S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

“I’m not leaving without him,” Serafina persisted. Her voice shook and the hand around Nico’s waist trembled, but her lips pressed firmly together.

“Half the city’s already left-those who can. The rumors about Karnor and Villembouchure… all that could happen here.”

A shrug.

Varina was smiling grimly. Her hand touched his knee under the table. “You’ve lost this argument, Karl,” she said. “With both of us. We’re here. We’re staying, whatever that means.”

Karl looked at Talis, who had been sitting silently on his side of the table. He’d been strangely quiet for the last day and more, since the news had come of the Archigos’ imprisonment, and he spent much time with the scrying bowl. Karl wondered what the man was thinking behind that solemn face. Talis shrugged. “I agree with Karl,” he said to Serafina. “I would rather have you and Nico safe.”

Varina took Karl’s hand, standing. “Come with me,” she told him. “Let Sera and Talis talk this out on their own. We will, too.”

Karl followed Varina into the other room. She closed the door behind them, so that they could only hear the low murmur of voices in conversation. “She loves him,” Varina said. She was still leaning against the door, looking at Karl.

“Yes,” he protested, “and that’s exactly the reason he wants her to leave: because he doesn’t want to lose the people he loves.”

“And that’s exactly the reason she won’t go, because she couldn’t bear not knowing what happened to him.” She crossed her arms under her breasts. “It’s exactly the reason I won’t go either.”

“Varina…”

“Karl, shut up,” she told him. She pushed away from the wall, going to him. Her arms went around him, her lips sought his. There was a desperation in her embrace, in the violence of her kiss. He could hear the sob in her throat, and his hand went to her face to find her cheeks wet. He tried to pull away from her, to ask what was wrong, but she wouldn’t let him. She brought his head back down to hers. Her weight bore him down to the straw-filled mattress on the floor. Then, for a time, he forgot everything.

Afterward, he kissed her, holding her tightly, relishing her warmth. “I love you, Karl,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ve given up pretending anything else.”

He didn’t answer. He wanted to. He wanted to say the words back to her. They filled his throat but stuck there. He felt that if he said them, he’d be betraying Ana and everything she’d meant to him. “Find someone else, she’d told him, long ago. “Go back to your wife, if you like. Or if you fall in love with someone new, that would be fine with me, too. I’d be happy for you because I can’t be what you want me to be, Karl.”

“I…” he began, then stopped. They both heard it at the same time, a whistling shriek and a low growl like thunder, followed almost immediately by others, and the wind-horns on the temples beginning to sound an alarm. Karl rolled away from her. “What is that?” Karl asked, but he suspected that he knew already. They both dressed quickly and rushed into the other room.

“It’s begun,” Talis told them as they entered. He was standing by the door. The door faced south, and from the direction of the A’Sele, they could all see an orange-yellow glow over the rooftops, illuminating the fog that blocked their vision. “Fire,” Talis said. “The nahualli are hurling black sand into the city close to the A’Sele.”

The wind-horns were shrilling, and there were muffled shouts and cries coming from the fog.

Talis closed the door. “It’s too late now,” he said. “Too late.”

From the top floor of the Kraljica’s Palais, leaning on the crutch that compensated for her missing leg, Sigourney could gaze over the intervening rooftops and the waters of the A’Sele to the North Bank, where the campfires of the Westlanders burned on the outskirts of the city. There, too, she knew, the army of the Garde Civile was arrayed, with Aleron ca’Gerodi now acting as commandant. He, at least, was confident in the ability of the chevarittai and Garde Civile to deal with the dual threats to the city, even if no one else was. Ca’Gerodi had been in battle before, at least-and of the chevarittai left to her, he was best suited to be commandant, since ca’Mazzak had removed Aubri cu’Ulcai from consideration. That had been a mistake, Sigourney was certain; one she could understand, yes, given his rebellion, but also one that might have cost Nessantico more than she could afford.

Sigourney’s body hurt greatly tonight, and she took a long swallow from the goblet of cuore della volpe and placed it on the windowsill.

Sigourney had been confident, too. She had been confident they would deal with these Westlander rabble and destroy them. Then they would look to the east and deal with Allesandra and her pup, and make them see the folly of this breach of their treaty. Yes, she had been confident.

It seemed like ages ago.

But she had seen the strange fog spill from the Westlander encampment to envelop Oldtown and the Garde Civile. Then, a bare turn of the glass later, great blossoms of orange fire bloomed on the North Bank, and she had watched them suddenly arc high into the air in several directions, some falling into the fog where her army waited, and others…

The A’Sele’s water rippled with the fire’s reflection as the blossoms-screeching and wailing-rose as if flung by angry Moitidi. She saw the answer of the war-teni: pale blue lightning that reached up toward the blossoms. Several of them reached the blossoms at the top of their arcs: where they touched, a new, brief sun burst into life and the sound of thunder rolled over the city. But there were too many of the fire-blooms and the answer of the war-teni had come too late. Most of the fireballs fell: onto the Holdings’ warships on the river, into the maze of Oldtown, and onto the Isle a’Kralji itself. And where they fell, they exploded in a gout of bright, loud fury.

She watched one in particular: the arc lifted higher than the others, and she could see the terrifying line of it-coming directly toward her. She stared, frozen by dual fascination and dread, feeling (as it plummeted down, as it grew larger with each instant), her body remembering the shock and horror of the moment that Kraljiki Audric had been killed. She wondered if this would hurt as much.

But no… she could see the line of sparks it trailed, now slipping slightly to her right. The fireball slammed into the palais’ northern wing, spraying thick fire over the facade and into the gardens below. She felt the entire structure shudder with the impact, so strongly that she had to hold onto the frame of the window to keep from falling. Her knuckles tightened around the bar of the crutch. There were screams and shouts from all around the grounds. Nessantico’s night was once more banished-not from the famous lamps of the light-teni, but by an inferno. Even from her window, Sigourney thought she could feel its heat.

Servants rushed into the room. “Kraljica! You must come with us! Hurry!”

“I’m not leaving here,” she told them.

“You must! The fire!”

“Then don’t waste your time here-go help put it out,” she told them. “Summon the fire-teni from the temples. Go. Go!”

She waved her free hand at them-her scarred, battered body protesting at the violence of the movement-and they scattered. The wind-horns were sounding now in the temples, the alarm taken up all around the city. Sigourney looked down and saw the palais staff hurrying toward the burning wing. Smoke curled around the side of the palais and burned in her remaining eye. She blinked as the eye teared, and drank the remainder of the herbalist’s concoction.