S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

Marguerite regarded Audric now with her appraising, piercing stare. He waited for the attack to pass. It would pass; it always had in the past. It must pass. He prayed to Cenzi for that, his mouth moving silently: that the invisible giant sitting astride his chest and crushing his lungs would slowly rise and lumber off, and he’d be able to breathe easier again.

It would happen. It must happen.

His great-matarh seemed to nod at that, as if she agreed.

Staring at the painting, Audric heard more than saw Regent ca’Rudka push into the room, scattering the healers as he leaned over the bed, waving away the sourgrass smoke drifting from the censers. “Get those out of here,” he snarled. “Archigos Ana said the smoke makes the Kraljiki’s breathing worse, not better. And take yourselves out of here as well.” The healers scattered with mutterings, bloody fingers, and the clinking of vials, leaving the Regent alone with Audric. No, not alone… There was someone else with him. Reluctantly, Audric took his gaze from the painting and squinted into the darkness.

The effort made him groan.

“Archigos… Kenne…” Each word came out in its own separate breath accompanied by a rattling wheeze; he could do no better than that.

“Kraljiki,” the Archigos said. “Please don’t move. I’ve come to pray with you.” Audric saw Archigos Kenne glance concernedly at the Regent. “Archigos Ana had a… special relationship with Cenzi that I’m afraid few teni can match, but I will do what I can. Lie back as comfortably as you can. Close your eyes and think of nothing but your breathing. Focus only on that…”

His breath was racing, gasping. He could feel his heart lurching against the confines of his ribs. He could take only the smallest sip of precious air. Audric closed his eyes as the Archigos began to pray. Archigos Ana, when she came to him, would pray also, and she would gently place her hands on his chest. It was as if he could feel her inside him. He could hear her voice in his head and feel the power of the Ilmodo burning in his chest, searing away the blockages and allowing him to breathe fully again. She wrapped him in that interior heat, her voice chanting and yet at the same time speaking in his head. “You’ll be fine, Audric. Cenzi is with you now, and He will make you better again. Just breathe slowly: nice long breaths. Yes, that’s it…” Within a few minutes, he would be breathing naturally and easily once again, an ease that at first lasted months, but more recently only a few weeks.

Now, with Kenne, Audric heard the man’s half-whispered prayers only with his ears. There was nothing inside at all. There was no warmth spreading throughout his chest. These were only the prayers of an old man, outside him and spoken in a quavering voice. There was no sense of the Ilmodo, no tingling of Cenzi’s power-or perhaps there was, but it was so faint that Audric could barely feel it. Maybe there was warmth, perhaps the painful bellows of his lungs were moving slightly easier. Audric tried to take a deeper breath, but the effort sent him into spasmodic, dry coughing that made him hunch over on the bed. His eyes opened, and Marguerite frowned in her painting. He saw that fine droplets of blood had sprayed the blanket.

“You must fight this, Audric. If you die, our line dies, and with it our dream of Nessantico and the Holdings…” He saw Marguerite’s painted lips move, heard the voice that he had always imagined she would have. “You must fight this. I will help you… ”

Sergei had moved quickly to his side; he felt the Regent’s strong hand on his back, heard him call sharply to Marlon. A cloth dipped in cool water was passed to him. Audric took it gratefully, touching the fabric to his lips. He could taste the sweetness of the water. And yes, he could breathe somewhat better. “Thank you, Regent,” he said. “I’m much… better now… Archigos.” His own voice sounded distant and dull, as if someone were half-covering his ears. It was Marguerite’s voice that was clearest.

“Listen to me, Audric. I will help you. Listen to your great-matarh…”

Archigos Kenne nodded but Audric could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Kraljiki. Archigos Ana… I know she could do much more for you.”

Audric reached out to touch the man’s hand. Kenne’s skin was cool against his own, and dry as old paper. “I will be fine,” he told the man. “I think… I have found the way.”

The portrait of Marguerite smiled her lopsided smile at him, and he smiled back.

“There is too much for you to do to die…”

“There is too much for me to do to die,” he said to her, to them. It was both promise and threat.

In the days when she’d first joined the Numetodo, when she’d been a lowly initiate into their society and first met Mika and Karl, the Numetodo House had been a shabby house in the midst of Oldtown, masked by the squalor and filth of the buildings around it.

Now, the Numetodo House was a fine building on the South Bank, with a garden and burnished grounds out front and gates bordering the Ave a’Parete-a gift from Archigos Ana and (more reluctantly) Kraljiki Justi for their aid in ending the Firenzcian siege of the city in 521. Their more spacious and lush accommodations helped to make the Numetodo more acceptable to the ca’-and-cu’, but it had also made them more visible. In the past, the Numemtodo met in secret, and most members kept their affiliation a secret. No more. Varina had no doubt that all those who entered through the gates were noted by the utilino and Garde Kralji who constantly patrolled the Avi, and that information was funneled to the commandant-and from him to Sergei ca’Rudka, the Council of Ca’, and the Kraljiki.

The Numetodo were known-which was fine as long as their beliefs were tolerated. But with the death of Ana, Varina was no longer certain how long that might be the case. Her fears drove her back to her research…

Despite the paranoid rumors among the conservative Faithful, the bulk of the Numetodo research had nothing to do with magic at all: they were experimenting in physics and biology; they were creating beautiful and elegant mathematical theorems; they were delving into medicine; they were exploring alchemy; they were examining dusty tomes and digging at ancient sites to recreate history. But for Varina, it was magic that fascinated. What especially intrigued her was how the Faith, the Numetodo, and the Westlanders approached casting spells.

The Numetodo had long ago proved-despite the angry and sometimes violent denial of the Faith-that the energy of the Second World didn’t require belief in any god at all. Call it the “Ilmodo” or the “Scath Cumhacht” or the “X’in Ka.” It didn’t matter. That realization had dissolved whatever remnants of faith Varina had when she first came to the Numetodo.

“Knowledge and understanding can be shaped by reason and logic alone; it’s just not easy or simple. People created gods to explain the world so we didn’t have the responsibility to figure things out ourselves.” She’d heard Karl say that in a lecture he’d given, years ago when she was first considering joining the Numetodo. “Magic is no more a religious manifestation than the fact that an object dropped from your hand is going to fall to the ground.”

Yes, the teni of the Faith and the Westlanders both used chants and hand motions to create the spell’s framework, yet each of them had a different underlying “belief” which allowed them to harness the energy of magic. What the Numetodo realized was that the chants and hand motions used by spellcasters were only a “formula.” A recipe. Nothing more. Speaking this sequence of syllables with that set of motions would net this result.