S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

“No, Matarh. We’re not discussing this any further. You wanted me to be Hirzg? Well, here I am, and that is my wish. We won’t talk of it further. Starkkapitan-you have your orders.”

Ca’Damont bowed, and with a glance at Allesandra, left the tent. Semini yawned and stretched like a bear waking from hibernation. He gave Jan the sign of Cenzi and followed after the starkkapitan, avoiding Allesandra’s gaze entirely. Sergei watched the two men leave, then stood himself. “Should you need my counsel, Hirzg, you know where to find me,” he said. “A’Hirzg, a good evening to you.”

Allesandra gave him the barest inclination of her head. For several breaths, she and Jan sat there, silent. “You don’t want me to be Kraljica?” she said, when the silence had stretched on for too long.

“Just as Sergei wants what’s best for Nessantico, I want what’s best for Firenzcia,” he answered. Then, before she could form a response: “All I ever wanted from you was your love, Matarh.”

His words stung like a slap across the face, so hard that it started tears in her eyes. “I do love you, Jan,” she told him. “More than you can understand.”

He glared at her: a stranger’s face. No, his namesake’s face, as she imagined it all during her captivity in Nessantico, when he refused to pay the ransom for her. “Shut up, Matarh. You’ve taught me well. You’ve shown me that aspirations and drive are more important than love. I talked to Archigos Semini. I told him how you’d been willing to sacrifice him to be Kraljica. He told me something in return: that he had plotted to assassinate Fynn. For you, Matarh. All for you. He told me that you knew, that day I saved Fynn, that the attack would come. You used him-your lover-to make me a hero, to make me the Hirzg. The rest, I can figure out myself. I wonder, Matarh, who hired the White Stone-but I have an excellent guess.” She felt her face coloring, and she looked away. “Then that oh-so-noble gesture of yours,” he continued, “stepping down in favor of me: you never wanted to be Hirzg. You always wanted more. You didn’t want what was best for me, but what was best for you. I was your second child, the lesser one, Matarh. Ambition was always your firstborn.”

The breath left her. She sat there, tears damp on her cheeks, as Jan pushed away from the table and stood. “Jan…” she said, lifting her arms to him, but he shook his head. He looked down on her and for a moment she thought she saw his face soften.

But he turned and walked away into the night.

They used what little of the black sand they had left to hurl into the city again that night. Otherwise, Niente ordered the nahualli to rest and restore their spell-staffs for the next day’s battle. He had lost ten more of the nahualli during the battle, most of them late in the day as Zolin tried unsuccessfully to take the closest of the bridges over the river. The energy in their spell-staffs had been entirely gone, and there was no time to rest and replenish them. The nahualli-as Niente had ordered-tried to retreat behind the lines as soon as their power was exhausted, but some were cut down by Nessantican swords, unable to defend themselves. Niente didn’t know how many of the warriors had been lost. They’d been cast back by a desperate charge of the chevarittai, and Zolin-at Niente’s insistence, afraid that they would lose still more of the nahualli-had finally called a halt to their advance.

They were too few… both nahualli and warriors. But Zolin didn’t see that, or didn’t care, or was so caught up in his own vision that it overrode that of his own eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said to Niente, to Citlali and Mazatl. “Tomorrow all of the city will be ours. All of it.” Niente didn’t know if that was to be true or not, and he was too exhausted to care.

After the last of the fireballs had been catapulted into the city, Niente went to his own tent. There, alone, he held the scrying bowl in his hands: afraid to cast the spell, afraid that he would only see the same vision, afraid of the exhaustion and pain casting the spell would cost him. He tried to remember the faces of his wife, of his children: he could bring them up in his mind, but that only made the longing worse. He wondered how they were, how they’d changed, if they missed him as he missed them.

He wondered if he would ever know.

He put the bowl away.

Sleep that night was fitful and unrestful. Nightmares intruded; he saw his wife dead, saw his children hurt and injured, saw himself fighting, fighting, trying to run but unable to do more than walk while demons draped in blue and gold swarmed around him. He tried to imagine his wife’s face before him, her mouth half-open as he leaned in to kiss her… and her face was blank and featureless, a mask. Unable to escape the dreams, he eventually paced the encampment, listening to the sounds of the warriors resting, gazing at the strange shapes of the buildings around them. As he passed one building, he heard his name called out. “Niente.”

He recognized the voice. “Citlali.”

The High Warrior was leaning against the doorway of the building. Behind him, a candle gleamed in the darkness. “You can’t sleep?” Citlali asked.

Niente shook his head. “I don’t dare. Too many dreams,” he told the man. “You?”

Citlali’s black-swirled face creased into a smile. “Too few,” he said. “I would like to see our home and my family again, even if in my sleep.”

“That won’t happen if-” Niente bit off the comment, angry at himself. If he’d been less sleep-addled, he’d have said nothing at all.

“If Tecuhtli Zolin has his way?” Citlali ventured. “I’ve thought the same, Nahual. You needn’t look so distressed.” The smile widened to a grin, and he glanced from side to side, as if looking to see that no one was listening. “And let me answer the other question you won’t ask. No. I won’t challenge the Tecuhtli. Look at how far he’s taken us, Nahual-all the way across the sea to the great home of the Easterners. That is true greatness, Nahual. Greatness. I am proud to have been able to help him.”

“Even if it means you’ll never see home and family again?”

His shoulders lifted. “I am a warrior. If that’s Sakal’s will.. .” His shoulders fell again. “I don’t need a scrying bowl, Nahual. I have no interest in the future, only the now. It’s a beautiful evening, I am alive, and I am seeing a place that I never thought I would see and that few Tehuantin have ever glimpsed. How can one not take pleasure in that?”

Niente could only nod. He bid Citlali a good night and left the warrior to his reverie. For his own part, he returned to his own quarters and performed the rituals to place spells in his stave once more. Then, entirely drained from the effort, he took to his bed and let the nightmares wash over him again.

And the next day, the nightmares came true.

At dawn, Tecuhtli Zolin led them deeper into the city, and they fought street by street toward the wide main boulevard. The battle was a mirror of the one the day before: again, the initial push sent the weary Nessanticans retreating backward; by the time Sakat’s eye was well up in the sky, they had reached the boulevard, where Zolin quickly regrouped them and began marching them south.

There, the Nessanticans had gathered: around the market where they’d finally stopped the Tehuantin advance yesterday, and around the bridge leading to the island. Out in the A’Sele, Zolin had ordered the ships to advance toward the army; the ships of the Nessanticans had moved to stop them, and there was another battle taking place there, one whose outcome Niente could only guess at, though many of the warships of both sides were afire. There was no retreat possible there anymore-there were too few ships left for them all to return home.