S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

“Ana? I feel as if I’ve been away for a long time. . I’m so tired, and I don’t remember. . Why are you dressed that way, child, like a teni?

And so much older. .”

Ana’s breath caught in a sob. She felt too weary to stand, and sank down alongside the carry-chair, gathering the woman in her arms. She looked at her own hands, marveling that they weren’t burned to the bone. “Matarh. .” The doors to the chapel pushed opened suddenly and her vatarh strode in, looking concerned. The servants peered around the opening. Ana glanced at him; her matarh turned in her carry-chair and laughed.

“Tomas!”

“Abi?” he said. He gaped, almost comically, caught in a half-stride.

“Abi, is that you I heard?”

“Indeed it was,” the Archigos answered him, moving between Tomas and Ana as Kenne lifted Ana to her feet, his hands supporting her as she swayed, exhausted. “Cenzi has moved here tonight, Vajiki, in honor of your daughter’s anointment. We have witnessed a special blessing.”

Ana heard the Archigos’ last words as if they were coming from a great distance. She thought she saw her vatarh rushing to them, but the shadows in the chapel were growing darker and the candlelight could not hold them back. The darkness whirled around her, a night-storm.

She pushed at it with her hands, but the blackness filled her mouth and her eyes and bore her away.

Marguerite ca’Ludovici

“Kraljica?”

“When I’m eighteen, I’ll be Kraljiki just like you became Kraljica,” Justi said, smiling at her as she held him. She laughed.

“Is that what you want, Justi? That means I only have twelve more years to live.” She pouted dramatically, and Justi’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. The courtiers gathered around them laughed.

“Oh, no, Matarh,” Justi said, the words tumbling out all in a rush. “I want you to live forever and ever!”

“Kraljica?”

The Throne Room smelled of oils. When Renard’s voice came,Marguerite found herself startled-she’d nearly fallen into a trance as the painter ci’Recroix first sketched her likeness on the canvas and began applying the underpainting. She was startled to see darkness outside the windows of the West Reception Chamber, and to find the room lit by a dozen candelabra and the eternal glow of the Sun Throne.

Several of the courtiers were standing well to the back of the room-banished there because ci’Recroix had said that he could not work with gawkers looking over his shoulder-and talking softly among themselves while servants bustled about. How long had she been sitting there? Had she ordered the candles lit? It seemed bare minutes ago that Third Call had sounded.

“Yes?” she asked Renard, blinking at him standing before her with hands on forehead-here, in public, always the correct image of an aide. Renard glanced over at the painter. Ci’Recroix straightened by the canvas set at the foot of Marguerite’s dais, stirring his brush in a jar of turpentine. Pale colors swirled around the fine sable hairs. The strange, dark box of a mechanism he’d used to sketch her initial likeness, the device he’d called a “miroire a’scene,” was draped in black cloth on the floor nearby.

“Kraljica, the Commandant ca’Rudka is here with his report.”

“Ah!” Marguerite blinked. She felt somnolent and lethargic, and shook her head to clear it. She wondered whether she’d been sleeping, and if anyone had noticed. “Send him up. Vajiki ci’Recroix, I’m afraid that our session is over for today.”

The painter bowed and pressed his paint-stained hands to his forehead, leaving behind a smudge of vermilion. “As you wish, Kraljica.

When should I return? Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? The lighting I want to capture on your face is that of the late day-the light looks so dramatic on your face, coupled with the Sun Throne behind you. …”

“That will be fine-Renard, make certain there are a few turns of the glass in my schedule for Vajiki ci’Recroix before Third Call. And please clear the room so that the commandant and I have some privacy; I will meet with the court afterward in the Red Hall for supper.” As Renard bowed and went to the courtiers, as the painter began to gather up his oils and brushes, Marguerite rose from the crystalline seat. The light in the Sun Throne dimmed and faded, making the room seem dark as the courtiers noisily filed out of the room. “I would like to see what you’ve done,” she told the artist.

Ci’Recroix was visibly startled by the request. He dropped the brushes he was holding on the small table next to the easel and quickly draped a white sheet over the canvas. “You cannot, Kraljica.”

“I cannot ?” Her head tilted slightly to one side with the word, and an eyebrow lifted.

“Well. . I would strongly prefer that you do not, Kraljica,” ci’Recroix quickly amended, with another pressing of hands to forehead. He picked up the brushes again and began to place them in a case. “I’ve only just made my sketch and began to place the undertones on the canvas. You would be more pleased if you could wait until I have something substantial to show you. It’s the way I work with my subjects; I want to surprise them with an image of themselves, as if they were looking into a mirror, but this. .” He waved his hand at the hidden canvas. “This would only disappoint you at the moment, I’m afraid. So if it would please the Kraljica, I beg you not to look. In fact, perhaps it would be best if I took it with me. . ”

His face seemed so comically distressed that she nearly laughed.

“I’ll manage to contain my curiosity for the time being, Vajiki,” she told him, then did laugh at the relief that softened the hard lines of his thin face. “Leave your canvas here; no one will disturb it.”

A knock came on the doors at the far end of the room. “Enter,” arguerite said; the door opened and Commandant ca’Rudka strode

into the room, walking quickly toward them, his bootsteps loud on the tiled floor. His sharp eyes flickered over to ci’Recroix even as he quickly touched hands to forehead yet again; the painter stared openly at the man’s silver nose.

“Kraljica,” the commandant said. “You’d do well to open your windows. The stench of the oils. .” He strode to the windows nearest the dais and pushed them open. Fresh, cold air wafted in and the Kraljica shivered, but the breeze did seem to clear her head.

“Thank you, Sergei,” she said. “Vajiki ci’Recroix, if you have everything. .”

The man nearly jumped, still watching ca’Rudka. He grabbed the case of brushes under his left arm and took up the valise that held the jars of mixed paints in the same hand, then picked up the miroire a’scene by a handle; it seemed rather heavy, judging by the way ci’Recroix leaned to one side while holding it. “Forgive me, Kraljica. I’ll see. . uh. .”

He hesitated.

“Renard cu’Bellona. My aide,” she reminded him.

“Renard cu’Bellona. Yes. That was the name. Remember, Kraljica, ou shouldn’t look. Umm. . tomorrow, then.” He started to bring hands to forehead, remembered that he was holding something in each hand, and set them down again to salute her. Then he picked up case, valise, and miroire a’scene and lurched toward the doors, grunting with the effort. He knocked on one of the doors with a foot; the hall garda opened them and he went out. The garda saluted the Kraljica and closed them again.

“That is a very strange man,” ca’Rudka said. He was staring after the painter.

“But a talented one, from what I’ve seen.” She glanced at the draped painting on its easel. “You’ve questioned the assassin, Sergei?”