S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

The command snapped their heads up, pulled them from their seats. For a moment, it was chaos in the room, with dozens of voices contending as Liana and Ancel tried to calm them. It was only when Nico raised his hands that quiet returned. Nico pointed to one of the war-teni, the slashes of an o’teni on his green robes. “You,” he said. “Tell me why your face is so full of fear.”

The war-teni rubbed a hand through short, dark hair. He glanced around at the others before answering. “Absolute,” the man answered. “You ask us to go against the oaths we have all taken as teni-the oaths that we made to Cenzi.”

“I know that oath. I have taken it myself,” Nico answered. “I pledged to obey the Archigos and to follow the Toustour and Divolonte, as did you. That is why I no longer use the Ilmodo even though Cenzi’s Gift burns within me. But listen to me now: it is the Archigos and the a’teni who listen to him who have broken their oaths, for they make it impossible for us to both obey them and obey the Toustour and Divolonte. If the Archigos, with his orders, demands that we break with the Toustour and Divolonte, which come to us through Cenzi, then it is our duty -as teni and by the oath we’ve all taken-to refuse to obey them.”

The o’teni was nodding before Nico finished speaking, and he turned to the others. “Do any of you have more objections? Come, let us hear them.”

One of the e’teni lifted a tentative hand, and Nico gestured to him. “Absolute, there are those who say that you only wish to be Archigos yourself.”

Nico smiled at that, clapping his hands together. “I wish to serve the Faith however Cenzi demands that I serve it. If Cenzi would one day bring me to the Archigos’ throne, then I would be a poor servant if I refused Him. But I’d also be a poor servant if I let pride and desire govern my actions.” He pointed to the teni, then let his finger sweep over all of them. “I would tell you, all of you, that you should watch me as I watch the Archigos, and if you see me ever, ever acting in my own interests rather than those of the Faith, then you should raise your voices against me. Do you wish to do that now? Do you?”

They were silent. Nico let the quiet reign, listening to the sounds of their breaths, the noise their feet made on the rough boards under their feet. Finally, he gave them the sign of Cenzi again. “I thank you,” he said. “And Cenzi thanks you. Now-listen to me. Here is what we must do…”

Stag fall was more beautiful than any description she’d had of it.

The palais sat in the center of hundreds of acres of mountainous forest, clinging to the side of one of the tallest slopes like a limpet, with arms of thick-hewn timbers that supported its many balconies and wings. The approach to the villa was long and arduous, the road winding back and forth across the face of the heavily-wooded and ancient mountains of the range. The switchbacks would have drawn any enemy laying siege to Stag Fall into long, vulnerable lines, and there were cliffs above many of the sections where defenders could easily send boulders, arrows, and spells down upon hapless attackers. Morning and night, thick, white mists rose from the valleys, so dense that they muffled all sound and confused any sense of direction.

The palais itself was built from rich oak and adorned with other precious hardwoods. It was polished and gleaming, its dark-paneled rooms large with huge inviting hearths that were used year-round; even in summer when Brezno would be sweltering, the nights here still held a chill. Rochelle had thought Brezno Palais foreboding: a fortress of cold stone. Stag Fall was a glimpse into another world, a forest world. Stag Fall was softer and more inviting than Brezno Palais, but it was no less formidable and no less a fortress.

A caretaker staff remained permanently at Stag Fall to care for the villa when the Hirzg or other notables were not there, but with the Hirzg and his family arriving, the permanent staff was placed under the control of the Hirzg’s personal staff. Paulus ci’Simone was no Rance ci’Lawli, and it showed in his rough and almost territorial interaction with the two staffs. Rochelle had seen Rance’s ability to smooth ruffled feathers between staffs; Pauli was far less polished, and tended to bark orders rather than listen to explanations. Rochelle witnessed it daily.

“Damn it, woman, the Hirzgin won’t eat the venison cooked that lightly. Do you know absolutely nothing about how your mistress prefers her meat? Another half-mark of the glass on the fire, at least! There should be no red left in it.”

Paulus glared at the cook, who slapped the cut of meat back onto a spit and thrust it over the open fire again. Paulus made a sound of disgust. “Rhianna!” he barked. “As soon as this incompetent has the meat acceptably cooked, make certain the meal gets up to the Hirzgin’s room while it’s still hot. She’s been waiting too long already. I can’t waste my time here any longer-I have to see to the Hirzg’s attendants now; they seem to have misplaced his riding leathers.”

Rochelle curtsied, and Paulus stalked away from the kitchen. “Bastardo!” she heard the cook mutter as soon as he was safely out of earshot. She was a stout woman of middle years, the skin hanging under her arms wobbling as she moved. “He thinks he’s already ca’-and-cu’. I’ll spit in his food tonight-see how he likes that.” The rest of the kitchen staff chuckled.

“He’s just scared,” Rochelle told her. “He knows he’s swimming out of his depth.”

“Well, he’s no Rance ci’Lawli, that’s certain, may Cenzi rest his soul,” the cook responded. She shook her head and turned the spit. Grease hissed and crackled as it dripped into the cook fire. “That was a terrible thing, his murder. The White Stone, they say. Wouldn’t surprise me if that worm Paulus was the one who hired her, just to take old Rance’s position.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial husk. “They say Rance was laid open from throat to cock like a filleted fish, and every wall of his bedroom was covered in his blood.” The skin under the cook’s chin was as loose as that under her arms; it swayed as she glanced back at Rochelle. She pushed back the red turban wrapped around her head to absorb the sweat from the kitchen fires. “Did you see any of that, girl?”

The image of Rance open-eyed in death came back to Rochelle, and she shivered. She touched the pebble in its pouch under her tashta. At least I don’t hear his voice… “No,” she said, then shook her head. “I mean, I saw the body, and it was nothing like that. There was very little blood. I was told that he was killed by a poisoned blade.”

Eyebrows clambered toward red cloth. “You saw his body? Truly? Well, I suppose you would know then.” The way she said it, Rochelle was fairly certain that no one in the kitchen staff preferred the image of Rance’s actual death to the cook’s more gory and visceral one. She suspected that the blood-bathed version was the one that would prevail in staff gossip. “Well, this meat should be done enough for the delicate tongue of the Hirzgin, eh?” The cook lifted the skewer from over the fire, the thick sleeve of her soiled tashta around the iron bar, and slid the meat onto a plate with a large fork. “There you go, girl. You’d better hurry. You’ve a bit of a climb to the Hirzgin’s quarters…”

Rochelle nodded and placed the plate on the tray with the rest of the Hirzgin’s meal, covered it, and left the close heat of the kitchen. The servants’ corridors of Stag Fall were narrower than those in the Brezno Palais, and cold after the kitchen. She moved quickly up several flights of stairs, occasionally passing another of the staff with a nod or a quick greeting, until she reached the royal family’s level. There were a pair of gardai there, of the Brezno Garde Hirzg, and one of them examined her tray while the other watched with a hand on the pommel of his sword. Finally, the garda nodded toward the door and, with a clatter of plates, Rochelle moved on.