Ana cu'Seranta
SHE KEPT HEARING what Karl had
said as the commandant led him away. She clung to the words in
desperation. "Trust yourself, Ana. No matter what
they say to you, no matter what they do, trust yourself and
what you feel in your heart. That will give you back
everything you've lost."
Then the carriage door closed as it
hurried off toward the Bastida. The commandant had escorted her
back to her quarters, a silent ride in his private carriage. "I'm
sorry, O'Téni," he'd said finally when he'd walked her to the
sheltered back entrance of the building, away from curious eyes.
"We all have our duties to perform, as I'm sure you
know."
She rushed into the apartment, closing
the door to her bedroom and refusing to let any of the servants in
to attend to her. She didn't cry; she felt beyond tears. Outside,
the world bloomed with spring, but inside her, everything was
snared in the desolation of winter. She sat, silent, watching the
flames dance in the hearth. She couldn't tell whether she had no
thoughts at all, or so many that she could not hear them for the
uproar they made.
That night, the Archigos summoned her
to a private viewing for the a'téni of the Kraljica's body. Watha
handed her the robes the Archigos had sent over: not the
traditional green, but off-white: the color of bone, the color of
death. She put them on dully, without feeling them. At the temple,
Kenne, also robed in that sad white, brought her to the Archigos.
The dwarf asked nothing; he only looked at her with sorrow, as if
disappointed. "Come," he said. "Let us say our good-byes to
Marguerite."
She walked with him. A river of bone
white flowed through the doors up to the flat, polished granite
stone that was the altar of Cénzi. The body of the Kraljica lay
there, resting on cushions of brilliant yellow with trumpet flowers
arranged around her. Her face was already covered by a gold-plated
death mask sculpted in her likeness. Her hair, brushed and perfect,
was caught in the ornate hairpin of abalone and pearls that Ana had
seen the first time she met the Kraljica, and the scent of incense
and perfume hung heavily about her. The iron rod of Henri VI lay
cradled in her left hand; in her right hand, the palm upturned, was
the signet ring of the Kralji. Around the Stone of Cénzi, wreaths
had been laid, and from the forest of greenery and ribbons rose
seven candelabra of crystal from the mountains of Sesemora, each
with téni-light globes so furiously alight so that the Kraljica
seemed to recline in the radiance of the sun.
Seeing the Kraljica so still,
composed, and masked, Ana finally did cry. Unashamed, she let the
tears flow as she knelt in front of the bier, her head bowed. She
didn't care that the Archigos, the gathered a'téni, and
ca'Cellibrecca and all the others were watching and making their
own judgments.
It was my fault. I should have been
able to save you, Kraljica, but I had betrayed Cénzi. . .
.
But she did not pray. She didn't think
Cénzi would listen to her.
The Archigos touched her shoulder in
sympathy, though he had said nothing to her as they left beyond the
necessary talk: no rebukes, no accusations. She was certain that he
knew she'd been with Karl when he'd been arrested. The commandant
would have told him, and Watha or Sunna or Beida must have
whispered to him about how distraught she was when she
returned.
"Tomorrow," the Archigos told her and
the rest of his staff as they left the temple, "the doors of the
Archigos' Temple on the South Bank will open at dawn, so that the
A'Kralj and all the Kraljica's nephews and nieces may have their
first official viewing. You'll accompany me there, Ana—the rest of
you will be taking your shifts this evening and tonight in
attendance to the Kraljica at the temple. After the A'Kralj has
paid his respects to his matarh, there will be the day-long
procession of the ca'-and-cu'—again, you'll be required to take
shifts in attendance while the ca'-and-cu' file through. Kenne, I'm
placing you in charge of the scheduling. Ana, you'll be needed
again for the funeral carriage's procession at midnight around the
Avi a'Parete; you'll accompany me in my carriage. Is that
understood?"
She and the other téni of his staff
nodded.
Ana stared at the lamps of the city as
she walked back to her apartments, and she gazed from her windows
that looked west, trying to see if she could pick out the Bastida
among the clustering of rooftops. She could not.
That morning, after a sleepless night,
Watha brought the news that all the Numetodo within Nessantico had
been rounded up, that squads of the Garde Kralji, on the A'Kralj's
orders, had entered Oldtown while she and the Archigos had been at
the temple, taking all those suspected to be Numetodo into custody.
The Bastida, it was rumored, was full of them.
This was for the safety of Nessantico
during the Kraljica's funeral, the A'Kralj had declared, according
to Watha. No Numetodo would be allowed to mar the elaborate,
ritualized display of grief and affection for their fallen ruler.
They would remain in the Bastida during the three days of official
mourning, after which the new Kraljiki would make a ruling
regarding them.
While Ana waited in the Archigos'
outer room with Kenne and the other téni of his staff, she could
hear them whispering the gossip and rumors, each of the statements
wilder and more unlikely than the next:
". . . I've been told in confidence
that it was a Numetodo servant who poisoned the Kraljica. Yes, I'm
certain; my sister's husband works in the palace and they all know
it there . . ."
". . . my vatarh told me that the
Numetodo were planning to steal the Kraljica's body and hold it for
ransom. That's why the commandant is so upset . . ."
". . . No, they wanted the Kraljica's
body to desecrate it in a bizarre rite of theirs. I've heard that
from four people who would know . . ."
". . . what happened was that the
Numetodo were caught using their sorcery to poison the entire
drinking water system of the city. Several people have already died
from it in Oldtown. That's why they've been rounded up . .
."
". . . I've heard that the Numetodo
are rising up in all the cities of the Holdings in celebration of
the Kraljica's death, the bastards. Why, in Belcanto, they were
running through the streets singing . . ."
Ana could not listen to their chatter;
she saw Karl's face in each of the rumors.
The Archigos came out at last, leaning
heavily on his staff of office, and as Ana and the others descended
the stairs from his apartments, she could detect nothing in his
glances to her. She wondered at that. She wanted to ask him what he
was thinking; she wanted to tell him that she'd rather he screamed
his anger than to have this silence between them, but there was no
time. They came out onto the square outside the temple just as the
A'Kralj was being helped from his carriage, accompanied by the
commandant and several of the city guards. The early morning sun
illuminated an orderly chaos—the a'téni all moving their own people
into position for the formal procession; the press of onlookers
past the ring of guards; the ca'-and-cu' families awaiting their
moment to view the body of the Kraljica.
"Ah, A'Kralj ca'Mazzak," the Archigos
said as the A'Kralj approached, the quartet of Garde Kralji with
him pushing aside those citizens and téni between the A'Kralj and
the Archigos. The A'Kralj wore a white, silken bashta over which
hung a heavy cloak brocaded in gold filigree. Against the white,
his dark beard and hair stood out in harsh contrast, the jaw
jutting forward characteristically. Around his neck was a golden
chain from which depended a pendant set with ambergris and a yellow
diamond. His fingers were bare of rings, but Ana knew that later
this night, before the public procession, he would take the signet
ring from his matarh's hand and place it on his own finger. Renard
walked alongside him, carrying the A'Kralj's gilded mourning mask
should it be needed. The mask was to allow the A'Kralj privacy in
his grief, but to Ana, the A'Kralj seemed more exuberant than
sorrowful.
The commandant, accompanying the
A'Kralj, nodded faintly to Ana. She shivered and gave no sign that
she noticed. The Archigos gestured, and his retinue bowed as one
and gave the A'Kralj the sign of Cénzi.
"A'Kralj, I am so sorry for your loss,
but I know you will follow her and take Nessantico to heights
beyond even her dreams," the Archigos said as they rose from their
bows. He looked like a wizened child against the athletic bulk of
the A'Kralj.
"Thank you, Archigos," the A'Kralj
answered in his high, nasal voice. It sounded like an adolescent's.
"I know Matarh appreciated your long service and devotion to her,
and I look forward to the same service from you."
The Archigos bowed again at that,
though Ana knew that he heard the same lack of conviction in the
A'Kralj's words—ritualistic, too polite, and ultimately
meaningless. The man's deep-set eyes flickered across Ana's face,
and she thought his lips tightened with the glance. The Archigos
seemed to notice as well, for he motioned to Ana to step forward.
"You remember O'Téni Ana cu'Seranta?" he said. "I spoke of her to
you the other day, as we were discussing the arrangements for the
funeral."
"Matarh introduced us at the Gschnas,
Archigos," he said. He held out his hand and she took it. His eyes
appraised her; she could almost hear the calculations inside his
head. "Yes, I remember her, and I remember our talk, Archigos. Good
to meet you again, O'Téni. I only wish it were in better
circumstances."
She realized that they were both
waiting for her to speak. "As do I," she answered belatedly. "We
all mourn your loss, A'Kralj. It's a tragedy for the entire
Holdings."
Words vacant of true feeling, she
knew. Like herself.
He nodded. "Indeed," he said. He
sniffed—a concession to congestion rather than grief, Ana
thought—and looked her up and down once more. "The Archigos speaks
highly of you, O'Téni, and my matarh did as well, when she was
alive. They both seem to feel that you've been particularly blessed
by Cénzi, and that it would be . . ." He paused, as if considering
his next words. ". . . advantageous for me to know you better. I
have always found that listening to the advice of those I trust is
a good tactic, so I intend to do exactly that. Very soon. I trust
you'll be amenable as well? A luncheon in the palais perhaps, the
day after tomorrow—Gostidi?"
Ana lowered her head. She could see no
way to refuse politely. "Certainly, A'Kralj," she answered. "It
would be my pleasure, assuming my duties to the Archigos do not
interfere."
"I'm positive the Archigos will make
certain they do not," he answered, and Ana could hear the Archigos
grunt his assent, though she would not glance at him. "I'll tell
Renard to arrange it, then."
"Arrange what?" a voice interrupted,
and Ana lifted her head to see A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and his
daughter standing just behind the A'Kralj. The a'téni was smiling,
but the expression on his daughter's face was far less
friendly.
"I was arranging to take luncheon with
O'Téni cu'Seranta on Gostidi," the A'Kralj said to
ca'Cellibrecca.
"Gostidi?" ca'Cellibrecca asked. He
pursed his lips over his doubled chin and tapped a forefinger on
his cheek. "I must remind the A'Kralj—as the Archigos should know,
too—that he has the Ceremony of the Kralji that morning, and he and
I were planning to discuss the disposition of the Numetodo in the
Bastida afterward, and both will take some time."
"I assume that I will still find
sufficient time to eat, A'Téni," the A'Kralj remarked. "Or would
you deny the new Kraljiki his sustenance?"
"Of course not," ca'Cellibrecca
answered quickly. The expression on his face soured. "In fact, I
could join you, and I'm certain Francesca would be willing as well.
I hope to have some news from her husband by Mizzkdi or Gostidi,
and . . ."
"I think not," the A'Kralj
interrupted. "While the company of you and Vajica ca'Cellibrecca
would be most agreeable, I would like to speak with the O'Téni more
privately." Ca'Cellibrecca's mouth remained open for a moment as if
he would say more. The A'Kralj raised his eyebrows, and
ca'Cellibrecca bowed his head. His daughter's dark eyes were
reproachful as they stared at the A'Kralj, but he stared blandly
back at her.
For a moment, the tableau held. Ana
thought of ca'Cellibrecca and what he'd done to the Numetodo in
Brezno, and she imagined Karl in the a'téni's hands. From the
roiling inside her, a flame of anger sent searing heat. She lifted
her chin. "I would like to talk to the new Kraljiki regarding the
Numetodo as well," Ana said. "I think the Kraljiki needs to make
his decision as well-informed as possible."
The Archigos coughed as if startled.
With the comment, both A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and his daughter
swiveled their heads to stare at Ana. She could feel the heat of
their gazes and didn't dare look at them. Instead, she kept her
eyes on the A'Kralj, who laughed, suddenly and surprisingly.
"There, you see, A'Téni? O'Téni cu'Seranta is not the quiet,
obedient mouse you think she is, and judging by the look on the
Archigos' face, she has surprised him as well. I'm beginning to
look forward to our luncheon, O'Téni, to see what other surprises
you might have for me."
With that, the A'Kralj took a long
breath and looked toward the temple. "And now I must pay my
respects. Archigos, are you ready to lead us to my matarh? Vajica
ca'Cellibrecca, would you do me the favor of accompanying me?
Renard, my mask, if you please . . ."
As Renard tied on the mask, Francesca
placed her arm inside the A'Kralj's proffered elbow with a venomous
glance at Ana. The Archigos also looked up at her before gesturing
to A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca. The processional line of téni began to
move, haltingly, behind the Archigos' slow progress. His staff
clattered on the polished flagstones of the court, and Ana walked
carefully alongside him, aware of the gazes burrowing into her
back.

Orlandi
ca'Cellibrecca
FRANCESCA GLANCED BACK to him as
they entered the temple. Orlandi could see from her face that she
was distressed and upset, but there was nothing he could do for her
other than to frown sympathetically and nod in the direction of the
A'Kralj, to whose arm she clung. Pay attention to him. Be with
him, he said with that glance. It's what you need to
do right now. He asked you to accompany him and that's a
great public honor. We've lost nothing yet. . . .
He'd believed that the A'Kralj was
firmly under his control through Francesca. This morning had shown
him the error of that belief. The lesson sent doubt careening
through Orlandi's head. He was like one of the street jugglers
along the Avi, with far too many balls in the air around him, each
moving in its own pattern. There was the Hïrzg, already marching
toward Nessantico's border, as dangerous to handle as glowing
coals. Orlandi had yet to hear from cu'Belli about Estraven's fate,
despite having told the man to immediately send a rider back. And
now the Archigos appeared to have placed his own pawn directly in
Francesca's path, and the A'Kralj had not allowed Orlandi to sweep
it aside.
He must continue to juggle. He could
not put anything down safely yet.
He prayed as he walked, but his prayer
was not for the Kraljica whose body they approached slowly. The
procession was lengthy: the Archigos, followed by the A'Kralj, then
the half-dozen or so a'téni who, like Orlandi, had come to the city
for the Jubilee, then the Kraljica's many direct relatives—all
walking between the lines of white-robed téni who had been in
attendance of the Kraljica's body since it had arrived here,
walking in the téni-lit glory of the temple.
Cénzi, I have done everything for
Your glory, for Your purposes. Show me, Your servant, that I
have not lost Your favor . . . Orlandi prayed, and he looked
past the A'Kralj to the damned dwarf and his ugly whore, and his
stomach burned.
I deserve the staff and the crown.
I deserve to be Archigos; I should have been Archigos
instead of him. I am the true keeper of the Divolonté, the
true guardian of the Faith. The Divolonté and the Ilmodo and the
téni hold together the very fabric of Nessantico, and I
protect it for You against Your enemies who would tear it
apart . . .
As they entered the temple, the
choirmaster in his loft moved his hands and the choir began to
sing: Darkmavis' Requiem for a Kraljiki. The mournful
harmonies swirled and circled, reverberating along the temple's
length, amplified and shaped by the téni choirmaster's spell, the
delicate melody sliding from tenors to baritones to sopranos and
back again, the cadence of the basses relentless underneath.
Orlandi watched the Archigos turn to his whore and whisper, and he
saw her hands move in the pattern of light-making. Yet the motions
were hesitant, and he saw her fumble and start over, and when the
light blossomed between her hands it was weak and pale compared to
that of the other téni standing in prayer along either side of the
main aisle.
Orlandi found his eyes narrowing.
Is this your sign, Cénzi? Have you answered me that
quickly? The o'téni had danced with that foul Numetodo during
the Gschnas, after all—and now she wanted to speak to the A'Kralj
about the Numetodo the commandant had taken prisoner. No doubt her
viewpoint would be conciliatory and weak, mirroring that of the
Archigos. She lacked the power of the true Faith no matter how much
Cénzi had gifted her. Orlandi was certain that she misused her Gift
as well—it certainly was the simplest explanation of why she would
have seen the Kraljica so often during her final illness: under the
dwarf's direction, she had been using the Ilmodo against the laws
of the Divolonté to try to heal the Kraljica. That certainly made
sense for ca'Millac, since it was the Kraljica's support that had
helped maintain him as Archigos.
But perhaps . . . perhaps there was more here, something he
was
missing. Could Cénzi have withdrawn his Gift from cu'Seranta?
There, the dwarf frowned at his o'téni, and she released the poor
spell entirely. Her hands went dark and empty. He saw her whisper
to the Archigos apologetically, no doubt pleading weariness if the
dark, pouched flesh under her eyes were any sign.
Orlandi made a mental note to speak to
the commandant. Perhaps the man knew something, though he was the
Kraljica's man, not Orlandi's . . .
The A'Kralj had reached his matarh's
body, the Archigos and O'Téni cu'Seranta moving to one side. The
Kraljica's face remained covered with her death mask: painted,
closed eyelids and mouth, her hair frothing white around the gold.
The A'Kralj stood at his matarh's right hand with Francesca still
at his side, gazing down on her. As Orlandi watched, the A'Kralj's
hand reached out and stroked not her hand but the staff of the
Kralji, which would be in his own hand tomorrow morning. Orlandi
bowed his head and closed his eyes as the procession halted to let
the A'Kralj have his time with his matarh, Francesca moving
politely to one side to allow the A'Kralj his privacy, but Orlandi
doubted that the man prayed. Rather, he was probably thinking of
tomorrow, when he would be declared Kraljiki, when he would sit on
the Sun Throne, bathed in the radiance of his position.
You must choose . . .
Perhaps the Hïrzg would indeed be his
best choice. Jan ca'Vörl would certainly be a strong Kraljiki, and
his sympathies were definitely in line with Orlandi's, and Orlandi
already had in hand the proposal from the Hïrzg for Francesca's
hand to cement their alliance. While the A'Kralj might be
Francesca's lover, while he intimated that such a marriage would
interest him, he'd also announced no formal engagement. If the
A'Kralj was going to assert himself, if he was going to consider
scorning Francesca for that plain whore of the dwarf's who was no
better than one of the grandes horizontales, then perhaps .
. .
Orlandi sighed. His temples ached, and
he wanted nothing more than to sink into his heated tub with minted
balm on his forehead. But that wouldn't happen for some time yet,
not until all the Kraljica's interminable relatives had had their
moment with the Kraljica.
The A'Kralj finally stirred, lifting
his head and making the sign of Cénzi over his matarh. He leaned
forward and gave her a ceremonial final kiss, their masks clinking
metallically as they touched. The Archigos waddled forward as
Francesca took the A'Kralj's arm once more. The Archigos blessed
the A'Kralj, his voice loud in the temple. Orlandi thought the
dwarf looked ridiculous, like a wrinkled toddler talking to an
adult—not only would Orlandi be an Archigos as the needs of the
Faith demanded, he would look the part as well. He would not
be a mockery of the position like this one.
Soon enough, if it is Your will . .
.
The A'Kralj, as the choir's dirge
swelled again, strode regally away with Francesca at his side and
the Archigos and O'Téni cu'Seranta and his staff behind. They left
the temple by the side door, and faintly Orlandi could hear the
crowds packed into the temple square acknowledge the
A'Kralj.
Orlandi came forward himself, and he
and the other a'téni arranged themselves around the body. With
satisfaction, Orlandi noted that none of the a'téni challenged his
right to stand at the Kraljica's head. The a'téni . . . the
majority of them would stand with him, he was certain, when the
time came. A Concord A'Téni would vote to depose the hated dwarf
ca'Millac when Orlandi brought charges, and then they would elevate
him to Archigos . . .
The first of the Kraljica's
too-numerous nephews and nieces came forward with his family, the
line stretching well into the rear of the temple, and Orlandi
sighed again.
As the mourners slowly moved past, he
contented himself with thoughts of what he would do once he was
Archigos, when this was his temple. . . .

Karl
ci'Vliomani
THE NOON SUN spilled golden on the
walls of the Bastida, but seemed to avoid actually touching
the dark, grimy stones. Karl stood on a ledge high in the tower,
protected only by a flimsy strip of open wooden rail. From his
vantage point looking east, he could see the gilded domes of the
Archigos' Temple. Between the rooftops of the intervening
buildings, he glimpsed the massive crowd around the temple as the
city waited for the Kraljica to begin her slow, final procession
around the ring of the Avi a'Parete: at dusk as the lamps of
Nessantico were lit.
"I hope you weren't considering
jumping, Vajiki. Now that would be a shame—though a few of this
room's inhabitants have been, ah, disappointed enough in our
hospitality to prefer death to confinement."
Karl glanced back over his shoulder
into the small, gloomy cell in which he'd been placed, furnished
with a rude chair and desk and a tiny bed of straw ticking. The
metal door hung open. He saw the commandant half-seated on the desk
with one leg up, the other on the floor. The man wore his dress
uniform, boots polished and gleaming. Behind him, in the corridor
past the bars, Karl could see two gardai leaning against the stone
walls. A torch guttered in its holder between them. "Though that
wasn't the case with Chevaritt ca'Gafeldi, as I recall," ca'Rudka
said to Karl. "His mind became addled after a few months here, and
he insisted that he was able to turn into a dove and fly away. He
looked rather silly, flapping his arms all the way down."
The gardai in the corridor chuckled.
Karl said nothing—he could say nothing, not with the
cloth-covered metal band that held down his tongue, bound with
straps and locked around his head. The chains binding his hands
tightly together rattled as he turned fully, though he remained
standing on the balcony.
"You should be honored," ca'Rudka
continued, speaking as if they were having a casual conversation
over dinner. "This was originally Levo ca'Niomi's cell, centuries
ago. It was thought the lovely view was proper punishment for
ca'Niomi—to be able to look out at the city he ruled for three
blessedly short days, and to know that he would never walk there
again as a free man. He was also a stubborn man; he lived here for
thirty years, writing the poetry that would finally overshadow his
cruelty. I understand that the Kraljiki who put him here had
ca'Niomi displayed on the anniversary of his deposing every year.
They chained him, entirely naked, to the balcony so everyone who
passed by on the Avi could look up and see him: an object lesson of
what happens to those who overstep their place. If you look, I
think you can still see the brackets for the chains there on the
stones."
Karl glanced at the rusted loops of
metal set at the ledge's end just before the long fall to the
courtyard below where the dragon's head glared at the Bastida's
gates, and he shivered. He swallowed with difficulty around the
tongue gag. "More recently, the Kraljica had her cousin Marcus
ca'Gerodi put here for treason, early in her reign," ca'Rudka said,
"but he was neither as long-lived or stubborn as ca'Niomi, nor as
artistic. We never had any poetry from poor ca'Gerodi."
Ca'Rudka sighed, standing. "One-sided
conversations are boring, I'm afraid. For both of us. I believe you
to be a man of honor, Envoy ci'Vliomani. I would accept your pledge
not to use any of your Numetodo tricks and remove your silencer.
Your hands, I'm afraid, will have to remain bound, but we could at
least talk. Do I have your word?"
Karl nodded as he stepped back into
the dank room, unable to keep the gratitude from his eyes. "If you
would turn around, Envoy . . ." As Karl complied, he heard the
jangle of keys, and a click that reverberated through the
straps bound tight to his skull. A moment later, ca'Rudka slid the
horrid device from Karl's mouth. Karl sighed gratefully, stretching
his jaw and swallowing to rid his mouth of the taste of metal and
foul cloth. "I know it's uncomfortable," the commandant said. "But
it's a less, shall we say, final option than cutting off
your hands and removing your tongue."
The man managed to say it with a
smile, as if they were sharing a joke. Again, the gardai in the
corridor chuckled softly. Karl struggled to keep the shock from his
face, but the broadening smile on ca'Rudka's face made him suspect
he'd not been successful.
"It's a preferable alternative,
Commandant," Karl told him. His jaw ached with the movement, and
his words were slurred. "I'll grant you that. Though we Numetodo
aren't the threat to Nessantico that you believe us to
be."
"Ah. You think I'm a
monster."
Karl shook his head. "A monster would
have already done those things to me. A monster wouldn't have . .
." He glanced at the gardai in the corridor and lowered his voice
to a whisper. ". . . tried to warn me to leave the city."
Another smile. "Ah, yes. A man of
discretion, even in these circumstances. You see, I do like you,
Envoy. I liked you from the time we talked in the Kraljica's
gardens. It's rare to find people who are honest about what they
believe, and rarer still when they persist in the face of
persecution."
"I didn't kill the Kraljica,
Commandant. I had nothing to do with it."
"I believe that completely," ca'Rudka
said. "I truly do."
"Then let me go."
"What I believe has little impact on
what I'm required to do, Envoy," the man answered. "Tell me, did
you know that painter ci'Recroix?"
"I saw him once or twice, walking in
the city," Karl answered. "I knew he was painting the Kraljica's
portrait, but so did everyone else."
"Was he a Numetodo?"
Karl shook his head vigorously. "I
would have known that, Commandant. The man was very recognizable,
and someone of his reputation . . . Well, I would have heard of him
even before I came to Nessantico were he one of us. I didn't. Why
do you ask about the painter? If you think that he had something to
do with the Kraljica's death, then why am I here?"
"The A'Kralj ordered your arrest, as
well as that of all the Numetodo in the city."
Karl found his breath caught in his
throat. "All . . ."
The commandant nodded. "Those we
suspect, in any case. They're here in the Bastida, though not . .
." He let his gaze wander around the tiny, dour room. ". . . in
such palatial conditions as you. All silenced and bound,
though—until the Kraljiki tells me what I'm to do."
Karl grimaced. In the manacles, his
fists clenched. "Given that the Kraljiki has already made it clear
that he favors ca'Cellibrecca over the Archigos, then we'll see
Brezno repeated, and worse. Will you enjoy that, Commandant? It
will be your duty to direct the maimings and executions, after
all."
Ca'Rudka made no answer at first. His
eyebrows lifted slightly. "If it comes to that, Envoy ci'Vliomani,"
he said finally, "I promise you that your end will be
quick."
Karl could not keep the bitterness
from his voice. "That gives me great solace."
If ca'Rudka heard the sarcasm in
Karl's voice, he didn't respond to it. "You Numetodo don't
understand what it is to obey," he answered. Ca'Rudka said it
without heat, without any apparent passion at all. "You believe
what you each please. You're like wild horses. Despite any power
you might have, you're useless because you don't understand the
bridle and the bit." The commandant moved to the window of the
cell, looking out toward the city. "It's obedience to a higher
authority that created everything you see out there, Envoy. All of
it. All of Nessantico, all of the greater Holdings. Without
obedience—to Cénzi, to the Divolonté, to the laws of the Kralji, to
the rules of society—there's nothing but chaos."
"Were you born here, Commandant? In
the city, I mean?"
The man glanced back over his shoulder
at Karl. "I was," he said.
"You've never been
elsewhere?"
"I served in the Garde Civile when I
was young. I saw war along the frontier of East Magyaria, when the
Cabasan of Daritria crossed the Gereshki with his army in violation
of the Treaty of Otavi." He touched his silver nose. "I lost my
real one there, in a stupid quarrel with one of our own men.
Afterward, I came back here a chevaritt, with a recommendation from
my superiors, and joined the Garde Kralji."
"You've never been to the western
borders? Never crossed the Strettosei to Hellin or the Isle of
Paeti?" Ca'Rudka shook his head. "If you had," Karl continued, "you
might understand. Ah, the Isle . . . There's not a greener, more
lush and more varied country in the world. And there, Commandant,
where a dozen cultures have come and gone, we understand that
'different' isn't a synonym for 'wrong.' There are many ways to
learning the truth of how the world works, Commandant. The
Concénzia Faith is just one. It's just not the one, not the
only way. I have seen things . . ." He stopped, shaking his
head. The motion rattled the chains around his hands and caused the
guards to glance into the cell again. "You would probably have me
flayed for telling you," he said.
Ca'Rudka had turned back into the
room, leaning against the wall by the balcony. "If I wanted to flay
you, Vajiki, I would have already done it, and for less
provocation. Tell me."
Karl licked his lips. "My parents
lived on the eastern coast of the Isle. They were of the Faith, and
they brought me up to believe in Cénzi. They read the Toustour to
me; they followed the precepts of the Divolonté. When I became a
young man, though, I had the wanderlust and I traveled with a
company of traders beyond the Isle to what you call the Westlands,
past the green mountains on the borders of Hellin. That trip opened
my eyes and my mind. There, out in a flat plain of grasses that
stretched like a waving ocean from horizon to horizon, I saw a city
that could have easily held three Nessanticos, grand and glorious,
with enormous buildings like stepped mountains on top of which
their priests held their ceremonies, with buildings of cut stone
that gleamed in the sun, while canals glittered with sweet water
alongside avenues wider than the Avi. The people there wore
clothing of a fabric I'd never seen before, bright and smooth to
the touch, a cloth that let the breezes flow through to keep you
cool in the heat. And at night—Commandant, the city glowed with
mage-fire brighter than the Avi. They used your Ilmodo, too, though
they didn't call it either 'Ilmodo' or 'Scáth Cumhacht,' nor
did they worship Cénzi, who they considered just another god among
many. But they could shape the Second World as well as any of the
téni. That, Commandant, is when my own faith began to
waver."
"Perhaps it was a test," ca'Rudka
answered without emotion. "One that you failed."
"That's what the téni on the Isle told
me later." Karl shrugged. "The traders I traveled with said that
there were even greater cities, farther west and south, all the way
to the shore of the Western Sea two hundred days' or more march
from where we were. They said that they were part of an empire
larger, richer, and more powerful than the Holdings. I don't
necessarily believe those stories—I know as well as you that
travelers' tales grow with each telling, and that it's our nature
to make ourselves sound more like great adventurers than simple
tourists. But this city . . . I saw it with these eyes, and I've
never seen its like anywhere else. I know this, Commandant:
there are more mysteries in this world than the Concénzia Faith
will allow you to believe."
Ca'Rudka smiled indulgently at the
long speech. "Sometimes, to young eyes, the small looks larger than
it is. I would think that if such a great empire exists beyond the
Hellin Mountains, we would have met its armies or at least its
envoys when we came to the Hellins. I may not have been there
myself, but I met the Governor of the Hellins when he was last in
Nessantico, and he said that the natives there were little more
than savages."
"He sees them with the wrong eyes,
then," Karl answered. "Like looking through the stained glass of
the temple, he doesn't see the true colors beyond."
"And you do? I find that rather
arrogant, Envoy ci'Vliomani. It surprises me to find that quality
in you."
"We all have colored glass through
which we view the world, Commandant," Karl answered. "Our society
and our upbringing and our experiences place the glass before us,
with the Numetodo no less than the Concénzia Faith. I don't deny
that. But I think we Numetodo have more shades of color from which
to choose and that, as a result, we are closer to the
truth."
Ca'Rudka laughed again, though this
time the guards remained quiet. "You are a fascinating creature,
Envoy ci'Vliomani." He took a long breath. "I enjoy listening to
you, and no doubt we'll have ample opportunity to continue our
conversation. But for now . . ." He picked up the silencer from the
table, its metal buckles jangling. The taste of foul leather filled
Karl's mouth, just seeing it.
"Commandant, I will give you my word .
. ."
"And I would accept it," ca'Rudka
answered before Karl finished. The silencer swayed in his hand.
"The Kraljiki will want a confession from the Kraljica's assassin.
Are you prepared to give that to him, Envoy?"
"I can't confess to what I didn't do,"
Karl answered, and ca'Rudka smiled at that, with the indulgent
expression of an adult listening to a young child.
"Can't?" he said. "I'm afraid that
happens all the time here in the Bastida, Envoy. I think you might
be surprised what a person would be willing to admit under the
right encouragement. Why, give me six lines written by the hand of
the most honest man, and I could find something in them to have him
hanged."
Karl's breath vanished. He felt
suddenly cold. "Open your mouth, Envoy," ca'Rudka said. "I promise
you that I'll be back tomorrow, and each day until the Kraljiki
tells me what I must do with you, and as long as you give me your
word, I'll take the silencer from you so we can talk more. I will
cherish those times, truly. Now . . . I need you to open your
mouth, or I will have the gardai come in and put on the silencer in
their own fashion. Which would you prefer?"
There was nothing but despair in
Karl's heart now. He knew he would die here, and he knew that there
was nothing he could do except make that death as painless as
possible. Karl opened his mouth and allowed ca'Rudka to buckle the
device to his head. He felt tears forming as ca'Rudka stepped
behind him to tighten the straps, and he forced them back, blinking
hard.

Sergei
ca'Rudka
"COMMANDANT, I wish to see Karl
ci'Vliomani."
Sergei straightened the inkwell on his desk, arranging the
quills in their holder. Then he looked again at the young woman in
front of him, wearing the green robes of the téni. "I find that I'm
surprised you would make such a request, O'Téni cu'Seranta,
especially given that you were with the Numetodo when I arrested
him." He raised his eyebrows. "I doubt that the Archigos would be
pleased to find you here after that coincidence."
"As it turns out, I'm here on the
Archigos' business." The slight hesitation and the way she averted
her eyes before she spoke was enough to tell Sergei that she wasn't
telling the truth—lies in all their shades and forms were something
he knew intimately, and the o'téni was hardly a facile
liar.
"I see," he answered. He rubbed the
cold metal of his nose. "The stamina of our Archigos never fails to
amaze me, especially on a day such as today, when there must a
hundred details to which he must attend for the Kraljica's funeral
and for the procession this evening. You have a letter for me,
perhaps, outlining this 'business' on which he has sent you?" She
shook her head. Her gaze wandered somewhere past him, to the bare
stone walls behind. "Ah, I see. An unfortunate gaffe on his part.
The Archigos must understand after all his years here in Nessantico
how the gears of the Holdings are milled from paper and greased
with ink. But perhaps if you could tell me about this . . ." He
paused deliberately. ". . . business."
His hands were folded on his desk and
she stared at them. Perhaps she was expecting to see blood there.
She hadn't prepared the lie; she startled with the last word, like
a dove surprised on a windowsill. "I . . . the Archigos . . . we
know Envoy ci'Vliomani had wished to meet the Kraljica . . . and .
. . and . . ."
"O'Téni." Sergei lifted a hand and she
lapsed into a flushed silence. "We needn't pretend. Not here. The
Bastida is not a place for posturing. The two of you are
lovers?"
The flush crept higher on her neck.
"No," she said quickly. That was the truth, he could tell, though
he could guess the rest: ci'Vliomani was attractive enough,
intelligent enough, and given her unremarkable features and the
rank of her family before her recent elevation, he doubted that she
had been much pursued by suitors in the past. He could imagine the
attraction ci'Vliomani might have for her; he could also imagine
that she would be an easy mark for a seduction, if ci'Vliomani had
wanted to use her. He'd glimpsed her fear for ci'Vliomani's fate in
the apartment when he'd arrested the man, heard it in the urgent
whispers they'd exchanged as he took ci'Vliomani away. If they
weren't lovers, there was still a bond between them. He hoped, for
her sake, that the bond ran both ways.
She was attracted to the lure of
the foreign, the alien, the forbidden. He knew that. He felt it
himself. He understood. So he smiled at the young woman.
"No," he repeated, just to watch the
flush bloom again in her cheeks. "Then what is your interest in
him?"
"He . . ." She swallowed. Her eyes
found his face and wandered away again. Then she took a long breath
in through her nose and stared hard at him. "He is a friend. I
don't believe that those who possess a true faith have anything to
fear from learning about other ways. We won't bring the Numetodo
back to the Faith through torment and death, Commandant. We will
bring them back through understanding."
She spoke with such passion and
earnestness that Sergei leaned back in his chair and patted his
hands together softly. "Bravo, O'Téni. Well said—though that
doesn't appear to be a position most of the a'téni or the A'Kralj
would take, nor even the Archigos himself. And unfortunately . . ."
He spread his hands wide. ". . . those are the masters I
serve."
He could see the fear in her face,
could nearly taste it in the air, sweet. "Envoy ci'Vliomani . . .
Is he . . ."
"He is bound and silenced, as he must
be so that he doesn't misuse the Ilmodo. But otherwise, he is
well-treated and in good health." He saw her relax slightly. "Thus
far," he added, and the pallid fear returned to her. "You
understand that I can make no promises."
"If it would be possible . . . if I
could see him, Commandant . . ." She licked at dry lips. "I would
be grateful, and perhaps such a favor could be returned to
you."
"You offer me a bribe, O'Téni?" he
asked, smiling to gentle the blow.
She said nothing. Did
nothing.
He nodded, finally. "You will be part
of the Kraljica's final procession this evening?" She nodded in
mute answer. "As I will be. Afterward, I could perhaps accompany
you when you take your leave. The Archigos would understand that I
might have questions for you regarding Envoy ci'Vliomani. If I
happened to escort you here, neither the Archigos nor the A'Kralj
would be surprised, and perhaps I might be persuaded to let you see
Envoy ci'Vliomani for a few moments. As a . . . favor."
"I would be in your debt,
Commandant."
"Yes," he answered solemnly. "You
would indeed, O'Téni cu'Seranta." He saw the way she drew back a
step with his statement, and the furtive, reflexive manner in which
she tightened her robes around her. The sight gave him a small
satisfaction. "Tonight, then."
She nodded and drew the hood over her
head. As she reached the door, he called out to her. "We both
believe Envoy ci'Vliomani is innocent, O'Téni. But what we believe
may be of no matter."

Mahri
THE MASSIVE TWIN HEADS of two
ancient Kraljiki, set on either side of Nortegate, gleamed
eerily with téni-fire. At night, their features were illuminated
from within the hollow stone so that they appeared almost demonic,
but rather than facing out as they usually did, glaring at any
potential invaders, the e'téni tending them had used the power of
the Ilmodo to turn the heavy sculptures inward so that the great,
scowling visages glared eastward: toward the oncoming procession of
the Kraljica as it paraded slowly along the gleaming Avi a'Parete
toward the Pontica Kralji and the Isle A'Kralj, where the final
ceremony would be held. They seemed angry, perhaps furious that the
Kraljica had been taken from the city in the midst of the
celebration of her Jubilee.
The procession coiled along the Avi
like a thick, gilded snake caught in the famous téni-lights of the
city, which gleamed in doubled brilliance tonight. First came a
phalanx of the Garde Kralji in their dress uniforms, led by
Commandant ca'Rudka. Their stern, forbidding faces cleared the
crowds from the Avi, pushing any errant pedestrians back into the
onlookers who lined the Avi and clogged the openings to the side
streets. More of the Garde Kralji, in standard uniform and bearing
pole arms, marched slowly on either side of the Avi, herding the
crowds and watching for any signs of disturbance.
Given the reputation of the Garde
Kralji for cruelty and thoroughness, it was hardly surprising that
there were none.
Then came the chevarittai of the city,
astride their horses and in their field armor, polished and
gleaming. In the midst of them was a lone, riderless white horse,
shielded by their lances and their swords. The chevarittai paraded
by, grim-faced and solemn, the hooves of their destriers loud on
the cobblestones of the Avi.
Then came the Sun Throne from
which the Kraljica had ruled for her five decades, floating
effortlessly above the stones through the effort of several
chanting téni who paced with it, the eternal light inside the
crystalline facets alive and gleaming a sober, sullen ultramarine,
as if the throne itself understood the import of the moment.
Two-dozen court musicians paced behind the throne, dressed in
bone-white, their horns and pipes inflicting an endless dirge on
the onlookers that echoed belatedly from the buildings on either
side. The Archigos' carriage followed the musicians at a judicious
distance from the cacophony, bearing the Archigos as well as
several of the older (and less mobile) a'téni currently in
residence in Nessantico, A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca among
them.
Behind the Archigos was a long double
line of green-robed a'téni and u'téni, all of them chanting, their
hands moving in the patterns of spells. In the air above them
flickered images of the Kraljica as she had been when she was
alive: not solid illusions, but wispy ghosts shimmering in the air,
far larger than life and looming over the mourners in the street
below.
The Kraljica's carriage was next. She
had been placed in a glass coffin, and a quartet of chanting téni
stood at each corner, molding the Ilmodo so that the carriage
itself could not be seen and the Kraljica's coffin appeared to
float in a golden, smoky glow that smelled of trumpet flowers and
anise, and from which came the sound of high voices singing a
choral lament. A shower of trumpet flower petals rained from the
cloud under the coffin, carpeting the Avi and those in the front
ranks of the onlookers in fragrant yellow.
The A'Kralj's carriage wheels crushed
the trumpet flower petals underneath. Directly behind his matarh's
coffin and flanked by a stern border of Garde Kralji, all of whom
stared intently at the onlookers, the A'Kralj sat alone and solemn,
wrapped in thick furs, his face covered with a golden mourning mask
on the cheeks of which were set twin, tear-shaped rubies, though
his fingers were conspicuously bare of or namentation. His carriage
was not téni-driven, but pulled by a trio of horses in a four-horse
harness.
Finally, the ca'-and-cu' families
themselves followed in careful order of their social rank, dressed
in ostentatious white and with heads respectfully bowed. A squadron
of the Garde Civile from the local garrison protected them from the
commoners who closed in after the procession passed, filling the
Avi again.
All of Nessantico, it seemed, had
turned out to watch the Kraljica's final procession around the ring
of the Avi: young, old, from the ca' all the way down to the ce'
and the unregistered. Many of them held lighted candles, so that it
seemed that the stars had fallen from the sky to land here. For the
vast majority of them, the Kraljica had been the only ruler of
Nessantico they'd known, all their lives. As Kralji went, hers had
been a quiet reign, especially for the last few decades. Now they
watched her last promenade through the city that had been her home,
and they wondered what the future might bring.
Mahri wondered that as well. He
watched from the inner side of the avenue, near the flanks of the
Registry building. Even among the packed crowds in Oldtown, Mahri
was left in his own space. The masses of people around him sighed
but left him alone, a dark mote in the ténilit brilliance of the
funeral procession.
Mahri had watched the slow, solemn
procession pass the Pontica a'Brezi Nippoli some time ago, and he
had hurried through the maze of Oldtown to see it again here at
Nortegate. He had wanted to make certain of something.
As the dirge of the court musicians
began to fade, the Archigos' carriage passed into Nortegate Square.
Alongside the Archigos' carriage walked several of his staff, among
them O'Téni cu'Seranta. It was her that Mahri leaned forward to
see.
He'd prepared the spell before he'd
come here, after images of O'Téni cu'Seranta dominated several of
the auguries he'd performed. He spoke a guttural word (causing
those nearest him to glance over at the strange sound), and made a
motion as if shooing away a persistent fly. He could see the X'in
Ka—what the téni called the Ilmodo and the Numetodo called Scáth
Cumhacht—twisting in response, though he knew the movement was
invisible to anyone else there. That was his gift, that he could
see it: tendrils of energy, like the wavering of sunlight above a
still lake, wrapped around the Archigos' carriage. No one there
reacted. But O'Téni cu'Seranta . . .
Her head was down as if praying. He
thought for a moment that nothing would happen, then he saw her
glance up, slowly, though her eyes were bright and suspicious and
her fingers reflexively curled as if she wanted to make a warding.
It was enough; he released the spell, let it evaporate as if it had
never been there. Her reaction had been sluggish; he'd hoped for a
more immediate and stronger response, but it was possible she had
been lost in her prayers for the Kraljica and her grief, distracted
by the noise and the crowds.
But she had felt him. She was
able to sense the very movements of the X'in Ka, not simply
manipulate it. He knew that much; it was more than the Numetodo
ci'Vliomani could do. She was still glancing around, as if
searching for the source of the energy she had felt. He pushed back
into the shadows of the Registry so she wouldn't see him.
Perhaps it could be her. Perhaps. If
circumstance didn't interfere. If the gods smiled. If he was
interpreting the images in the augury-bowl correctly. If he wasn't
simply wrong . . .
There were too many ifs . .
.
But perhaps . . .
The Archigos' carriage and O'Téni
cu'Seranta had passed him now, moving on toward the Pontica Kralji
and the final ceremony. The sculptured heads flanking the Nortegate
swiveled as the Kraljica passed, their fiery gazes tracking the
carriage that held her body. The coffin still floated in its golden
cloud—the téni creating the illusion replaced as the effort of the
spell became too exhausting. The four there now were not the four
Mahri had seen when the procession passed the Pontica a'Breze
Nippoli, and already he could sense the weakness in the X'in
Ka—they were flagging and would soon be relieved
themselves.
The téni were so weak.
The heads stared at the Kraljica and
also caught Mahri in their fiery
scowl, as if they were chastising him for his arrogance. He
turned his back to them, striding away from the Avi and ignoring
the comments of the crowd as he pushed through them. A block south
of the Avi, the crowds had vanished and the sound of chanting and
music faded, replaced by the familiar clamor of Oldtown.
If he reached the Pontica Kralji
before the Kraljica's procession, he could cross over to the Isle
and watch the passing of the Kraljica into history.
He wondered how quickly the new
Kraljiki might follow her.

Ana
cu'Seranta
THE TOWER STANK of mold and urine
and fear, and the torches set in their sconces accentuated the
darkness rather than banishing it. The long climb left the muscles
in her leg aching, but she wasn't going to give the commandant the
satisfaction of her pain.
Ana's heart sank when Karl turned at
the sound of footsteps outside his cell and she saw his chained
hands and the awful device clamped around his head. The commandant
nodded to the garda outside the door, who took the keys from his
belt and opened the cell door. "You may go eat your supper,
E'Garda," ca'Rudka said, inclining his head toward the spiral stone
staircase. The man saluted and hurried away. The commandant stepped
aside and gestured to Ana to enter; he followed behind
her.
"Envoy ci'Vliomani, I've brought
someone to see you. I assume I have your word as before not to use
the Ilmodo?"
A nod. The commandant moved behind
Karl and took the silencer from his head. Karl grimaced and drew
his sleeve over his saliva-slick mouth. "You shouldn't have come,"
he said to Ana, and she thought for a moment that he was truly
angry. "But I'm glad you did," he added. "I could see the flames of
the Kraljica's pyre from here." He nodded toward the open shutters
of the balcony, where flickering yellow still touched the stones.
"You were there?"
Ana nodded. "I watched the A'Kralj
take the scepter and ring from her hands. The Archigos lit the pyre
with the Ilmodo. The heat was almost too much to bear. I've never
felt a fire so intense . . ." She stopped, realizing that she was
talking only to keep away the silence. She heard the clatter of
metal against metal and saw the commandant holding a set of heavy
cuffs, the thick rings of metal opened.
"I would leave the two of you alone to
talk," he said, "but I'd be failing in my duty if I did so without
making certain you can't use the Ilmodo, O'Téni
cu'Seranta."
"I will give you my word, Commandant,"
Ana told him. She was looking more at the manacles than at
him.
"And I would take it, except that if
you were to break your word and help the Envoy to escape,
then I would be the one sitting in this cell. As I've already told
the Envoy, I know the Bastida all too well, and I have made enemies
in my career who would no doubt take great delight in my pain.
That's not a chance I'm willing to take. So . . ." He smiled,
jingling the manacles. "I will accept your word, O'Téni, but I will
also have your hands bound while you're here so that I know
your word will be kept. I'll give you my word that I'll
return in a turn of the glass to release you. That is, if my word
is something you're willing to accept. . . ."
He raised his eyebrows, proffering the
manacles. Reluctantly, Ana extended her hands to him. The steel was
lined with leather, with dark stains that Ana tried to ignore. The
shackles pinched her skin as the commandant pressed the halves
around her wrists and locked them together. The harsh click of the
lock sent panic rushing through her: he could keep her here; he
could take her to one of the cells in the Bastida and do whatever
he wished to her—torture her, rape her, kill her.
He must have sensed her growing panic.
He stepped back. "My word is law here, O'Téni, and I don't make
promises that I won't keep," he told her. "One turn of the glass,
and I will take these away from you."
Ana nodded. The commandant glanced
from her to Karl. "And I trust your word as well, Envoy," he said.
With that, he left the cell, locking the door behind him. They
heard his footsteps on the stairs.
"Ana," Karl said, bringing her gaze
away from the locked and barred door. "I had nothing to do with the
Kraljica's death. Nothing. I swear to you."
"I believe you," she told him. "Only
Cénzi knows why, but I do."
"How are you? Does the Archigos know
you were with me when I was arrested?"
"The commandant told him, I'm certain.
He seems mostly, I don't know, disappointed. Dejected. But he has
more important issues."
"And you? Have you been able to find
the Scáth Cumhacht, the Ilmodo, as you did before?"
She could only shake her head, not
trusting her voice. "I'm sorry," he told her. She felt his bound
hands touch hers. Their fingers linked. "I wish I could show you,"
he said quietly. "I wish I could teach you."
"I wish that, too," she told him. His
head bent toward her. His lips brushed her hair, her forehead. She
remembered her vatarh doing the same to her: at night, in the
darkness. With her vatarh, she had trembled and turned her face
away. With him, she had endured the embrace and the touch. With
him, she had felt nothing but ice and fear.
It was not what she felt now. She
lifted up her face to meet Karl's. She felt the trembling of her
lips against his as they touched. She closed her eyes, feeling only
the kiss. Only the kiss.
She drew away from him. "Ana?" he
asked.
"Don't say anything," she told him.
Her hands still held his. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
She felt him start to move to put his arms around her, but there
was only the clanking of chains and a muttered curse. "It's all
fallen apart," she said. "Everything I thought I had. Everything I
might have wanted."
"I'm so sorry, Ana."
"Don't be. It's not your fault. It's
mine. I . . . I lost my faith."
"I did once, too," he told her, his
breath warm on her ear. "And I found a new one. A better
one."
"I glad you could," she told him. "I
can't."
He stepped back from her then, though
he would not let go of her hands. Iron clinked unmusically in
response. "You have to have faith in yourself first," he told her,
and she made a scoffing noise as she turned her head. The yellow
light of the Kraljica's funeral prowled the stones of the tower.
She released his hands and went to the opening to the balcony.
Vertigo swept over her momentarily as she looked at the shelf of
stone and the long fall below. She clung to the side of the
balcony, staring out rather than down. The Avi was a circlet of
glowing pearls around the city, and the waters of the A'Sele
glittered and reflected the téni-lights. The Kraljica's—no, the
Kraljiki's—palais on the Isle was brilliant, all the windows alive
with téni-lights or candelabras, and the gilded roofs of the
temples shimmered in their own radiance. Between the Old Temple and
the Palais, the embers of the Kraljica's pyre still threw tongues
of flame and whirling sparks at the stars.
Out there, the téni worked: keeping
Nessantico alive and vital. Nessantico held back the night,
refusing to allow it dominion. Like your faith once did
for you, she thought.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Karl said
behind her. She nodded.
"My vatarh . . ." She started to tell
him about how he'd said he could see the city at night from afar,
and stopped herself. She didn't want to talk about her vatarh. He
was dead, as far as she was concerned. "Tell me about you," she
told him. "Tell me more about the Numetodo. Please. Let's sit here,
where we can look out at the city . . ." She asked him because she
didn't want to think, didn't want to talk. She only wanted to sit
next to him, to feel his warmth on her side, and listen to his
voice. The words didn't matter, only his presence.
She wondered if he realized
that.
They sat, and he talked, and she
half-listened, her own thoughts crashing against themselves in her
head so loudly that they nearly drowned out his voice.