S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

“Blame them, no,” Sergei answered. “But stop them if they threaten Nessantico? Imprison them or execute them if necessary to deal with them? Yes. And without any regrets.”

“You say that so easily.”

“I believe it.”

“I envy you your convictions, then.” She seemed to shiver in the morning chill, pulling the thin cloak she wore over her tashta tighter around her shoulders. “I wanted this so much, Sergei. I wanted to be Kraljica. I imagined myself as the new Marguerite, and the Sun Throne ablaze with its former glory and more.”

Sergei stirred-for the last few years, since the debacle with Stor ca’Vikej and West Magyaria, he had been pushing Allesandra to reconcile with her son. She had always pushed such hints aside angrily. But now… “You still have three decades and more to match her,” Sergei said. “Ask the historians how troubled her first several years were if you don’t already know. You can still be her, if that’s what you want. There’s plenty of time.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

“And you don’t believe me.”

“I know what you’re going to say next, Sergei. You needn’t bother. We shouldn’t try to delude ourselves at this stage, not about anything.” She patted his hand again. “What’s my legacy to be? I’m Kraljica Allesandra, who betrayed her own child to take the Sun Throne-isn’t that what they’ll say of me? Kraljica Allesandra, who-if I were to make the Holdings whole again-would have to destroy her own offspring to do it. Kraljica Allesandra, who made a mistake backing Stor ca’Vikej and nearly plunged us into full war with the Coalition.”

“Make sure that you don’t make another mistake with Stor’s son.” He went too far with that; the glance she shot him was as keen as the knife on his belt. He hurried to speak again. “It’s too early in the morning to be this maudlin, and neither one of us is drunk enough.”

He was relieved to hear her laugh once through her nose, her mouth closed. “Karl’s dead. I don’t know what it is about his death that’s hit me more than all the others, but it has. I’m feeling suddenly mortal. Sergei, I haven’t seen my own son in five years; he only talks to me through you, my friend. He sits on an opposing throne. He calls me his enemy. Meanwhile, I’ve done little with the Sun Throne except to try to repair the damage the Westlanders caused.”

“Maudlin,” Sergei repeated. “Let’s have the servants bring us some wine, so at least we have an excuse.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Oh, but it is, Allesandra. It’s just not funny to us. But Cenzi no doubt finds it tremendously amusing. As for mortality-look at me.” He spread his hands wide. “I’ve been feeling it for a long time. In fact, it’s a wonder that I’m still moving at all. Compared to me, you’ve no room for complaint. You still have all your teeth. And your nose.” He tapped his own false nose with a fingernail so that it rang metallically. He saw her fighting a smile, which made him grin himself. “As for your son,” he continued, “I’ll talk to him when I’m next in Brezno. I’ve suggested this before, as you know: maybe it’s time the two of you sat down together, to see if you can come to an understanding. He does love and respect you, Allesandra, even if he won’t say it.”

“He has a strange way of demonstrating it. How many border skirmishes have there been, and more numerous now than ever since the debacle in West Magyaria? He thought that he’d give me the Sun Throne and watch the Holdings continue to fall apart. That’s what he wanted.”

“And instead you’ve kept the Holdings together,” Sergei answered, “which is what I’ve been trying to point out to you. The Holdings have survived, despite the fact that without your guiding presence the various countries would have broken away or let the Coalition absorb them. You very nearly brought West Magyaria back to the Holdings.”

“And that angers my son.”

“Perhaps,” Sergei admitted. “But it also makes Jan respect you, however grudgingly.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he told her. It was a lie, but he was used to lying and he did it convincingly.

He could use this. He could twist it to his advantage.

Later. For now, he patted Allesandra’s hand, and he smiled again at her. “Let me talk with Jan,” he repeated. “And we’ll see.”

Jan wasn’t certain that he could believe the story. “She’s here in Brezno again? Are you certain?”

Commandant Eris cu’Bloch of the Garde Brezno nodded, stroking one end of his long, elaborate mustache. “It certainly appears so, my Hirzg. Or someone is trying to create that impression. The goltschlager ci’Braun was found with a light-colored stone over his left eye, just as with your onczio, and none of the gold had been disturbed-all of the ingots were found still there. A common murderer or thief would have taken the gold. I’m afraid all signs indicate that this was indeed a contract murder by the White Stone.”

Archigos Karrol, who had been at the palais when the news came, sniffed loudly. “There have been no White Stone murders in a decade and more. I think this is a fraud. The real White Stone is dead or retired.”

Commandant cu’Bloch turned his bland gaze to the Archigos. The Archigos, approaching his sixtieth birthday, had once been the A’Teni Karrol ca’Asano of Malacki, until Jan had discovered that then-Archigos Semini ca’Cellibrecca had betrayed Firenzcia. Archigos Karrol had been a burly man whose presence and booming voice dominated a room, though most of his earlier brawn had evaporated over the years except for the paunch he retained in front. His hair had thinned and receded to leave his skull bare; his long beard was an unrelenting white, his skin was spotted with brown age marks, and his spine curved so much that, when walking, the Archigos seemed to be eternally staring at the floor and the cane he required to support himself. Currently, he sat perched on a chair, frowning.

“That’s certainly possible, Archigos,” the Commandant answered. “But, regardless, in the last year or two I have been given three or four reports from inside the Coalition that match this one. Perhaps the White Stone tired of her retirement, or perhaps she has trained a replacement.”

“Or someone wants to profit from her reputation and is pretending to be her,” Karrol retorted.

Cu’Bloch shrugged. “That’s also possible, yes, but does it matter, either way?”

Jan lifted a hand and both men turned to him. “It’s not as if the White Stone is too old. She was only a few years older than me when she killed Hirzg Fynn,” Jan commented. He couldn’t keep the hopefulness from his voice; he saw Karrol glance at him strangely. “She’d be in her late thirties now; no more than forty at the most. This still may be the original White Stone.”

Cu’Bloch bowed to Jan. “I have already given my offiziers a description of the way she looked at that time, my Hirzg, though fifteen years changes a person, especially if that person wishes to change. She may look quite different now.”

Jan remembered very well how she had looked then: “Elissa ca’Karina,” she’d called herself at the time, and he had been deeply in love with her. He’d thought that it had been the same for her-he’d believed in their mutual affection so strongly that he’d asked his matarh Allesandra to open marriage negotiations with the ca’Karina family. Before the ca’Karina family had responded with the news that their daughter Elissa had died as an infant, the White Stone had killed his matarh’s brother Fynn, then newly crowned as the Hirzg, and fled the city. He’d glimpsed her one more time: in Nessantico during the war with the Tehuantin.