S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

She wondered if other matarhs elsewhere said the same of Justi to their daughters.

“I’d heard that this ci’Recroix was the master among masters,” Justi continued, “but this. .” He reached out with a thin index finger that stopped just short of the surface of the canvas. “I feel that if I touched the figures I would feel warm flesh and not cold brush strokes. It’s easy to see how some say that he uses sorcery to create his paintings.” He paced in front of the canvas. “Look, their eyes seem to follow me. I almost expect their heads to move.”

She had to agree with him that the painting was superbly crafted, so lifelike as to be startling. Three strides long, half that high, caught in an exquisite, filigreed gold frame as wide as two hands, the painting depicted a peasant family: a couple with their two daughters and a son.

The wife and husband, dressed in stained linen with plain overcoats, sat behind a rough-hewn table laden with a simple dinner, a cloth dusted with bread crumbs covering the planks. An infant daughter sat on the matarh’s lap, a son on the vatarh’s, while a female toddler played with a puppy underneath the table. Marguerite had seen paintings that appeared realistic from a distance, but the ci’Recroix. . No matter how closely she approached it, no matter how she leaned in and peered at the surface, nowhere could she see the mark of a brush. The only texture was that of the canvas on which the pigments rested: it was as if the painting were indeed a window into another world. More details within the scene revealed themselves as you came closer and closer, until the varnished surface of the painting itself stopped you. Marguerite knew (because she had looked) that if you examined the wimple on the matarh’s head, that you could not only see the texture of the blue cloth and how it had been wrapped and folded, but you could also note where a rent had been repaired and sewn shut with thread of a slightly different hue. You could see how she was just beginning to glance down at her daughter in her lap, her attention beginning to move away from the viewer as her daughter’s hand clutched at the hem of her blouse.

The way the blouse bunched around the infant’s pudgy, fragile fingers, the acne scars dimpling the young matarh’s cheeks. .

This was a true moment frozen and captured. It was difficult to be in the same room as this painting and not have it dominate your attention, not demand that you stare at it in hopeless fascination and examine its endless wealth of detail, to be drawn into its spell.

“Yes, Justi,” Marguerite said impatiently. “I can see why you would have recommended ci’Recroix to me. He certainly has talent, even if the rumors about him are disturbing.” Neither the painting nor the painter were why she’d asked Justi to come to her. She wanted to tell him what she’d just learned: Hirzg Jan ca’Vorl of Firenzcia, alone of all the leaders of the countries that made up the Holdings, had declined Marguerite’s invitation to her Jubilee Celebration: a decided breach of etiquette, certainly, and knowing ca’Vorl, a deliberate affront. More worrisome, he had placed the Firenzcian army on maneuvers at the same time-not near the eastern borders by Tennshah, but close to the River Clario and Nessantico. She’d already sent a sharply-worded communique to Greta ca’Vorl, her niece and the Hirzgin of Firenzcia. She knew Greta would pass along her displeasure to her husband. After the incident with the Numetodo in Brezno, two months ago now, this was a disturbing development.

And there was the other, pressing matter that seemed to be an eternal subject between the two of them. But Justi, as was his wont, seemed uninterested in state affairs and politics. He was already talking before she’d finished.

“Indeed, Matarh. I can’t wait to see what he does. It will be a fine official portrait for your Jubilee-”

“Justi,” Marguerite interrupted sharply, and her son’s chiseled, handsome jaw shut with an abrupt snap of strong white teeth-good teeth were another, and luckier, family trait. “There will be another announcement before the end of the Jubilee.”

“What, Matarh?” he asked, but she knew that he had guessed, knew from the way his lips twisted below the crisp black line of his mustache.

Her son might be pampered, indolent, and perhaps somewhat dissolute, but he was not stupid.

“It’s been seven years now since Hannah died,” she said. “It’s time.

Time for you to marry again.” His features scrunched as if he’d bitten into a sour marshberry, but she ignored the look. She’d seen it too many times. “Marriage is a stronger and more permanent weapon than a sword,” she told him.

A barely-stifled sigh escaped him. “I know, Matarh. You’ve said that often enough. I thought of having the aphorism engraved on my saber.”

He sniffed, looking away from her and back to the painting.

“Then show me you understand,” she answered tartly, pressing her own lips together in annoyance at his tone.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked, but didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I take it you have candidates in mind? Someone appropriately connected, no doubt. Someone whose children might actually live.”

Marguerite sucked in her breath. “It wasn’t your wife’s fault that your children died. Why, little Henri was five and thriving when the Red Pox took him, and poor Margu. .” Her eyes filled with tears, as they often did when she thought of the granddaughter who’d been her namesake. Hannah might have been of the fertile ca’Mazzak line, whose descendants governed Sesemora, but she’d not had the luck of her matarh, who had nine children survive into adulthood. No, Marguerite was fairly certain that the fault lay in the ca’Ludovici seed. In Justi. Stout and plain herself, Hannah had nonetheless performed her spousal obligations, giving birth to eight children over the decade of her marriage to Justi, but only two of those had survived past the second year: Henri, the eighth and last, whose long and difficult birth Hannah had survived by less than a month; and Marguerite, secondborn, who had been eleven and the Kraljica’s favorite when the horse drawing her carriage had bolted unexpectedly and the careening vehicle had struck a tree. Marguerite herself had nursed the terribly injured girl and the Archigos had sent over-surreptitiously, since such a thing was heresy and specifically forbidden by the Divolonte-a teni skilled with healing chants, but still little Margu had not survived the night.

Marguerite had gone to the stables afterward and killed the horse herself.

“I know, Matarh,” Justi said. “It was Cenzi’s will that they died. And what is the Kraljica’s will, which is second only to Cenzi’s? Who am I to marry, some cowled waif from Magyaria? Someone of those half-wild families from Hellin? Which of the provinces are causing problems?

Have them send their daughters for your inspection so they may be subdued by marriage. Once more, rather than out-warring your adversaries, you will out-marry them. Tell me-who have you picked?”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Justi.”

“I’m certain you don’t. And I’m certain that I care about your appreciation as much as you care about my feelings concerning this.

When are you marrying, Matarh? How long has Vatarh been dead now?

Twenty-three years? Twenty-four? What has kept you from marrying all these years?”

For a moment, Marguerite feared that Justi knew about Renard, but the slackness in his face told her that it was simple irritation in his voice. “You know why I don’t marry.”

“Yes, I know. ‘The sword in the scabbard still threatens. .’ I’ve heard that one often enough, too.” Justi gave a sigh. His hands lifted and dropped back to his sides. “So who is it to be, Matarh? When will you make the grand announcement of my engagement, and when do I get to at least see a painting of this person?”