaired satisfactorily, O'Téni. An unfortunate
accident. It was fortunate no one was seriously injured."
The polite smile she was wearing froze
on her lips. He saw ci'Vliomani glance strangely at her. "Yes, I'm
sure Vatarh would agree with you, Commandant."
"I wouldn't trouble myself with it
much, O'Téni," Sergei said. "Mis takes will happen; the important
thing is to learn from them and to not repeat them." He glanced
from her to ci'Vliomani. "Envoy, I trust you're not here to make a
mistake yourself."
"I'm here to enjoy myself, Commandant,
like everyone else. And to have a chance to glimpse the Kraljica,
who invited me."
"Ah. The Kraljica. I'm certain you
know that her time is extremely limited and her schedule for the
evening already made. I would hate to have to . . . disengage
someone who tried to approach her without her express
permission."
"You worry too much, Commandant. I'm
certain that O'Téni cu'Seranta would stop me if I attempted
anything that would make me look foolish."
Sergei smiled thinly. "Yet somehow she
didn't stop you from dancing, Vajiki."
The Numetodo put on a face of
exaggerated hurt, placing his hand over his chest. "Commandant, you
wound me to the quick. Why, we of the Isle of Paeti are renowned
for our grace and form, as I'm sure you know. If I missed a step or
two, it was because the musicians don't know how to play
properly."
"I'm certain that's the case," Sergei
answered. He bowed and gave the sign of Cénzi once more. "O'Téni,
it was a pleasure to meet you. Now I can understand how both the
Archigos and the Kraljica were impressed by you. But if you'll
excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend."
He bowed once more and left them.
Within three steps, his hand had come up to stroke his chin under
the hawk's mask. This would bear watching. Cu'Seranta had already
shown herself to be both powerful and erratic, and if the Archigos
trusted her, Sergei did not, especially if—as he suspected—she were
vulnerable to romance. The Numetodo wouldn't be above using that to
his own advantage.
Yes. Sergei would watch. And
wait.
Then, at the right time, he would
stoop like a hawk and strike.
"Commandant?" One of Renard's young
aides came hurrying up to him. "The Kraljica is asking if
everything is ready."
"Is the painting in place for the
presentation?" The boy nodded. "Then, yes," Sergei told the page.
"You may tell Renard that we're ready."
The boy hurried away as Sergei walked
unhurriedly to his post near the stairs to the inner apartments. As
he reached them, the trumpets blared a fanfare.

Dhosti
ca'Millac
IT TOOK FAR TOO long to
disengage himself from ca'Cellibrecca. They fenced verbally, using
the same ancient, hoary arguments and the same weary answers.
Dhosti suspected they both could have written down the exchange
beforehand and have missed nothing of import. Ca'Cellibrecca
prattled on about the Toustour and the Divolonté and how the Faith
must not tolerate dissent, and how the Archigos' "lenience" was
tearing down the foundations on which the Concénzia Faith had been
built. Dhosti had stopped listening after the first few sentences,
his back aching from standing so long, and ca'Cellibrecca had left
with his usual imprecations and thinly veiled threats.
And now he'd come back out to find Ana
dancing with ci'Vliomani. He hoped that ca'Cellibrecca didn't
notice, but he was certain that even if the a'téni failed to see it
himself, the news would come to him very quickly. Dhosti frowned
and his fingers tightened on the railing of the alcove: the
commandant had stopped to speak with Ana and the Numetodo. You
can't be with her all the time, and she must make her own
choices. In the end, it is all Cénzi's Will. He would have
to marry her off soon, he decided. That would cure her of any
romantic idealism. Like the Kraljica, he knew that marriage could
be as potent a weapon as any sword, if carefully arranged, and he
suspected that Ana could be an exceedingly potent sword.
Leaning heavily on his walking stick,
Dhosti made his way down the stairs, nodding to the ca'-and-cu'
that he passed, exchanging a few words with those he knew by name
and face. It took him several minutes to reach the main floor. He
could see Ana and ci'Vliomani having an energetic discussion.
"Come," he said to Ana, glancing once sharply at ci'Vliomani. "We
should be at the stairs for the Kraljica's entrance. Envoy, if
you'll pardon us . . ."
Ana glanced back at ci'Vliomani as
Dhosti took her arm, but she followed him. They'd just reached the
stairs—the commandant nodding to them from the far side—as a
fanfare rattled the walls of the room. A flock of white doves
exploded from the balconies in a flurry of soft wings as pieces of
shredded, bright paper fluttered down in a slow rain. The candles
in the Kneeling Man went out, all at once, followed by all the
téni-lights around the hall. The only spot of illumination was at
the top of the main stairway. There, an apparition stood.
She seemed to be clothed entirely in
light: fierce reds and oranges and shimmering bright ultramarine
swirled around her in a whirlwind of color, masking all of her body
but the face. And the face . . . It was the Kraljica, yes, Dhosti
knew, but it was the Kraljica transformed. Each strand of her white
hair was a sun, and the light seemed to radiate from deep within
her. Her eyes blazed.
She lifted her hands, and rays of
purest yellow shot from her fingertips. The crowd cooed
appreciatively, bursting into applause.
Dhosti could hear the soft murmuring
of the téni hidden at the top of the stairs as they chanted,
releasing the light display, but that was unheard by the crowd
farther back.
Then the lights returned, the
musicians began playing once again, and the Kraljica descended the
stairs. Her costume glowed, softer now but difficult to look at
directly—it was as if she were clothed in the flicker of sight at
the edge of an eye: when Dhosti tried to capture an image, it
blurred and was gone. Her hair still gleamed, but more softly now,
like stars in a night sky. Her eyes glistened like those of a cat
caught in firelight.
He took her hands, and they were
simply the ancient hands of the Kraljica. He looked at her face,
and he saw weariness and deep, eroded lines there. "Kraljica," he
said. "You were magnificent. Your entrance will be the talk of the
evening. Nessantico has seen nothing like it. It was as if Vucta
walked again on the earth, just as I've imagined Her."
"Your téni did the work," she told
him. "Thank you for sending them to me." Her voice quavered, so
soft that he found himself leaning forward to listen. "Dhosti, I'm
so very tired. Tell O'Téni Ana I would like to take her arm and
lean on her, if she doesn't mind." Then, for a moment, her old
voice returned. "Besides, Ana's accompaniment would send a message
to A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, wouldn't it?"
Dhosti smiled at that. "Certainly,
Kraljica. Ana . . ." He gestured to her to come forward. "The
Kraljica's not feeling well," he whispered to her. "She needs your
arm."
Ana glanced at the Kraljica with
concern, bowing her head to give the sign, then moved to the
Kraljica's side. "I'd be honored, Kraljica," she said. The young
woman's arm sparked as it contacted the eddies of light wrapping
the Kraljica, and Ana grimaced. "The Ilmodo is a bit cold," she
said aloud.
"It's damned frigid," the Kraljica
answered. "My blood has turned to ice. But come, let's do what we
must do so I can get back to my apartments. We need to move on so
that Justi can be announced." With that, the Kraljica gave the
nearest onlookers a practiced smile and stepped forward into the
crowd, the commandant to her left and Dhosti to her right just
behind her.
"Kraljica, what a magnificent Gschnas
. . ."
". . . the best I've ever seen . .
."
". . . what a wonderful tribute to
your Jubilee . . ."
As the Kraljica nodded and smiled and
waved to the well-wishers among the ca'-and-cu' who gathered around
her, Dhosti leaned closer to the commandant. "The Kraljica doesn't
look well to me, Sergei. Just these last several days . .
."
"I share your concern, Archigos.
Renard's talked to her attendants and nurses; they all say the
same." The commandant's forehead creased above the hawk's mask. He
didn't look at the Archigos, but at the crowd of the elite pressing
around the Kraljica and Ana. "At her age, one never knows, but this
sudden decline . . . I've wondered about the possibility of
poison."
"Is that possible?"
A shrug. "I don't know yet. But I
will." The commandant almost smiled at that, an expression that
caused Dhosti to shiver as if snow were blowing down his bent
spine. "Renard tried to convince her not to come down tonight, to
let the A'Kralj represent her, but she refused."
"That, at least, hasn't changed,"
Dhosti said. He saw A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca moving toward the
Kraljica with his daughter and marriage-son in tow. Behind them,
the trumpets blew their fanfare again, and all turned to the stairs
to see the A'Kralj make his entrance. Following his matarh's lead,
he was dressed as a mythological figure from the Toustour: Misfal,
the first of the Moitidi breathed into existence by Cénzi. The
A'Kralj's costume was chosen perfectly for his athletic figure:
dark, close-fitting leather trousers and vest, a shirt painted with
marbled veins, his mirrored mask gleaming and studded with polished
stones, and a floor-length cape that, like the Kraljica's clothing,
was alive with silver-and-blue color, as if a waterfall were
cascading from him. As he stood there, he rose slowly into the air
as white clouds fumed from the floor below him before rolling
heavily down the stairs. The A'Kralj remained suspended, his hands
lifted as if in benediction, before he descended slowly to the
floor once more.
The applause that greeted his
performance was enthusiastic, if carefully less long in duration
than that which had greeted the Kraljica.
As the A'Kralj descended the stairs,
the Kraljica, as was customary, came forward to greet him, still
supporting herself on Ana's arm. The A'Kralj, at the bottom of the
steps, bowed and gave the sign of Cénzi to Dhosti, who returned the
gesture, then Dhosti watched the Kraljica grasp her son's hand, and
place his other hand on Ana's. Her voice was too faint for him to
hear as she inclined toward her son, but he assumed that she was
introducing Ana to the A'Kralj, and that made Dhosti suspect that
the Kraljica's insistence that Ana help her wasn't entirely an
accident. He wasn't certain how he felt about that; he knew it
certainly wouldn't please his niece Safina, who had often been
mentioned as a possible match for Justi. Safina, though, had
already shown that she had not inherited Dhosti's skill with the
Ilmodo; he doubted that Safina would ever rise above her current
status as e'téni, and that made her less than a good fit for the
A'Kralj.
Justi nodded to his matarh, smiled his
polished and perfect smile, and moved away, slicing through the
throngs directly toward A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and his daughter and
son-in law, and there he entered into an animated
discussion.
"The A'Kralj keeps his own counsel,"
Sergei said alongside Dhosti. "And his own affairs." Sergei pointed
his chin toward Francesca, whose hand lightly drifted down the
A'Kralj's arm. It was the intimacy of the gesture that caught
Dhosti's attention; he noticed that it also caught the attention of
Estraven, whose face darkened and scowled above the hem of his
costume dress.
"Truly?" Dhosti whispered to
Sergei.
The commandant nodded.
"Does the Kraljica know?"
"I think she suspects. But not through
me."
"I thought that was part of your job,
to give the Kraljica the information she needs."
The commandant smiled. "It's my job to
know as much as possible about everything that happens here
in the city, Archigos. And it's my job to give the Kraljica
information that requires her action or that would affect her
adversely. I know far more than I tell the Kraljica," he said, and
his eyes locked on Dhosti's. "Far more. But I keep it to myself
until the proper time. Or I tell others, who may know better than I
when the proper time might be. I trust you take my
meaning."
Dhosti nodded. "I will bear that in
mind," he said.
"I'm sure you will," Sergei answered.
"Especially if the Kraljica or you has a thought toward marrying
the church to the state."

Justi
ca'Mazzak
IT WAS THE APPLAUSE that seemed to
lift him up, rather than the chants of the téni hidden behind him.
The acclaim of the ca'-andcu' drowned out their chanting, and he
closed his eyes as he spread his hands wide. He stood on warm air,
suspended in the ovation. Too soon, though, he was standing on the
stairway's landing once again, and he walked slowly down the stairs
toward the crowds.
Very soon, when he came to the
ca'-and-cu' it would be as Kraljiki, and the applause and the
attention would be his alone. He would not have to share it with
his matarh.
But for the moment he had to smile,
had to bow to the dwarf who, without realizing it, was likely in
his last days as Archigos; had to reach for Matarh's hand in
supplication: smiling, always smiling, even as he glanced
quizzically at the young man—no, it was a young woman, he decided
suddenly—who was on the arm of the Kraljica.
The woman was supporting his
matarh, he realized suddenly. He almost smiled.
His matarh took his hand in hers. It
was cold and trembling, that hand, with skin spotted and wrinkled.
She reached for his other hand and placed it over the young
woman's. "Justi," she said. "This is O'Téni Ana cu'Seranta . . .
you know, the one who saved the Archigos from the Numetodo
assassin." Her voice quavered, and was so weak he could barely hear
it. She looked decidedly old tonight. She looked
ill.
"So this is the one I've heard
so much about," Justi said. "It's a delight to meet you,
O'Téni."
She couldn't give him the full curtsy
that etiquette demanded while on the Kraljica's arm, but she bowed
her head, muttering more to the floor than to him. "Thank you,
A'Kralj," she answered. "Your costume . . . was quite
impressive."
He nodded quickly, ignoring the
nicety. "Matarh, should you be out here? If you'd like to retire,
I'd be happy to . . ."
"No." For a moment, her voice had its
honed edge and imperiousness. "I'm fine. I am thinking, Justi, that
you and O'Téni Ana should dance later."
"I'm certain we can find the time for
that, Matarh," he answered. So is this the one you've
chosen, Matarh? he wanted to ask. You could at least
have chosen someone less plain. "But if you'll excuse me
for the moment . . ."
His matarh's eyes widened at his
brusqueness, but he strode quickly away before she could gather
herself to comment. He'd glimpsed Francesca through the crowd,
standing next to her vatarh, and he moved toward her. "A'Téni
ca'Cellibrecca," he said, accepting the older man's bow. "It's good
to see you again, and I must say that the simplicity of your
costume is refreshing." He gestured at his own costume ruefully. "I
feel a bit too . . . conspicuous."
"The A'Kralj is always conspicuous,"
ca'Cellibrecca answered, "as he should be. And it will be more so
in the future." He stopped, glancing pointedly in the direction of
the Kraljica and the Archigos. "You already know my daughter, and
her husband . . ."
"Yes, of course. Vajica, U'Teni, how
are the two of you this evening?" He could not quite keep the
amusement from his face at the sight of Francesca's husband, whose
already-rouged cheeks flared even more over the edge of the
ridiculous costume he wore—that he knew Francesca had chosen for
Estraven; she'd laughed about it the last time she and Justi were
together. Justi wondered how much the man knew or suspected—not
that it mattered. Ca'Cellibrecca had already promised that the
marriage would be annulled as soon as he was Archigos, and that
U'Téni Estraven would be placated with another wife—Allesandra, the
daughter of the Hïrzg of Firenzcia, had been mentioned. Justi took
Francesca's hand. "You shame the other women here, Vajica," he said
to her. "They have no chance of competing." Her gaze stayed on him
as she smiled.
"You honor me, A'Kralj," she murmured.
"A'Kralj," A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca said,
"we must talk later. I have some news I would like to relate to
you. Perhaps after the unveiling of the Kraljica's
portrait?"
Justi smiled at that. After the
unveiling, there may be no need for words. "I would be pleased
to do so, A'Téni." He glanced upward, where a star seemed to be
descending from the ceiling, in a new fanfare of krumhorns and
trumpets. A space was cleared beneath the lowering brilliance, and
servants hurried forward with chairs. Justi could see the Archigos
and his matarh being seated, and one of Renard's aides was moving
earnestly in his direction. "If you'll excuse me, A'Téni. It is the
duty of the A'Kralj to be submissively at the Kraljica's side at
these moments, I'm afraid."
Ca'Cellibrecca bowed slightly, and
Justi released Francesca's hand, squeezing it gently beforehand so
that she smiled. He moved quickly to the center of the hall, where
the star pulsed and radiated, so bright that he had to shade his
eyes. Renard, standing next to O'Téni cu'Seranta just behind the
high back of the Kraljica's chair, gestured to the empty chair to
the right, its back just slightly lower than either that of the
Kraljica or the Archigos. The star sent harsh shadows dancing madly
behind the spectators. As Justi slid into his seat, the star flared
in the colors of Nessantico's standard: alternating blue and gold.
Then it went dark, and the crowd gasped, blinking and trying to
adjust their sight to what seemed to be sudden night. Justi closed
his own eyes, purple-andyellow afterimages chasing themselves
behind his eyelids. When he opened them again, a tall rectangle
draped in black cloth stood before them, caught in a white glow
from téni-lit lamps set near it.
"Where's that damned painter?" Justi
heard Renard whisper harshly behind his seat. "He's supposed to
be here . . ." He heard an attendant patter off. Justi
smiled inwardly. The crowd was beginning to mutter restlessly as
the draped painting remained unrevealed. "Matarh," Justi said,
leaning over to her. "I think Vajiki ci'Recroix suffers from a
sudden modesty regarding his painting skills. Perhaps O'Téni
cu'Seranta might take his duties . . ." He glanced at the young
woman and smiled.
"Yes. Ana, if you would . .
."
The O'Téni bowed. He heard her take a
deep, nervous breath as she moved around the chairs and out into
the glare. She went to the draped painting, made a deep bow with
the sign of Cénzi to the seated trio, then pulled the silken cloth
from the painting.
The room was a large, massed
inhalation. Even Justi found himself drawing in breath. The
painting . . .
It was magnificent. There was no other
word for it. Ci'Recroix's brush had snared the Kraljica as if in
the midst of turning toward the viewer. The figure seated on the
Sun Throne was captured larger than life-size. The lighting was
chiaroscuro, her features illuminated from the side, each hair on
her head and each fold in her face visible. The mouth was slightly
open and one hand was lifting from her lap, as if she were
beckoning to someone and about to speak to them.
The painting seemed almost to writhe
in place, so lifelike and realistic that Justi could almost believe
his matarh could step from the frame of the picture and onto the
tiles of the hall.
The applause began as a smattering,
then quickly became a tidal wave of appreciation that swept over
the hall, deafening and tremendous. People pressed forward to see
better . . .
And the Kraljica, next to Justi, gave
a strangled cry. He looked over to see her fall.

Ana
cu'Seranta
"MATARH, I think Vajiki ci'Recroix
suffers from a sudden modesty regarding his painting skills.
Perhaps o'Téni cu'Seranta might take his duties . . ." The A'Kralj
glanced over the back of his chair toward her and smiled. It was a
polished, artificial smile, and it held no warmth. Ana found
herself recoiling from it.
"Yes. Ana, if you would," she heard
the Kraljica say, and she wanted to refuse but then the Archigos
nodded, his gaze solemn, and she forced herself to bow in
agreement. She could feel the stares of the crowd on her as she
moved into the brilliant pool of light around the painting. Her
breath was caught high in her throat; she thought she might faint,
but she forced herself to take a deep, long breath. She saw Envoy
ci'Vliomani standing well behind the Kraljica, Archigos, and
A'Kralj, at the railing of the half-landing at the edge of the
hall. He lifted a hand to her, shaking his head. She wondered at
that as she performed the deep curtsy that etiquette required. She
put her hand on the soft cloth that draped the canvas.
She tugged, and the shroud fell away
like a dark cloud. Ana gasped. She would have sworn that she saw
the image underneath shift in that instant, as if the figure
had been startled at the sudden movement, that its eyes stared at
her own for an instant before turning away to look at the three
people seated before it.
She heard the crowd gasp at the same
time . . . and she felt . . . she felt . . .
Ana wasn't sure what it was. The sense
was like a winter river rushing through her as she stood there next
to the painting, a river that flowed from the Kraljica in her chair
toward the painting itself, a cold so intense that it burned, and
the invisible waters were loud with a wail that was the voice of
the Kraljica herself.
Ana saw the Kraljica start to rise in
her chair, her face distraught and terrified, then just as suddenly
she crumpled and fell forward. Her head made a terrible hollow
sound as it struck the tiles. Her dress, still alive with
téni-illumination, pooled around her.
For a moment, everything was frozen in
tableau. Ana could see them all: The A'Kralj, motionless except for
his head turned toward his matarh; the Archigos lurching forward in
his chair, his stubby feet dangling; Renard, behind the Kraljica's
chair, his hand reaching helplessly and far too late for her; the
commandant's face stern and terrifying, glaring at the crowd as if
searching for someone; Envoy ci'Vliomani, at the rear of the crowd,
turning away. Then everything moved again. Renard shoved the
throne-chair aside and rushed toward the Kraljica as the A'Kralj
slid to his knees beside her; the Archigos pushed away from his
seat, a chant on his lips; the commandant drew his sword as the
crowd pushed inward; Karl ci'Vliomani vanished in the sea of
movement.
Ana rushed away from the painting
herself to huddle next to the Kraljica.
"Back!" she heard the commandant
shout. "Everyone move back!" But they were still pressing forward,
drawn by the commotion, and the Archigos lifted his hand, still
chanting. She felt the ripple of power flow outward from him, a
shimmering of air that pushed past her without touching but then
hardened into a wall that shoved back at the crowd, holding
them.
The A'Kralj had lifted his matarh in
his arms; Ana could see her breathing, gasping as he pushed himself
up, and she felt relief—she isn't dead. "Renard!" the
A'Kralj shouted. "Call for the healer. Bring him to the Kraljica's
rooms. Now!" Renard bowed and hurried off. "Archigos . .
."
"I will clear the way," the Archigos
said, and Ana felt the invisible wall shift. A path began to open
before them. She could hear the commandant shouting orders to his
staff, and the crowd roar was deafening. "Ana, come with
us."
She followed the Archigos, going ahead
of the A'Kralj. They moved quickly from the hall, out a side door
and across a corridor to another door. Servants scurried ahead of
them. The door opened into a staircase and they went up a quick two
flights, and Ana found herself finally in the corridors of the
Kraljica's private apartment. More servants appeared, opening the
doors and ushering them into the Kraljica's bedchamber, where the
A'Kralj laid the Kraljica down on her bed. "Matarh," he said, "can
you hear me?"
A faint nod. The Kraljica's eyes
flickered open, showing mostly the whites of her eyes traced with
red veins. "I felt . . . my heart was tearing out of me . . . my
head splitting . . ." Her voice was a husk, barely audible. "So
tired . . ."
"Where's that healer?" the A'Kralj
said, his voice loud and his face flushed. He went to the door.
"Renard!" he shouted.
"A'Kralj," the Archigos said. His
voice was weary and trembling, but Justi spun around, his eyes
blazing. "The commandant will need you downstairs, to reassure the
guests."
The A'Kralj glanced at the bed. "If my
matarh is in danger . . ."
"She's resting now," the Archigos
said, soothingly. "You have your duty to perform. The ca'-and-cu'
will be in an uproar, and they need your leadership at this moment.
Your matarh needs it."
Ana saw the A'Kralj's lips press
together. The flush in his face lessened, though his gaze stayed on
the bed. "Yes," he said. "But . . ."
"Let me care for her," the Archigos
said. "We will handle this. There's nothing you can do here, but
downstairs there is. The commandant will need orders from you as
the A'Kralj—and as the acting Kraljiki for as long as the Kraljica
remains incapacitated. I will send for you immediately if there is
any change here."
The A'Kralj nodded. He rushed out the
door. The Archigos looked at the servants who were in the room,
getting bedding, pouring water, uncovering the banked fire in the
hearth. An e'téni on the palais staff chanted to put light in a
lamp; another started the blades of a fan circulating to move the
stale air. "Leave us," the Archigos said to all of them. "Now."
They bowed and hurried from the room, closing the door behind
them.
The Archigos was staring down at the
still figure on the bed, at the frail chest rising and falling
shallowly.
"Archigos," Ana said. The man glanced
over at her, and the severe look in his eyes frightened her. "When
the painting was uncovered, I felt something . . ."
"We don't have time for this," the
Archigos told her. "Renard might come here, or the A'Kralj might
return. Come here, Ana. Stand by the bed."
She knew what he wanted of her.
"Archigos, I shouldn't . . . The Divolonté . . ."
"I rule Concénzia, child, and I know
what the Divolonté says and I know it was written by the a'téni and
not by Cénzi Himself. I also believe that Cénzi does not gift
people needlessly. Now—do what you can for her, and do it quickly.
Go on; we're alone here."
Ana approached the bed. She looked
down at the Kraljica, so pale in her resplendent costume. She
seemed nearly dead already, her breath so shallow that it barely
touched her chest, her cheeks hollow and sunken. "You know what to
do," the Archigos said. "Pray to Cénzi, Ana."
She did. She took a long, shuddering
breath. She closed her eyes and took one of the Kraljica's hands in
her own. The chant came to her, unbidden, rising from the place
that she thought of as the core of her belief, far inside her. Her
lips moved with the words that shaped the power that emerged with
them, the Ilmodo. Her hands lifted from the Kraljica's, molding the
growing power. She formed the Ilmodo so that it could coil from her
heart into her hands, and from there into the Kraljica. It was
warm, this power, like a liquid sun, and when it touched the old
woman on the bed, Ana found herself caught in the Kraljica's mind,
also. She could hear her, crying and weeping in an interior
darkness. She let more of the Ilmodo rush from her so that it
entered the Kraljica . . .
. . . but this was not as it was
before. Then, the Ilmodo had filled Ana's matarh as if she had been
a empty vessel, moving through her like blood. The cup of her
matarh's body had held the Ilmodo like a goblet, and it had
strengthened her.
But that didn't happen with the
Kraljica. The Ilmodo moved into her and out again as if she were a
bowl with a hole bored through the bottom, and Ana could feel the
Kraljica's life force rushing through that same hole, draining away
from her. The flow was compelling; Ana found herself falling with
it, unbidden, caught in the white-foamed rush that went into and
through the Kraljica—and she knew where it was taking her even as
she fought to hold herself back. The Ilmodo was being torn from
her, away and down, down to the hall far below where the painting
stood. The spell within the painting sucked greedily at her, clawed
at her, ripped the Ilmodo's energy away. She fought against the
incantation, pulling herself back and concentrating on the
Kraljica, on the connection that bound her to the painting. She
struggled to control the Ilmodo, to use it to close the rent in the
Kraljica's spirit and seal it off. The resistance was terrible; it
was as if she were physically struggling with someone, someone
easily as strong as her and bent on taking her down.
Ana gasped. She felt as if she were
shouting her chant into a gale, but for a moment she felt that she
was winning. Her Ilmodo brightened, and she could hear the
Kraljica's voice—I'm here, Ana . . . I feel you . . . —but
then she was tossed aside before she could reach for that voice.
Tossed aside and out.
She was back in the room, holding the
Kraljica's hand. Her hair was damp with perspiration; she was
breathing as heavily as if she'd run here from the Archigos'
Temple. She could feel the weariness gathering, the payment for her
spell.
"Archigos . . ."
"I know," he said. "I felt it. The
Ilmodo moving."
Ana nodded. "The Kraljica . . . It's
the painting that's killing her. I think this ci'Recroix somehow .
. ." She didn't finish the thought as the Archigos
nodded.
"I suspect we'll find that Vajiki
ci'Recroix has left the city in a hurry," he said.
"I should have known, Archigos," Ana
said. She forced herself to stay awake against the compulsion to
give in to the exhaustion. "When we were here last, I looked at the
painting. I thought I felt something like a téni-spell then within
it, but I thought it was how the painter made his figures so true.
I thought it was something he did unconsciously, without even
knowing he was doing it, like I did with healing headaches as a
child. I should have told you. If I had, perhaps . . ." She
stopped, her hand over her mouth. "I've slowed it, but I don't
think I can heal her. There must be someone else, some other way .
. ."
"I doubt it," the Archigos answered.
He stirred and started toward the door, the graveclothes he wore
fluttering as he moved. "I'll call the commandant and have him take
the painting and bring it here. If we burn it, perhaps . .
."
"No!" Ana interrupted. She panted from
the effort of the shout, the weariness calling to her to succumb.
"She's bound to the painting. If you destroy the painting, you
destroy her."
"You're certain of that,
Ana?"
Ana shook her head. Her breath wheezed
from her lungs. "I can't be certain. But I felt the connection. Too
much of the Kraljica is already there, captured. Sever the bond
between her and the painting, and she will have nothing
left."
The room was darkening around the
Archigos. Ana saw him as if he were standing at the end of a long
tunnel, outlined in aching light. "All I could do was lessen the
draining from the Kraljica to the spell in the painting," she
continued, "but I couldn't close it completely. Even if I could, I
think we need to keep the connection open so that perhaps we could
bring her back." The explanation took all of her breath. "It's like
she's bleeding from a wound, Archigos, only inside."
Ana moved her gaze from the Archigos
back to the Kraljica; the turning of her head made her nauseous and
disoriented: like a child who'd been twirling around and around,
then suddenly stops. The room tilted and she staggered. "Ana!" she
heard the Archigos call as she clutched at a post of the Kraljica's
bed, but his voice seemed to come from somewhere far outside, and
now the room was spinning in earthquake madness and the fire in the
hearth erupted from its bed, and the heat and the flames and the
sound bore her down and carried her away.