S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

But the Westlanders… Varina hadn’t met Mahri the Mad, but Karl and Ana had, and the tales of the Westlander nahualli from the Hellins had only verified what Karl and Ana had said of Mahri. The nahualli were able to place their spells within objects, which could then be triggered later by a word, or a gesture, or an action. Neither the teni nor the Numetodo could do that. The Westlander spellcasters called on their own gods for spells, as the teni did with theirs, but Varina was certain that Westlander gods were as imaginary and unnecessary as Cenzi and his Moitidi.

If she could learn the Westlanders’ methods, if she could find the formula of just the right words and hand movements to place the Scath Cumhacht inside an inanimate object, then she could begin to duplicate what Mahri had been able to do. She’d been working on that, off and on, for a few years now. Worry drove Varina more than ever now: over what Ana’s death meant to the Numetodo; over Karl’s deep grief, which tore at Varina as much as her own.

If she couldn’t understand why people would do such horrible things to each other, she would at least try to understand this.

She was in a nearly bare room in the lower levels of the House. On the table in front of her was a glass ball she’d purchased from a vendor in the River Market, sitting in a nest of cloth so it wouldn’t roll. The ball had been inexpertly made; a curtain of small air bubbles ran though the center of it, the glass around them discolored and brown, but Varina didn’t care-it had been cheap. Varina chanted, her hands moving: a simple, easy light spell, one of the first tricks taught to a Numetodo initiate. Weaving a light spell was effortless, but pushing it inside the glass-that was far, far more difficult. It was like pushing a hair through a stone wall. She could feel fatigue draining her strength. She ignored it, concentrating on the glass ball in front of her, trying to imagine the power of the Scath Cumhacht moving into the glass in the same way she would have placed it inside her own mind, visualizing the potential light deposited around those bubbles deep inside the glass, placing the release word there with it as a trigger.

The spell ended; she opened her eyes. Her muscles were trembling, as if she’d run for leagues or been lifting heavy weights for a turn of the glass. She had to force herself to remain standing. The ball was sitting on the table, and Varina allowed herself a small smile. Now, if-

The ball began to vibrate, untouched. Varina took a step back as it rang like a glass goblet struck by a knife, there was a coruscation of brilliant yellow light, and the globe shattered. She felt a shard hit her upraised arm and she cried out.

“Are you all right?” She heard the voice behind her at the doorway: Mika. The Numetodo leader walked quickly into the room, shaking his balding head and rubbing at the close stubble on his chin. “You’re bleeding, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” He pulled a chair over to the table and helped her sit down.

Varina lifted her arm-it felt as heavy as one of the marble blocks of the Kraljiki’s Palais-and examined the cut in her foream. It was long but not deep, and Varina pulled a sliver of glass from the wound, grimacing. A thin line of blood ran down the arm toward her hand; she ignored it. “Damn it.” Varina closed her eyes, then opened them again with an effort to look at the table: the globe had broken nearly in half along the curtain of bubbles, and the cloth on which it had been set was littered with glass fragments. “I was so close.”

“I was watching,” Mika said. He glanced at the shattered globe. “I thought you’d finally done it.”

“I thought so, too.” Varina shook her head. “But I’m too tired to try again.”

“Just as well,” Mika said. “I came down to tell you: Karl’s back at his own apartments.”

Varina cocked her head quizzically. “I thought he was staying with you and Alia and the kids for the time being.”

Mika shrugged. “Said he was fine, that he needed to get back to his own life. Needed to get back to Numetodo affairs and his work as Ambassador.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

“I think…” Mika pressed his thin lips together. “Those are excuses. He’s hurt and he’s angry, and I’m not sure what he’s going to do. I think he needs someone with him, to talk with him if he wants to talk, to make sure he’s okay and that he doesn’t do anything foolish. Ana’s death has hit him harder than he’ll admit.”

Mika went silent, and Varina felt that he was waiting for her to respond. But it was hard to just hold her head up. Blood dripped from her finger to the floor; the severed halves of the glass globe glinted accusingly at her in the lamplight. “I guess I could send Karoli or Lauren over,” Mika said into the silence.

“I’ll go,” Varina said. “Just give me a few minutes. I have to clean up.”

Mika grinned. “Let me help you,” he said.

Jan liked Fynn. He wasn’t sure how his matarh would feel about that.

Matarh had told him how she’d never known Fynn, how he’d been born only a few months after Archigos Ana had kidnapped her from Hirzg Jan’s tent on the battlefield. When he was a child, Jan hadn’t understood all the implications of that; now, he thought that he finally began to understand the dynamics of the relationship between older sister and younger brother, twisted and distorted by their vatarh’s vanity and pride. He could understand how his matarh could never allow herself to like Fynn, could never treat him as brother, could never trust him.

But he liked the man, his onczio.

Fynn had sent a note to Jan immediately after Second Call, inviting Jan to join him for the afternoon briefing. Jan sat alongside Fynn, with Fynn leaning over to whisper wry comments to him as the various ministers and advisers updated the new Hirzg on current political situations. Helmad cu’Gottering, Commandant of the Garde Brezno, related that there had been a minor skirmish with Tennshah loyalists east of Lake Cresci, easily put down. (“You should see them run like whipped dogs when they see real soldiers riding through their hovels. They’re all afraid of good Firenzcian steel,” Fynn said softly into Jan’s ear. “My own blade has the blood of uncounted dozens of Tennshah soldiers staining it. In the Autumn, if you’d like, we could tour the region, and maybe chase some of these rebels ourselves.”)

Starkkapitan Armen ca’Damont of the Firenzcian Garde Civile gave Fynn an update on the Holdings’ war in the Hellins, which-if everything the starkkapitan said was true-was not going well for the Holdings and the Kraljiki. (“The Holdings doesn’t know how to wage a real war, Jan. They depended on Firenzcia for that for too long and they’ve forgotten. If we could send our Garde Civile and a battalion of good Red Lancers over there for a month, we could put down these Westlanders for good.”)

Archigos Semini speculated on who the Concord A’Teni might name as the new Archigos of “that false and despicable Faith in Nessantico,” giving them a long and tedious commentary on each of the a’teni of the major towns in the Holdings and their relative strengths and weaknesses. He contended that A’Teni ca’Weber of Prajnoli would ultimately become the next Archigos in Nessantico. (“And in the end it won’t matter which one they pick, so all this hot air and effort was a waste of our time, eh?”)

There were reports on a food shortage in East Magyaria (“You did have enough to eat for lunch, didn’t you?”), on trade inequities between Firenzcia and Sesemora (“Do you find this as boring as I do?”), on the relative value of the Firenzcian solas against the Holdings solas (“By Cenzi, wake me up when this one’s finished talking, would you, Nephew?”). By the end, Jan was no longer listening. Glancing over at Fynn, he could see that his onczio’s eyes had glazed over as well. The new Hirzg’s fingers were tapping the polished tabletop impatiently and he was squirming restlessly in his seat. When the next minister rose to give her report, Fynn raised his hand. “Enough!” he said. “Send me your report and I’ll read it. I’m sure it’s fascinating, but my ears are about to fall off my head from overuse, and I’ve promised my nephew a hunt. Leave us!”