S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Ana found herself marveling again at the spell that had done this: no teni could enchant an object this way. A teni could place a nonburn-ing glow within a lamp that would remain for several turns of the glass, but to do so required the proper chanting and hand motions, which must be performed at the time the spell was cast. But there had been no one chanting to ensorcell the painting-the spell had been cast with Ana’s pull of the cover: instantaneously, without words of prayer or gestures.

Ana had no idea how that had been accomplished, and it made her wonder again if ci’Recroix had been Numetodo. The rumors she had heard about how they twisted the Ilmodo. .

But she couldn’t think of that now. She could not spare the distractions.

Ana reshaped the Ilmodo, wrapping it around the Kraljica and trying to pull the woman back into her body and away from the painting, but the spell within the painting resisted, tearing at the Ilmodo and shredding it so that it couldn’t hold the Kraljica. Where her spell touched that within the painting, it was as if claws raked her body, dragging deep furrows that tore muscles and ripped ligaments from bones. Ana screamed with the pain, not knowing if she did so aloud. She could feel the spell, could glimpse how it had been shaped and constructed. . and there was nothing of Cenzi in it. She could not feel Him in it at all.

The shell on its chain under her robes seemed to be glowing whitehot, burning her skin.

Ana pulled at the Kraljica desperately, dragging the old woman’s awareness back toward her body as much as she could and trying to close off that awful hole within her once more. Slowly, it began to heal itself, but the effort cost Ana. She screamed again, her body and her mind aching from the exertion. .

. . and she could hold the Ilmodo no more. It slipped from her, and she was back in the Kraljica’s room, on her knees on the carpeted floor, her body soaked in perspiration, the front of her teni-robes stained with vomit, her hands curled and as stiff as if she’d been outside unprotected for hours in winter.

“I tried. .” she managed to husk out to the Archigos, who was kneeling alongside her. She looked at him, stricken. “I did all I could, and I almost. . almost. .”

And that was all she remembered for a time.

Mahri

The room was chilly even in the late afternoon sun, but Mahri hardly noticed. He was staring at a shallow, battered pan set on the wobbly table in front of him, in which he could see the distorted reflection of his own ravaged face. He heard the teapot over the fire in the hearth begin to sing, and he went to it. Wrapping the sleeve of his ragged clothing around the handle of the pot, he lifted it from the crane and poured the steaming water into the basin, then sprinkled leaves from a leather pouch on his belt into the water. He sat back.

“Show me,” he said softly, and the steam above the basin writhed and twisted and coalesced. There, in the mist, was a shimmering image: the figure of the A’Kralj, his jutting chin unmistakable even if he hadn’t been dressed in his usual finery, and seated across a small table from him, the Vajica Francesca ca’Cellibrecca. “A’Kralj,” the woman said, a bit too loudly and forced, obviously for the benefit of someone else within earshot. “You do us a great honor by coming here, and I know my husband will be displeased that he missed you. We were both so shocked by your matarh’s collapse at the Gschnas. How is she?”

“No better, I’m afraid, Vajica,” Mahri heard the A’Kralj answer. His hand moved on the table, sliding a few inches toward the woman’s. He glanced away to his right, as if looking at Mahri, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. The Vajica glanced that way also.

“Cassie, would you go to the kitchen and see if Falla still has those cakes from the morning? A’Kralj, some tea also perhaps? Cassie, have Falla make some new tea as well, and bring it here.”

“Yes, Vajica,” Mahri heard a faint voice answer, and there were footsteps and the sound of a door closing from the steam-wrapped scene before him. With the sound, the A’Kralj reached across the table to take the woman’s hand. He started to rise, as if he were about to embrace and kiss her, but she shook her head slightly.

“Not here,” she said in a whisper. “Too many eyes. But we can speak openly, for a moment anyway. The Kraljica?”

“She’s dying,” he said. “If I could keep that dwarf Archigos and that ugly cow of a teni of his away from her, she’d be dead already. I think he’s using the Ilmodo on her, or cu’Seranta is.”

“I’ll make certain that my vatarh knows,” the woman said. “I’m certain that he’d be interested in that.” She shook her head. “Such a strange, sudden thing. Vatarh thinks that the Numetodo had a hand in it.”

“No,” the A’Kralj answered. “They didn’t, though I certainly don’t mind if they pay the price for it.” He smiled, his chin jutting out even further. Mahri heard the slow intake of breath through the Vajica’s nostrils and saw the rising of her eyebrows.

“Justi. .”

The smile grew larger. “Matarh was always insisting that it was time for me to think of heirs and marriage. I will be Kraljiki soon-and I find that I’m now thinking of exactly those two things. Are you, Francesca my love?”

The woman seemed to be looking for escape-left, then right. “Of course, Justi. Of course. But this is so quick. All the careful plans we were making with my vatarh. .”

“. . weren’t necessary,” he answered. “I made my own plans, and I have followed them through. I think Matarh’s portrait should go in the West Hall, where she can see the Kralji’s throne and see me sitting there with you beside me, don’t you think?”

There was a soft knock at the door and the click of the latch. The A’Kralj sat back, releasing Francesca’s hand. Her smile was a frozen gash on her face. “But, of course, I came to ask U’Teni Estraven if he would perform a special ceremony for Matarh,” the A’Kralj said smoothly, as if continuing an interrupted conversation, as Mahri saw the servant approach the table and place a silver tray with tea and cakes between the two before curtsying and backing quickly away. “It would mean so much to her.”

“Certainly,” Francesca answered. She blinked, reflexively moving to serve him tea. “I will mention it to Estraven.” The water in the basin was cooling, and the scene above it was fading, the figures going transparent and their voices failing. “I know he would be most willing. .”

They were gone, suddenly, and the bowl was simply a bowl of lukewarm water. Mahri sighed. Rising, he put the teapot back on the crane.

He picked up the bowl reverently and went to the window, tossing the water out onto the Oldtown alleyway below. He took the bowl back to the table and sat once again, waiting for the teapot to boil. When it did, he poured more water into the bowl and once more dusted the steaming water with the infusion from his pouch.

“Show me,” he said again, and this time the scene that formed was a different place, and new figures appeared. .

Ana cu’Seranta

“You can’t go out, O’Teni,” Watha insisted. “You’re not strong enough. The Archigos said you must rest. He was very emphatic about that.”

“The Archigos isn’t me and doesn’t know how I feel,” Ana insisted.

She shrugged off the hands that attempted to hold her back on the bed and swung her feet down to the floor. She stood. The room threatened to tilt under her, but she took a long breath that stopped the movement. “I need clothes,” she said. “Not my teni-robes. A tashta, perhaps, or something else.”

Watha’s eyes seemed about to burst from her skull. “I can’t-”