Jan ca'Vörl
"YOU ALWAYS HAVE to be aware of
your ground. Having to charge uphill is a tremendous
disadvantage."
"Though we had to do exactly that at
Lake Cresci on the Escarpment," Jan interjected. "It was a
tremendous slog, but the tactic worked because they weren't
expecting it of us."
O'Offizier ci'Arndt seemed to levitate
to his feet and salute at the appearance of the Hïrzg, with Vajica
Mara accompanying him. Allesandra jumped from her seat at the table
where her toy soldiers were set and rushed to Jan. "Vatarh! Georgi
has been teaching me. He says I'd make an excellent Starkkapitän."
The young offizier blushed at that, still holding his
salute.
"Take your ease, O'Offizier," Jan told
him. "I appreciate the time you're taking with Allesandra, and she
enjoys your company."
"Thank you, Hïrzg. She learns quickly,
truly."
Jan smiled at him. The young man—he
couldn't be much more than twenty—was good-looking enough, and he
could see the proprietary way Allesandra regarded him. He wondered
if he'd be well-advised to send the o'offizier away soon;
sometimes, Allesandra acted distressingly older than her actual
age, and there was no way that a ci', no matter how good an
offizier he might be, would be a suitable infatuation for the
Hïrzg's daughter.
Mara was looking at him, too, and that
amused Jan. "You may go, O'Offizier," he told ci'Arndt. "I'll
relieve you here."
The young man saluted again and left the tent. Jan sat next
to
Allesandra and glanced up at Mara. "You should probably be
returning to the Hïrzgin, Mara," he said. "There are proprieties we
still need to observe." He took her hand and kissed her upturned
palm.
Mara smiled at him and at Allesandra.
"I understand, my Hïrzg," she said as she curtsied. She left the
tent in a flurry of perfume and swaying, brightly-colored
cloth.
"Mara is much nicer than Matarh,"
Allesandra ventured as Jan watched Mara depart, his gaze leaving
her reluctantly.
"I can understand how you would feel
that way, Allesandra," Jan told her, returning his attention to
her. He glanced at the soldiers in their array on the table,
tousling his daughter's hair idly. "Allesandra, I would like to
talk to you."
"You sound so serious,
Vatarh."
"I am," he told her. He went to the
opening of the tent and glanced out—Markell had placed guards just
far enough away to be out of earshot, and Jan smiled. The sunlight
would betray anyone who tried to sneak up close enough to the rear
to listen. He went back inside and sat again. "Allesandra, you were
right when you said that I shouldn't marry Mara, even if I could.
She is . . ." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. ". . .
someone whose company I enjoy, but she is not my equal, nor yours,
nor even your matarh's. She gives me what she can, and in turn I
can give her some little favors now and then. I know you
understand. She and I are . . ." He paused, and Allesandra hurried
into the gap with a smile.
"Like me and Georgi,
Vatarh?"
Jan laughed aloud at that. "You're too
perceptive, my little bird," he said. "Allesandra, even if your
brother Toma had survived the Southern Fever, I think you would be
the one I named as my heir."
Allesandra grinned, though there was
sadness lurking there. She pushed back at the curls around her
forehead. "I do miss Toma, Vatarh."
"I do too," Jan told her. "Very much.
But I look at you—" he glanced again at the miniature armies laid
out on the table, at the placement of the archers and war-téni, the
infantry and the chevarittai "—and I know that you, more than Toma
ever did, think as I do. And you're growing older faster than I can
believe, my darling. So . . . I need to speak to you as Hïrzg to
A'Hïrzg, because things will happen very soon."
"What things?" Her round face twisted,
as if she wasn't certain whether she should be pleased or
upset.
"Nothing I can tell you yet, though
you'll know when they happen." He plucked one of the soldiers from
the table: an infantryman with his sword raised in mid-strike. "If
your enemy were looking for a threat coming from another direction,
and you were the starkkapitän with your army placed ready to move,
what do you think your Georgi would tell you to do?"
"He would say to attack quickly,
before they could react," Allesandra answered, and Jan chuckled
again.
"He would be right," Jan said. "That
is exactly what I would do." He set the soldier back down on the
table. "Exactly."

Ana
cu'Seranta
A NA RUBBED THE PAPER between her
fingers. A small package had come to her apartments the
morning after the terrible events of the Gschnas, the seal on the
stiff wrapping paper still attached, with a clamshell insignia
pressed into the red wax. Inside the tiny box had been a stone
clamshell like the one Vajiki ci'Vliomani had shown her the night
before, only this one was suspended from a fine silver chain.
Also inside was the folded note she
held now. Despite her sadness, she'd smiled momentarily,
remembering the ball and Envoy ci'Vliomani, their conversation and
their dancing, but the pleasure of the memory was obliterated the
next moment by guilt. How could she feel anything but sadness from
the Gschnas after what had happened to the Kraljica? Still . .
.
She wondered whether someone had
opened the package: she could have done it herself easily with a
touch of the Ilmodo magic. She wondered whether Archigos Dhosti had
seen the short message:
You must know that I had nothing to
do with what happened last night. That is the truth. If you
would like to know more, meet me at Oldtown Center just
after the lamps have been lit. Wear the shell over your
clothing. The best way to learn the truth is by seeing it
with your own eyes. After what happened at the Gschnas,
there may be very little time.
There had been no signature.
Ana wasn't certain what she should
feel or what she should do. A note from the Numetodo Envoy,
offering to meet . . . Would the Archigos expect her to tell him
about this? For that matter, if he did already know and she
remained silent, then what might he think?
She crumpled the note and the box and
flung them into the fireplace, watching the edges turn brown and
then erupt into flame. She picked up the shell on its chain and
twirled it in front of her. She thought of putting it in one of the
drawers in her desk, or perhaps hiding it among her clothing. She
examined the shell, the grooves so well-defined in the stone, as if
they had been sculpted. She lifted the chain and placed it around
her neck. She glanced in the mirror as she touched the shell, and
then placed it under her robes. No, it wasn't obvious there.
"Watha," she called, "has the Archigos arrived yet?"
Watha entered, bowing and giving Ana
the sign of Cénzi. "He should be here any moment, O'Téni," she
said. Ana saw her eyes flicker over the table and around the
room—looking for the box, she was certain. The woman licked her
lips as if she were about to speak, then evidently thought better
of it. "I'll send Tari out to watch for the carriage," she said at
last.
"Thank you, Watha." The woman bowed
again and left the room. Ana touched the shell again under the
folds of her robe as she looked in the mirror. A plain, weary face
stared back at her, with brown circles under the eyes. She
remembered nothing of last night beyond her at tempt to heal the
Kraljica. All the events of the Gschnas were overlaid with a sense
of unreality, as if it were something that had happened to another
Ana. The payment for her use of the Ilmodo had been severe; her
body still ached and the weariness touched her limbs despite a long
sleep; it was already nearly noon and she felt as if she'd slept
only moments.
"The Kraljica . . ." she'd asked
through cracked, dry lips as soon as she'd awakened. Watha
had been there, sitting on the chair at the foot of her bed.
"Is she . . ."
"The Archigos sent a messenger
around earlier, O'Téni," she'd answered. "He said that the
Kraljica is unchanged, and to tell you that you'll be seeing
her midday. He'll send a carriage. We were all terribly worried
when we heard what happened, O'Téni, especially after what
nearly happened with the Archigos."
Ana sighed, looking in the mirror. She
knew that the Archigos intended her to use the Ilmodo once again
today on the Kraljica, and she wasn't certain she could do that,
not as drained as she was. And if she did, then how would she feel
when the lamps were lit around the city. Would she even be
awake?
She touched the shell under her robes
once more. Ana had certainly felt attraction before, certainly,
though that affection had rarely been returned—it seemed to be
reserved for prettier women than her.
But Vajiki ci'Vliomani . . . Karl . .
.
It could all be pretense, her
mirror image seemed to be telling her with the frown she saw.
He's a Numetodo; you're an o'téni. What you felt could be
pretext, all one-sided yet again, so that he has a door into the
Faith. He could be intending to corrupt you. Be careful. Be
very careful.
"I will be," she said to the
mirror.
"O'Téni?" a voice questioned from the
door, and she started, turning her head to see Sunna there. "What
were you saying?"
"Nothing," she said. "Is the carriage
here?"
"Yes," Sunna said. "I told the téni to
let the Archigos know that you'll be right down."
The Archigos said little beyond the
required greeting until the téni driver closed the carriage door
and began his chant to start the vehicle rolling through the
streets. The carriage lurched over the cobbles as it turned onto
the Avi a'Parete, people on the street bowing and giving the sign
of Cénzi as they passed, their faces solemn. Ana knew what the
gossip of the city must be like. The Archigos sighed deeply. "I was
able to learn something last night," he said. "Do you remember
ci'Recroix's painting in the Kraljica's parlor? The one of the
family?"
"Yes, Archigos. It's a very enchanting
painting that makes me want to keep staring at it. The woman with
the baby . . . I half expect to hear the infant
suckling."
"The family he portrayed is dead.
Every one of them," the Archigos told her. "They died, I'm told,
within a day after the painting was completed, of some tragic and
unknown disease. Strangely, that seems to be the case with several
of the subjects of ci'Recroix's paintings over the last four or
five years, though not before: the person whose portrait he
captured suddenly and unexpectedly died. A series of tragic
coincidences, which didn't come to light since ci'Recroix never
accepted a commission in the same city twice."
Ana's chest felt as if someone were
sitting on it. "I don't think it's coincidence,
Archigos."
The dwarf sniffed. "Neither do I, Ana.
Neither do I. I think ci'Recroix has been . . .
practicing."
"But why, and for his own reasons or
for someone else's?"
"That I don't know, but I will find
out. I have my suspicions, however."
"The Numetodo?" Ana asked hesitantly,
thinking of the note she'd received. She was afraid to even glance
at the Archigos, afraid that he would see what she was
hiding.
She felt more than saw the Archigos
shrug. "Possibly, but I doubt that. The Kraljica is more likely to
be sympathetic to the Numetodo than the A'Kralj, after all. Why, do
you know something about them that would lead you to suspect them?
I saw you with Envoy ci'Vliomani last night."
He was watching her. She could feel
his gaze on her, and she stared out the window of the carriage
rather than look at him. If he knows about the note, if
he's read it, then I should tell him now so he knows that I
won't keep secrets from him. . . .
She knew she should open herself to
him, but even as she started to speak, another inner voice
objected. If you tell him and he knew nothing, he won't
let you go. He'll make certain that Envoy ci'Vliomani is kept
far away from you, and you'll never know if anything he's
said or anything you might have felt is true. . . .
"No," she said to the window. "I was only speculating, that's all.
You're right, of course, Archigos. Envoy ci'Vliomani told me that
he was looking forward to meeting the Kraljica, and I believe he
was sincere in that." She forced herself to turn back to the
Archigos. There was nothing in his wizened face that suggested he
might be disappointed in her or that she had failed a test set her.
"If not the Numetodo, then who?" she asked.
The Archigos only shook his head. "I
won't say. Not without more proof—proof that I fully expect is
forthcoming. I've told Commandant ca'Rudka what I've learned, and
he has started his own investigation. The commandant has . . ." The
Archigos pressed his lips together momentarily. ". . . sources and
ways of gaining information I do not."
Ana shivered, remembering the man and
the sense of unspoken menace that exuded from him. She could
imagine the ways to which the Archigos referred. "And the
Kraljica?" she asked. "How is she this morning?"
The Archigos shook his head. "No
better. Somewhat worse, perhaps. Renard wasn't optimistic. She's
remained unconscious since the incident, and no one can rouse
her."
"Archigos, I don't know if I can. Last
night drained me so deeply."
He reached out with his small,
malformed hand and patted hers. "I won't ask you to do anything you
don't feel you can do, Ana. The choice is yours—yours and
Cénzi's."
"And if she dies?"
The Archigos looked at her sharply,
then frowned. "If she dies, Ana, then I fear for Nessantico. I
truly do."

Karl
ci'Vliomani
"IF SHE DIES, we're doomed.
Utterly doomed."
"It's not that dire,
Mika," Karl answered. The tavern was cold despite the roaring fire
in the large stone hearth near their table. The walls were laced
with shadows and smoke, and the inn smelled of soot and ash from
the poor ventilation of the flue. Despite the noon sun outside, the
shuttered windows kept the tavern in perpetual dusk. The ale in the
tankard in front of him was sour and too infused with hops for
Karl's taste. He longed for the malty, dark, and thick stouts and
porters of home. Beyond the tankard, Mika looked frightened and
worried, leaning forward to whisper harshly across the
table.
"No? Did your dancing with the
Archigos' new toy go so well? You mean to say that you don't
foresee bodies hanging from gibbets here in Nessantico when the
A'Kralj becomes the Kraljiki? Well, I do, Karl. I see them very
clearly, and I see your face and mine on two of the
bodies."
"This wasn't our fault. We both know
that."
"Right. That will be a great comfort
to my surviving relations, I'm sure. I'll make sure it's carved on
my gravestone: It wasn't his fault." With a disgusted growl,
Mika sat back in his chair and downed his beer in one long gulp.
"And you invited your toy to the meeting tonight?"
"Mika." Now Karl leaned forward over
the scarred, grimy tabletop. "I'm going to ask you just once,
politely, not to refer to O'Téni cu'Seranta that way. I won't ask
you a second time."
Mike started to retort, then swallowed
whatever he'd intended to say. His gaze drifted away from Karl.
"I'm sorry," Mika said. "I'm terrified by what's happened, Karl. I
have family here in the city; you don't. It's not just what they'd
do to me; it's what would happen to them."
"That's why it's all the more
important that we meet with O'Téni cu'Seranta. The Archigos isn't
A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, and maybe she can make the Archigos hear us.
I came here to plead the case for tolerance with the Kraljica; if
she's gone, then I'll go to Concénzia again and—"
Karl stopped. The door to the tavern
opened, flooding the room with light. There were growls and curses
from the patrons until the figure outlined there shut the door
again. Karl had shaded his eyes, though it hadn't helped much: wild
splotches of color chased each other over his field of vision, and
he thought he saw, impossibly, a glint of metal in the middle of
the man's face. Through the welter of afterimages, the figure
looked around, then fixed on them, striding up to their
table.
"Cénzi's balls," Mika cursed, his
chair scraping and falling backward as he rose, his hand going to
the knife on his belt. There was an answering ring of steel as the
figure drew a sword from his scabbard. Even before Karl could
react, Mika was pressed back to the wall with the point at his
throat. In the attacker's other hand, a knife blade flashed,
pointed at Karl.
The intruder's nose was
silver.
Ca'Rudka clucked twice scoldingly at
Karl, who started to speak as his hand lifted. "I really wouldn't
do that," he said, and the point of his sword pressed harder
against Mika's throat, dimpling the skin. Mika lifted his chin, his
mouth open, his eyes wide and frightened. "He'll be dead before you
can finish, Envoy. I'm faster than your spell, I promise
you."
"Commandant," Karl said, swallowing
the release word that was in his own throat and forcing himself to
remain still. The point of ca'Rudka's knife gleamed a few inches
from his chest; his sword remained at Mika's throat. The pressure
of the unreleased spell made Karl grimace. His head pounded. "I
apologize for my friend. Here in Oldtown, a little paranoia is a
survival tactic, as I'm sure you realize." There was a commotion at
the door; he heard several other people enter and the sound of
their drawn weapons, but he didn't dare look away. He thought he
glimpsed blue and gold in his peripheral vision.
"Commandant?"
The tip of ca'Rudka's sword withdrew
slightly, leaving behind a mark that drooled blood. Mika touched
his fingertip to the tiny wound and looked at the smear of red, his
eyes still saucered.
"Mika." Karl caught his friend's
gaze and nodded his head toward the chair he'd overturned. "Sit
down, and don't move your hands— either to your knife or to make a
spell. Commandant, will you take a chair with us? Can I order you a
pint of ale? The local brew isn't quite up to the Isle's standards,
but . . ." Slowly, deliberately, Karl sat back down in his own
chair. He put his hands on the table where ca'Rudka could see
them.
He saw ca'Rudka's tight-lipped smile
through his clearing vision. The commandant was still watching
Mika, though now he lowered the knife that had threatened Karl.
After a breath, the tip of his thin saber dropped and he sheathed
both weapons. He waved to the men at the door—Garde Kralji—and they
bowed and retreated, though they left the door open. No one in the
tavern objected this time.
Ca'Rudka took a chair from the nearest
table and turned it backward before he sat—Karl realized suddenly
that it was a fighter's move: there was no back to block him if he
decided to stand and retreat suddenly or to draw his sword again,
and the chair itself would be easy to pick up as a defensive
shield. Across the table, Mika sat gingerly, rubbing at the wound
on his neck. "Too early in the day for ale," ca'Rudka answered
easily, as if conversing with old friends. "It's not good for
digestion."
"Nor would be sitting in a cell in the
Bastida, I suspect," Karl answered. "Is that where I'm bound,
Commandant?"
"Have you done something deserving of
such punishment, Envoy?" Ca'Rudka folded his arms on the chair's
back and leaned forward, the smile still playing on his lips. "Or
perhaps you hired someone to do it for you?"
"I had nothing to do with the
Kraljica's collapse, Commandant. Nothing. Nor did any Numetodo.
This is not what any of us wanted. Quite the opposite."
Ca'Rudka stared at him for a breath,
silent. At last, he gave a faint nod. "Yet the Archigos tells me
that the Kraljica was attacked with a spell, Envoy, and not a spell
like those the téni use. The rumors I hear of the Numetodo . .
."
". . . are much exaggerated," Karl
told him. "You just saw that demonstrated a moment ago, Commandant.
If we were as powerful as people seem to believe, we would have
burned your body to a cinder in the instant you drew your sword or
turned you into a clucking chicken. Or we'd have hidden our
presence so well that you wouldn't have known where we sat
drinking. Seeing that I could do none of those things, then I doubt
that I have the ability to harm the Kraljica."
"This is my city, Envoy. It's my
business to know certain people within it and where I might find
them. But let's not be disingenuous. We both know that the Numetodo
play with the Ilmodo, despite the interdiction against such
meddling in the Divolonté. Or are you claiming that the Numetodo
attack on the Archigos was just a parlor trick?"
"Everyone also saw how easily a mere
acolyte turned that fool's spell, Commandant. If I'd used the Scáth
Cumhacht at the Gschnas, I would have been seen and heard doing so
and the Archigos or A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca or any of the other
dozens of téni there would have noticed it, don't you think? And if
we had the ability to plant a triggered spell that powerful, I
assure you I wouldn't have made myself so visible in the
crowd."
"No, I doubt you would have," ca'Rudka
answered. "Which is why you're not headed for the Bastida already.
But I think you understand why I would need to ask, and to watch
your face as you answered." The smile tightened and faded. Karl
could see his distorted reflection in the polished nostrils of the
commandant's nose. "I consider myself a good judge of character,
Envoy. I find that I like you. I do. You're unfortunate in your
choice of companions—" that with a glance at Mika, "—and your
loyalties are suspect, but I like you. I'd hate to see you, well,
suffer for your choices."
"I would say we are in agreement with
that final sentiment, Commandant. So how might I avoid
that?"
Ca'Rudka's hand curled and lifted.
Drifted down again. "It may be that you can't, Envoy. So much is in
flux at the moment. I'm only a tool in the hand of the Kraljica,
after all—or the Kraljiki, should the A'Kralj take the throne—and I
do what they ask me to do."
"Even if innocents are
hurt."
The smile returned. "I find that, like
those who give me my orders, I don't really care whether a few
innocents suffer as long as Nessantico herself is
protected."
"The way innocents were butchered in
Brezno?" Mika interjected. "Did their blood and their torment
protect Nessantico? Are the Holdings and Concénzia better for the
display of their tortured bodies?"
Ca'Rudka didn't answer, only flicked
his gaze over to Mika for a moment before returning his attention
to Karl. "I would suggest, Envoy, that you leave Nessantico now.
Your diplomatic mission is over at this point. Leave as soon as you
can. Today." With an abrupt and lithe movement, ca'Rudka stood, one
hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I can't," Karl told him. "I have my
own orders that I have to fulfill. You can understand that,
Commandant."
A nod. "I can. Then I've done all I
can do for you, Envoy. I can't protect you. The rest is in the
hands of Cénzi."
"That's something else we'll have to
disagree upon," Karl answered.
This time, ca'Rudka's smile seemed
almost genuine. He nodded again, deeper this time, and turned. He
left the tavern, closing the door behind him. Slowly, as false
darkness settled around the patrons once more, the sound of
conversations swirled through the smoke-tinged air. "So the man
with the silver nose rather likes you," Mika said. "How
interesting."
Karl was still staring at the door. He
could still feel the tension in his body, a vibration so strong
that he wondered it wasn't audible. Mika rubbed at his wounded
throat.
"Shut up, Mika," Karl said. "Or next
time I'll just let him run you through."

Edouard
ci'Recroix
EDOUARD SAT PERCHED on a rock on
the banks of the A'Sele not far downriver from Pré a'Fleuve.
Leave Nessantico by the Avi a'Firenzcia, his contact
had told him. But then follow the flow of the A'Sele. I
will meet you on the day after Gschnas where we first met, on the
river below the chateau, once we know that you've done your
part.
Edouard had followed the instructions,
abandoning his horse at a small village, then stealing a small boat
to take him down the River Vaghian to the A'Sele, where he traveled
once more through Nessantico, passing under the Pontica Mordei and
the Pontica Kralji in the night before leaving the walls behind for
the last time.
Now he sat on the bank with his
sketchbook open on his lap and a stick of charcoal in his hand. A
dove sat on the branch of a willow bending to the water near him,
and he quickly sketched the outlines of the bird and the tree. The
drawing came easily—and as the charcoal flowed around the shadows
of the bird, he closed his eyes, whispering the words that opened
that place deep within himself, the place the old téni had shown
him. . . .
"The Numetodo . . ." the ancient
had told him, his voice blurred by the few teeth still left
in his gums and the phlegm in his throat. But that face:
Edouard had come across the man in a run-down inn far from
any of the cities, and he'd been fascinated by the lines, by
the great hooked nose and the complexity of the channels
running from the corner of his eyes and his mouth, the
strands of white hair wisping from the spotted scalp. There was
great beauty in the man's ugliness, and Edouard was striving
to capture it in his painting. "They almost have it right. I
discovered it myself. It's not faith in Cénzi that controls
the Ilmodo. No . . ." The man had shaken his head. "I was once
an o'téni. Did you know that? I was in the service of the
temple in Chivasso, and I found out the truth of things
before I'd even heard of the Numetodo." The man spit on the
floor, a huge splotch of mucus that darkened the sawdust on
the boards of the floor. He went silent then, for so long that
Edouard had wondered whether he was asleep with his eyes
open.
"What's this truth?" he'd asked the
old man at last. "What happened?"
"There was a girl there," he said.
"Arial, her name was. Just a ce', one of the servants there
in the Temple. But she had a fair face and a full figure, and
we became lovers. It was wrong, but we didn't care. I learned
that her family was from Boail and—like them—she didn't
believe in Cénzi at all. They worshiped some minor Moitidi,
who they were convinced was the only god, She would watch me
use the Ilmodo—it was my task to light the temple every
night—and she'd ask me to show her how I did it. I told her what
I'd always been told myself: that it was impossible, that to
use the Ilmodo required much training and a deep faith, that
it wasn't something that those not blessed by Cénzi could
do, that the sorcerers and witches who claimed to be able to
use magic were liars and abominations who had been seduced
by the Moitidi who survived Cénzi's purge. She nodded and
said she understood, but she was listening to me and
watching me, and one night I saw her. She was using the
Chant of Light, and there was cold fire between her hands as she
spoke, and I knew then, even as I called for the a'téni,
even as I betrayed her, that what I been taught was wrong.
There were those who could shape the Ilmodo without
believing in Cénzi, and that . . . that shook the very foundations
of my faith and tore them down."
He went silent again for a time,
then licked his lips and began again. "They cut off her
hands and took out her tongue as the Divolonté requires, so
that she could never use the Ilmodo again. I watched as they
tortured her, trying to convince myself that I'd done what
Cénzi had wanted me to do, but my faith . . . my faith was
already shaken, already failing. But every night, I could
still light the temple, even though the words to Cénzi meant
nothing to me, even though I doubted my faith and my
beliefs. I told myself that Cénzi was showing His mercy,
that He wanted me to come back to Him and that was why I
could still shape the Ilmodo, but my faith continued to fail,
until I found I didn't believe at all. I left, finally,
because I couldn't stand the hy pocrisy and the lies I spoke
every day. I left, and Cénzi has punished me ever
since."
The man's voice was a bare whisper
when he said that, and he glanced at the canvas before
Edouard. "You've the Gift," the old man had said. He touched
Edouard's head, then his hands. "You're using the Ilmodo even
though you don't know it. It flows from you out onto the canvas.
Not many can do that."
"Show me what you showed Arial,"
Edouard had said suddenly. "Show me the
truth."
The ancient had protested and
argued, but in the end he'd agreed. He'd taught Eduoard how
to open the place inside so that he could feel the Ilmodo,
and Edouard in turn had learned that his Gift was indeed
special. The old téni was dead when Edouard left, but the
painting, the old man's portrait . . . It was the best
painting he'd ever done. The face that stared out from the
canvas was so genuine, so compelling . . .
The old man was dead, but it was
not the last time that Edouard would see him or hear him.
Oh, no, not the last time at all.
Edouard let the Ilmodo flow
uninterrupted: out from his fingers, through the charcoal stick to
the paper, and from there radiating out to the bird. He could see
the bird in his mind, snared in the radiance of the Ilmodo. He
could feel its heart fluttering and its shivering body, and he let
that pass through him onto the paper.
He heard the soft fall of the bird
onto the grass, and opened his eyes to see its perfect form
captured on the paper.
"It's gorgeous, as I would expect." He
heard the voice from behind him, the man's approach masked by the
sound of the breezes in the willows and the rush of the
A'Sele.
"Vajiki," Edouard said, placing the
sketchpad on the grass next to the bird. "I was beginning to wonder
if you would come."
"Exactly as promised," the man said.
Edouard didn't know his name; he'd first approached Edouard when he
was painting a commissioned portrait in a chateau near Prajnoli.
Even his face was common and unremarkable, his hair a nondescript
brown, though the eyes had irises of the most saturated
grass-green. But the money he'd offered had staggered
Edouard—enough that Edouard would never have to touch a brush
again, not unless it was what he wanted.
Maybe then they'll leave me alone:
the voices of those I've taken . . .
He hoped it would be true. They
haunted him at night—the faces of those he'd painted, those he'd
killed. They came in his nightmares, tormenting him. They were
still alive, all of them, alive in his head.
He didn't know who the man worked for,
nor how they had discovered the "gift" he bore—though he wondered
if it weren't Chevaritt ca'Nephri, since it was his chateau that
overlooked the river nearby. Whoever it was, Edouard didn't know
how they'd arranged to have him paint the Kraljica. He knew very
little beyond the fact that his purse was far heavier when the
green-eyed man had left, and that it would be much heavier again
today.
That was enough to know.
"You have my final payment?" he asked
the man.
"The Kraljica's not dead," the man
answered.
Edouard shook his head. "That's not
possible. I finished the painting. I tied her spirit to
it."
"She's been stricken, but she
lingers," the man said. "That's not what you promised, Vajiki. It's
not what was wanted by my employer."
Edouard was still shaking his head.
There was no explanation for it, and he was frightened. Panic
surged through him as he tried to fashion an excuse. "Sometimes . .
. sometimes it takes a few days, Vajiki. Perhaps a week, even. But
she will die; they always die." He licked his lips, staring
at the man's eyes of spring grass and hoping he saw belief there.
It wouldn't matter once he was paid. He could disappear forever
then, and even if the Kraljica somehow lived . . . He forced his
voice to sound angry. "You still owe me the solas you promised.
Where are they?"
"I have them," the man said. "You're
certain she'll die?"
Edouard poked the body of the bird
with the toe of his boot. "Yes. I'm certain."
The man nodded, staring down at the
bird and the sketch. "Then let's give you your reward. I have a
horse right over here." He waved a hand toward a path leading to a
stand of trees farther up the bank, and Edouard stooped to pick up
his sketchbook. The man gestured again, and Edouard stepped in
front of him.
Edouard heard the sound, but failed to
understand its significance until it was too late. He had a moment
to contemplate the strange feeling as the blade entered his body
from behind and thrust entirely through him. Strangely, there was
very little pain. He stood there, impaled, staring at the blood
marbling the steel of the long blade that emerged from just under
his rib cage. He tried to breathe, and coughed instead, and blood
sprayed from his mouth. The blade was withdrawn in a sudden,
ripping movement and he fell to his knees.
The world seemed to move as if
underwater. He could see the fluttering pages of his sketchbook as
it fell from his hands. He could hear the birds in the trees and
the crystalline water and even the hush of the clouds sliding
across the sky. The colors were impossibly bright and unreal, as if
painted with pigments mixed by Cénzi Himself.
The weapon sliced at him again, a blow
to the side of the neck this time, and he toppled. He fell to the
ground, eyes open, and the grass was an emerald like the man's eyes
and a ruby river flowed between the blades. He could see the dove's
body, only a stride away, and he reached out his hand to touch it,
but his arm refused to move.
Something golden—a shell?—flashed in
front of him, and he felt his head lifted and a cold chain placed
around his ruined neck.
"Here's your reward, painter," the
man's voice said, and there was laughter in the gathering darkness,
the laughter of all those he'd painted, and their faces came to him
and carried him far away as he tried in vain to scream.

Ana
cu'Seranta
THE KRALJICA was a husk wrapped in
white linen. For a moment, Ana wasn't certain she was
breathing at all, but then her breath stuttered and the folds of
the linen lifted with a breath. A sour odor hung in the air despite
perfumed candles that provided the only light in the draped and
shuttered room. Renard ushered them into the room, obviously weary
from having stood vigil over the Kraljica during the night. A
healer was there with his assortment of medicines and instruments,
and a trio of servants were emptying bedpans, keeping the fire lit
in the hearth, or changing the leeches placed on the Kraljica's
body under the direction of the healer.
The Archigos ordered them all out of
the room except Renard. As the servants slid away with low bows and
the healer packed up his implements with obvious irritation, the
Archigos placed a comforting hand on Renard's arm. "You've been up
all night?" Renard nodded. "How is she?"
"No better," Renard said. "After you
and O'Téni cu'Seranta visited her—" this with a swift, appreciative
glance at Ana; she smiled in return despite her own weariness,
"—she seemed to rally, but then slowly slipped back. I fear . . ."
His lower lip trembled and he closed his mouth. He wiped at an eye
with his sleeve. "I've served the Kraljica for nearly thirty years,
since I was a young man myself."
"And you've served her well," the
Archigos said. "You have been her crutch and her support, Renard.
Don't give up hope yet. Cénzi may still hear our
prayers."
Renard nodded, but Ana could see the
despair etched in the lines of his face. "Leave us with her again,"
the Archigos said to him, "so that we might pray with her. In the
meantime, get a bit of sleep. You'll be no good to her if you're
exhausted."
"I will try," Renard said. He looked
back at the bed and gave a long sigh before moving toward the door.
As he came near Ana, he stopped for a moment. "Thank you for your
efforts, O'Téni," he said quietly. "May Cénzi bless you."
He bowed and clasped his hands to his
forehead. He left the room, leaving them alone with the Kraljica's
erratic breath.
"He knows," Ana said.
"He's hardly a stupid man. And he
loves the Kraljica." He was standing beside her and his fingers
brushed her hand. She jerked her hand away. His eyes regarded her
with what she thought might be pity, but he didn't touch her again.
"He suspects, but he doesn't know, Ana," he said. "And he'll
say nothing to anyone, no matter what the Divolonté states. Nor
will I."
She wasn't certain that she believed
this. She wasn't certain she trusted any of them. Ana could imagine
the Archigos betraying her to save himself, and she rubbed her
hands. They would cut them off, and take your tongue as
well. . . . She shuddered.
"Ana . . . ? Are you all
right?"
Ana blinked. The Archigos was staring
at her. "I know you're tired, but this may be our last chance to
save her," he said. His voice was rushed and quiet, and she
realized that the Archigos was frightened himself—afraid of what
might happen to him if the Kraljica died and the A'Kralj became
Kraljiki. In that moment, she glimpsed how fragile was the
Archigos' hold on his position in the church, and thus how
precarious her own situation, tied to his standing, was in turn.
The realization made her stomach turn uneasily.
She nodded to the Archigos and went to
the side of the bed, looking down at the white, drawn face of the
Kraljica: her cheeks sunken, her skin draped loosely over her
skull. She looked half a corpse already. She doesn't deserve
this. If Cénzi gave you this ability, then He didn't intend
for you to ignore it.
Ana clasped hands to forehead for a moment, taking deep
breaths.
Then she opened her hands wide and let them move in the
pattern she felt in her head, and she spoke the words that Cénzi
sent her.
Eyes still closed, she shaped the
power of the Ilmodo and let it rush into the Kraljica. Faintly, she
heard a gasp from the old woman on the bed. "Ana . . ." she heard
the woman say aloud, and the word echoed in her mind as well.
Ana . . . The painting calls me and I can't resist. The
stream of the Ilmodo cascaded from Ana into the Kraljica and back
out through that terrible rent in the Kraljica's very being, the
awful wound nearly as wide now as it was last night. Ana found
herself in the Kraljica and in the painting at the same time—the
painting where most of the Kraljica's awareness seemed to reside
now. The body on the bed was largely an empty shell.
Ana found herself marveling again at
the spell that had done this: no téni could enchant an object this
way. A téni could place a nonburning glow within a lamp that would
remain for several turns of the glass, but to do so required the
proper chanting and hand motions, which must be performed at the
time the spell was cast. But there had been no one chanting to
ensorcell the painting—the spell had been cast with Ana's pull of
the cover: instantaneously, without words of prayer or
gestures.
Ana had no idea how that had been
accomplished, and it made her wonder again if ci'Recroix had been
Numetodo. The rumors she had heard about how they twisted the
Ilmodo . . .
But she couldn't think of that now.
She could not spare the distractions.
Ana reshaped the Ilmodo, wrapping it
around the Kraljica and trying to pull the woman back into her body
and away from the painting, but the spell within the painting
resisted, tearing at the Ilmodo and shredding it so that it
couldn't hold the Kraljica. Where her spell touched that within the
painting, it was as if claws raked her body, dragging deep furrows
that tore muscles and ripped ligaments from bones. Ana screamed
with the pain, not knowing if she did so aloud. She could
feel the spell, could glimpse how it had been shaped and
constructed . . . and there was nothing of Cénzi in it. She could
not feel Him in it at all.
The shell on its chain under her robes
seemed to be glowing whitehot, burning her skin.
Ana pulled at the Kraljica
desperately, dragging the old woman's awareness back toward her
body as much as she could and trying to close off that awful hole
within her once more. Slowly, it began to heal itself, but the
effort cost Ana. She screamed again, her body and her mind aching
from the exertion . . .
. . . and she could hold the Ilmodo no
more. It slipped from her, and she was back in the Kraljica's room,
on her knees on the carpeted floor, her body soaked in
perspiration, the front of her téni-robes stained with vomit, her
hands curled and as stiff as if she'd been outside unprotected for
hours in winter.
"I tried . . ." she managed to husk
out to the Archigos, who was kneeling alongside her. She looked at
him, stricken. "I did all I could, and I almost . . . almost . .
."
And that was all she remembered for a
time.

Mahri
THE ROOM WAS CHILLY even in the
late afternoon sun, but Mahri hardly noticed. He was staring
at a shallow, battered pan set on the wobbly table in front of him,
in which he could see the distorted reflection of his own ravaged
face. He heard the teapot over the fire in the hearth begin to
sing, and he went to it. Wrapping the sleeve of his ragged clothing
around the handle of the pot, he lifted it from the crane and
poured the steaming water into the basin, then sprinkled leaves
from a leather pouch on his belt into the water. He sat back.
"Show me," he said softly, and the
steam above the basin writhed and twisted and coalesced. There, in
the mist, was a shimmering image: the figure of the A'Kralj, his
jutting chin unmistakable even if he hadn't been dressed in his
usual finery, and seated across a small table from him, the Vajica
Francesca ca'Cellibrecca. "A'Kralj," the woman said, a bit too
loudly and forced, obviously for the benefit of someone else within
earshot. "You do us a great honor by coming here, and I know my
husband will be displeased that he missed you. We were both so
shocked by your matarh's collapse at the Gschnas. How is
she?"
"No better, I'm afraid, Vajica," Mahri
heard the A'Kralj answer. His hand moved on the table, sliding a
few inches toward the woman's. He glanced away to his right, as if
looking at Mahri, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. The Vajica
glanced that way also.
"Cassie, would you go to the kitchen
and see if Falla still has those cakes from the morning? A'Kralj,
some tea also perhaps? Cassie, have Falla make some new tea as
well, and bring it here."
"Yes, Vajica," Mahri heard a faint
voice answer, and there were footsteps and the sound of a door
closing from the steam-wrapped scene before him. With the sound,
the A'Kralj reached across the table to take the woman's hand. He
started to rise, as if he were about to embrace and kiss her, but
she shook her head slightly.
"Not here," she said in a whisper.
"Too many eyes. But we can speak openly, for a moment anyway. The
Kraljica?"
"She's dying," he said. "If I could
keep that dwarf Archigos and that ugly cow of a téni of his away
from her, she'd be dead already. I think he's using the Ilmodo on
her, or cu'Seranta is."
"I'll make certain that my vatarh
knows," the woman said. "I'm certain that he'd be interested in
that." She shook her head. "Such a strange, sudden thing. Vatarh
thinks that the Numetodo had a hand in it."
"No," the A'Kralj answered. "They
didn't, though I certainly don't mind if they pay the price for
it." He smiled, his chin jutting out even further. Mahri heard the
slow intake of breath through the Vajica's nostrils and saw the
rising of her eyebrows.
"Justi . . ."
The smile grew larger. "Matarh was
always insisting that it was time
for me to think of heirs and marriage. I will be Kraljiki
soon—and I find that I'm now thinking of exactly those two things.
Are you, Francesca my love?"
The woman seemed to be looking for
escape—left, then right. "Of course, Justi. Of course. But this is
so quick. All the careful plans we were making with my vatarh . .
."
". . . weren't necessary," he
answered. "I made my own plans, and I have followed them through. I
think Matarh's portrait should go in the West Hall, where she can
see the Kralji's throne and see me sitting there with you beside
me, don't you think?"
There was a soft knock at the door and
the click of the latch. The A'Kralj sat back, releasing Francesca's
hand. Her smile was a frozen gash on her face. "But, of course, I
came to ask U'Téni Estraven if he would perform a special ceremony
for Matarh," the A'Kralj said smoothly, as if continuing an
interrupted conversation, as Mahri saw the servant approach the
table and place a silver tray with tea and cakes between the two
before curtsying and backing quickly away. "It would mean so much
to her."
"Certainly," Francesca answered. She
blinked, reflexively moving to serve him tea. "I will mention it to
Estraven." The water in the basin was cooling, and the scene above
it was fading, the figures going transparent and their voices
failing. "I know he would be most willing . . ."
They were gone, suddenly, and the bowl
was simply a bowl of lukewarm water. Mahri sighed. Rising, he put
the teapot back on the crane. He picked up the bowl reverently and
went to the window, tossing the water out onto the Oldtown alleyway
below. He took the bowl back to the table and sat once again,
waiting for the teapot to boil. When it did, he poured more water
into the bowl and once more dusted the steaming water with the
infusion from his pouch.
"Show me," he said again, and this
time the scene that formed was a different place, and new figures
appeared. . . .

Ana
cu'Seranta
"YOU CAN'T GO OUT, O'Téni," Watha
insisted. "You're not strong enough. The Archigos said you
must rest. He was very emphatic about that."
"The Archigos isn't me and doesn't
know how I feel," Ana insisted. She shrugged off the hands that
attempted to hold her back on the bed and swung her feet down to
the floor. She stood. The room threatened to tilt under her, but
she took a long breath that stopped the movement. "I need clothes,"
she said. "Not my téni-robes. A tashta, perhaps, or something
else."
Watha's eyes seemed about to burst
from her skull. "I can't—"
"You will," Ana insisted. "And you'll
do it now. I'll also need a carriage."
The young woman seemed terrified. Her
matarh, Sunna, came in a moment later, and Ana repeated her
request. Sunna conferred with Watha, who left the room with a
terrified glance at Ana. Sunna muttered to herself as she
rummaged—far too slowly—through trunks and closets to find clothing
for Ana. Ana heard the outer door to her apartment open and close
before Watha returned to help her matarh; Ana decided that Beida
had been sent to inform the Archigos. By the time she'd dressed,
the outer door opened again and Beida entered the bedchamber to
announce that a carriage was at the door for Ana's use.
Ana left the apartment, refusing the
offer of a quick dinner from Watha, and Sunna's insistence that
someone from the household should accompany her. She wondered if
she were being entirely foolish, since the walk down to the
carriage exhausted her and she half-stumbled into the seat as the
téni-driver held the door open for her. "Your destination, O'Téni?"
the young man asked. It was the same driver who had picked her up
from her house that day that seemed so long ago now; she knew that
he would tell the Archigos everything. He was staring at her, at
her lack of green robes.
"Cooper Street, one block from Oldtown
Center," she said to him. He nodded and closed the door. She felt
the carriage sway as he took his seat and heard the beginning of
his chant as the wheels began to turn. She leaned back against the
cushions, her hand touching the shell under her tashta.
You shouldn't be doing this. You're
already exhausted and need to rest. The Archigos will be
upset, and thus you risk not only yourself but your family's
well-being. Worse, you endanger your very soul. . . .
She ignored the nagging voice and
closed her eyes, feeling the lurch of the carriage and the sound of
the wheels as it passed along the Avi a'Parete.
"We're here, O'Téni," the e'téni's
voice said through the leather flap between the carriage and his
seat, seemingly only a few moments later, and Ana realized that
she'd fallen asleep during the trip. She lifted the curtain at the
side of the carriage. They were parked on a street lined with
shops, with a tumult of people moving around them. Poking her head
out the window, Ana looked around. It was dusk, the sun already
gone though the sky was still deep blue and the first stars had yet
to appear. Farther up the street, she could glimpse the wide
expanse of Oldtown Center, where lamps set on ornate posts around
the circumference of the Center waited for the spells of the
light-téni to set them ablaze.
Oldtown Center had, a few centuries
ago, been the social nexus of Nessantico, a function now given over
to the square around the Archigos' Temple and the newer and grander
buildings on the southern bank of the A'Sele. The memory of Oldtown
Center's past was preserved in the tall, ancient buildings that
flanked it and in the fountain in the middle with its stained
bronze statue of Selida II, posed far larger than life with his
war-spear and shield and the writhing body of a subdued Magyarian
chieftain raising his hands in mute supplication at his feet: at
its height, Oldtown Center had been known as Victory
Square.
Now, the buildings that had once
housed the offices of the Kralji's government and the grand
apartments of the wealthy were run-down, tired, and ancient. The
offices were now street-level shops, the grand residences had been
broken up into myriad tiny apartments above the shops teeming with
the households of ci' and ce' and even unranked families. There was
still a vitality to Oldtown Center, but it was unrefined and raw,
just as strong as it had always been but gone darker and
potentially more dangerous.
"O'Téni," the driver called through
the flap, his voice audibly tired from the exertion of the drive.
"Where did you want to go?"
"This is fine," she told him. She
glanced out again at the signs over the doors. "Just there—Finson
the Herbalist. They have a tea infusion that my matarh always made,
and I thought it might help the Kraljica." She opened the door and
stepped out before the driver could dismount. "Wait here for me,"
she told him. He was only a black silhouette against the
ultramarine sky. "I shouldn't be long. Stay here."
She hurried away even as she heard him
protest; she was fairly certain that his instructions from the
Archigos were to remain with her. She rushed into the shop, a bell
chiming as she opened the door. The herbalist—an older man with
white eyebrows that curled over deepset eyes, glanced up from a
table near the rear of the store. The store smelled of herbs and
the multitude of lit candles holding back the murk. "What can I do
for you, Vajica?" he asked, coming forward to a counter adorned
with glass jars stuffed with dried leaves.
Ana placed a siqil on the counter, the
the silver profile of the Kraljica on the coin glimmering in the
candlelight. "You have a rear door?" Ana asked, her fingers still
on the coin.
He was staring at the siqil—more money
than he would see in a week's sales. "Yes, Vajica. Just past
there." He pointed to the darkness at the back of the store without
taking his eyes from the coin. "Here, I'll show you. . .
."
Ana shook her head. "I'll find it,"
she said. "Thank you." She lifted her fingers from the coin and
hurried around the counter. The smell of herbs was nearly
overpowering, but she found the door and found herself in a narrow
alleyway where the stench was more human and far less pleasant. To
her right, an opening beckoned, leading to another of the warren of
streets around the Center. Faintly, she thought she heard the bell
chime on the herbalist's front door. She pulled the shell necklace
from under her clothing and half-ran down the alley and out into
the street, letting the rush of the crowds carry her. She circled
around Oldtown Center for a time, moving around it and away from
where she'd left the carriage—always looking around her to see if
she saw the driver, avoiding the neighborhood utilinos with their
staffs, lanterns, and whistles in case they'd been instructed to
watch for her—until she heard the chant of the light-téni at their
work.
Then she walked into Oldtown Center
itself.
The open space was busy, but quickly
looking around, Ana saw no one who seemed to be searching for her.
No one seemed to notice her at all. She wondered what the driver
was doing; whether he was frantically looking for her or whether
he'd returned to the Archigos with the admission that he'd lost his
charge. In the sky above, the first stars were twinkling, and a
group of six e'téni were moving slowly from lamp to lamp, each in
turn erupting into cold, bright flame. The crowd—many of them in
foreign clothing—cheered with each lamp, giving the sign of Cénzi
and following the téni around the perimeter, then to the quartet of
lamps around the fountain.
As Ana lurked on the edge of the
crowds well away from the téni, she felt someone brush against her
side. "O'Téni cu'Seranta?"
She started, taking a quick step away
from the man, who raised his hands as if to show he had no weapon.
He was no one she knew, dressed in nondescript, plain clothing.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Mika," he said. "The rest
of my name you don't need. Envoy ci'Vliomani asked me to escort you
to where he's waiting. He said to tell you that the shell is one
from the Isle of Paeti, and that he hopes you found it interesting.
Will you follow me?"
He started to walk away from the
fountain and the crowds, to the west. He didn't look back. Ana
watched him for several strides, until there were several people
between them. Biting her lip between her teeth, she followed at
last, quickening her steps and weaving among the passersby until
she was at his elbow. He didn't speak, only moved out from the
center into the narrow streets leading away and into Oldtown
itself. "Where are you taking me?" she asked at last.
He shook his head without looking at
her. "Nowhere you would know," he answered. He stopped then,
turning to her. "If that frightens you, then you're free to return
to Oldtown Center. I'm sure the téni would be happy to escort you
back to one of the temples. I told Karl you wouldn't
come."
"Then you were wrong."
He seemed amused at that. He shrugged
and started walking again.
They walked for some time, following
streets that twisted and turned until Ana was thoroughly lost.
Twice, he ushered her into the mouth of an alleyway or into the
shadows between two houses as an utilino passed. They circled
around a block where fire-téni were putting out a smoldering house
fire. For the most part, the people they passed seemed to be intent
on their own business, which in most cases was provided by the
numerous taverns.
Oldtown was not an area she knew well;
like most South Bank families, hers had rarely ventured over the
ponticas to the North Bank except to visit Oldtown Center or the
River Markets. Even when they had come here, they kept to the main
streets on those excursions, never venturing too far away from the
Avi a'Parete. By the time Mika stopped before a door with peeling
strips of blue paint clinging stubbornly to the wood, Ana was no
longer even certain which way the river lay, and full night had
fallen heavily over the claustrophobic streets. Here, there were no
bright téni-lights, only dim candles in windows punctuating the
darkness—this seemed another city entirely. Mika rapped twice on
the door, then a single sharp knock. A small peephole opened and
Ana saw an eye peering out. The door opened just wide enough to
admit them. Mika entered, and Ana—more hesitantly, with the opening
words of a defensive chant on her lips and her hands ready to make
the proper motions—followed.
She found herself in a dim foyer.
Directly in front of her, steps led up to a second floor and a
hallway led farther into the building; a curtained archway hid a
room to the right. She could heard voices from somewhere close by.
"Where is Envoy ci'Vliomani?" she demanded of Mika, but she was
answered from the room to her right.
"Here." Karl ci'Vliomani moved the
curtains aside and stepped from the room. He smiled and bowed to
her, his hands remaining at his sides. "Thank you, Mika. We'll meet
you upstairs," he said, and gestured to the room behind him. "Would
you come in, O'Téni? It's hardly as grand as the Kraljica's Palais,
but it will have to do." He smiled at her. "I'm pleased to see you
again. Truly. That shell looks far better on you than it did on
me." He smiled again; despite herself, Ana found herself returning
the smile. The tension within her eased; she could feel her
shoulders relax as she walked through the curtains he held aside
for her.
"Water? Wine? Some cakes?" He gestured
to a small table in the center of the room holding a refreshment
tray.
Her stomach growled, but she shook her
head. There were two windows, both heavily curtained. There was a
fire in the hearth, but most of the light in the room came from a
large glass ball that glowed a strange blue-white. Ana put her
hands toward the globe: colder than the room by far. As cold as
Ilmodo fire. "I want nothing right now, Vajiki," she
said.
"Here, at least, you could call me
Karl." He smiled again. "If you'd like."
She'd wondered whether she'd feel that
strange pull again, that attraction. Now she knew that she did.
You can't trust that. You don't know him. "Karl," she
said, looking up from the frigid glow. "Then here, at least, you
may call me Ana."
He bowed again. "I want to apologize
for the subterfuge," he said as she glanced down once more at the
light. "I assumed you wouldn't want the Archigos to know where you
were tonight, and I know I certainly don't, especially after what's
happened with the Kraljica. I can assure you that you weren't
followed." She heard his voice change, his voice at once serious
and sympathetic. "How is the Kraljica, Ana? We've heard nothing
since the Gschnas but what the news-criers have said."
"I'm surprised you care." She placed a
hand on the globe; the shadow of it covered the wall behind her.
"For all I know, the Numetodo were responsible."
"If you truly thought we had anything
to do with that, you wouldn't be here." The remonstrance was
gentle. "We might be at odds with the Kraljica and Concénzia, but
we would much rather have the Kraljica on the throne than her
son."
"Is that why I'm here, then—you think
I'll provide you with a sympathetic voice within the Faith? I'm
afraid you overestimate my influence, Envoy."
"Karl," he corrected. "I think you're
here because you're curious, and I asked you because . . ." He
stopped. He walked to the globe, put his own hand on it, and
shadows leaped. Ana removed her hand quickly. ". . . because I feel
that we share a common interest."
"And what is that?"
"You want to understand how the world
works, as do I." His hand slid caressingly over the round curve of
the globe. "Like how one can use the Scáth Cumhacht, the Ilmodo,
even in ways that your Divolonté says it shouldn't or even can't be
used. You understand that, don't you?"
Ana felt her stomach lurch. She told
herself it was the lateness, the exertions with the Kraljica, and
the fact that she'd eaten nothing for some hours. He must have seen
it also, for his hand was no longer on the globe but under her
elbow, and his face was concerned. "O'Téni? Do you need to sit
down?"
"I'm fine," she told him, forcing a
smile. "Just tired. I've . . . had very little sleep in the last
few days."
"I understand. The Kraljica." His hand
had not left her arm, and she didn't want to pull away from his
touch. "I was doubly sorry that happened as it did. I . . . I
enjoyed talking with you, and our dance. And I would not wish the
Kraljica harm." His hand did leave her then, and he frowned. "I
apologize, Ana. I presume."
You don't need to apologize. I
appreciate your concern, more than I should. But she
didn't speak her thoughts. "What is it you wanted to show me, Karl?
We don't have much time. The Archigos . . ."
"Will be frantically looking for you,
no doubt." He nodded. "You're right. Come with me, then. We'll go
upstairs to the hall. Things will have started by now."
The foyer was empty when he pushed
aside the curtain, and she followed him up the stairs. The sound of
talking grew louder, until she could make out individual voices in
the mix. The stairs entered out onto a balcony that circled the
floor below, lit brightly by the same cold light that had been in
the globe downstairs. "Here, Ana," Karl said. He was standing at
the railing to the balcony, behind a scrim of thin, dark fabric.
"Those below can't see you if you stand behind this, but you'll be
able to see them well enough." As she started forward, he raised a
hand. "You understand the trust I'm showing you, Ana? You'll see
the faces of the Numetodo who live in Nessantico, and that's
knowledge that the Archigos, A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, and Commandant
ca'Rudka would find extremely interesting. You will literally hold
these people's lives in your hands. I must have your promise now
that you won't reveal what you see here."
"How do you know my promise is
good?"
A momentary smile. "That's the same
objection Mika gave me. I'll tell you what I told him: I look at
you, and I know. Swear it," he said. "Swear it on Cénzi's
name."
"I thought Numetodo didn't believe in
Cénzi."
"I don't," he answered. "But you
do."
You came here because you wanted to
know. The knowledge is there, waiting. "I'll say nothing
of what I see here," she told him. "On Cénzi's name, I give you my
word."
He nodded. He beckoned her
forward.
The room below was large and open.
There were perhaps thirty people below, most of them seated before
a small raised dais where Mika stood. She recognized none of them.
"So few?" Ana whispered.
"You'd think from the threat that
A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca says we are that there would be hundreds of
us, wouldn't you?" Karl answered. "I wish that were the case. There
are others who couldn't be here tonight, but not many. Not in
Nessantico herself. Watch, though, and you'll see what the Numetodo
can do."
". . . tonight will be her first
time," Mika was saying. "Her name within the group is Varina.
Please make her feel welcome." There was a smattering of applause
as a young woman came up on the stage. "Be kind, now," Mika said to
the others as the girl stood there. "Go on, Varina. Demonstrate
what you've learned to do."
Varina nodded. She took a long breath,
closing her eyes. She began to chant: a phrase that wasn't in the
Ilmodo language Ana had been taught, though it had affinities—the
same cadences and guttural vowels, and she thought she recognized a
word or two pronounced strangely. Still, these weren't the calls to
Cénzi that were a part of every chant she'd been taught. Varina's
hands moved with the chant, and Ana saw the beginnings of light
forming around them. As Varina continued her chant, the glow
strengthened until it was a fitful, small ball of light resting now
on the upturned palm of her left hand. She ended the chant with a
deep sigh. The ball of light sputtered and failed.
There was applause again from the
onlookers. Varina nodded, then her eyes rolled backward in her head
and she collapsed to the floor of the dais. She tried to stand
again and failed. Mika gestured and two of the Numetodo came
forward; they helped her to a chair. Another brought her water.
Someone placed a dampened cloth over her forehead.
"You don't seem impressed, Ana," Karl
said as Mika took the stage again.
"How long did it take her to learn
that?" Ana asked.
"Mika started working with her around
the time of the first winter snow," Karl answered. "It takes
time."
"I could do that, and better, the
first day U'Téni Dosteau began teaching us," Ana said. "So could
nearly everyone in my class. Even in the Toustour there are stories
of witches and sorcerers who could use the Ilmodo, however badly.
The Moitidi, they are always trying to taunt Cénzi, to defy Him,
and they allow the Ilmodo to be tainted despite Cénzi's
wishes."
Karl was shaking his head. "Varina
called on neither Cénzi, nor any of the Moitidi," he responded.
"There are no gods or demigods involved at all. Only a certain set
of words and hand motions: something anyone could be taught. But
you're right—you téni do learn to shape the Ilmodo faster than us,
and Varina has little skill as yet. But watch. Watch."
Mika was speaking again. "It's
important that we understand the Scáth Cumhacht and how to contain
and shape it," he was saying. "But as I've been telling you, it's
also vital to learn how to store the power of the Scáth Cumhacht so
it can be used quickly. That's where those of Concénzia are
lacking." He glanced quickly at the scrim along the balcony, then
back to the audience. "Look there," he said, pointing to an unlit
lamp set on a table at the end of the room.
He spoke a single word and thrust his
hand in the direction of the lamp. The word was concussive, as if
someone had struck a great, invisible drum. Ana nearly jumped
backward with the sound. No human voice alone could have made that
sound. At the same moment, the lamp flared—as bright as that of the
téni-lamps, though the color was greenish. The watchers applauded,
but Mika raised his hand to quiet them. He spoke another drumbeat
word and gestured again. The lamp flared once more, but this time
not with light but enormous heat, as if a roaring furnace gaped
there. The heat was intense, so much so that Ana brought an arm up
to shield her face. She thought that in another moment, the walls
and curtains around the room would erupt into flame. Mika spoke a
final word, and the heat and light both vanished as if they had
never been there.
There was no applause this time. There
was only a relieved silence. "That," Mika said, "is what you need
to learn. That is what we will teach you when you're
ready."
Ana's hands were white-knuckled on the
railing of the balcony. "He gave no chant, made no hand patterns,
just a single word and gesture . . ." She looked down again at
Mika. He was smiling and walking about the dais; the shaping of
what he called the Scáth Cumhacht seemed to have affected him not
at all. Ana looked back at Karl. "He's not tired from the
spell-casting?"
"He performed the incantations hours
beforehand, and then rested from his exertions." Karl told her, as
if guessing her thoughts. "We're doing nothing different than what
you téni do, Ana—handling the Ilmodo is a great effort and it costs
the person who does it. But Mika made his payment several turns of
the glass ago. He needed to speak only a release word for the
energy he was holding. They don't teach you that in your classes,
do they?"
"You can do that?"
Karl nodded. "I was one of those who
taught Mika." He paused, tilting his head. "And I could teach you.
Or does your Faith insist that such a thing can't be
done?"
Ana stared down at the gathering,
where Mika was talking to several of the Numetodo. The spells Mika
had formed—they were nothing that she hadn't seen U'Téni Dosteau
show the acolytes, that she couldn't do herself. She could do more,
in fact—as she knew from her confrontation with her vatarh or the
illusion she'd cast for the Kraljica—and the war-téni devised
enormously destructive spells. But they all required time and
effort; they all required the chants and the patterns of the hands;
they all had to be cast immediately afterward, and they cost the
shaper in weariness and pain. U'Téni Dosteau had been amazed by
Ana's quickness at shaping the Ilmodo, the rapid casting of power
that had protected the Archigos.
But this . . . A single word, a single
gesture . . .
Not even the a'téni can do that,
nor the war-téni. And if I did it, they would say it
is the work of the Moitidi. They would take my hands and my
tongue. . . .
"You téni shape the Ilmodo with your
Faith," Karl was saying, but she had trouble concentrating on what
he said. "I don't deny that. I don't deny that you of the
Concénzia, especially the war-téni, can create spells more powerful
than any Numetodo, but you've had long centuries to learn the ways
of the Ilmodo. We learn more with each passing year. But I want you
to think beyond just the shaping of the Ilmodo to the implications,
Ana."
He glanced down at the shell around
her neck, and Ana put her hand over the ridged shape. "You explain
the shapes of shells and fish in the stones in terms of the
Toustour," Karl continued, "but we look for other
explanations—explanations that can be proved or disproved through
examination. I don't know for certain yet, but I suspect that we'll
learn that the shells of the mountains were once indeed shells
within the sea. The explanation makes at least as much sense as the
creation story of the Toustour, and it doesn't require gods, only
natural forces within the earth. And if the Scáth Cumhacht, your
Ilmodo, can be reached and shaped by those without faith, if we
Numetodo can even learn to do things that the téni can't do, then
perhaps the Scáth Cumhacht also has nothing to do with faith and
belief at all. You have to at least acknowledge the possibility,
Ana. You've seen it here tonight with your own eyes."
Her hand tightened around the shell
until she felt the edges press into her flesh. She shook her head
in mute denial, but his words crashed and thundered inside her.
Not true, not true . . . The denial shattered and
re-formed.
"Ana?"
She could barely breathe. The
atmosphere seemed thick and heavy. "I have to leave," she said. "I
have to go now."
His lips tightened. His face was grim.
"Your promise, Ana?"
"I gave you my word, Envoy. I won't
break it," she told him. "Now, please, I want to leave."
He nodded. "I'll escort you back to
Oldtown Center," he said.