A Magic of Dawn (38 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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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 Cénzi 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 Hïrzgin, 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 Hïrzgin’s quarters . . .”
Rochelle nodded and placed the plate on the tray with the rest of the Hïrzgin’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 Hïrzg, 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.
She wasn’t happy that Paulus had assigned her to the Hïrzgin. She still wasn’t certain whether the Hïrzgin entirely trusted her. It was almost as if she knew the connection between Rochelle and her husband. And the Hïrzg—for all the interest he’d shown in her at first, now he acted cold and distant toward her. He ignored her if she were in the same room with him, and a few times she’d caught him staring at her with an appraising look on his face.
He knows who you are. He knows, and the knowledge terrifies him.
The thought seemed to come to her wrapped in the voice of her matarh.
She knocked on the door to the Hïrzgin’s chambers. The door opened a moment later, and Rochelle was looking down at Elissa. “Hello, Rhianna,” the girl said. “Matarh has gone to see Vatarh. She said for you to put the dinner on the table in the outer room and leave it.”
Rochelle felt muscles relax in her back and abdomen, and she realized that she’d tensed without realizing it. She smiled at Elissa. “Then that’s what I’ll do,” she said. Elissa opened the door wider, and Rochelle entered, moving through the bedroom and into the outer reception chamber. She placed the tray on the table there and arranged the cloth over it to keep it warm and any ambitious flies away. She started back toward the servants’ door.
“Matarh is going with Vatarh to see the troops, then come back here later to be with us,” Elissa said. “I heard Vatarh tell Paulus that he wanted you to be on the staff that goes with them.”
“Ah . . .” Rochelle smiled at Elissa, though she wasn’t certain how she felt about the news. “And what did your matarh say to that?”
“She wasn’t there,” Elissa answered.
Rochelle nodded.
He wants me to go with him.
“I’ll miss you, Rhianna,” Elissa said. “So will Kriege and Caelor, even if they wouldn’t say so. Eria won’t, though.” Elissa’s face twisted into a frown. “She’s too little and stupid.”
Rochelle laughed. “Don’t say that about your sister,” she said gently. “She’s still learning, that’s all. You should teach her—she looks up to you.”
“I’d rather have a sister like you,” Elissa said.
Rochelle caught her breath. In that moment, she could have blurted it all out. The words burned in her throat.
I
am
your sister, Elissa . . .
But instead, she nodded. “Thank you, dear one,” she said instead. “That would be wonderful if it could be that way, and I’d be the best big sister you could have. But Eria is growing up—and walking and talking and getting into things—and you’ll need to be the big sister for her. You’ll need to show her everything, and help her so that she learns what she needs to learn. She’ll be watching you, and wanting to do what you do, just as you do it.”
“Did you have a big sister?” Elissa asked her.
“No. I had a big brother, though he was much older than me, and he left before I was very old. And I didn’t have a little sister—or brother.”
“You would be a good big sister, Rhianna. You would teach her everything you know.”
Rochelle touched the stones under her tashta. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I could.” She curtsied to the girl then, hurrying to finish before the girl asked any more questions. “I have to go now, Elissa, or Paulus will be wondering where I am. Is your matarh coming right back, or should I send one of the other maids up to be with you?”
“She’ll be right back,” Elissa said, and they both heard the outer door begin to open in the same moment. “Oh, there she is now,” the girl said, running to the door. “Matarh, Rhianna has brought your supper . . .”
But that was all Rochelle heard. She hurried to the servants’ door, closing it quickly behind her before Brie could see her or call out after her. In the dimness of the corridor beyond, she leaned against the door, and her fingers caressed the stone in its pouch.
 
Niente
 
T
HE PATH HAD BEEN SO CLEAR back in Tlaxcala. Every step had been laid out, and now it’s all confused and diffuse. The Sun Presence dominates everything, hiding the Long Path from me . . .
Niente bowed his head over the scrying bowl, immersing himself in the green mist that boiled up from the water, praying to Axat fervently, begging Her to give him clear sight, to show that the Long Path had not already been destroyed by the actions of those in the present. That was the danger: the future was malleable and changeable, and a single act by someone might alter everything.
There . . . That was Villembouchure, the city they had taken once before, and Niente saw the possibilities of battle there. He stirred the water with a hand, dissolving the image and pushing his mind further into the mists of the future. He didn’t want to see Villembouchure; he knew what should happen there—the path was wide and difficult to turn away. He wanted to see again the great city: Nessantico.
He wanted to see again the fate that awaited him there, the fate that would affect both Tehuantin and Easterner, that might shape the world with his own mold.
There . . . There was the great city, its strange, majestic buildings rebuilt, so unlike the stepped pyramids of Tlaxcala. But the mists around this future were heavier than they had ever been before, and the visions came too fast, too fleeting. There was his son’s face, and he was shouting at Niente, his face full of anger and fury. There was the glowing throne of the great city, but the shape sitting on it was uncertain: one moment it was a woman, then a man, then another, and there was a young man standing alongside it, wearing green robes, and from his hands boiled more mist that obscured Niente’s sight. For a moment Niente felt a stirring in the mists: was this a glimpse of the Sun Presence?
Where was the Long Path? Had it vanished? No, there it was again, but now faint, so faint, and overlaid with a dozen other possible futures when before it had been clear and certain. There was Atl again, and he walked yet another future. There was a paper, with strange writing on it, and the scroll was in flames, the words going to gray ash. There was a young woman with a pale-colored stone in one hand and a dagger in the other, and she governed yet another path. Faces wafted up toward him from the mist and vanished again: a man of middle years with a crown on his head, an old man with a metal nose, an old woman from whose hands sparks flew like a fire-rock striking metal, and again the young, green-robed man from whose mouth fire emerged, as if he were a dragon.
Niente had never seen these figures before—or at least not so clearly—but now they rose up in opposition to him, confusing Axat’s sight and seeming to bar him from the path he’d chosen. He sought to find it again, staring into the mists of the bowl and searching for a way past these specters.
There . . .
He saw it again, at last, but this time he also saw Atl laying still on the ground before the path, his head bloodied, and he recoiled in fear.
No, Axat!
he prayed.
You can’t demand that of me . . .
But the vision remained, and it was only beyond Atl’s corpse that the future he’d wanted lay . . .
The Long Path.
It still led to his own death as well, but he welcomed that. It would be a release from eternal pain. He welcomed the thought of falling into Axat’s embrace at last, of leaving behind the shriveled, tormented, and pained shell of his physical body. That would be no great sacrifice. He’d lived long decades, and he had been Axat’s devoted servant, and he had been both rewarded and punished for that. No, to find his own death would be sweet and he could embrace the Great Winged Serpent without fear, if beyond his death there was still the vision She had granted him. If his death sealed the Long Path.
In his visions atop the Teocalli Axat, Niente had glimpsed a world at peace for a time, a world where East and West respected their individual boundaries, where trade between them was open and free, where the best of both cultures merged into a new whole, where even the worlds of the gods seemed to come together. Yes, there were still battles and strife in this world, but the conflicts were smaller and more easily resolved. People being what they were, it wasn’t possible to find a path where there wasn’t bloodshed and conflict. But down that Long Path, the world as a whole was more benign, more accepting.
Now, Niente looked for that future. It was still there, but the vision was murky and disordered, and he was no longer certain he could find the way to it in reality.
“Taat?”
He heard Atl’s voice, and with the interruption, the green mist dissolved and he was merely staring at his own ugly, shimmering reflection in the water of the bowl. A droplet—like rain—hit the surface of the bowl, rings radiating out from it, touching the edges and rebounding in complex patterns, and Niente realized that he was weeping. He brushed at his eyes with his gnarled, clawed hands. “What?” he asked, blinking and raising his head. The back of his neck was stiff; how long had he been gazing into the bowl?
Atl was staring at him, and Niente wondered how long his son had been there. Perhaps he’d been muttering to the visions in the scrying bowl, as he sometimes did—what might Atl have heard? “What, my son?” Niente asked again, trying to soften his voice.
“The fleet is approaching the next large city, and Tecuhtli Citlali would like to speak to you regarding the vision you have had for this battle.”
“Yes, I’m sure he would,” Niente said. He sighed. Groaning with the effort of moving, hating how his back was bowed and how he shuffled like an old man, he lifted the scrying bowl and took it to the small window of the tiny room. He opened the shutter that kept out the spray and wind, and tossed the water out into the A’Sele. He wiped the bowl with the hem of his robe and handed it to Atl. “Take the bowl and purify it,” he said to his son as if he were an apprentice. “Tell Tecuhtli Citlali that I’ve just asked Axat to grant me Her visions, and that I’ll come to him as soon as I’ve rested for a stripe of the candle.”

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