S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

“It was because of the girl’s vatarh,” Sergei answered. “Not you. You’re not responsible for his actions.”

“And Rhianna, or Rochelle… She was in the palais all that time, taking care of me and my children, and Jan…” She went silent. Sergei said nothing. She could feel him watching her. The woman in my nightmare. Could that have been Rochelle? “I feel sick,” she told Sergei. “That girl, Jan’s daughter, half sister to my own children…”

“She’s a bastarda. She has no real claim to the throne.”

“I know. There have been enough of those,” she answered with a wry, self-deprecating twist of her lips. “Still, she was the first, and Jan…” She stopped, looked at Sergei. “I’m told you once met the woman who was the White Stone.”

“No,” Sergei answered. “I didn’t. But I came to Brezno not long after she, well, after she assassinated Hirzg Fynn. From what I remember, Rochelle must look much as her matarh did at the time.”

Brie felt her heart pounding hard in her chest. She felt the wine and her dinner churning in her stomach. Again, the realization rose up inside her: Jan still loves this Elissa, has never stopped loving her. “Elissa,” Brie said. “That’s what the White Stone called herself then. I didn’t know the history when Jan wanted to name our daughter. I just thought it was a name he liked…” She gave a bitter laugh. “I didn’t find out for another year or more, when it was too late to change. I’ve never quite forgiven him for that.”

“Do you want me to tell Allesandra and Jan about Rochelle?”

Brie shivered with a sudden chill. “You may inform Allesandra. But I’d like to be the one to tell Jan. I’d like to see his face when he learns.”

Sergei inclined his head. He rose from his chair. “Then I’ll leave the Hirzg to you,” he said. “I’ll get our carriage ready, Hirzgin. The Kraljica will be wondering what happened to us.”

“Yes,” Brie said. “Do that. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Sergei bowed and left the room. Brie poured herself another goblet of wine. She sat there for several breaths, just staring at the red liquid shimmering against the golden surface. I want to see his face. ..

She wondered how she could tell him.

Niente had begun to believe that they might come within sight of the great city’s walls uncontested. The Tehuantin army was descending from the hills into a lush valley, green and fragrant with the strange trees of the region, dotted with pockets of farmland and vineyards carved from the forest. It was land that Niente remembered, land that Niente had often recalled in his dreams. The army had split into three arms, as Atl had seen in the bowl-the southern arm crossing the river, a northern arm moving north to the higher road, and the main bulk continuing to follow the road that paralleled the river.

That’s where Tecuhtli Citlali was ensconced; that’s where Atl, as Nahual, and Niente followed.

They knew that the Easterners were pacing them. There had been the occasional strange and brief skirmishes with their horsed warriors, who would come shouting challenge and then plunge madly into their ranks-even the High Warriors were talking about the undoubted bravery of the Easterners, while at the same time shaking their heads at the foolhardy and useless tactics. There were occasional flurries of arrows from the heights as they passed through the winding valleys, but the shields of the warriors took most of them, and the nahualli used their spell-staffs to great effect. Of the Easterner spellcasters, their war-teni, there was no sign at all.

All of the Easterner attempts to impede their progress were little more than the buzzing of flies to the army.

They followed the curve of the river, with the spires of a village just visible over the tops of the trees. They rode through a pastoral landscape, though the ordered fields had been emptied of crops and livestock. That was undoubtedly so that the Tehuantin army would have to forage farther afield to provision themselves, which they did-raiding parties were sent out wide from the arms, taking cattle and other livestock and stripping the fields as bare as if locusts had descended on them, all the food sent back to feed the demanding stomachs of the warriors. The occasional farmhouse or mansion they encountered was abandoned and silent. The sounds of the army drowned out the sounds that Niente imagined they might have heard had they been riding unaccompanied along the road: the calls of the Easterner birds, the wind rustling the leaves, the lowing of cattle.

But even so, this land felt too quiet. Niente began to peer around, uneasy; he noticed Citlali and the High Warriors around him doing the same, and he realized that the vanguard riders, who should have reported back some time ago, were still absent.

There was movement on the low ridges around them: in the afternoon sun, bright stalks of men rose from the ground. “Atl!” he said warningly, grasping for his spell-staff, but the warning was already late.

Fireballs arced in the sky toward them, fuming black smoke trailing behind, and the air was feathered with the shafts of arrows. They fell, hissing, and warriors snapped up shields against them; still, Niente saw several warriors fall even as he sent counter-spells toward the fireballs. The nearest exploded far above them, with a boom that made him want to clap his hands over his ears. Atl was also chanting release words, and another of the fireballs careened wildly to one side, plowing into the meadow and spewing mud and grass and liquid fire where it landed. But another was streaking too fast toward the banners of the Tecuhtli; Niente slammed a counter-spell against it, but it was already too close. He could feel the heat as the war-spell erupted into sticky gouts of flame, and the concussion washed over them. Niente was thrown from his horse as screams came from the closest warriors. For a moment, Niente was pinned under his horse as the beast tried to scramble up again. The grass was afire on either side of the dirt road. Easterner trumpets shrilled a rising sequence of notes, followed by the roar of their soldiers charging and the shouts of the High Warriors as they tried to restore order to the the startled and shattered ranks.

Metal clanged against metal as Niente struggled to rise, using his spell-staff as a cane. A hand took his arm and pulled: Atl, his face sooty and stained.

All around him was chaos. There were scores of dead warriors near the road, where the fireball had struck, but Tecuhtli Citlali and High Warrior Tototl were yet alive, shouting and gesturing to the left, where a full-scale battle was underway between the Easterners and the Tehuantin forces. I have never seen this attack, Niente realized. This is new… Bellowing, his spear out, Citlali was seating himself again on his horse, held by two warriors. “Nahual Atl!” Niente heard Citlali shout. “To me! To me!”

Atl’s hand left Niente’s arm. He leaped astride his own mount. “Nahualli!” Atl called, “to the Tecuhtli!” Citlali and Tototl already galloping toward the front line of the fray, and now Atl yanked at the reins of his horse in pursuit. Niente looked for his own horse, saw the animal standing with head down a few paces away. He went to the creature-limping, feeling muscles pulling angrily all along his side. The horse shied away as he approached, and he saw that its right foreleg was broken; it could put no weight on it. Niente cursed. He began a shuffling run, joining the rush of warriors toward the battle line halfway across the meadow. Ahead, he could see the nahualli casting their own war-spells toward the enemy ranks, and he lifted his own spell-staff to join the barrage even as he ran, shouting the release words.