The steam-scarves about Mt. Karnmor were ripped asunder, replaced by a gout of darker smoke. There was no sound, not for several long breaths, not even as the black smoke itself was consumed by a far greater explosion of red, orange, and yellow that shot from the side of the mountain. A monstrous fountain of gray smoke began to climb toward the sky, the eastern breezes tearing at its edges even as it lifted.
They heard the sound then: the sharp report of the black sand, and then the godlike wail of the mountain itself in torment. The sound battered them like a fist: as Tecuhtli Citlali joined it in a roar of his own, as the warriors and nahualli cheered, as their cheers were echoed by those in the other ships. Niente could see thick fire sliding down Mt. Karnmor toward where the hidden city lay, and he imagined the lava pouring down on the terrified inhabitants, setting fire to everything in its path. The city would be caught in panic, and after the fire, there would come the thick ashfall…
The ship shuddered as if the sea itself had lifted them up and dropped them again. White-capped waves surged northward. The fleet bobbed in the long waves, their masts dipping and swaying. The great cloud lifted ever higher so that their heads had to crane far back to watch it, blocking out the brightening morning sky and stretching dark, boiling arms toward the east.
This would be a dark day, and hot ash would fall from the sky rather than rain, but they were away from the worst of it.
“Nahual,” Citlali shouted against the continuing roar of the volcano’s eruption. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.” His mouth was open in a wide grin. “You are indeed the greatest of the Nahual, and with you, there can be no doubt of our victory.” The warriors and the nahualli all shouted their agreement, cheering. His son’s face was proud.
He should have felt exultation. Instead, he had to struggle to smile in return.
ERUPTIONS
Sergei ca’Rudka
Sergei turned over the arguments in his mind as he rode in his carriage toward the Kraljica’s Palais. The luncheon meeting, he suspected, would not go well. Allesandra did not seem inclined to accept her son’s proffered olive branch if it included naming him as her heir. Having Erik ca’Vikej as her confidant and (Sergei feared) her lover certainly wouldn’t help. Nor did Jan, in his turn, seem inclined to listen to Brie’s more moderate view and cease prowling the borders with the Firenzcian army.
There would be war if Sergei could not broker an agreement between matarh and son, and war would be disastrous for Nessantico. He feared he did not have much time or energy left for the effort. He felt old. He felt tired. He felt empty. As the carriage jounced along the cobbles of the Avi a’Parete, he sensed every movement as if it were a blow to his ancient body.
He slid his fingers under the flap of the diplomatic pouch on the seat next to him to touch again the sealed letter there. How could he best frame Jan’s intemperate words? How should he respond to Allesandra’s expected anger on reading them? Again, he played over the expected conversation in his head, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushioned seat.
He realized suddenly that the carriage had stopped. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. “Are we at the palais already?” Sergei called out to the driver, surprised. Had he fallen asleep? Was he that exhausted?
“No, Ambassador,” the man said. “I think… I think you should see this.”
Sergei lifted the flap over the carriage window and stuck his head out, peering around. They were still on the Avi, just approaching the southern end of the Pontica a’Brezi Veste. A few other carriages had stopped as well, and many within the crowd were gaping westward. On his seat above Sergei, the driver pointed in the same direction.
Over the roofs of Nessantico, a blackness had risen from the west. It was already beginning to blot out the sun: like a wedge of strange, coiling, and rolling storm clouds without lightning and thunder, and moving so rapidly that they seemed to outrace the wind. Already the edge of it was directly above Sergei, masking the sun. A false dusk came, and the air under the storm was strangely warm. Something was falling, as well, but it was not rain: gray flecks that almost looked like impossible snow. Sergei caught a few flakes in his palm, touching them with his fingertips: they smeared on his skin like ash, dry. “Driver! Move on,” he called. “Hurry, man!”
The driver nodded and flicked the end of his whip over the back of the horse. “Hey-ah!” he called to the beast, and the carriage began to move again, lurching wildly. Sergei let the flap fall back over the window.
He hoped he was wrong in his surmise.
At the palais, he disembarked into what seemed an early night. The ash was falling more heavily now, and the clouds covered the sky entirely. Servants were running about, lighting lanterns, and Talbot rushed from the palais entrance to Sergei’s carriage. “This way, Ambassador,” he said. “The Kraljica is waiting.” Sergei grabbed the diplomatic pouch and, hurrying as fast as he could with his cane, shuffled along after Talbot, who escorted him through the private corridors and up a flight of stairs to a chamber on the western side of the palais. There, Allesandra was standing near the open balcony of the chamber. Erik ca’Vikej was with her. Sergei bowed to both of them as Talbot announced him and closed the chamber doors, and he went to where Allesandra stood. She was gazing out over the grounds of the palais, which were already dusted as if by a gray snowfall.
“Mt. Karnmor,” Allesandra said as he came up to her. Her voice was muffled by the lace handkerchief she held over her nose and mouth. “That’s what this must be. Talbot says that the records talk about how in Kraljiki Geofrai’s time, the north face of the mountain exploded and fell down. They claim that the ash fell as far away as Brezno.”
“And Karnor?” Sergei asked.
She shook her head. “We haven’t had word yet from them. That may not come for days.” He heard her breathe; he could taste the ash in the air. “If at all.” She turned from the balcony; Erik closed the curtained balcony doors. That did little to change the illumination in the room, lit only by candles and a teni-lamp on the mantel. “This is a horrible omen. We should pray for those in Karnor and all the cities of the island. For that matter, if what Talbot suspects is true, then things may even go badly for those as far away as Fossano.” Sergei saw ca’Vikej stroke Allesandra’s arm furtively, on the side away from Sergei. Yes, they’re now lovers… Allesandra seemed worried and tired. She took another long breath, tucking the handkerchief into the sleeve of her tashta. “You have something for me?” she asked.
Sergei handed her the pouch. She took the letter from it and examined the seal, then broke the wax away from the paper and opened the envelope. She read the document slowly. Ca’Vikej read over her shoulder; she didn’t seem to care or notice. Sergei could see the tiny muscles of her jawline clenching as she read.
“You know what this says?” she asked finally. She refolded the parchment, put it back into the envelope.
Sergei looked deliberately at ca’Vikej without answering. Allesandra waved the envelope. “You can speak,” she said. “After all, as a claimant to the throne of West Magyaria, Erik has a vested interest in the answer.”
“Erik…” She calls him by his familiar name. “Then yes, Kraljica, the Hirzg told me what he intended to say to you.”
“So nothing has changed.”
Sergei shrugged. He stroked a finger along the edge of his false nose. “The Hirzg holds to his original offer-name him as your heir, and upon your death the Holdings will automatically become one with the Coalition again. I told him that was unacceptable, but…” Another shrug. “I was unable to convince him of the wisdom of your alternative offer.”