S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

“I’m O’Teni Ana cu’Seranta,” she told him, and her gaze returned to him. She had eyes the color of long-steeped tea. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were trying to decide how she should feel about him.

“Just so we’re properly introduced. I saw you the other day, Envoy, when you were at the Archigos’ Temple.”

He realized then why she had seemed familiar. “Ah, the teni who was outside the room when we left, the one with the Archigos’ secretary. So you’re the Archigos’ new protegee, and not just another handsome vajiki and chevaritt.” His smile widened, then he shook his head.

Compared to most of the women at the Gschnas, she was unremarkable and ordinary in appearance, yet Karl found a compelling earnestness about her that made him want to linger. You’ve been too long away. Now what would Kaitlin think, you thinking about her like that? “I owe you both an apology and my gratitude, O’Teni.”

“Apology? Gratitude? I don’t understand, Envoy. We’ve never really met. How is it that you need to either apologize to or thank me?”

Puzzlement crossed her face under the foppish, silly hat.

“It was you who saved the Archigos’ life last week. And it was, unfortunately, a Numetodo who was the would-be assassin. I apologize on behalf of all the Numetodo for that action-we’re not murderers or insurrectionists, no matter what the popular opinion might be. And I owe you my gratitude for intervening: because had you not, I’m afraid I would be in a cell in the Bastida or worse, and not standing here speaking with you.”

Her lips pressed together and her cheeks were touched with a hint of color. “Am I supposed to be flattered by that?”

“Are you?”

“No.” Her answer came quickly and without any leavening. Yes, she’s honest to a fault. In that, she’s much like Kaitlin. Her head tilted a bit further; she crossed her arms, her weight on one leg. “I’d also suspect that it’s no accident that we’re speaking now, and that I really didn’t need to introduce myself. Would I be wrong?”

He thought of a pleasant lie, of coming up with one of a dozen plausible excuses to have initiated the conversation with her, but he decided instead to respond to her with the same honesty. “I was watching A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca and the Archigos,” he told her. “You can imagine how I might find their conversation interesting, or that I would want to know who A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca is having conversations with, given what happened in Brezno a few months ago. And you might also imagine that I pay attention to what happens within Concenzia-and that I would know of you as a result. As to why I would introduce myself to you. .” He rubbed a hand through his hair, his shoulders lifting under the green cloth. “Well, I’m not quite sure that I know the answer to that. It was a whim, truthfully. I saw your face when you were talking to Vajica ca’Cellibrecca, and I thought perhaps. .”

An eyebrow lifted as he hesitated. “You thought perhaps you might use me as a way to get to the Archigos?”

And she has a bite when she wants to. . He spread his hands wide.

“If I admit that, will you at least admire my honesty and keep talking to me?”

“Talking to a Numetodo, even if he is the Envoy of Paeti?” The response was less harsh than it might have been.

“We’re not all monsters who cause milk to sour, eat children, and lace the city wells with poison. Very few of us actually do that.”

The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. “And what do the rest of you do?”

This time, it was his turn to tilt his head and regard her. “We search for explanations.” She said nothing. She waited, silent, as the gavotte ended and another dance began. He reached into his pocket.

“Have you ever been to the hills east of your city?” he asked her. “I’m told that there, embedded high up on the cliffs and days from the sea by even the swiftest boat, you can find seashells made of rock. Here, look. .” He brought his hand from the pocket. In his palm was a closed clam shell, formed in pale gray stone. “We have these in Paeti, too. I brought a few of them with me when I left to remind me of my home.” He pulled out the necklace he wore under the green robes so she could see it. “Our rock-shells have a different shape than those here, but we also find them in the mountains, far from the ocean, and they’re different than the shells in our sea. But look at it. .” He held out the shell to her. “Go on. Take it. Look at it. It’s perfectly formed, little different than what might wash up on the shore. Yet there are no seas in the mountains, and rocks don’t live and breathe and reproduce, as clams do.”

She took the stony shell in her fingers, turning it over in front of her and running her fingertips over the thick ridges of the shell before handing it back to him. “I’ve seen these before,” she said. “The Toustour tells us that the earth is alive and that it pulses with forces. Those forces are the very ones Cenzi used to create the world. In the Final Admonition of the Toustour, it says that the interior of the world is filled with ‘lapidifying juices, wet exhalations, and subterranean vapors.’ All the shapes in rock that mimic life are formed by those.”

“Why?” Karl asked. “Why do these forces make shapes that look natural?”

She blinked at the question, startled. “Why? There’s no ‘why’ necessary, Vajiki. It’s written in the Toustour. One doesn’t question Cenzi’s reasons; one accepts them.”

“I know a learned man-Stenonis, his name is-who lives in Wolhusen, Graubundi. He claims that these shells are incredibly ancient, that they form when shells are buried in the silt and sand of the sea floor, and then more and more layers fall on top of it until they’re buried deeply. He says that the shells are actually dissolved away and what you’re holding is an impression they left behind: like a sculptor’s mold, filled with the minerals dissolved in the water, while the soil and sand compress them so tightly they turn to stone.”

“And then the water sprites who live under the sea quarry the rock and carry it up into the mountains at night when no one is watching?”

Karl grinned and chuckled. “I must say that was kinder than the reaction I usually get. No, according to Stenonis’ theory, the mountaintops where the rocks are found were once at the bottom of the sea.

Upheavals in the world have raised the land in some places and lowered it in others. And I know your next objection, too: why doesn’t this great cataclysm show up in any of our histories? Stenonis says that the world is untold millions of years old, and these risings and fallings took place long before any people were there to witness them.”

She was already shaking her head. “That’s not possible. Archigos Pellin I studied the Toustour, and he determined that Vucta created the world between ten and twelve thousand years ago. Are you telling me you believe this Stenonis and not the Toustour, which is the sacred word of Cenzi?”

Karl shrugged. “I think there’s an elegance to Stenonis’ theory. I believe much of what we attribute to Cenzi and Vucta and the Moitidi may have more. . natural causes.”

“Like the Ilmodo?” she asked. “Or whatever it is you call it.”

He nodded. “The Scath Cumhacht. I could show you,” he said. “If your mind isn’t sealed shut with what the teni have taught you.”

“I think I’ll decline your invitation, Envoy,” she answered. “I’m not easily duped by the tricks of street magicians. My faith is stronger than that.” She moved away from him, with a backward glance, going to the marble railing that separated the alcove from the main hall. She looked down at the lines of dancers, knotting and unknotting in the intricate patterns of the Cooper’s Dance. When she looked up he was leaning against the rail beside her, and he looked more at her than at the dancers. The corners of her lips were turned up unconsciously, her eyes were wide, and she leaned forward as she stared.