S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

Jan bowed his head. Rochelle thought that he might say more, but he gave the sign of Cenzi to the crowd and left the High Lectern-slowly, again, the sound of his cane loud in the silence. He returned to his seat as the A’Teni and her attendants moved back to the altar. As they began to circle the bier, chanting and waving censers, Rochelle sank back into her niche, putting her spine to the cold stone.

What do I do, Vatarh? What do I do to make you proud of me?

She could feel the hilt of the knife pressing into her side as she crouched against the temple’s buttress. If Nessantico was to be her vatarh’s passion, as it had been Allesandra’s, if-as he had said was true of Allesandra-the Holdings were to be his one true child, then she would share that passion with him. Rochelle’s matarh had given her a singular skill; she would use it, then.

I won’t be the White Stone, no, but I can become the Blade of Nessantico.

She nodded. She would stay in the shadows. She would truly be Jan’s daughter. She would serve the Holdings in her own way.

Yes.

The choir began to sing once more, and she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the ethereal sound, as insubstantial and mysterious as she would be.

The procession around the ring boulevard of the Avi a’Parete was long and slow and-Jan could see by the throngs that lined the Avi waiting for the Kraljica to pass by-necessary. The populace stood several hands deep on both sides of the Avi for the entire length of the boulevard, as far he could see. Their faces were solemn; many were weeping openly. Jan realized then that as Allesandra had loved the city, it had come to love and appreciate her in return.

He could only hope they would do the same for him in the coming years.

He grimaced as the carriage in which he rode found a jagged hole in the pavement, the impact pushing his cracked ribs together, the pain radiating all the way to his shoulders. The cuts the healers had sewn closed days ago pulled as he tried to make himself comfortable in the seat. He struggled to show as little of his discomfort as possible to the crowds. He smiled; he waved. And on his hand, the signet ring of the Kralji glistened.

The funeral procession for Allesandra echoed that for the great and beloved Kraljica Marguerite. None of the Kralji between Marguerite and Allesandra had been given such a formal display. Kraljiki Justi, Marguerite’s son, had been mocked and loathed; the people of the city had actually rejoiced at his death, and his bier had gone directly from the Archigos’ Temple to the palais. His son Audric’s reign had been worse, though Sergei’s short regency had kept the city stable. But once the regency ended prematurely, Audric’s madness and erratic behavior had damaged the Holdings even further, and his assassination had-many thought-been a blessing. Kraljica Sigourney, Audric’s successor, had committed suicide as the Tehuantin sacked and burned the city, and her body had been desecrated by the Westlanders: Jan remembered that all too vividly.

With Sigourney’s death, with the city a smoking ruin around him, Jan could have taken the title of Kraljiki himself; he’d chosen to give Nessantico and the Holdings to his matarh instead: a gesture of mockery.

She had turned his mockery into a true gift, he had to admit. That was evident now.

Jan’s carriage, drawn by three white horses in a four-horse harness, followed immediately behind the bier. He could hear the chanting of the teni who walked alongside the bier, which appeared to float in a white cloud. Above the body, huge images of the Kraljica appeared and vanished again: there she was as she appeared in her official portrait; there she dedicated the rebuilt dome of the Old Temple, there she smiled as she descended from the balcony during the Gschnas.

The smell of trumpet-flowers accompanied her, and the sound of the musicians in the open carriage ahead of the bier, playing Darkmavis and ce’Miella: a fusing of ancient and modern.

The old giving way to the new. Jan found it compelling.

“Look-they’re cheering for you, Vatarh,” Elissa said happily, pointing and waving herself. And it was true, as the bier passed, as their open carriage followed, the mourning morphed into applause and smiles. “They like you.”

“They’re cheering because they don’t have a choice,” Jan told her, and Brie frowned.

“Jan…”

“It’s true, and the children should understand that,” he answered her. He leaned forward across to where the children were sitting, ignoring the pull of the stitches and the twinge in his chest. “The people will applaud you as long as they think you’re going to keep food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. They’ll applaud you when they fear you, too, because they’re afraid that if they don’t, they’ll be punished. Don’t mistake their smiles and applause for anything more than a facade.”

He felt Brie’s hand on his arm. “Darling, please. They don’t understand what you’re saying, and you’re just scaring them. And you shouldn’t be so cynical. Not today of all days.”

She was right, and he knew it. He glimpsed the ornate handle of the sparkwheel fitted to an embossed leather holder on her belt: the gorgeous sparkwheel Varina and the Numetodo had presented to her after the battle. The citizens of Nessantico were cheering Brie, he knew: the success of the sparkwheeler corps in the battle was already a legend in the city, and it appeared that the A’Hirzg in Brie had become the favorite of the city. “I’m sorry,” he told her, told the children. “You’re right…”

They continued around the ring boulevard, and he continued to smile and wave. Because it was expected. Because it was his duty. They clattered over the Pontica A’Kralji, where, in iron gibbets, the skeletal body of the Westlander war-teni Sergei had killed and the Westlander Tehuantin were displayed in gory triumph. Jan barely glanced at their bodies.

The procession ended at the courtyard of the Kraljica’s Palais at dusk. The bier floated on its mage-cloud to the summit of the pile of oil-soaked timbers set well away from the wings of the palais: the pyre that would send Allesandra’s soul into the arms of Cenzi, placed in the center of the Kraljica’s gardens. The ca’-and-cu’ of the city and of the Holdings and Coalition both, the chevarittai in their dress uniforms of blue and gold or black and silver, Sergei ca’Rudka, Starkkapitan ca’Damont, Commandant ca’Talin of the Garde Civile: they were all here, watching as Jan and his family descended from their carriage.

Jan looked a last time at his matarh’s body. He nodded to Talbot, who gestured to the fire-teni arrayed around the pyre. Their hands danced an intricate ballet together; their voices mingled in a slow chant. Fire bloomed orange-red between their hands as they gestured, as if tossing petals toward the pyre. Flames crackled and hissed in fury, licking at the oil and climbing rapidly. The mage-cloud vanished under a pall of writhing white that rose to the height of the palais roof before the wind smeared it across the sky. The flames touched the bier itself; Jan could see trumpet-flowers withering and curling under as Allesandra’s body became lost in the heat waver and smoke. The furious crackling and popping of the fire echoed from the walls of the palais and the insistent heat drove everyone a few steps back from the pyre.

A log collapsed in the pyre, sending sparks coiling wildly upward. Jan realized that he’d been watching the fire burn for far longer than he’d thought, that the sky was growing dark.

“We can go now, Kraljiki,” Talbot said. The title sounded strange to Jan. “They’re ready in the hall…”

The Hall of the Sun Throne was packed. The windows in the long room flickered red with the flames of the pyre, while the great window behind the throne showed the dusk sky, already a deep violet with the first stars beginning to glisten above. The Council of Ca’ was seated before the throne, with the other dignitaries. A’Teni ca’Beranger waited with Talbot alongside the Sun Throne. Brie gave the children to the nursemaids and approached the dais of the throne alongside Jan.