pustules on the faces in the murals painted there two centuries before and restored a dozen times since: the damp always won over pigments. A chill, nearly fetid air rose from below, as if warning them that the realm of the dead was approaching. The torches alight in their sconces held back the darkness but rendered the shadows of the occasional side passage blacker and more mysterious in contrast. A dozen generations of the Hïrzgai awaited them below, with their various spouses and many of their direct offspring. Allesandra’s older brother Toma had been interred here when Allesandra was but a baby, and her matarh Greta had lain alongside him for nineteen years now. In time, Allesandra herself might join her family, though an eternity spent next to Matarh Greta was not a pleasant thought.
The procession moved in stately silence down the staircase: in front the e’téni with lanterns lit by green téni-fire, then Hïrzg Fynn accompanied by Archigos Semini and Francesca, and Allesandra and Jan a few steps behind them, followed by a final group of servants and e’téni. As they approached the intricately-carved entranceway to the tombs, decorated with bas-reliefs of the historical accomplishments of the Hïrzgai, Allesandra could hear whisperings and the rustling of cloth and an occasional cough or sneeze: the ca’-and-cu’ who had been invited to witness the ceremony. These were the elite of Firenzcia, most of them relatives of Fynn and Allesandra: families who were intertwined and intermarried with their own, or those who had served for decades with Hïrzg Jan.
Torchlight and téni light together slid over the coiled bodies of fantastic creatures carved on the walls, the stern features of carved Hïrzgai and the broken bodies of enemies at their feet. The Chevarittai of the Red Lancers came to attention, their lances (the blades masked in scarlet cloth) clashing against polished dress armor. The other ca’-and-cu’ bowed low and the whispers faded to silence as the new Hïrzg entered the large chamber. Allesandra could see their glances slide from Fynn to her, and to Jan as well. Jan noticed the attention; she felt him stiffen at her side with an intake of breath. She nodded to them—the slightest movement of her head, the faintest hint of a smile.
Look at her, as cold as this chamber . . . It was what they would be thinking, some of them. She’s no doubt pleased to see old Jan dead after he left her with the Kraljiki and the false Archigos for so long. She probably wishes Fynn were there with him so she could be the Hïrzgin.
None of them knew her. None of them knew what her true thoughts were. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely certain she knew them herself. She was still reeling from the news about Ana, and if she showed signs of grief, it was for her, not her vatarh.
The casket containing the remains of Hïrzg Jan sat near the entrance to his interment chamber, next to the huge round stone that would seal off the niche. The coffin was draped in a tapestry cloth that depicted his victory over the T’Sha at Lake Cresci. There was nothing celebrating Passe a’Fiume or Jan’s bold, foolish attack on Nessantico a decade before: those days when Allesandra had ridden with him, when she’d watched her vatarh adoringly, when he’d promised to give her the city of Nessantico.
Instead, Nessantico had snatched her from him and given Fynn the place at her vatarh’s right hand.
Fynn saluted the lancers, who relaxed their stances. “I would like to thank everyone for being here,” he said. “I know Vatarh is looking down from the arms of Cénzi, appreciating this tribute to him. And I also know that he would forgive us for not lingering here when warm fires and food await us above.” Fynn received quiet laughter at that, and he smiled. “Archigos, if you would . . .”
Semini moved quickly forward with the téni and gave his blessing over the casket. He motioned Allesandra and Jan forward as the
The procession moved in stately silence down the staircase: in front the e’téni with lanterns lit by green téni-fire, then Hïrzg Fynn accompanied by Archigos Semini and Francesca, and Allesandra and Jan a few steps behind them, followed by a final group of servants and e’téni. As they approached the intricately-carved entranceway to the tombs, decorated with bas-reliefs of the historical accomplishments of the Hïrzgai, Allesandra could hear whisperings and the rustling of cloth and an occasional cough or sneeze: the ca’-and-cu’ who had been invited to witness the ceremony. These were the elite of Firenzcia, most of them relatives of Fynn and Allesandra: families who were intertwined and intermarried with their own, or those who had served for decades with Hïrzg Jan.
Torchlight and téni light together slid over the coiled bodies of fantastic creatures carved on the walls, the stern features of carved Hïrzgai and the broken bodies of enemies at their feet. The Chevarittai of the Red Lancers came to attention, their lances (the blades masked in scarlet cloth) clashing against polished dress armor. The other ca’-and-cu’ bowed low and the whispers faded to silence as the new Hïrzg entered the large chamber. Allesandra could see their glances slide from Fynn to her, and to Jan as well. Jan noticed the attention; she felt him stiffen at her side with an intake of breath. She nodded to them—the slightest movement of her head, the faintest hint of a smile.
Look at her, as cold as this chamber . . . It was what they would be thinking, some of them. She’s no doubt pleased to see old Jan dead after he left her with the Kraljiki and the false Archigos for so long. She probably wishes Fynn were there with him so she could be the Hïrzgin.
None of them knew her. None of them knew what her true thoughts were. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely certain she knew them herself. She was still reeling from the news about Ana, and if she showed signs of grief, it was for her, not her vatarh.
The casket containing the remains of Hïrzg Jan sat near the entrance to his interment chamber, next to the huge round stone that would seal off the niche. The coffin was draped in a tapestry cloth that depicted his victory over the T’Sha at Lake Cresci. There was nothing celebrating Passe a’Fiume or Jan’s bold, foolish attack on Nessantico a decade before: those days when Allesandra had ridden with him, when she’d watched her vatarh adoringly, when he’d promised to give her the city of Nessantico.
Instead, Nessantico had snatched her from him and given Fynn the place at her vatarh’s right hand.
Fynn saluted the lancers, who relaxed their stances. “I would like to thank everyone for being here,” he said. “I know Vatarh is looking down from the arms of Cénzi, appreciating this tribute to him. And I also know that he would forgive us for not lingering here when warm fires and food await us above.” Fynn received quiet laughter at that, and he smiled. “Archigos, if you would . . .”
Semini moved quickly forward with the téni and gave his blessing over the casket. He motioned Allesandra and Jan forward as the
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