S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

“You’re safe for now,” he whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

She shook her head. “No,” she told him. “The Archigos. .

Kenne. .” She inhaled, the sound breaking. “What have I done to my matarh? What will happen to her now? It would be better if I’d died with the Archigos.”

“No,” he said fiercely into her ear. “You can’t say that. I won’t let you.”

She turned in his arms so that she faced him. He was a shadow against the darker background of the room. “I lay with him,” she said, the confession rushing out unbidden. “With the Kraljiki. That was the bargain I made for you, Karl. Even the Archigos pushed me toward the Kraljiki, saying he thought it’s what I should do. The Kraljiki said he would keep you safe if I’d be his lover. He said that. .” She had to stop.

“He said that he might marry me, said that the Archigos’ favorite would make a good match.” She laughed once, bitterly. Karl said nothing. His hands had stopped moving. “That wasn’t really a lie, I suppose. Not really, now that ca’Cellibrecca will be the Archigos.”

“Francesca. .” The word was a breath and a knife.

“Yes. Francesca.”

His hand found her cheek. “He used you, Ana. He and Francesca both. They played you and used you until they got what they wanted.”

“I was using him in return,” she answered. “That makes me no better.” She took a breath, and it was empty of the sadness. “I’d like you to go,” she said to him. “Leave me alone.”

“Ana. .” He put his arm around her, started to draw her to him.

She wanted to let it happen. She wanted to lose her thoughts in heat and his taste and smell, but afterward. . She didn’t know what either one of them would feel afterward, and she couldn’t face another loss.

She put her hand on his chest, pushing him back.

“No,” she said, and the single word stopped him. For a breath, the tableau held. She could feel his breath so close to her lips before he rolled away from her and off the bed. In the darkness, she heard him walk across the room to the pile of blankets that served as his own bed.

She forced herself not to cry again. She prayed to Cenzi instead, and wondered if He could hear her, or if He would listen.

When Ana awoke the next morning, Mahri had returned. He was seated near the hearth, and a pot boiled on the crane over the fire. The fragrant, sharp smell of mint filled the room. Karl snored in his corner.

“Tea?” Mahri asked. Ana nodded, then winced as he reached out and swiveled the crane away from the fire; the crane had to be burning hot to the touch, but Mahri didn’t seem to react to the heat.

He plucked the pot from the crane and poured liquid into two cracked-lipped mugs, stirring a dollop of honey from a jar into each.

Ana padded over to him, still wrapped in her blanket, and he handed her one of the mugs. The man’s terrible, scarred face regarded her, his remaining eye staring. She dropped her gaze away quickly, blowing at the steaming liquid and taking a sip. The sweetness burned its way down her throat and the heat of the mug made her put it down on the edge of the table where Mahri sat, near the room’s single window. “It’s good,” she said. “Thank you.”

“There are rumors all over the city,” Mahri said as if he hadn’t heard her. His own mug sat untouched on the rickety, scratched tabletop.

The shutters of the window were open, and she could hear people moving on the street outside and see the early morning light. First Call sounded, the wind-horns of Temple Park loudest of them. Ana closed her eyes and went to one knee, reciting the First Call prayers silently to herself, her lips moving with the familiar, comforting words.

“You believe? Still? After all this?”

Mahri’s question brought her head up again. Ana nodded as she rose. “I do believe,” she told him. “Again, after I thought I’d lost belief.

And you, Mahri? Do you pray to anyone, or do you believe in no gods at all like Karl?”

“I believe that there are many ways to use the X’in Ka, which you call the Ilmodo. For us, like you, we call on our gods-but it would seem that the Numetodo have shown both of us another way.” He might have smiled; with the disfigured face, it was difficult to tell. “Even my people have things to learn, things you or the Numetodo can teach us.

But I do believe, yes. Where I come from, we worship Axat, who lives in the moon, and Sakal, whose home is the sun. Your Cenzi we don’t know at all.”

“Where is home?”

“Far from here in the West,” he answered. “But not so far that we haven’t heard of Nessantico, though we’ve so far managed to avoid her armies. But that day will come.”

“Why are you here?”

He did smile then. And didn’t answer. He took a sip of his tea.

“The city is like a nervous dog ready to bite anyone who approaches,” he said finally. “First the Kraljica’s assassination, then the Archigos dead under suspicious circumstances. Now there is talk that Firenzcia’s army is on the march-the Kraljiki has expanded commandant ca’Rudka’s duties to include the Garde Civile as well as the Garde Kralji, and the Commandant has called for all able-bodied men to enlist in the Garde Civile. Some say that conscription squads will be roaming through the city soon. The Kraljiki sent out riders to the north, south, and west last night, supposedly to summon the nearest Garde Civile garrisons to come here. There’s been a request to the local farmers for hay and any wheat stores they may have. Archigos Orlandi has sent additional worker-teni to the smithies and forges.”

Mahri glanced over at Karl. “The Numetodo still in the Bastida have been executed,” he continued. “Their bodies-hands cut off and tongues removed-are hanging this morning from the Pontica Kralji.

But there weren’t nearly as many of them in their cells as there were supposed to be. Most of the Numetodo escaped somehow last night via some dark magic.”

Even as she recoiled from the news, she noticed the weariness in Mahri’s body: the way he propped his body on the table, the heaviness of the lid over his good eye. “That was your doing, the escapes?”

Again, he didn’t answer directly. He inclined his head toward the sleeping Karl. “He will need support when he hears of this,” he said.

“Not all those in the Bastida escaped, and those were his comrades who were murdered.”

“Why are you here?” she persisted. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m not on any side.” Mahri drained his still-steaming mug of tea.

She touched her own mug; it was still too hot to hold comfortably. “I need to sleep now. It’s been a long, tiring night. Have some more tea if you like. There’s bread and cheese in the cupboard. If you’ll excuse me. .” He rose from the table.

“What if someone comes?” she asked him. “What should I do?”

“No one will come,” he told her. “And as long as you stay here, you’re safe, at least for this day. If you go out on the street. .” The folds of his cloak shifted as his shoulders rose and fell. “Then I can’t say. That would be in the hands of your Cenzi.”

With that, he shuffled off to the far corner of the room, pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and sat. She could hear his breathing slowing and becoming louder almost immediately.

She sat in the chair and sipped her tea, looking out at the Rue a’Jeunesse and wondering what she would say to Karl when he woke.

Sergei ca’Rudka

A double hand of Numetodo bodies swung on their gibbets on the lampposts of the Pontica Kralji. There should have been two double hands, enough to decorate the Pontica Mordei as well. That those bodies were missing both troubled and pleased Sergei.