S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

“Sergei Rudka is in Brezno,” Audric spat. “I want him here. I want him in the Bastida again, and this time I’ll make sure he experiences all the pleasures of the deepest cells.”

“Yes, yes,” Sigourney was saying but he was barely listening to her, prattling on at him as if she were trying to soothe a child on the verge of a tantrum. She was still talking, but Audric heard none of it. Sigourney was beginning to remind him of Sergei, acting as if she were the one on the Sun Throne and not him. Maybe he might have to throw her in the Bastida, too. Now that he was acknowledged as the Kraljiki, maybe he’d throw all of the Council of Ca’ there. Let them meet and plot in the stones of the main tower and see how they liked that. Sergei had proved that he was a traitor and he would pay for that; Audric vowed that he would witness the man’s torment himself, maybe even help the torturer. He would watch the man writhing in torment on the table, and later enjoy the crows plucking the flesh from Sergei’s bones as his body swayed in its cage on the Pontica Kralji. “Yes, you will have all that,” Marguerite told him. Her mouth twisted into a momentary smile. “You are the Kraljiki now, and they can deny you nothing. You will plant the banner of the Holdings on the Hirzg’s very grave. Your sword will run red with the blood of those who try to stand in your way.”

“Yes,” he told her. “It will. I promise.”

“What?” Sigourney said. She looked startled, interrupted in mid-speech. “What do you promise, Kraljiki?”

He wanted to cough. He could feel the urge in his throat and his lungs, and he forced it down. “I promise that those who stand in my way will be destroyed,” he told her. “That’s what I promise.” He was staring directly into her eyes. He expected, he wanted to see fright there, but that wasn’t what he saw in her face. There was only a quiet appraisal there, and perhaps pity. That made him angry, and the emotion sent him into spasms of coughing again. The coughing made it difficult to breathe; he could feel the edges of his vision darkening and he thought he might faint entirely.

As he hacked into his kerchief, nearly doubled over, he suddenly felt Sigourney’s hand on his head, stroking his hair.

“I know how this illness must hurt, Kraljiki. Audric. I know.” She pulled him to her, and he resisted for a moment- “You must be strong. You can’t let them see your weakness or they will exploit it.” -but he found that he wanted this-this matarhly touch-and he let her cradle him to her, as she might have one of her own sons. Her warmth was a comfort, and he heard a sob that he realized with a start had come from him. She had heard it, too, evidently. “Shh… it’s all right. It’s just the two of us. Just us. If you need to cry, I understand. I do… I will call the Archigos, have him bring that woman teni back here.”

Her fingers swept back the hair from his face. “Be strong…” But it was hard to be strong all the time, and he’d never known his matarh’s affection and his vatarh had always been surrounded by the chevarittai and the ca’-and-cu’ and servants. As Sigourney held him, he opened his eyes and saw Marguerite’s portrait. She stared at him, hard and cold and disapproving. Her head moved slowly from side to side. “My true heir would not do this. This is weakness. My true heir would know how he must act.” Her disappointment burned inside him.

He pushed himself away from Sigourney, so hard the woman stumbled backward and nearly fell.

“No!” he shrieked at her. “No. We will do as I wish in this. We will send a demand to the Hirzg-he must send Sergei back to us, or I will go and take him. Do you hear me? I will go there myself with the Garde Civile at my back and snatch Rudka from them.” Marguerite’s strength filled him and he stood, not coughing at all. “Send the commandant to me, so he can begin mustering the troops. I want you to write the demands-we will send it by fast-rider today. We will give them a month to return him. No more.”

“Kraljiki, you’re moving too fast. We must study this more, wait-”

“Wait?” The word came both from him and his great-matarh at the same time. “I will not wait, Vajica. And those who oppose me or refuse to go with me, I will consider no more than traitors themselves. I expect to see a draft of the demand by Third Call. Do I make myself clear?”

She stared back at him. “Ah, that is finally fear you see in the lines of her face. You’ve done well, Audric.”

“Abundantly so, Kraljiki,” Sigourney answered. “Abundantly.”

“ That’s it…With the chant, think of the fibers of the wood opening like you’re pushing aside a curtain.”

Varina spoke quietly and encouragingly to Karl as he chanted the spell-words, staring at the walking stick he held in his right hand while his left made the necessary motions. She could see the grain of the wood shivering and parting, strangely and disconcertingly malleable. She could see the effort he was using to create the spell; Karl was panting and sweating as hard as if he’d run the entire circuit of the Avi a’Parete.

“Now-this bit is trickier-hold it apart while you place inside it the spell you’ve already prepared,” Varina told him. He didn’t glance back at her; she knew he didn’t dare look away from the staff: the wood would snap back together or the stick would shatter entirely-there were still splinters in Karl’s fingers from previous attempts. “Go on,” she continued. “You should be able to feel the light spell you prepared. I always feel it like a tiny ball of energy in your head, ready to burst. Imagine it moving from your mind and sliding into the space you’ve just made on the walking stick. Imagine it nestled in there. Carefully. Good. Good. And… Let everything go!”

Karl ended the chant, let his hand fall to his side. The gap in the wood clapped together again, a sound like two boards slamming together, and the walking stick was whole and undamaged in his hand, as if nothing had happened to it at all. Karl sagged against the back of the chair in which he was sitting. He wiped at his brow with the sleeve of his bashta as Varina laughed, clapping her hands together once. He sat there for what seemed to be several marks of the glass, trying to catch his breath.

“You did it that time,” she said.

“I certainly hope so.”

“You want to try it to make sure? Just hold the stick and speak the release word.”

“After all that trouble?” he told her. “I think I’ll just believe you for now.” He sighed, letting his head drop back and closing his eyes. “By Cenzi, that was hard. No wonder Mahri looked the way he did.”

She laughed again at that, but she could hear a certain, unwilling bitterness in the sound. Her fingers touched her own face, tracing the lines that hadn’t been visible a year ago. She buried her worry in words. “It’s a matter of finding the right word and gestures to move the energy, only you have to hold both the spell and the object being spelled at the same time-that’s what makes it difficult. From what we know of the Westlanders, they attribute the power to one of their own gods, as the teni do here, but it’s just a matter of the right chant, the right movements. Science, not faith. The advantage is that once you’ve done the task, it’s the object that holds the spell, not you, and as long as the object is of good craftsmanship in the first place and isn’t broken afterward, it could conceivably hold the spell indefinitely, I suspect. Still…” Fingers drifted over the lines of her face again, brushed back graying, dry hair. “It’s a damned expensive way to do things, if you ask me.”

“I can understand that,” Karl told her. “I feel entirely drained.”