Sergei ca'Rudka
THE BATTLE BEGAN with spell-fire
and a sword thrust to the belly of the city.
All that morning the Firenzcian army
approached: a steady advance that edged ever closer, a great arc
slowly pressing down toward the forces Sergei had placed around the
city from nearly Nortegate to the banks of the A'Sele.
The defensive line was dangerously
thin. Sergei didn't have enough men; despite Sergei's persistent
urgings, Kraljiki Justi had refused to allow the entirety of the
Garde Civile and war-téni to move forward. Instead, the Kraljiki
wrapped battalions of Garde Civile and his most loyal chevarittai
around himself as a protective cocoon: inside the city walls.
Sergei had been given orders by the Kraljiki not to engage unless
necessary, and so the defending forces grudgingly gave ground to
the advancing ranks. There were occasional skirmishes, brief
flurries of combat punctuated with the challenges of the Firenzcian
chevarittai. Some of the chevarittai of the city couldn't resist
the challenge and went out to meet their cousins—a few ca'-and-cu'
of both sides bloodied the ground prematurely as a
result.
By Second Call, the tension had become
nearly unbearable. The army of Firenzcia was a thunderhead looming
near the city, like a silverand-black cloud issuing tongues of
lightning and growling with low thunder, the wind cold and vicious
and rising.
The storm, inevitably,
broke.
Sergei sat astride his horse on a
small knoll a mile outside the old city walls, up the Avi
a'Firenzcia along the River Vaghian. His leg ached, and his back
was stiff, but he forced himself to ignore the nagging pains.
Several flag-and-horn pages waited near him to relay orders and
A'Offizier ca'Montmorte was at his side. From the knoll, Sergei
could see the front ranks of the opposing force. The banner of the
Hïrzg and the Red Lancers was being flown prominently: Jan ca'Vörl
was out there, somewhere close. In front of Sergei, the two armies
were separated by a muddy field, the once-ripening crop of wheat
prematurely harvested and the remainder trampled under the hooves
of the chevarittai and the boots of the Garde Civile and conscripts
as they'd retreated to their present position in the western tree
line.
Sergei had stopped the grudging
retreat—if they backed any closer to the city, the fighting would
be taking place among the houses and buildings that had grown up
outside the original walls. Their spines were to Nessantico's
outskirts; the offiziers had re-formed the lines. Seeing them
waiting, the Firenzcian army had halted, but Sergei didn't believe
they would remain there for long.
The sun fell directly on the field.
The light did nothing to warm them.
"If I were Hïrzg Jan, I would wait,"
ca'Montmorte said. "It's already past Second Call. He should
establish his lines, call his offiziers together for consultation
and settle the troops in for the night. I'd continue the advance at
First Call tomorrow." Ca'Montmorte nodded at his own advice. "That
would give us time to bring more conscripts from the city and have
the Archigos send up the remainder of the war-téni. The Hïrzg
doesn't know that we don't have the entire Garde Civile waiting in
reserve."
Sergei shook his head. "I know the
man, Elia. The Hïrzg is a decent tactician but a mediocre
strategist—if there's any strategy here, it will be the
Starkkapitän's. Ca'Vörl's most dangerous in the midst of a fight,
but he has no patience. He also knows he has the advantage. No,
this is what he wants and he will have it now. I'd wager that he
intends to sleep tonight inside Nessantico, and we're in his way.
He'll attack. He won't wait."
Ca'Montmorte shook his head. "That would be foolish."
"Wait," Sergei told him. "I know the man . . ."
They waited less than a quarter-turn
of the glass. Without warning, a half-dozen fireballs bloomed,
brilliant even in the sunlight. They rushed over the field, arcing
no more than a half-dozen men's height from the ground, streaking
from the far trees beyond the roving groups of Firenzcian
chevarittai and the impassive lines of infantry. "Téni!" Sergei
cried and the pages reached for flags and horns to sound the alarm,
but the few war-téni with Sergei had already responded. Their
counter-spells, Sergei realized gratefully, were curiously rapid—no
doubt the Envoy ci'Vliomani, who along with a hand of Numetodo was
with the war-téni, was responsible for that. Given the lack of
warning, Sergei had expected the téni's response to be too late,
but two of the onrushing suns fizzled and died before they reached
the front ranks of the defenders, and two more went careening back
toward the far side of the field to explode in front of the enemy
ranks.
Cheers went up from the Garde
Civile.
But the remaining fire-spells were
untouched. They slammed hard into the ranks, exploding with gouts
of the liquid fire, and cheers dissolved into screams. Those caught
directly died instantly, their bodies torn apart; those nearby were
enveloped in blue Ilmodofury that clung to their skin and clothes.
They bellowed in agony, rolling on the ground, trying to smother
the stubborn flames. Those who rushed to help their fellows found
that the spell-fire adhered to their own hands. Where the war-fire
blazed, the ranks shuddered and threatened to fall apart, the
conscripts panicking, and Sergei shouted along with the other
offiziers and chevarittai. "Hold!" he cried. "Damn it, make them
hold!" The flag-pages waved yellow flags desperately; the
horn-pages blasted an imperative two-note call on their cornets and
zinkes.
More spell-fire came; again, most were
countered and a few thrown back into the enemy, but not all could
be stopped. The trees on the west side of the meadow were on fire
now, and the panic was beginning to spread along the lines. The
offiziers had swords out, keeping their men under control. The
cornets of the pages seemed to be lost in the growing
noise.
But the lines, tenuously, held
together.
Sergei nodded—if the Hïrzg had
intended to send him fleeing under the barrage of the war-téni,
that plan had failed.
"The Archigos' war-téni deserve
commendation," ca'Montmorte said. "Right now, we're holding our
own, but if they keep up the barrage, we're going to have to give
ground."
"The Hïrzg isn't that patient," Sergei
repeated. "That will be the last volley of the war-téni. He'll
bring in the chevarittai and the army now."
Again, they did not have to wait long.
With a thousand-throated voice, the Firenzcians charged. The hooves
of their chevarittai pummeled the ground; behind them, the infantry
spread out like a horde of black ants. "Archers!" Sergei shouted:
the pages dropped their yellow flags to pick up blue, the cornets
shrilled, and the offiziers took up the cry. With a sibilant,
wordless steam-kettle hiss, arrows crowded the sky, arcing up and
down into the onrushing forces. There were counterspells from the
Firenzcian war-téni—arrows went to harmless ash in great puffs of
cloud and arrowheads pattered like metal rain onto the mud—but some
of the chevarittai and their horses went down, as did many
soldiers. But there were far too many behind them, and more
continued to flow out from the trees.
The charge hit the front line in a
clash of metal. A frothing chaos spread, the angry foam of a
storm-driven wave crashing into unyielding land.
Sergei had to force himself to stay
back and not charge into the fray with his sword—the Hïrzg's
sword—held high. But it was difficult enough with his healing
wounds just to sit his horse, and it was not the commandant's role
to fight.
Not yet. Not today. For a turn of the
glass, perhaps more, the Nessantico line held, as Sergei directed
his offiziers through the scurrying pages and the signals of flags
and cornets.
But they couldn't hold
forever.
The line sagged inward toward Sergei's
position as the meadow filled with Firenzcian black and silver. The
war-téni lobbed spells and counter-spells into the field and onto
the rear ranks; fire burst in colorful sparks over the field, and
the screams of the wounded and dying were muffled in drifting smoke
and confusion.
Distantly, Sergei saw a portion of the
northern end of the line give way entirely. Firenzcians poured
through the gap, the banners of the chevarittai fluttering as they
pushed deep into the Nessantico ranks. The flag-pages around Sergei
glanced over nervously. He scowled down at the
battlefield.
"It's over, Commandant," ca'Montmorte
said. "They're through the defenses. We can't hold them here any
longer."
Sergei hadn't expected to prevail, but
he'd also not expected to be routed so quickly. "I know," he nearly
shouted at ca'Montmorte. The angry words tasted like bitter, unripe
sunberries in his mouth. "Tell the offiziers to fall back," he
grunted, and the pages snatched red flags from the ground and began
waving them frantically, the horns changed their call. The cry went
up from around the field.
The Nessantico war-téni turned to
different spells; now they covered the field with a thick, dense
fog to confuse the inflow of the Firenzcians and cover the retreat.
The chevarittai reluctantly turned their mounts; the foot soldiers
gave way and the archers tried to slow the enemy troops that filled
the vacated space.
Faintly, Sergei heard the Firenzcian
horns. He'd hoped that the Hïrzg would let them retreat, so that
the Hïrzg could lick his own wounds and set the army for the final
thrust toward Nessantico. That was the way of polite warfare: when
the outcome of the battle was decided, the the triumphant side
allowed the loser to draw back, perhaps to exchange prisoners and
recover the bodies of any important ca' or cu' who had
fallen.
But the horns across the field weren't
sounding halt, but pursuit.
Ca'Montmorte spat onto the grass. "The
bastard . . ." Sergei shook his head. He pulled on the reins of his
horse.
"Regroup the chevarittai with the
Kraljiki's troops near the Fen Fields," he told ca'Montmorte. "Send
a runner to the Archigos; we'll need all the war-téni to try to
stop them there. Tell the Kraljiki to be ready. The Hïrzg wants his
city today."
Sergei glanced once more at the
battlefield wreathed in spell-fog. He shook his head and kicked at
his destrier's sides.

Jan
ca'Vörl
THE PAGES RUSHED ABOUT, carrying
news from the front lines and relaying orders from Jan and
Starkkapitän ca'Linnett as the attack began. Well back from the
front line and protected, Allesandra was with Jan, as were Archigos
ca'Cellibrecca and Starkkapitän ca'Linnett. From the cover of the
trees, they watched as war-fire arced away from the téni toward the
defenders of Nessantico. But the sense of destiny and power faded
almost immediately. Jan cursed and Archigos ca'Cellibrecca gaped in
shock as the spell-fires were countered, as the blazing suns were
extinguished or—far, far worse—were sent back toward their own
lines. There were cries of alarm from across the field of battle,
but the overwhelming terror that Jan had been assured would be the
result was lost. "They're using the Numetodo . . ." the Archigos
muttered. He made the sign of Cénzi, as if to ward off evil.
Jan was merely furious. "Archigos, I'd
remind you that both you and U'Téni cu'Kohnle assured me that our
war-téni would send our enemies running back to the city. It seems
to me that nothing of the sort has happened, and that, in fact,
you've just caused the death of many of our own men."
"The counter-spells came impossibly
quickly, my Hïrzg," ca'Cellibrecca answered nervously.
"Impossible, Archigos? I saw
them. Or are you telling me that I'm mistaken?"
Ca'Cellibrecca bowed his head. "I'm
sorry, my Hïrzg. But it's obvious the Kraljiki and the heretic
cu'Seranta have made a pact with the Numetodo." Ca'Cellibrecca
clenched his hands and made the sign of Cénzi. "They deserve
everything Cénzi will bring them. Everything."
Allesandra answered him. "My
vatarh brings the Kraljiki's fate to him," she said tartly,
the emphasis in her statement obvious. Jan's anger didn't fade, but
he smiled grimly at his daughter's admonition, as did
ca'Linnett.
"We'll deal with this failure later,
Archigos," Jan told him. "Numetodo or not, and despite the
performance of your war-téni, we will prevail here.
Starkkapitän, send our troops forward. Let us see how well the
Garde Civile fares against true Firenzcian fury."
Ca'Linnett bowed and barked orders:
cornets blared, and with a great cry, the army surged out from the
trees, the chevarittai leading the way with banners of black and
silver flying.
But the resistance was stiff, far more
tactically adroit than Jan had hoped. The flood of pages continued
to come over the next turn of the glass, and the news was never
what Jan wanted to hear. "That's ca'Rudka," Jan grumbled.
"Ca'Montmorte hasn't this kind of flair. The bastard should never
have been allowed to escape Passe a'Fiume."
With that, ca'Linnett glanced at Jan
uneasily. "They're outnumbered, and your strategy has them spread
along too long a line to defend well," the starkkapitän insisted.
"We have more war-téni and more chevarittai. They won't be able to
hold for much longer, my Hïrzg."
Jan raised his eyebrows. "They'd
better not, Starkkapitän," he said. "For your sake." At his side,
Allesandra giggled at the face ca'Linnett made.
Jan prowled the tree line restlessly,
glaring across the field, his hand on his sword. He ached to be out
there, even if he knew it was not his place. The adrenaline of
battle sang in his ears, and he could not stay still. Allesandra
watched him as he paced, her gaze always on him.
But the starkkapitän proved to be
prophetic. One of the pages came
riding up, breathlessly, a grin on his stained face. "Their
line's broken, my Hïrzg," he shouted. "We are behind them now."
Even as the boy spoke, Jan heard Nessantico's horns on the far side
of the meadow calling retreat and saw a spell-fog rise near the
trees on the other side of the clearing.
"Excellent," Starkkapitän ca'Linnett
nodded to the page. The relief was obvious on his face. "It was
only a matter of persistence. Tell the offiziers to let them run.
Have the horns call 'Halt' and . . ."
"No," Jan interrupted, striding up to
them. "We pursue."
Jan watched Ca'Linnett struggle not to
let relief turn to irritation. Ca'Cellibrecca simply blustered. "My
Hïrzg," ca'Cellibrecca said, "it's well past Second Call already
and this is an excellent location to consolidate our forces. We
should plan our final assault. We shouldn't be reckless . .
."
"Reckless?" Jan interrupted,
and ca'Cellibrecca's mouth closed as if a fist had struck his lower
jaw. "Allesandra deserves her crown of lights tonight. We will
pursue." He tousled the girl's hair, and she smiled up at him.
"Starkkapitän ca'Linnett? I trust you have confidence in the
strength of our forces and your ability to lead them, even if our
Archigos does not?"
Cu'Linnett bowed low to Jan, hiding
whatever expression might have crossed his face. "The Hïrzg has
given his orders," he told the page. "Send word to the offiziers
and have the horns call 'Pursuit.' "
Jan watched the page, his face serious
and drawn, ride away. He hugged Allesandra as the horns began to
blare. She beamed up at him. "We'll rest tonight inside the walls
of Nessantico," he told her.

Justi
ca'Mazzak
THE COURTIERS, the sycophants, the
chevarittai, the ca'-and-cu': they gathered about Justi. He was
surrounded by them while they cooed support and encouragement. He
swaddled himself in their comfort, even though he glimpsed the
uncertainty on their faces when they thought he wasn't
watching.
The pages had returned from the
battlefields at three separate points around the city; the word was
not good anywhere: the northern arm had been entirely routed and
the Firenzcian forces were nearing the sections of the city outside
the walls; the news was little better in the south, though the fens
and marshes along the river worked as their ally there. But there
was one ray of hope: in the center, Commandant ca'Rudka had kept
his men in order and was still holding back the main enemy force.
It seemed that the Firenzcians could not break through
him.
"Kraljiki," the courtiers crooned,
"everyone knew that it would not be a swift battle, and the closer
to Nessantico the Hïrzg comes, the less room he will have to
maneuver and the more our resistance will stiffen. The commandant
is already demonstrating this. Hïrzg ca'Vörl can't take the
city, not while your arm holds your sword . . ."
If Justi noticed that the words were
spiced with desperation, as if they were trying to convince
themselves as much as him, he pretended not to notice. Instead, he
nodded knowingly and gazed fiercely out from the wall at the Avi
a'Firenzcia. Behind him, Nessantico seemed oddly quiet and
deserted; ahead, the road and the fields beyond the last houses of
the city swarmed with soldiers in blue and gold.
In their thousands, a bulwark against
the Hïrzg, they comforted him.
"You have never been defeated,
Kraljiki," Bella ca'Nephri said loudly, and the ca'-and-cu'
murmured their agreement, all the chevarittai who had been his
friends and cronies for decades now. "You will never be
defeated."
But when I went to war, it was the
Hïrzg's army I had behind me. I never rode against a force
that was the equal of ours, and I had Firenzcian-trained
offiziers directing the Garde Civile, and Firenzcian troops
swelling the infantry, and Firenzcian war-téni . .
.
He closed his mind to the doubts. He
frowned more fiercely and gripped the pommel of his sword more
tightly. "We will never be defeated," he agreed. "Where is the
Archigos?" he asked Renard, as always near his side. "I thought she
would be here with me."
"She told me to inform you that she
has moved forward with the remaining war-téni and the Numetodo,
Kraljiki," Renard told him.
Justi frowned. "She did that without .
. ." he began, but there was a disturbance near the gate, the ranks
of the Garde Civile parting to let a rider through: a page, the boy
covered in dust and his horse lathered with sweat. He half-fell
from the horse and staggered over to Justi, dropping to his knees
before him. "Kraljiki," he panted. "The commandant . . . Could not
stop the Firenzcians . . . Falling back to the Fen Fields . . .
Garde Civile must come . . . And the rest of the chevarittai . .
."
Justi stared at the boy. The whispers
were already spreading through the crowd, racing back into the
city. Ca'Nephri and the other ca'-and-cu' watched Justi, the masks
momentarily struck from their faces. He could almost hear their
thoughts. They were prepared to tell him whatever he wanted to
hear, and they would be equally prepared to say whatever the Hïrzg
might want to hear, should he take the Sun Throne from
Justi.
There was less loyalty in them than in
the palais dogs.
As long as they thought Justi would
remain Kraljiki, they would do as he asked. But if they believed he
were about to fall, they would be on him, snarling and vicious . .
.
If you go out now, at least they
will remember. At least they will say, "He died
bravely."
Justi chuckled at the boy, as if his
reports were amusing. "Renard, please give this boy some
refreshment. He's had a hard ride and he's done his task well. It
seems I will have to go rescue our commandant."
The sycophants laughed with him, their
amusement edged with nervousness.
Justi drew his sword, and the crowd
cheered. "We ride forward" he cried, "and we will show the Hïrzg
what happens when he rouses the ire of Nessantico."
Their cheers rose as he urged his
destrier forward, and the chevarittai closed around him and the
troops of the Garde Civile surged through the gates of Nessantico
to the sound of blaring horns.
They cheered, and Justi showed them a
stern face, and he wondered whether he would ever ride through
these gates again.

Ana
ca'Seranta
A NA HAD SENT the dozen or so most
effective war-téni ahead with Commandant ca'Rudka and Karl.
The others . . . she wasn't as certain about any of them—in more
than one way.
The training with the Numetodo had
been at best erratic. Ana found that she couldn't blame the
war-téni, given the way she'd reacted to seeing the Numetodo
spell-magic. Many of them had resisted the training, they'd scoffed
and hesitated and argued with Karl, Mika, and the other Numetodo
who tried to show them ways to speed their spells or to store them
for future use. Several, like Ana, had found their faith tested
enough that they'd become less rather than more
effective.
Worse, she wondered whether when the
time came—and she knew it would come—that ca'Cellibrecca called on
them to obey him as Archigos rather than Ana, whether they would
stay loyal to her at all.
But . . . a handful had taken to the training with enthusiasm.
And
many of the Numetodo had set aside their suspicions and recent
history and pledged their support to Nessantico. "The better of two
ills," Karl had said to her when he brought the news. "We know well
how ca'Cellibrecca would treat us."
Is this what you want, Cénzi? Do
You truly want me to defend a man who killed his own matarh
and who would sacrifice me without a thought if he believed
it would save him? Someone who used me in the same way
Vatarh used me? I know ca'Cellibrecca and the Hïrzg are no
better and perhaps worse, but I could flee instead. I could
run away with Karl, perhaps to his home or beyond into
Mahri's Westlands. Are You truly asking me to die here? Are
You saying that I must be willing to shed your blood and the blood
of the téni who follow you for this? Is this is Your will?
Is this why You brought me here? Please, I beg you, tell me.
. . .
"Archigos!" Kenne's voice broke in on
her prayer. Ana, her head bowed and hands folded before her,
brought her head up. "Look!"
Perhaps a half mile beyond the old
gates of the city, the Avi a'Firenzcia made a turn eastward.
Several buildings, the outliers of the city, were set there, with
fields around them and the River Vaghian murmuring behind. The
fields had, only a century before, been a low mosquitoinfested
swampland, frequently flooded when the rain-swollen Vaghian left
its bed. But during the Kraljica's reign, the Vaghian had been
tamed with mounds of earthern banks, and the fens converted to
farmland.
Ana had commandeered the second-story
balcony of an inn there, at the curve of the road. From her vantage
point, she could see out to where Kenne was pointing. The fields,
like all the farmland to the east of the city, had been stripped
and harvested early. The meadows were now muddy encampments. At the
eastern edge of the camp, soldiers in the colors of Nessantico were
pouring from a small woods bordering the fields, and she could hear
distance-blurred shouting.
"The commandant's outer line must have
broken," Kenne said, and Ana felt a stab of fear run through her
for Karl. "They're retreating. Yes, look, there are the
chevarittai, and that's the commandant's personal
banner."
Ana had already turned. Her hand
brushed the hard, heavy bulk of the glass ball Mahri had given her,
in its leather pouch tucked in a pocket of her green robes, and she
felt the tingling of the power within it through the cloth. "Gather
the war-téni," she said to Kenne. "We're going to them . .
."
The ride through the Nessantican
troops seemed to take a turn of the glass, though she knew it was
far less. The agitation was spreading through the gathered army:
the conscripts and soldiers of the Garde Civile grabbed armor and
weapons nervously, the offiziers were shouting and assembling them.
Pages were rushing about, and cornets and zinkes were sounding
their calls.
When they reached the banner of the
commandant, the chaos was more ordered but no less frantic.
"Archigos," ca'Rudka said, his voice almost sounding relieved. "I'm
glad you're here. We need more warténi. If you'll direct them—the
téni banners are over there—you, Page, direct the
Archigos."
"The envoy?" she asked, almost afraid
to voice the question.
Ca'Rudka nodded indulgently even in
the midst of the rush. "He's fine," he told her. "And he's amply
demonstrated his worth. Go to the war-téni and you'll find him.
I'll send word as to what we need you to do. Hurry, Archigos. There
isn't much time. Check on the war-téni for me, then come back here.
I need to meet with the a'offiziers."
She gave him the sign of Cénzi and
followed the page south toward the Avi a'Firenczia, just behind the
newly-coalescing lines. Among the trees and along the road, she
could hear the sound of cornets and the call of offiziers with
strange accents—the Firenzcians. A low rumble seemed to shake the
earth.
She saw him. "Karl!" He turned. His
face was streaked with soot and dirt, his clothes were filthy, and
he looked exhausted. The war-téni with him looked no different.
"I've brought the rest of the war-téni. You can rest, recover your
strength."
He shook his head. "No time," he said.
"They're on our heels. Put them in position, but they have so many
. . ." He shrugged. "War-spells won't be enough."
"Then we must do something different,"
she told him.

Orlandi
ca'Cellibrecca
"YOU WEREN'T THERE with us,
Archigos," U'Téni cu'Kohnle said, the scorn far too obvious in
his voice. They were riding quickly along the Avi a'Firenzcia just
behind the Hïrzg's retinue, with the army an ocean around them,
grim-faced. "I tell you that my warténi did all we could, and more.
There should have been no time for response to our first volley of
spells, Archigos—no time. But they did respond, and it was
strong. This false Archigos and her war-téni are using the
Numetodo. It has to be. It's a shame, Archigos, that the Numetodo
blight was not removed entirely in Nessantico, as the Hïrzg
suggested to you."
Orlandi grimaced with the unsubtle
rebuke, as much from the pounding his rear end was taking despite
the cushioned seat of his carriage as from cu'Kohnle's words. "The
false Archigos will be dealt with," he told cu'Kohnle, "as will the
Numetodo: once I am seated back on the Archigos' Temple throne. I
assure you of that, U'Téni."
He didn't care for the man's attitude,
or the fact that cu'Kohnle seemed to consider himself a peer, or
worse, a superior. I don't take my orders from you,
Archigos. That's what the man's expression seemed to say—that,
and the impatience with which he twitched at his horse's reins,
ready to ride forward to the Hïrzg, as if talking to Orlandi was a
waste of his time. More worrisome was that the Hïrzg seemed to
admire the man; certainly Orlandi's suggestion that the Archigos
rather than cu'Kohnle should direct the war-téni had met a stony
refusal from the Hïrzg.
"U'Téni cu'Kohnle has served me
very well thus far, and he understands both my tactics and
my army. You don't, Archigos."
Orlandi was beginning to fear that the
only reason the Hïrzg was dragging him along was because of the
title he held.
Well, he would show the Hïrzg once he
was back on the throne. He would demonstrate to the man that
Concénzia was separate from Nessantico and the Holdings, that
he ruled Concénzia and not the Kraljiki. The Numetodo would
be hanging from the bridges, as thick as pigeons, with the false
Archigos among them. And U'Téni cu'Kohnle, with his arrogance,
might just find himself serving in the Hellins. "Phah on the
Numetodo," Orlandi told the man, spitting over the side of his
carriage. "Our war-téni are stronger. We have Cénzi on our
side."
Cu'Kohnle gave the sign of Cénzi at
the mention of His name, but his long nose wrinkled at the same
time. "My war-téni are half exhausted, Archigos. And we will be
entirely so before the day is done, it seems. I get no rest
bandying words here. You asked for my report; I've given it to you.
Now I need to consult with the Hïrzg so he can direct the battle.
With your leave, Archigos."
"A moment yet, U'Téni . . ." Orlandi
began, but cu'Kohnle didn't wait or listen. He kicked his horse
into a gallop, hooves tearing clods from the ruts of the Avi that
splattered against the sides of his carriage and tossed muddy
droplets on Orlandi's sleeve and shoulder.
The téni-driver of the carriage
chanted, perhaps a bit too loudly. The e'téni walking along the
road beside the carriage looked carefully down at the ground.
Orlandi wiped at his soiled robes.
Orlandi sank back into his seat as the
carriage jolted over a pothole in the Avi. Through a gap in the
trees, he thought he could glimpse the roofs of the taller
buildings on the North Bank. He began to imagine his revenge on
everything and everyone who had put him in this position.
That revenge, in his imagination, was
pleasantly slow, detailed and creative.

Sergei
ca'Rudka
THE A'OFFIZIERS OF THE Garde
Civile were huddled around Sergei. A broken door laid across
two boulders served as a table, and a map was spread out on the
raw, splintered wood. Sergei gave hurried orders. "Cu'Simone, I
need you to take the river fields—keep them from following the
A'Sele into the city. Cu'Baria, you will take your men north; the
Hïrzg may try to send a few battalions around our main force; if
that happens, hold them as well as you can and send a page for
reinforcements. Cu'Helfier and cu'Malachi; you will spread out on
either side of the Avi. Ahh, Archigos—you're back already? Good.
Here's what I want you to do—put your war-téni in position with
A'Offizier cu'Helfier's battalion; that's where we're expecting the
main thrust to come. Envoy ci'Vliomani and his war-téni will be
with A'Offizier cu'Malachi, though I suspect they're nearly
exhausted from the first attack—is that the case, Archigos?"
"It is," the woman answered. "They
won't be able to hold back many war-spells, Commandant, and those
with me . . ." She shook her head. "I don't know how effective
they'll be, either."
"They'd better be damned effective,"
Sergei told her. "We have no choice. If they don't, their war-téni
will destroy our lines before we ever have a chance to draw swords
again. They will overrun us."
"I understand," she told him. She
pointed at the map. "Where are you placing your main defenses, and
where would you expect their warténi to be?"
"Here, and here," Sergei said,
pointing. "Which is why I want your war-téni with
cu'Helfier."
But the Archigos was shaking her head.
"No," she said. "Hold the battalions back—here." She pointed
farther west along the Avi, much closer to Nessantico. "And the
chevarittai, if they could be close to this bend in the Avi . .
."
Sergei could not stop the laugh; his
a'offiziers chuckled also. If the battalions were placed where the
Archigos suggested, the Firenzcian army would own the Fen Fields,
and shortly thereafter, the gates of Nessantico. "With all due
respect, Archigos," he said, interrupting her, "you've no
experience in battle or with tactics, and you show it."
"With all due respect," she answered
him, "you would not be here at all, Commandant, with all your grand
experience, if I had not healed you. I would think you might give
me the courtesy of hearing me out without interruption, in
gratitude."
She glared defiantly at him, and he
sighed. "Quickly, then," he said. "We haven't much time. And
whatever we do, it will be my decision."
"Agreed," she said. "Commandant, the
Hïrzg has more war-téni than we do, and they're better skilled in
their arts than those I have been able to muster. Would you agree
with that assessment?"
He shrugged. "Envoy ci'Vliomani did
surprisingly well," he said. "I wouldn't have believed it if I
hadn't seen it with my own eyes. But, yes, I agree."
"Then, as you've already suggested, we
lose this battle if we fight them as they expect."
"What else do you suggest, Archigos?"
It was difficult for Sergei to keep the condescension from his
voice.
"Their war-téni have already used much
of their strength in the first attack, and in that way they're no
better than any other téni—if they use the Ilmodo, they will become
exhausted. So I suggest we let them use their spells . . .
but not on us."
Sergei's eyes narrowed, causing the
skin to wrinkle around his false nose. A suspicion began to take
shape in his mind. "And how do you suggest we can accomplish that?"
he asked.
The Archigos shrugged. "You've already
said it, Commandant: you believe what you see with your own
eyes."

Jan
ca'Vörl
THE HORNS SOUNDED "Halt," and a
page came riding wildly down the line to Jan's carriage. "The
Garde Civile holds the road and the fields ahead," the page said.
"They're drawn up in battle formation, at least three full
battalions."
"This far from the walls?" Jan said.
"If I were the commandant, I would have taken them closer to the
city. But . . ." He shrugged. "U'Téni cu'Kohnle! You'll ride
forward with the Starkkapitän and me to see this."
"My Hïrzg," ca'Cellibrecca called from
his carriage behind Jan's. "I will go with you."
Ca'Cellibrecca was already struggling
to rise from his seat, and Jan heard cu'Kohnle sigh. He nearly
sighed with him. Jan waved at ca'Cellibrecca to remain. "Stay here,
Archigos," Jan ordered. "You can . . . pray for the outcome of the
battle."
"Vatarh, may I come also?" Allesandra
asked. "I'd also like to see. How else can I learn, now that
Georgi's gone?"
He nodded indulgently, stroking her
hair. "Bring our horses forward," he called to his attendants.
"We'll ride without banners."
The sun was heavily westering and the
weather had deteriorated, with storm clouds gathering behind
Nessantico. The light was dim, and an odd fog clung close to the
ground—the Fen Fields were reputed to be haunted and fogs were
common here, though generally not in the afternoon. They rode up a
small rise toward the front of the Firenzcian column and paused to
look down.
The line had halted at a bend in the
Avi. There, beyond the long curve, was a field where thick lines of
men in blue-and-gold livery waited. Spears hedged their ranks, and
the banners of chevarittai fluttered just behind them, moving along
the lines as if the chevarittai were impatient for the battle to
start, ready to burst through. "There are more of them than
before," Jan said. "The Kraljiki has emptied the city of troops.
Good. That will make things easier. Semini, how are your
war-téni?"
"Tired from the last attack, my Hïrzg,
but we're ready," the u'téni answered. A small smile curled his
lips under his beard. "Those Numetodo-tainted fools will be rather
more exhausted than us, I would think."
Jan chuckled.
"Starkkapitän?"
"Their troops are badly positioned, my
Hïrzg," ca'Linnett said. "It's difficult to tell in this damned
fog, but I don't think the lines are deep. They're too far out from
the trees and the river will hem them in further. Let the war-téni
and archers take as many as they can, and concentrate on the middle
of the line along the Avi. I'll loose the chevarittai there." He
pointed north of the Avi, where the trees grew thickest. "They can
move them into position while the war-téni attack. Then we'll drive
our infantry straight at where we've weakened them—down the
Avi—while the Red Lancers take the wing. Drive hard enough and fast
enough, and we might still make the city gates before sunset. If
ca'Rudka or the Kraljiki have any sense at all, they won't try to
hold the entire North Bank of the city; they'll pull back near the
ponticas."
"Allesandra?" he asked his daughter,
seated in front of him. She tilted her head back to look up at
him.
"Can I watch from here, Vatarh, where
I can see it all?"
He tousled her curls. "We both will,"
he told her. "Starkkapitän, I leave it to you. Send my attendants
and pages to me. U'Téni cu'Kohnle, you may start the attack when
your war-téni are ready."
Ca'Linnett and cu'Kohnle bowed low and
rushed away. Calls went out along the lines, horns blared and flags
waved, and the Firenzcian line spread out slowly to either side of
the road. Half a turn of the glass later, they heard the boom and
thunder of fire-spells arcing out from just behind the front of the
line, followed by the hissing of flights of arrows. The sputtering,
roaring glares—a full dozen of them—traced smoky lines over the
intervening yards between the armies. Jan watched them, waiting to
see if the defensive spells of the Nessantico war-téni would take
some of them, but they continued on without resistance, and the men
shouted in triumph as the fireballs crashed into the opposing
lines, tearing great holes through them. They could hear shrieks of
alarm and pain, but except where the fireballs crashed into them,
the Nessantico lines held.
"Vatarh?"
The war-téni loosed another barrage,
larger than the first, and these also streamed unchallenged across
the field to plow into the ranks on the other side. More men fell.
The screams redoubled, but other men in yellow and blue slid into
the gap. Jan frowned; the opposing war-téni might have been sapped,
but he doubted that they had no ability left to counter the
spells. Why were they waiting, when their people were dying? This
was slaughter, not battle. He wondered how they could possibly hold
. . .
"Vatarh!"
As a third volley of fire-spells
sizzled across the landscape, Jan glanced down at Allesandra.
"What, little bird?"
"Look at them, Vatarh," she
said. "Really look at them. The ones next to where our
spell-fire strikes; they're not moving. Not at all."
As the next wave of destructive suns
raced over the field, he did watch—not to where they struck but to
the side. It was difficult to see through the smoke and fog,
through the gathering dark under thickening clouds, but he saw that
Allesandra was right. There was an unnatural stiffness to the
soldiers alongside the blasts of the war-téni. They didn't flinch,
didn't cower, didn't run. They stood upright, always looking
forward, their heads not turning at all as their companions were
consumed in fire.
The spell-fire ripped through them as
if they were stones thrown through a painted canvas.
"We've been deceived . . ." he
breathed, but it was already too late. The ranks of enemy Garde
Civile shredded away entirely, like smoke driven by a gale.
Fire-spells came now from the Numetodo: not from the ghostly ranks
before them, but from the southern flank, fire-spells raking the
Firenzcian lines. Not far distant came the clashing of arms and the
pounding of hooves, and Jan saw the Nessantico chevarittai leading
a charge, soldiers in yellow and blue pouring in from the river
side of the Avi. "There!" he shouted to his aides, pointing. "Sound
the horns! Quickly!"
As the horns began to shriek, as the
battle clamor rose below him, he set Allesandra down from his
horse. "Go back to the Archigos," he told her. "Hurry! You, Page,
take her!"
He drew sword then, without looking
back, and kicked his destrier into motion.

Karl
ci'Vliomani
KARL FELT ANA shivering with the
effort and exhaustion. "Let it go," he told her. "You can let
it go now . . ." With a gasp and cry, Ana collapsed into his arms.
He held her tightly. Around her, the ground was littered with the
prone bodies of men and women in green robes—those who had helped
her, who had taken the Ilmodo and fed it to her to create the
illusion she'd woven.
He'd seen nothing like this, ever
before. He hadn't even realized it was possible. He suspected Ana
hadn't either.
"Now," Karl called to the remaining
war-téni. "Start the attack!"
He heard the quick chanting, and false
suns bloomed above them to go shrieking off toward the Firenzcians.
Around them, the Garde Civile gave a whooping cry and surged
forward. A knot of chevarittai pounded up the Avi on their
destriers, calling out a challenge to the Firenzcian chevarittai.
As the hiss and boom of war-fire subsided, the clamor of steel on
steel began to rise.
"Karl?" Ana whispered. Her eyes were closed. "Did it
work?"
"It did," he told her. "I don't know how, but it
worked."
"Good . . ." The word was mostly a sigh. "I need to sleep . .
."
"Sleep, then. You deserve it." He
brushed the hair back from her head and kissed her forehead, laying
her down on the ground. Another flurry of war-fire erupted above
them to go shrieking off toward the Firenzcian line, lighting the
meadow in a furious yellow glare, but it would be the last, he saw:
both the war-téni and the Numetodo were exhausted. They would all
need time to recover; the battle would be decided by steel now, not
spells.
Karl motioned to Kenne. "Take care of
your Archigos," he said. "I need to go to the
commandant."
He brushed Ana's cheek a last time and
swung up on the horse that one of the e'téni was holding. As he
rode away, he thought of what he'd seen, still marveling.
"I need all of you to do the
Opening chant," Ana had said, gathering several of the e'
and o'téni from the Archigos' Temple around her while the
war-téni and Karl's fellow Numetodo watched. "Just as you were
all taught in your first lessons: open yourself to the
Ilmodo but don't shape it. That's all you need to do.
Now!"
They'd done as she asked, as Ana
chanted herself. Karl could feel the power rising
around them. He thought he could almost see it, like a mist
caught in the side of his gaze that vanished if he tried to look
directly at it.
Several of the téni cried out as
Ana continued to chant, as she gathered the power they'd
opened to herself. "No!" she called to them. "Leave the
Ilmodo open. Let me take it from you . . ."
And she did. Already, they could
see the illusion forming out in the fields and across the
Avi in front of them: ghostly men in the garb of the Garde
Civile, wreathed in fog and mist that the freshening wind didn't
touch, facing out toward where the Firenzcian army would
appear. They stood there: motionless, waiting.
He could see Ana: her hands and
lips moving as she controlled the spell she wove, the words
lost in the cry of surprise that rose from all those around.
Sergei, watching, had laughed. "The Archigos has done her part,"
he called to the offiziers and the chevarittai. "Now, let's
do ours . . ." Calling out orders, he had ridden
away.
Ana had continued to chant, and the
ghost soldiers solidified and became more numerous as she
continued to pull the energy from the other téni. It was
marvelous to watch. It nearly made him want to believe as she
did, if faith in Cénzi could lend her this much
power.
For the first time, Karl had dared
to think that this would work. . . .
A shrill of bright horns brought him
out of his reverie. He could see the banner of the commandant ahead
of him in the press of men, but the cornets were sounding from
behind him, and they were blaring the call of the
Kraljiki.
Justi, unannounced and unasked for,
had entered the field.

Justi
ca'Mazzak
"KRALJIKI!" ca'Rudka bowed
perfunctorily to him. "I thought you intended to remain in the
city." Justi thought he saw irritation in the man's scarred face,
in the way his skin folded around the silver nose glued to his
skin. Justi saw the Numetodo envoy standing next to ca'Rudka along
with A'Offizier ca'Montmorte. The Archigos was nowhere visible, and
he wondered where she was.
"The battle is here," Justi said to
the commandant, "and I intend to fight this time. Word came to me
that you were retreating. I will not have us retreat,
Commandant."
"I fell back at need, Kraljiki,"
ca'Rudka answered, making no pretense to hide his scowl now. "But
we've turned again."
"Then we waste our time here,
Commandant. I have brought the chevarittai with me, and they are
ready." The riders with him shouted agreement, their horses
stamping impatiently.
"Kraljiki, you should remain here, so
that we can place your men where they will do the most good. The
pages will bring us news."
"News?" Justi howled. "You'd have me
wait here like a doddering matron? I sent you forward to stop the
Hïrzg; you have not. Now I will do it myself."
"Kraljiki . . ."
"No!" Justi shouted. The man denied
him his moment, and he would not have that. Better to die on the
battlefield than in the Bastida. Better to die as Kraljiki
than as a prisoner. "You can remain here if you wish,
Commandant, but I go forward to lead my men in defense of their
city. I listened to you at Passe a'Fiume, and you gave up that city
quickly. If you have courage, then join me; otherwise, stay here.
Who is in command here?"
"You are, Kraljiki," the commandant
said. At the mention of Passe a'Fiume, his face had gone ruddy, and
a scowl had twisted the mouth under the silver nose. Justi saw
ca'Rudka glance at the ca'Montmorte, at the Numetodo, at the
offiziers and pages around them. "Bring my horse," the commandant
said. "We ride with the Kraljiki."
Justi nodded, grim-faced. He drew his
sword and gestured up the Avi, to where the sound of battle was
loudest. "Ride, then!" he cried. "Ride!"
They pounded away, the chevarittai
around him, the banner of the Kraljiki snapping angrily in the
wind, not waiting for the commandant and the others. The Garde
Civile shouted encouragement as they galloped past their ranks, and
their cheers drove Justi forward harder. Ahead, he could see the
melee of the spreading front line, and he and the chevarittai
plunged into it, breaking the line of infantry and plowing through
into the ranks beyond.
The fury of battle banished any other
thoughts.
Justi hacked at a spear thrust toward
him, hewing off the hand that held the weapon, and the man's
lifeblood spurted out as he screamed and fell under the hooves of
Justi's horse. Justi began to strike blindly, at anything that
moved wearing silver and black. Around him, his chevarittai tore
through the Firenzcians like a plow through earth, blood and death
in their trail. They were deep behind the lines now, and the
Firenzcian chevarittai had noticed the banner of the Kraljiki and
were pushing toward them. "Kraljiki!" Justi heard Sergei shout from
behind him. "You're too isolated here! We must fall back to our own
line!"
"No!" Justi shouted over his shoulder.
"I will not be called a coward!"
He struck at the nearest man, heard a
howl as glittering red spattered his sword arm. He pushed forward.
He heard the challenge of the enemy chevarittai, and he shouted
back at them defiantly.
They came.
Justi managed to take down the first
chevaritt who reached him—a man whose face was vaguely familiar, a
ca' who had perhaps once been at the court or to whom Justi had
been introduced on one of his sojourns to Brezno. He didn't know
the man's name, only knew that his own sword was growing heavier
even as their blades met and he thrust hard into the space between
helm and chestplate, finding flesh above the collar of the man's
surcoat. Justi tried to pull his sword back as gore splashed over
the surcoat's embroidered crest, but his blade was snagged on bone
or armor. There was no time to think; another chevaritt was on him
and he could not defend himself. He let go of the sword (the
chevaritt tumbling from his saddle) and brought up a hopeless arm,
hoping the steel of the vambrace could deflect the blow . . . but
ca'Rudka's horse slammed hard into Justi's attacker, the
commandant's sword slicing through the Firenzcian's hauberk. The
chevaritt slid to the ground under their destriers with a
scream.
"Kraljiki—" Sergei started to say, but
there was no time. They were caught, snared in the press of foot
soldiers and chevarittai. The young chevaritt holding Justi's
banner was down. To his left, Justi saw ca'Montmorte borne under,
skewered on a spear, his surcoat and hauberk feathered with arrows.
Near ca'Montmorte, the Numetodo ci'Vliomani gestured and fire
exploded, but his war-fire was pale and ineffective. Everything was
chaos: screaming and shouting and movement. Pain lanced Justi's
right leg and he cried out in shock, glancing down to see his
greave rent and blood streaming from the gash in the metal. Hands
clutching at him, threatening to pull him down.
Justi knew that he was about to be
captured, if not slain outright. If either happened, this war was
over. Any parley for his release would include his abdication. He
struck at the hands with a dagger pulled from his belt, kicking at
his destier's side. But the destrier was hemmed in and though he
saw Sergei still fighting desperately at his side, they were
surrounded now in a sea of black and silver.
Justi screamed in fury.

Karl
ci'Vliomani
HE HAD NOTHING LEFT. The spells he
had prepared so carefully before the battle were gone, and it would
take too long and he was far too exhausted to call up new ones. His
arm was already exhausted from using his sword—and swordplay was
hardly his strength, in any case.
He wondered what death was going to
feel like. He wondered— briefly—what he might say to Cénzi if He
were there in the afterlife.
He heard the Kraljiki scream and saw
the man surrounded, about to be borne down.
But the earth answered the Kraljiki's
scream.
The ground erupted as if some demon of
the Moitidi had risen from the depths: an explosion of mud and
trampled wheat tossed away from them anyone in black and silver,
though it left the Kraljiki, the commandant, and the remaining
chevarittai of Nessantico untouched.
And Karl.
For a moment, there was
silence.
That was a spell. Ana? Where did
she find the strength?
Karl saw the commandant grab for the
reins of the Kraljiki's horse; the Kraljiki himself swayed in the
saddle, clutching at his leg. "Retreat!" ca'Rudka shouted to the
others. "Retreat while we have the chance!"
Ca'Rudka yanked at the reins of the
Kraljiki's mount. Karl kicked his own horse into movement, dropping
the useless sword to better hold the reins. They galloped back
toward the Nessantico lines through the tumbled bodies.
Black and silver merged into blue and
gold: they were through and behind the lines as the sounds of
battle arose anew behind them. "We need a healer!" Sergei shouted
to a page as they halted. The commandant was helping the Kraljiki
down from his saddle; Sergei slid from his own horse to aid him,
but the commandant nearly fell himself with his own wounded leg.
The Kraljiki was moaning and fighting their hands; Sergei saw blood
pulsing from the wound in the man's thigh. He and ca'Rudka looked
at each other as they lay the Kraljiki on the grass and mud. Sergei
was already stripping off his coverlet, ripping the cloth and
stuffing it into the wound. "Get his greave off so we can bind the
wound," he said to Karl. "Quickly."
Karl cut the straps of the plate mail
with his dagger and pulled it free of the torn links of the mail
leggings underneath. More blood gushed over his hands. The spear,
he saw, had come in at the top of the plate and pierced deep into
the muscle. He glimpsed white bone before Sergei packed the wound
and bound another strip above the gash. The flow of blood slowly
subsided, though the Kraljiki's face was pale and he'd lapsed into
unconsciousness.
"He may lose that leg, if not his
life," the commandant said to Karl as the healer arrived, and
ca'Rudka stood up, watching as the healer fussed over Justi. "This
was so unnecessary. The Archigos, though, she might be able to
help."
Karl shook his head. "Ana has no
strength left. The Kraljiki is in the hands of the healers for
now."
A nod. The commandant was looking
back, toward the line of battle. The gloom of twilight was
beginning to deepen, aided by the dark fan of a storm front. A few
large drops of rain were beginning to fall and the wind had picked
up. "We've done all we can do," the commandant said, glancing up.
"The city is safe for another day, at least." He gestured to a
nearby page. "Find the horns. Have them call 'Disengage.' Tell the
a'offiziers to fall back toward the city. I doubt the Hïrzg will
follow this time."
He looked down again at the Kraljiki.
Karl watched him shake his head.

Jan
ca'Vörl
"THEY'RE PULLING BACK all along
the line," ca'Linnett said to Jan. The Starkkapitän's face,
like Jan's own, was spattered with mud and blood smeared by the
driving rain, and the edge of his sword was badly nicked. "If we
press, they will turn and fight; if we allow them, they'll
retreat."
Jan grunted. He wiped at sodden eyes.
He was surprised that the rain did not hiss like water dropped on
heated steel as it struck him, the anger burned in him so
hot.
The carriages had come forward as the
line of battle had pushed on toward the city. Allesandra, wrapped
in an oilcloth against the wet, was at his side again, looking up
at him as ca'Linnett gave his report. U'Téni cu'Kohnle stood by
ca'Linnett, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping with the
rain; he looked as if he'd not slept in a week, drained by the
efforts of his spells. Ca'Cellibrecca was present as well—unsoiled,
untouched, protected from the rain by a large umbrella held by an
e'téni, yet somehow managing to look as if he'd suffered worst of
all.
This was not a victory. At best this
was a draw. Jan stared at the men in black and silver laying
unmoving in the field as the rain pummeled them. This was a defeat.
He knew it. The Numetodo illusion had wasted their war-téni's
efforts, and they'd been unable to counter the war-fire that had
been sent after them. The Garde Civile had fought like madmen
rather than halfhearted conscripts, and the chevarittai of
Nessantico had shown their worth. Jan had felt some hope when he'd
glimpsed the Kraljiki's foolish advance beyond his own lines, but
another unusual spell—was it the Numetodo again, or the false
Archigos?—had saved the idiot.
Now darkness threatened and the rain
poured down on them.
"Pursue," he said, furious. "I don't
care. I will rest tonight inside the walls.
"Hïrzg," ca'Linnett persisted,
"they're not fleeing in panic. Their retreat is orderly and slow,
and they will fight all the way back if we press them, on
ground they know better than we do. Who knows what these Numetodo
can still do? Our war-téni need to rest, and we could use the time
to prepare our siege engines."
Jan was shaking his head at the
argument. "Hïrzg," cu'Kohnle broke in, "the starkkapitän is right.
My war-téni are exhausted; we have nothing left. Give us the night,
though, and we'll be ready for a final assault in the
morning."
"Are you not listening to me?"
Jan spat at them. "I want this city. I will have it. If you won't
help me take it, then I will find offiziers and téni who will." He
glared at them, and was gratified when both ca'Linnett and
cu'Kohnle bowed their heads. Ca'Cellibrecca, in his ornate robes
under the umbrella, was looking away, as if fascinated by the Avi
behind them.
"Vatarh." Allesandra tugged at his
cloak. He glanced down at her serious face, blinking against the
raindrops pelting them. "The starkkapitän and the u'téni are right.
They'll do as you tell them to do because they respect you, but
they're right. I know you want the city, and I know you'll give it
to me as you promised. But not tonight, Vatarh. Tomorrow." She
smiled at him, and the fury inside him cooled somewhat. "Or even
the next day," she said. "It doesn't matter. The Firenzcian army is
strong, and you are their leader. You will take the city, but it
doesn't need to be this day."
"I promised you, Allesandra," Jan
said. With his forefinger, he brushed dampened curls back from her
cheeks.
"I can wait, Vatarh," she answered. "I
can wear the lights of the city for the rest of my life. Another
day won't matter. I can wait."
He took a breath. Thunder grumbled
overhead, but the rain was lessening, and the lightning was
flickering east of them, toward Firenzcia.
"We'll make camp here," he said.
"U'Téni cu'Kohnle, make certain that the war-téni sleep and are
ready for tomorrow. Starkkapitän, you'll prepare your offiziers and
troops for the final assault, and I will meet with both of you
later this evening. We'll move at first light tomorrow."
He hugged Allesandra to him. "And you
shall have your jeweled city tomorrow," he told her.

Mahri
ANA WAS DOZING in her
chair, but she must have sensed his presence. Her eyes
fluttered open. If she was surprised to see him standing in her
apartments near the Archigos' Temple, she didn't show it.
"You don't agree to my advice?" he
asked her, chiding her gently. "You won't use the gift I gave
you?"
He saw Ana touch her robe at her right
side. He could see how the cloth rounded there over the enchanted
glass he'd given her. She said nothing. "I heard the gossip in the
city, Archigos. They say that you saved the Kraljiki's life with a
spell," he continued.
"It wasn't me," she said. "I don't
know . . ." Then her eyes widened a bit.
"Yes," he told her. "I shouldn't have
interfered, but if I hadn't, my gift to you would have been
wasted."
She stirred, sitting up in the chair
in which she'd fallen asleep. Her hand brought out the ball. He
could see the glowing colors within it; he could feel the power
he'd placed within the glass for her. "Here, then," she said. "I
give it back to you. Use it yourself if you're so
certain."
"I can't." He kept his hands at his
sides, refusing to take it. After a moment, she placed it on the
stand next to the chair, on her untouched dinner tray.
"Why not?"
In answer, he brought a shallow brass
bowl from the bag he wore under his cloak, the rim decorated with
ornate filigrees of colored enamel. He went to the desk and set the
bowl there, pouring water into it from a pitcher the servants had
left there. From a leather pouch, he sprinkled a dark powder into
the water and stirred it, chanting words in the Westspeech. He
could see her watching him, her head cocked to one side as she
listened, and he knew that she heard the similarity between
Westspeech and the language of the Ilmodo: the same cadences and
rhythms, the same sibilance and breathy vowels. A mist rose above
the bowl.
"Look into it," he said.
She gave him a long, appraising look.
Then, finally, she rose from her chair (he could see her weariness
in the grimaces and the way she stretched her limbs) and—on the far
side of the desk from him—stood over the bowl. She looked
down.
He knew what she saw, knew because
he'd glimpsed it himself a dozen or more times over the last few
months.
In the mists, Ana's face, and the
figure of Jan ca'Vörl. She holds a knife, and the blade is
bloodied. The mists roil, and there is ca'Cellibrecca, sprawled
on the ground alongside the Hïrzg, blood spread across his
chest, his chest unmoving. Ana's face is a mask as she
stares, her eyes cold and hard. The knife drops from her
hand, and the mists swirl again, and there is Nessantico,
untouched, and on the Sun Throne is Justi . . .
He knew what she saw. He stretched his
scarred hand between Ana's rapt face and the bowl, sweeping away
the mist.
He would not let her see what came
afterward. That was only for him.
Ana looked up at him, her hands fisted
on the desktop. "This is the future?" she asked.
He nodded. "It is a glimpse of one
path the future can take," he said. "A path that's uncertain and
hard to decipher sometimes. But when I see the Hïrzg's death, when
I see Nessantico saved and Justi on the throne, it is always
you who do this deed, Ana. Not me. That's why I gave you the
spelled glass—because I know that if I kill them, Nessantico
still falls. Inevitably."
He wondered if she could hear the
half-lie.
"I can't," she said. "To murder people
while they're helpless . . ."
He smiled, and saw her recoil from his
expression. "How better to do it?" he said. "My people have a
saying: 'In time of war, all laws are silent.' How many have died
today—unnecessarily—because you didn't do what I
suggested?"
Her gaze hardened then, and he
realized he'd pushed her too far. "You blame me?"
Mahri hurried to answer, shaking his
head. He could not give her time to think, or it would be too late.
"No, Ana. I don't blame you—if anything, the blame is mine for not
making it clear enough. You can play by the rules of 'civilized'
war if you wish, Ana, but you will lose if you do so—ask Commandant
ca'Rudka if he truly thinks you will prevail against Hïrzg Jan; ask
your war-téni if they believe they are stronger than those on the
other side. You've already bent the rules of your Faith and your
Divolonté. Bend them further. You have tonight to do this. Tonight
only. Tomorrow, it will be too late, because the Hïrzg will be
dining in the Palais and ca'Cellibrecca will be standing where
you're standing right now. Both you and Justi will be dead, or
worse."
"Why?" she asked him. "Why do
you care who is Kraljiki or Archigos?"
"I don't," he told her. "I care for
what is best for my people, as you do. And so I want Justi as
Kraljiki and you as the Archigos."
"You saw that here?" she asked,
pointing at the bowl.
For a moment he wondered if she had
guessed, or if she'd seen more
in the bowl than he'd intended for her to see. "Yes," he told
her tentatively. "Glimpses, as you saw. And I hope that they're
right."
He was relieved when she nodded. He
plucked the glass ball from the dinner tray. "Tonight," he
repeated, holding the ball. "It's your only chance."
She stared at him. He was afraid she
was going to refuse, afraid that what he'd seen in the bowl would
be forever shattered and lost. But finally her hands came up from
her sides, palms up.
He placed the ball in her hands and
closed her fingers around the glow.

Ana
ca'Seranta
A NA WAS MORE FRIGHTENED than she
could remember. Her hands were shaking, and she felt
impossibly cold.
Kenne brought the carriage, driven by
a trusted e'téni. When she told him that she wanted to leave the
city along the Avi a'Firenzcia, that she wanted to come as close as
she could come to where the Hïrzg's army was camped (trying
desperately to keep her voice from shaking), he nodded as if she'd
asked him to take her on a promenade around the Avi a'Parete. "And
Envoy ci'Vliomani? Will we be picking him up also?"
"Let Karl sleep," she'd told him.
"This is something I must do on my own—but I need your
help."
Kenne had nodded and kept any thoughts
he might have had to himself. That gratified Ana; she didn't know
if she would have been able to answer his questions.
She stared out from the curtains as
they rattled through the city. The Avi a'Parete was strangely dark,
the téni-lamps unlit for the first time in generations. The storm
front had passed on eastward, leaving moon-silver puddles on the
flags of the courtyards and the Avi. The streets were deserted
except for Garde Civile (though the taverns they passed were both
crowded and noisy), and it was only the cracked globe of Cénzi on
their carriage that saved them from being stopped and questioned
several times. The A'Sele flowed dark and forbidding under the
Pontica Mordei, and the heads on either side of the gates of the
Avi a'Firenzcia were black and still, frozen as they stared outward
into the night, gazing blindly to where the army of Firenzcia
slept.
The carriage was hailed as they came
to the barricades at the gate; Kenne leaned out from the carriage
and answered the challenge. At his insistence that they were on the
Archigos' business, they were permitted through. They passed
between uncounted tents of the Garde Civile along the
Avi.
The world seemed calm, despite the
cataclysm that had come to Nessantico, despite Ana's own
apprehensions. She cradled the glass ball nestled in her pocket,
letting the Ilmodo energy captured within it tingle her fingers and
praying to Cénzi to tell her that she was doing the right
thing.
There was no answer. Only an aching
uncertainty in her heart and the fear of what she was setting out
to do.
She felt the carriage come to a halt
as the driver stopped chanting. "Archigos," she heard the driver
say. "I can't go farther . . ."
Kenne opened the carriage door and Ana
peered out. Ahead, the Avi was entirely blocked: the rear defensive
line of Nessantico troops. A squad of the Garde Civile were
approaching the carriage; as they saw Ana and Kenne step from the
carriage, they all hurriedly gave the sign of Cénzi. "Archigos,
U'Téni," the e'offizer with them said. "I'll send word to
Commandant ca'Rudka that you've come." He started to gesture to one
of his men, but she stopped him.
"No, E'Offizier. Let the commandant
have his rest. I've come to look at the lines, that's all. I
couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd see where we should place the
war-téni."
He nodded, with a quick, almost shy
smile. "I understand. Right now, though, things are
quiet."
"Where are the Firenzcian
troops?"
The man pointed up the road. "No more
than a quarter mile past our lines. You can glimpse their campfires
through the trees."
"I'd like to see."
"We'll take you . . ."
Ana walked with Kenne, the e'offizer,
and his squad through the quiet lines, where most of the Garde
Civile were sleeping on the ground or packed into small tents,
getting what rest they could before the sun and inevitable battle
came. The Avi itself was blocked by a barrier of quickly-felled
trees, but there was nothing but field, trees, and the occasional
abandoned farmhouse between the two forces on either side of the
road. The e'offizier led them to one side of the Avi, to a small
stand of apple trees. She could see a few lookouts stationed along
the line, but otherwise there was no one near them. "This is as far
as we should go," the e'offizier said. "Any farther out from cover
and it would be too dangerous." Yellow flames blinked like distant
fireflies in a rough line ahead of her, flickering through the
swaying foliage of trees and brush. She stared out into the
dark.
"You saved us earlier, Archigos," the
e'offizier said behind her. "I want you to know that we appreciate
that, all of us."
She nodded. "Thank you, E'Offizier.
Now, if you would leave us alone for a bit, please," she said. "To
pray . . ."
He gave her the sign of Cénzi once
more. He gestured to the squad and they strode away, leaving Ana
and Kenne standing alone in the little grove. She pulled out
Mahri's gift. She cupped it in her hand. "Archigos?" Kenne said,
looking at the ruddy fire in her hand.
"I need you to hide me, Kenne," she
told him. "A shielding spell so no one sees or hears me moving in
the night. I need to get as close as I can."
She thought she saw Kenne's eyebrows
lift in the moonlight, but he nodded. He began to chant, his hands
swaying in the moonlight. The air shimmered around her—she was not
invisible, but unless one looked carefully they might mistake her
form for a tree's shadow or a cloud over the moon.
It was the best she could hope
for.
Ana took a long breath, then stepped
forward from the sheltering trees and into the open field. She
waited, half expecting to hear the hiss of arrows or a call of
alarm. Yett she heard nothing but Kenne's chanting behind her. She
continued to walk: a step, another, with each step fighting the
temptation to run.
She was nearly across to the line of
trees and the campfire among them when the shimmering of air began
to lessen: Kenne was tiring. She lifted the glass ball in her
hand.
Speak my name, he'd said.
"Mahri," she whispered, and she felt the power within the glass
well up. In her mind, it spread around her and she saw the shape of
the spell that contained it in the pattern of the Ilmodo. She
marveled at the spell's complexity, wondering if she could have
crafted something like this herself. But she had little time—she
remembered how Mahri had said that the spell was difficult to hold,
and she could already feel the wildness of it in her
mind.
She looked about. In the sky, the
fast-moving clouds had stopped. There was no sound but the roaring
of the power in her mind. A night swallow hovered high above her,
captured in mid-turn, its wings locked in mid-beat.
Ana began to walk as quickly as she
could toward the campfires— but now she found movement difficult
and slow. She felt as if she were wading through deep water. As she
reached the enemy lines, her heart pounded, seeing a man staring
directly at her as he stood beside the nearest tree. She gathered
herself—to run or to ready a spell—but then she realized that he
was as unresponsive as a sculpture, and that the flames of the
campfire against whose light he was outlined appeared painted on
the air.
She hurried past the soldier, feeling
a chill as he stood there, still staring outward. Kill the head
and the snake dies. . . .
It was easy to locate the Hïrzg's
tent, with his banner caught in mid-flutter above. She walked
unchallenged through the encampment and past the gardai outside.
She lifted the flap—the canvas as stiff and unyielding as if it
were frozen—and stepped inside.
She stopped, breathing heavily with
the exertion of simply walking in this gelid air. The interior of
the tent was ornate: a thick rug covered the ground, a wooden field
desk stood on its stand to one side, a brazier trailed an unmoving
wisp of incense, and téni-lights had been lit to brighten the room.
There were several people in the tent, gathered around a table set
with food: ca'Cellibrecca she recognized instantly, his hand
lifting a forkful of meat toward his gaping mouth. There was
another man in black and silver with the insignia of the
starkkapitän on his sleeves; a thin man who was seated at the
middle of the table; a green-robed téni with the slashes of an
u'téni—that could only be cu'Kohnle.
The Hïrzg sat at the head of the table
. . . and on his lap, unexpectedly, was a young girl. The sight
puzzled Ana for a moment, then she realized: it was the Hïrzg's
daughter Allesandra. It had to be her; she could see the similarity
in their faces.
They were all statues crafted by a
flawless artist. The power snarling in her head, she went to the
Hïrzg. She pulled the knife from its scabbard.
So easy . . . Draw it hard and
deep, and he will die, and then do the same to
ca'Cellibrecca and cu'Kohnle, and the starkkapitän as well. . .
.
But she stood there, staring at the
tableau, the power within Mahri's spell buzzing insistently in her
ears. Allesandra was gazing up at her vatarh, her mouth half-open,
and there was such deep love and affection in her gaze that it
stopped Ana's hand.
Once it was that way for me, before
Matarh became sick. Vatarh loved me, and I loved him in
return, and he would hold me on his knees and play with me
and I never, never wanted to leave. . . .
She almost heard the girl's chuckle.
She saw the Hïrzg's hand, ready to brush away an errant curl from
her forehead, and in his eyes was the same affection, the same
love.
Ana's hand trembled. The tip of the
knife wavered just above the Hïrzg's flesh. The Ilmodo seethed and
crackled around her, as if Cénzi Himself were laughing.
You don't have time. Mahri told
you. Kill him. Leave . . . She imagined the aftermath and how
it would be for the girl: one moment laughing with her father, then
a breath, a waver, and the blood would be pouring from him and her
vatarh would collapse on her, dead in an instant. Impossibly
taken.
A breath, a waver . . . A brief
instant of disorientation and reality dissolving around her.
As Ana had felt when Mahri came to her with the glass ball.
"It's just my finger. It might as easily have been a knife . .
."
The brief instant of disorientation
. . .
The dissolution of reality . .
.
So familiar . . .
Ana gasped.
She knew. All in that instant, she
knew. This was what Mahri needed. Not what she
needed.
She glimpsed another way. A better
way, she hoped.
There was little time left. The Ilmodo
screamed in her mind, a rising wail, and she could not hold the
spell together for much longer. She slid the knife back in its
scabbard and went to the field desk, spreading out a piece of thick
paper that seemed to fight her hand, taking a quill and dipping the
end into the inkwell.
Even writing was a struggle, as if the
ink itself were fighting her. She wrote a brief, scrawling note and
signed it. Returning to the table, she tugged the Hïrzg's arms away
from Allesandra—they moved reluctantly, as if he were loath to
allow this. She tucked the note in his hand and closed his fist
around it.
Finally, she took the unaware girl in
her arms.
Hoping she could make her way from the
encampment before she could no longer hold the spell together, she
fled. Carrying the stiff body of Allesandra, it was as if Ana were
fighting her way upstream against a rushing, white-watered current.
She stumbled from the encampment with the burden of the young girl,
past the campfire and beyond the line of guards, and out into the
open field between the two armies, pausing a few times to rest and
recover her breath.
The campfires of the Nessantico
defenders edged closer.
There was a man standing between
herself and the campfires, though, and he stood where there had
been no one before. "Kenne?" she breathed, hoping somehow it was
true and knowing it was not. "Karl?"
"No," the apparition answered, and the
shock of his speech was enough to tear away the remnants of the
spell. The world returned to motion around Ana, the impact of it
causing Ana to drop Allesandra to the ground.
"It was you, wasn't it, Mahri?" Ana
said.

Allesandra
ca'Vörl
"YOU ARE MY LITTLE BIRD, and I
love—" her vatarh said, but then the world lurched around her and
she wasn't there on his lap anymore but somehow lying on the cold,
wet ground in the night. Someone—a woman's voice—was growling at a
black figure in the middle of a meadow. Allesandra tried to get up,
but she was disoriented and could only struggle to her knees.
"It was you, wasn't it, Mahri? The
Kraljica didn't die because of ci'Recroix's spell—it was you who
killed her."
Dizzy, feeling nauseous from the
strangeness, Allesandra stared at the speaker. It was hard to see
in the dim, fleeting moonlight, but the woman was dressed in a
téni's robes—robes that looked similar to those the fat Archigos
wore. She was speaking to a man: he was little more than a beggar.
His face, when the moonlight caught it under the hood of his cloak,
was horrid: all twisted and scarred with one eye missing, and the
smile he gave the woman was hideous.
"Yes, it was me," he admitted. "This
won't do, Ana. I can't have you take the girl back to be ransomed.
That would leave the Hïrzg alive . . ." He smiled again, and the
coldness of the expression made Allesandra shiver. She would have
cried out, but they were both ignoring her. She remained still, but
her fingers crept to where her vatarh's knife was tucked under her
tashta. "But I can remedy that problem. After all, finding you out
here with the girl's body will tell everyone who killed the
Hïrzg—that will work nearly as well for my purposes, I think.
There's still time. In fact, there's all the time I
need."
He lifted a hand; in it was a small
glass ball. He closed his eyes and spoke a word; but the woman had
done the same—gesturing sharply with one hand and speaking a phrase
that boomed loudly in the night air. The glass ball shattered in
the man's hand. Green-and-yellow light shot through the air,
sending shadows racing over the ground. The man shouted and
staggered backward.
"I didn't come entirely unprepared,
Mahri," the woman—could she really be Ana, the false Archigos?—said
to the man. "And I've learned from Karl, too."
"You've not learned enough," the
cloaked man told her, cradling his arm. "Not enough . .
."
He lifted both his hands, sweeping
them through the air, and speaking a sequence of words in a strange
tongue. The attack came so quickly that Allesandra was certain that
the woman would be consumed by it: crackling blue fire streamed
from the gesturing man to envelop the woman. But Ana had raised her
own hands at the same moment and the blue fire split into two
streams just in front of her, hissing and fuming as they struck the
ground on either side of the Archigos.
But the firestream continued to pour
toward her, and Allesandra heard the woman gasp as she held her
shielding hands before her. Her mouth was moving, but the words
were unheard over the fury of the spell; her eyes were closed and
lines of effort creased her face. The sundered firestreams began to
close, threatening to drown her in the blue flames.
Allesandra wanted to believe this was
a nightmare, that she had simply fallen asleep suddenly in her
vatarh's lap, but it couldn't be a dream. And she knew that when
the cloaked man killed Ana, he would look next at her. . .
.
Georgi had told her that a
starkkapitän must know when to make alliances, even with those who
might the next day be your enemy. Vatarh had shown her the
same.
Allesandra closed her fingers around
the knife Vatarh had given her. She pulled the blade free of the
scabbard. Gathering all her strength, pushing away the dizziness,
she rushed toward the man, screaming. His gaze shifted to her and
the firestreams began to curl, but she was already beside him and
she thrust the blade into his cloak blindly.
The firestream nearly touched her, but
in the instant she thought she would feel its touch, the blaze
shifted as if someone had taken hold of it, and the flames instead
wrapped around Mahri himself. He screamed, and Allesandra flung
herself away from him, dropping the knife. She struck the ground
hard, the breath taken from her. As she tried to breathe, to move,
she saw the firestreams crackle and flare, covering the man's
entire body and flinging him a dozen feet away. The spellfire
vanished then, but real flames—yellow and pale in comparison—
sputtered on his clothing.
He did not move.
Allesandra could hear people shouting
nearby, calling alarm. Ténifire was beginning to glow to both sides
of them.
Ana was on her knees in the mud,
breathing heavily. Allesandra saw the woman rise, and she tried to
get up herself to run away, but she didn't know which way to go,
she was frightened and sore, and Ana already stood over her. "Are
you all right?" Ana's voice was hoarse and cracked and
tired.
Allesandra nodded silently, sniffing
away the tears that threatened, and when Ana stretched a hand
toward her, she took it. "We have to hurry," Ana said.
"I want to go back to my
vatarh."
Ana nodded. "You will," she said. "I
promise you. In time, you will."
There were men approaching them, and
they wore blue and gold rather than black and silver. Allesandra
whimpered in alarm and tried to break free from the older woman,
but Ana hugged her tightly. "They won't hurt you," she whispered to
Allesandra. "I promise you. They won't hurt you. I won't let
them."
"Vatarh promised me the city,"
Allesandra told her.
"And I will show it to you," Ana said.
"But Nessantico belongs to itself."