S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

“What changed that for you?”

Varina shrugged. “None of the mythology made sense to me-or, rather, I kept stumbling over the contradictions in the texts. But I continued going to temple for years, more from habit than anything else. Then I heard Karl speak, and I started talking to Mika ci’Gillan, who was A’Morce Numetodo here at that point, and what they were saying fit together for me. It made sense. All those tales from the Toustour were just attempts to explain the way the world was, but here were people saying ‘No, there’s another explanation that doesn’t require divine intervention, only nature itself, and that somehow felt right to me. I found they were right about the Ilmodo, for instance: The Faith insisted that it was only through Cenzi that one could perform magic, yet I could do that-me, who had no training at all from the teni and who no longer believed in Cenzi…”

She paused, and he sat there. He’d heard her words, he could even recall them if he tried, but they didn’t penetrate. They rolled from his body like water. “Sergei,” she continued after a moment, “how can I help you, my friend?”

“You can’t,” he told her. “It’s something only I can do for myself.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He smiled toward her and lifted himself from the chair, pushing hard on the cane’s head. “I glad you don’t. It’s good to know that someone cares.”

“You were always a great friend to both Karl and me, Sergei. That’s something I will never forget. I will always be there if you need me.”

It was difficult to maintain the smile, knowing that had he ever needed to betray her or Karl’s friendship to save himself, he would have done so without hesitation. But he managed it. “I will never forget either,” he told her. “And I will come to you first, if I need help.”

“Good,” she said, rising with him. She embraced him, and he closed his eyes, trying to feel her affection and her trust. But there was nothing. Everything was empty and cold. There was no heat, even in the glare of the sun. “Stay safe,” she told him. “You are one of the few true friends I have left. I can’t afford to lose you. I’ll worry about you the entire time you’re gone.”

“And I will worry for you,” he told her, “because you’re here.”

Bowing his head to her, he shuffled from the sunroom.

He wanted her to call after him: to stop him from leaving, to force him to confess it all, to spill out the poison inside him so that perhaps, having to confront it, he could come to understand it.

But she did not.

The crowd began to gather well before First Call, as if the day were one of the High Days where attendance at temple was required of all the Faithful. In the cold hours before dawn, they came to the plaza outside the Old Temple on the Isle a’Kralji: a few hands of people at first, milling near the temple entrance, then small groups of others. They were young and old, many of them-from the tattered and worn appearance of their dress and the state of their hair and teeth-the ce’-and-ci’ or even the unranked dregs of Oldtown, though there were a few better-dressed folk scattered among them, and the occasional green flash of teni-robes.

They gathered as the eastern sky began to turn pale mist-gray and then a tentative orange. By the time the sky beyond the black silhouette of cu’Brunelli’s famous dome had gone to golden hues and the teni responsible for sounding the wind-horns had clambered up the long stairs to their station, gaping in surprise at the crowded, shadowed plaza far below, the crowd had grown to a few hundred.

That was when Nico arrived, huddled in the midst of his close Morelli companions. Liana held to him as if she were afraid she might lose him in the crush, her arm around his waist-she had insisted on coming, even though Nico had urged her to remain behind. He knew that by now someone must have alerted A’Teni ca’Paim about the odd gathering outside the temple, but none of the higher teni appeared to be watching from the doors or windows of the OldTemple. In fact, except for the gathering of the Morellis and their sympathizers, everything seemed strangely, almost eerily quiet. Those of the Faith who were coming into the plaza for the regular First Call service stopped, puzzled at the gathering and uncertain whether they should continue forward or not.

Nico grinned. Cenzi had told him it would be like this. He had prayed; he had spent turn after turn of the glass on his knees asking for insight before he had met with those of the Faith who believed in him, and finally the vision had come: Cenzi had told Nico that they would be betrayed, that a confession would be wrung from one of them too weak to resist, that the Garde Kralji and A’Teni ca’Paim would know what had been planned.

And that knowledge was enough. It was enough.

Liana pressed close to Nico, and now Ancel also approached him. “We’re ready?” Nico asked, and Ancel nodded, tight-lipped. He could feel their trepidation as they walked out into the square: twenty or so of his disciples-those closest to Nico, those who had been with him since the early days in Brezno when the Faith had first embraced, then rejected him. Around them, a buzz of excitement was growing as people recognized him. Nico could hear the whispers: “Look, it’s the Absolute

… It’s him…” Then the chant began to rise: “Nico! Nico! Nico!” It was a pulse, a beat, a rhythm. Even the wind-horns, beginning their mournful announcement of First Call could not drown out that call. “Nico! Nico! Nico!” It pounded against the walls of the Old Temple and rebounded from the gilded dome, spearing into the dawn sky.

As if summoned by the call, the Garde Kralji appeared, emerging from the temple and from the buildings attached to it, squads appearing at the street entrances, surrounding the crowds: the gardai in their uniforms, their pikes ready; the utilino, with their cudgels and-undoubtedly-spells prepared to control the crowd. Those of the Faithful who had come for the service realized that something violent was about to happen-most of them scrambled through the lines of the gardai and away. Commandant cu’Ingres and A’Teni ca’Paim appeared at the balcony above the main doors of the temple: at cu’Ingres’ gesture, an aide sounded a trumpet, shrill and high above the continuing drone of the wind-horns, while two gardai on the balcony waved signal flags.

The Garde Kralji began to advance, closing the circle around the Morellis. Nico nodded to one of the teni with them: the woman gestured and chanted, and light burst high over the plaza, sending long shadows scurrying over the stone flags and over the people there. The gardai and utilino paused. Even the wind-horns’ moaning sagged and failed.

From around the plaza, outside the ring of the Garde Kralji, several people now emerged from the street entrances or the buildings, most of them green-robed: teni of the Faith, yes, but teni who knew Nico for what he was: Cenzi’s prophet, Cenzi’s Absolute. Many of them were war-teni, the war-teni who had vanished at the time of A’Teni ca’Paim’s call to join Commandant ca’Talin and the Garde Civile to defend Villembouchure. Nico could see-above the columned entrance to the temple-A’Teni ca’Paim pointing and gesturing to Commandant cu’Ingres as she realized what was happening. Cu’Ingres turned desperately to his aides, and the trumpet sounded a new, frenzied call as the signal flags waved frantically.

They were too late. The war-teni of the Morellis had already begun their chants, and now they gestured. Fire and smoke bloomed in the dawn light, arcing up and then falling into the ranks of the gardai, exploding as if the wrath of Cenzi Himself was falling on the wretched Moitidi who had disobeyed Him. There were screams and shouts from everywhere around the plaza as gelatinous flame fell among the gardai, clinging to their clothes and skin as it burned: teni-fire of the worst kind. The Garde Kralji normally dealt with crowd control and small groups; unlike the Garde Civile, they were unused to large-scale organized battles, and now their ranks fell apart entirely as they scrambled for safety away from the flames. “Now!” Nico shouted, and again the teni sent a spear of white light to explode above the plaza. “To the temple!” Nico shouted, and his voice was louder than the screams, louder than the trumpet, louder than than the wind-horns. His voice echoed like booming thunder from the buildings around the plaza. “We will take back what belongs to the true Faithful!”