S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

“I think it’s very pretty, Vatarh. It should be a painting.”

“I wish I could see it with your eyes,” Jan told his daughter. “All I see is a battlefield.” He let his arm rest around her shoulders and hugged her.

The pine-studded arms of the Cavasian Range cradled Passe a’Fiume in their long, steep slopes. There, the River Clario poured white and fast in its descent from the Sigar Highlands of Nessantico’s eastern reaches. The town was perched on the Clario’s western bank; a wide bridge arched over the Clario from Passe a’Fiume’s eastern gate: the Pontica Avi a’ Firenzcia, the only safe place to cross the wild Clario for many miles in either direction, until the river settled itself and widened as it prepared to meet the great A’Sele.

The town knew its importance-the largest of the cities in eastern Nessantico, it still resided almost entirely within the three-century-old fortified walls that had been erected on the orders of Kraljiki Sveria I during the interminable Secession War, as Nessantico sought to bring Firenzcia fully under its control. The thick, granite walls had repelled a half-dozen sieges since the time of the Kraljiki Sveria.

Now the populace looked out from flower-boxed windows and crenellated towers and wondered whether they could survive a seventh assault.

“Can the war-teni really break those walls, Vatarh? They look so thick.”

“They can. They will, if the Kraljiki doesn’t submit to our terms.”

“He won’t,” Allesandra said with certainty. “If he’s like you, Vatarh, he won’t submit.”

He chuckled at that. The mirth sounded out of place.

Jan had arrayed the army on the slopes across the Clario-a few miles from the city but high on the ridges that faced the town. He knew the citizenry could see the tents and cook fires, the fluttering banners and the dark, writhing mass of the soldiery, covering the slopes like a horde of ravening insects about to descend and feed upon the town.

They had seen the army assemble over the last two days; they could glimpse them through the wisps of morning fog even now. He knew the fear they would be feeling, and knew the forces the Kraljiki had brought with him would give them little solace.

Even if the Kraljiki could manage to hold the town, a siege would mean the deaths of many who lived there. A victory that costly would be hardly distinguishable from defeat.

From his vantage point, Jan could make out through the mist the parley tents set in the field just across the Clario from Passe a’Fiume: like white flowers set in the grass before the glowering city walls and the dirty brown-green ribbon of the river. The banner of the Kraljiki flew from the central post of the largest tent. There were a few hundred of the Garde Civile there, but the Kraljiki kept the bulk of his soldiers hidden behind the stern, gray, and impassive ramparts of the city walls.

It didn’t matter: Jan’s spies, set out well ahead of the army, had reported their numbers to him.

Perhaps half of the forces that had been at Ville Colhelm under ca’Montmorte, a few thousand straggling in from Chiari and Prajnoli, perhaps five thousand who marched with the Kraljiki and the Archigos from Nessantico. Many of the citizens are fleeing from the eastern gates, desperate to leave the city, but the conscription squads are at work there, not letting the men leave.

The Kraljiki commanded a force smaller than the army at Jan’s back but more than enough to make a siege of Passe a’Fiume difficult. However, there were movements underway that Jan doubted had touched the Kraljiki’s awareness. As in a game of cards, knowing the hand your opponent has been dealt grants an enormous advantage in the bidding process. Jan smiled grimly as he stared down at the parley tents, waiting for the meeting this afternoon.

“The Kraljiki will make his stand here, but he’s not certain of the outcome-that’s why he wants to parley,” Markell’s voice said.

Jan chuckled again as he released his daughter to glance at Markell.

His aide’s stick-thin figure appeared strangely out of place in chain mail.

Markell, too, was gazing out through the thin morning fog at Passe a’Fiume.

“As usual, you know exactly what I’m thinking,” Jan told him. “As does Allesandra. I would seem to be utterly transparent to both of you.”

“It’s my job to anticipate you, my Hirzg,” Markell answered somberly. “I know this isn’t what we’d hoped for-former Starkkapitan

ca’Staunton’s stupidity at Ville Colhelm cost us an easy crossing of the Clario, and many lives if we have to take this city by force. Still, a siege of a week, quite possibly less, and you would have your surrender, I think. The Kraljiki is seeking a diplomatic solution, not a military one. As his matarh would.”

Jan scowled. Markell’s assessment was all too true: had ca’Staunton obeyed his orders at Ville Colhelm, the Kraljiki would still be in Nessantico and the Garde Civile in their garrisons, and the gates of Passe a’Fiume would already be open to Jan-as well as the road to Nessantico. Stupidity would need to be repaid in blood now. Much blood. .

“You sound certain, Markell. I’m afraid I’m not.”

It was Allesandra who answered. “Kraljiki Justi has never met you in battle, Vatarh.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Justi answered her with a smile, “but Markell’s face is far too solemn. What is it, Markell?”

“U’Teni cu’Kohnle has requested an audience,” Markell told Jan.

“He’s waiting in your tent. He says he is. . concerned about the war-teni, since we know the Archigos is with the Kraljiki in Passe a’Fiume.”

Jan sighed audibly. He rubbed his arms against the morning chill.

“Ah. I was expecting that. Do we have word from ca’Cellibrecca?”

“No, Hirzg. Though in the Archigos’ defense, it would be difficult for him to contact us at the moment.”

Jan sniffed. “Ca’Cellibrecca can’t straddle sides any longer. He’d best realize that. He’d be well-advised not to betray me, or if he does, he should pray to Cenzi that the Kraljiki prevails because I will have worse than his life if he stands in my way.” He took a long breath and let it out abruptly.

“Yes, my Hirzg,” Markell said. “And U’Teni cu’Kohnle?”

“I’ll talk with him. Come, walk with me and Allesandra back to the tent.” Jan put his arm around his daughter again as he took a last glance at the field and the tents waiting outside the walls. .

“Semini,” he said as he entered. “You wanted to see me.”

Cu’Kohnle gave Jan the sign of Cenzi along with a deep bow that displayed the thick growth of gray-flecked, black hair on his skull. His cheeks and chin were stubbled with the same gray as his hair. Muscular arms flexed under the green robes, and Jan saw the steel links of mail underneath. The broken globe of Cenzi hung prominently around his neck. “My Hirzg,” he said. “Thank you for taking the time.”

“I know what concerns you, Semini,” Jan said. “Certainly you knew that it might come to this.”

Cu’Kohnle smiled tight-lipped. “If you’ll forgive me, the entire Strettosei spans the difference between ‘might’ and ‘has,’ my Hirzg. It’s no longer a case of ‘might,’ and because of that, many of the war-teni are troubled. I came to speak for them.”

Jan was certain that there were other motives at work here. He knew cu’Kohnle enough to know that the man was fanatically devout; he also knew him well enough to know that his devotion was to Cenzi and not necessarily to those who claimed to speak for the God. There was raw ambition and ego in the man. . and that meant he could be manipulated. Jan gestured to the table where the pages had placed wine and bread. “Please, help yourself,” he said. “What of you, Semini? Are you troubled?”