S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Orlandi found his eyes narrowing. Is this your sign, Cenzi? Have you answered me that quickly? The o’teni had danced with that foul Numetodo during the Gschnas, after all-and now she wanted to speak to the A’Kralj about the Numetodo the commandant had taken prisoner.

No doubt her viewpoint would be conciliatory and weak, mirroring that of the Archigos. She lacked the power of the true Faith no matter how much Cenzi had gifted her. Orlandi was certain that she misused her Gift as well-it certainly was the simplest explanation of why she would have seen the Kraljica so often during her final illness: under the dwarf’s direction, she had been using the Ilmodo against the laws of the Divolonte to try to heal the Kraljica. That certainly made sense for ca’Millac, since it was the Kraljica’s support that had helped maintain him as Archigos.

But perhaps. . perhaps there was more here, something he was missing. Could Cenzi have withdrawn his Gift from cu’Seranta? There, the dwarf frowned at his o’teni, and she released the poor spell entirely.

Her hands went dark and empty. He saw her whisper to the Archigos apologetically, no doubt pleading weariness if the dark, pouched flesh under her eyes were any sign.

Orlandi made a mental note to speak to the commandant. Perhaps the man knew something, though he was the Kraljica’s man, not Orlandi’s. .

The A’Kralj had reached his matarh’s body, the Archigos and O’Teni cu’Seranta moving to one side. The Kraljica’s face remained covered with her death mask: painted, closed eyelids and mouth, her hair frothing white around the gold. The A’Kralj stood at his matarh’s right hand with Francesca still at his side, gazing down on her. As Orlandi watched, the A’Kralj’s hand reached out and stroked not her hand but the staff of the Kralji, which would be in his own hand tomorrow morning. Orlandi bowed his head and closed his eyes as the procession halted to let the A’Kralj have his time with his matarh, Francesca moving politely to one side to allow the A’Kralj his privacy, but Orlandi doubted that the man prayed. Rather, he was probably thinking of tomorrow, when he would be declared Kraljiki, when he would sit on the Sun Throne, bathed in the radiance of his position.

You must choose. .

Perhaps the Hirzg would indeed be his best choice. Jan ca’Vorl would certainly be a strong Kraljiki, and his sympathies were definitely in line with Orlandi’s, and Orlandi already had in hand the proposal from the Hirzg for Francesca’s hand to cement their alliance. While the A’Kralj might be Francesca’s lover, while he intimated that such a marriage would interest him, he’d also announced no formal engagement. If the A’Kralj was going to assert himself, if he was going to consider scorning Francesca for that plain whore of the dwarf’s who was no better than one of the grandes horizontales, then perhaps. .

Orlandi sighed. His temples ached, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into his heated tub with minted balm on his forehead. But that wouldn’t happen for some time yet, not until all the Kraljica’s interminable relatives had had their moment with the Kraljica.

The A’Kralj finally stirred, lifting his head and making the sign of Cenzi over his matarh. He leaned forward and gave her a ceremonial final kiss, their masks clinking metallically as they touched. The Archigos waddled forward as Francesca took the A’Kralj’s arm once more.

The Archigos blessed the A’Kralj, his voice loud in the temple. Orlandi thought the dwarf looked ridiculous, like a wrinkled toddler talking to an adult-not only would Orlandi be an Archigos as the needs of the Faith demanded, he would look the part as well. He would not be a mockery of the position like this one.

Soon enough, if it is Your will. .

The A’Kralj, as the choir’s dirge swelled again, strode regally away with Francesca at his side and the Archigos and O’Teni cu’Seranta and his staff behind. They left the temple by the side door, and faintly Orlandi could hear the crowds packed into the temple square acknowledge the A’Kralj.

Orlandi came forward himself, and he and the other a’teni arranged themselves around the body. With satisfaction, Orlandi noted that none of the a’teni challenged his right to stand at the Kraljica’s head.

The a’teni. . the majority of them would stand with him, he was certain, when the time came. A Concord A’Teni would vote to depose the hated dwarf ca’Millac when Orlandi brought charges, and then they would elevate him to Archigos. .

The first of the Kraljica’s too-numerous nephews and nieces came forward with his family, the line stretching well into the rear of the temple, and Orlandi sighed again.

As the mourners slowly moved past, he contented himself with thoughts of what he would do once he was Archigos, when this was his temple. .

Karl ci’Vliomani

The noon sun spilled golden on the walls of the Bastida, but seemed to avoid actually touching the dark, grimy stones. Karl

stood on a ledge high in the tower, protected only by a flimsy strip of open wooden rail. From his vantage point looking east, he could see the gilded domes of the Archigos’ Temple. Between the rooftops of the intervening buildings, he glimpsed the massive crowd around the temple as the city waited for the Kraljica to begin her slow, final procession around the ring of the Avi a’Parete: at dusk as the lamps of Nessantico were lit.

“I hope you weren’t considering jumping, Vajiki. Now that would be a shame-though a few of this room’s inhabitants have been, ah, disappointed enough in our hospitality to prefer death to confinement.”

Karl glanced back over his shoulder into the small, gloomy cell in which he’d been placed, furnished with a rude chair and desk and a tiny bed of straw ticking. The metal door hung open. He saw the commandant half-seated on the desk with one leg up, the other on the floor.

The man wore his dress uniform, boots polished and gleaming. Behind him, in the corridor past the bars, Karl could see two gardai leaning against the stone walls. A torch guttered in its holder between them.

“Though that wasn’t the case with Chevaritt ca’Gafeldi, as I recall,”

ca’Rudka said to Karl. “His mind became addled after a few months here, and he insisted that he was able to turn into a dove and fly away.

He looked rather silly, flapping his arms all the way down.”

The gardai in the corridor chuckled. Karl said nothing-he could say nothing, not with the cloth-covered metal band that held down his tongue, bound with straps and locked around his head. The chains binding his hands tightly together rattled as he turned fully, though he remained standing on the balcony.

“You should be honored,” ca’Rudka continued, speaking as if they were having a casual conversation over dinner. “This was originally Levo ca’Niomi’s cell, centuries ago. It was thought the lovely view was proper punishment for ca’Niomi-to be able to look out at the city he ruled for three blessedly short days, and to know that he would never walk there again as a free man. He was also a stubborn man; he lived here for thirty years, writing the poetry that would finally overshadow his cruelty. I understand that the Kraljiki who put him here had ca’Niomi displayed on the anniversary of his deposing every year. They chained him, entirely naked, to the balcony so everyone who passed by on the Avi could look up and see him: an object lesson of what happens to those who overstep their place. If you look, I think you can still see the brackets for the chains there on the stones.”

Karl glanced at the rusted loops of metal set at the ledge’s end just before the long fall to the courtyard below where the dragon’s head glared at the Bastida’s gates, and he shivered. He swallowed with difficulty around the tongue gag. “More recently, the Kraljica had her cousin Marcus ca’Gerodi put here for treason, early in her reign,” ca’Rudka said, “but he was neither as long-lived or stubborn as ca’Niomi, nor as artistic. We never had any poetry from poor ca’Gerodi.”