implicitly—the trader Gairdi—and they all agree on the basic details,” Semini told her. “Archigos Ana was performing the Day of Return service when there was an explosion. ‘Like a war-téni’s spell,’ they all said—which means it was someone using the Ilmodo. That much is certain.”
“Which also means they may look eastward to us,” Fynn said. He seemed eager at the thought, as if anxious to call the army of Firenzcia into battle. That would be like him; Allesandra would be terrifically surprised if Fynn’s reign were to be a peaceful one.
“Or they will look to the west,” Allesandra argued, and Fynn glanced at her as he might an annoying, persistent insect. “Nessantico has enemies there as well, and they can use the Ilmodo also, even if—like the Numetodo—they have their own name for it.”
“The Westlanders? Like the Numetodo, they’re heretics deserving of death,” Semini spat. “They abuse Cénzi’s gift, which is intended only for the téni, and we will one day make them pay for their insult, if Nessantico fails to do so.”
Fynn grunted his agreement with the sentiment, and Allesandra saw her son Jan nodding as well—that was also his damned vatarh’s influence, or at least that of the Magyarian téni Pauli had insisted educate their son despite Allesandra’s misgivings. She pressed her lips together.
Ana is dead. She placed her fingers on the necklace of the cracked globe, feeling its smooth, jeweled surface. The touch brought up again the memory of Ana’s face, of the lopsided smile that would touch the woman’s lips when something amused her, of the grim lines that set themselves around her eyes when she was angry. Allesandra had spent a decade with the woman; captor, friend, and surrogate matarh all at once for her during the long years that she’d spent as a hostage of Nessantico. Allesandra’s feelings toward Ana were as complex and contradictory as their relationship had been. They were nearly as conflicted as her feelings toward her vatarh, who had left her languishing in Nessantico while Fynn became the A’Hïrzg and favorite.
She wanted to cry at the news, in sadness for someone who had treated her well and fairly when there had been no compulsion for her to do so. But she could not. Not here. Not in front of people who hated the woman. Here, she had to pretend.
Later. Later I can mourn her properly. . . .
“I expected somewhat more reaction from you, Sister,” Fynn said. “After all, that abomination of a woman and the one-legged pretender kept you captive. Vatarh cursed whenever anyone spoke her name; said she was no better than a witch.”
Fynn was watching her, and they both knew what he was leaving out of his comment: that Hïrzg Jan could have ransomed her at any time during those years, that had he done so it was likely that the golden band would be on her head, not Fynn’s. “You won’t be here half a year,” Ana had told Allesandra in those first months. “Kraljiki Justi has set a fair ransom, and your vatarh will pay it. Soon . . .”
But, for whatever reasons, Hïrzg Jan had not.
Allesandra made her face a mask. You won’t cry. You won’t let them see the grief. It wasn’t difficult; it was what she did often enough, and it served her well most of the time. She knew what the ca’-and-cu’ called her behind her back: the Stone Bitch . “Ana ca’Seranta’s death is important. I appreciate Archigos Semini bringing us the news, and we should—we must—decide what it means for Firenzcia,” she said, “but we won’t know the full implications for weeks yet. And right now Vatarh is waiting for us. I suggest we see to him first.”
The Tombs of the Hïrzgai were catacombs below Brezno Palais, not the lower levels of the newer private estate outside the city known as Stag Fall, built in Hïrzg Karin’s time. A long, wide stairway led down to the Tombs, a crust of niter coating the sweating walls and growing like white
“Which also means they may look eastward to us,” Fynn said. He seemed eager at the thought, as if anxious to call the army of Firenzcia into battle. That would be like him; Allesandra would be terrifically surprised if Fynn’s reign were to be a peaceful one.
“Or they will look to the west,” Allesandra argued, and Fynn glanced at her as he might an annoying, persistent insect. “Nessantico has enemies there as well, and they can use the Ilmodo also, even if—like the Numetodo—they have their own name for it.”
“The Westlanders? Like the Numetodo, they’re heretics deserving of death,” Semini spat. “They abuse Cénzi’s gift, which is intended only for the téni, and we will one day make them pay for their insult, if Nessantico fails to do so.”
Fynn grunted his agreement with the sentiment, and Allesandra saw her son Jan nodding as well—that was also his damned vatarh’s influence, or at least that of the Magyarian téni Pauli had insisted educate their son despite Allesandra’s misgivings. She pressed her lips together.
Ana is dead. She placed her fingers on the necklace of the cracked globe, feeling its smooth, jeweled surface. The touch brought up again the memory of Ana’s face, of the lopsided smile that would touch the woman’s lips when something amused her, of the grim lines that set themselves around her eyes when she was angry. Allesandra had spent a decade with the woman; captor, friend, and surrogate matarh all at once for her during the long years that she’d spent as a hostage of Nessantico. Allesandra’s feelings toward Ana were as complex and contradictory as their relationship had been. They were nearly as conflicted as her feelings toward her vatarh, who had left her languishing in Nessantico while Fynn became the A’Hïrzg and favorite.
She wanted to cry at the news, in sadness for someone who had treated her well and fairly when there had been no compulsion for her to do so. But she could not. Not here. Not in front of people who hated the woman. Here, she had to pretend.
Later. Later I can mourn her properly. . . .
“I expected somewhat more reaction from you, Sister,” Fynn said. “After all, that abomination of a woman and the one-legged pretender kept you captive. Vatarh cursed whenever anyone spoke her name; said she was no better than a witch.”
Fynn was watching her, and they both knew what he was leaving out of his comment: that Hïrzg Jan could have ransomed her at any time during those years, that had he done so it was likely that the golden band would be on her head, not Fynn’s. “You won’t be here half a year,” Ana had told Allesandra in those first months. “Kraljiki Justi has set a fair ransom, and your vatarh will pay it. Soon . . .”
But, for whatever reasons, Hïrzg Jan had not.
Allesandra made her face a mask. You won’t cry. You won’t let them see the grief. It wasn’t difficult; it was what she did often enough, and it served her well most of the time. She knew what the ca’-and-cu’ called her behind her back: the Stone Bitch . “Ana ca’Seranta’s death is important. I appreciate Archigos Semini bringing us the news, and we should—we must—decide what it means for Firenzcia,” she said, “but we won’t know the full implications for weeks yet. And right now Vatarh is waiting for us. I suggest we see to him first.”
The Tombs of the Hïrzgai were catacombs below Brezno Palais, not the lower levels of the newer private estate outside the city known as Stag Fall, built in Hïrzg Karin’s time. A long, wide stairway led down to the Tombs, a crust of niter coating the sweating walls and growing like white
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