“It’s begun,” Talis told them as they entered. He was standing by the door. The door faced south, and from the direction of the A’Sele, they could all see an orange-yellow glow over the rooftops, illuminating the fog that blocked their vision. “Fire,” Talis said. “The nahualli are hurling black sand into the city close to the A’Sele.”
The wind-horns were shrilling, and there were muffled shouts and cries coming from the fog.
Talis closed the door. “It’s too late now,” he said. “Too late.”
The Battle Begun: Sigourney ca’Ludovici
From the top floor of the Kraljica’s Palais, leaning on the crutch that compensated for her missing leg, Sigourney could gaze over the intervening rooftops and the waters of the A’Sele to the North Bank, where the campfires of the Westlanders burned on the outskirts of the city. There, too, she knew, the army of the Garde Civile was arrayed, with Aleron ca’Gerodi now acting as commandant. He, at least, was confident in the ability of the chevarittai and Garde Civile to deal with the dual threats to the city, even if no one else was. Ca’Gerodi had been in battle before, at least-and of the chevarittai left to her, he was best suited to be commandant, since ca’Mazzak had removed Aubri cu’Ulcai from consideration. That had been a mistake, Sigourney was certain; one she could understand, yes, given his rebellion, but also one that might have cost Nessantico more than she could afford.
Sigourney’s body hurt greatly tonight, and she took a long swallow from the goblet of cuore della volpe and placed it on the windowsill.
Sigourney had been confident, too. She had been confident they would deal with these Westlander rabble and destroy them. Then they would look to the east and deal with Allesandra and her pup, and make them see the folly of this breach of their treaty. Yes, she had been confident.
It seemed like ages ago.
But she had seen the strange fog spill from the Westlander encampment to envelop Oldtown and the Garde Civile. Then, a bare turn of the glass later, great blossoms of orange fire bloomed on the North Bank, and she had watched them suddenly arc high into the air in several directions, some falling into the fog where her army waited, and others…
The A’Sele’s water rippled with the fire’s reflection as the blossoms-screeching and wailing-rose as if flung by angry Moitidi. She saw the answer of the war-teni: pale blue lightning that reached up toward the blossoms. Several of them reached the blossoms at the top of their arcs: where they touched, a new, brief sun burst into life and the sound of thunder rolled over the city. But there were too many of the fire-blooms and the answer of the war-teni had come too late. Most of the fireballs felclass="underline" onto the Holdings’ warships on the river, into the maze of Oldtown, and onto the Isle a’Kralji itself. And where they fell, they exploded in a gout of bright, loud fury.
She watched one in particular: the arc lifted higher than the others, and she could see the terrifying line of it-coming directly toward her. She stared, frozen by dual fascination and dread, feeling (as it plummeted down, as it grew larger with each instant), her body remembering the shock and horror of the moment that Kraljiki Audric had been killed. She wondered if this would hurt as much.
But no… she could see the line of sparks it trailed, now slipping slightly to her right. The fireball slammed into the palais’ northern wing, spraying thick fire over the facade and into the gardens below. She felt the entire structure shudder with the impact, so strongly that she had to hold onto the frame of the window to keep from falling. Her knuckles tightened around the bar of the crutch. There were screams and shouts from all around the grounds. Nessantico’s night was once more banished-not from the famous lamps of the light-teni, but by an inferno. Even from her window, Sigourney thought she could feel its heat.
Servants rushed into the room. “Kraljica! You must come with us! Hurry!”
“I’m not leaving here,” she told them.
“You must! The fire!”
“Then don’t waste your time here-go help put it out,” she told them. “Summon the fire-teni from the temples. Go. Go!”
She waved her free hand at them-her scarred, battered body protesting at the violence of the movement-and they scattered. The wind-horns were sounding now in the temples, the alarm taken up all around the city. Sigourney looked down and saw the palais staff hurrying toward the burning wing. Smoke curled around the side of the palais and burned in her remaining eye. She blinked as the eye teared, and drank the remainder of the herbalist’s concoction.
“Look at me!” she shrilled to the night and the Westlander forces hidden in the fog. “I have given up too much to be here. You will not move me. You will not.”
The Battle Begun: The White Stone
“ Why do you stay here?”
“Why do you watch them?-the boy’s not yours.”
“He’s not your responsibility.”
“You should have left.”
“You’ve waited too long.”
The voices yammered in her mind: cajoling, warning, pleased. Fynn’s was loudest, purring with satisfaction. “You’re going to die here, and the child inside with you.”
“Be quiet,” she told them all, and they lapsed into sullen silence.
The air was thick with the unnatural fog, and the smell of burning wood drifted in its tendrils. The glow had become worse, and now there seemed to be a summer snow: ash drifting to the ground and coating her greasy hair and the shoulders of her grimy tashta. There were un-definable sounds in the fog, overlaid with the continual unearthly wail of the wind-horns.
She stared at the door where she’d last seen Talis. There was no one there now, and she hadn’t seen Nico. There’s nothing you can do for him. For the moment, he’s safe. She pressed her hands to her swelling belly. Maybe the voices were right. Maybe she should flee the city. Save her own child.
But Nico was her child, too. Cenzi had brought him to her. He had chosen her, and Nico was hers as much as the unborn child inside her.
“Too late…”
Or maybe not. Grimacing, she turned away from Nico’s house and moved swiftly out into the streets. She had to see with her own eyes, had to know what was happening. The streets were far more crowded than they should have been at this time of night, but people were hurrying to their destinations without looking at each other, fear frozen on their features. Many of them kept their hands near weapons openly carried: swords whose scabbards were peeling leather and whose blades were spotted with rust; knives that looked as if they’d last carved a roasted pig. There would be violence in these streets before this night ended: a harsh word, an unintended jostle, a misinterpreted move-anything could ignite it, a spark to dry tinder. She knew it because violence lived inside her. She could smell the blood ready to spill.
But not yet. Not yet. She kept to shadows, she said nothing to any of them. The White Stone avoided killing, unless it was for pay or for her own protection.
She reached the Avi a’Parete and turned south. As she approached the river, the smell of smoke grew ever stronger, the smoke and fog intermingling so it was impossible to tell one from the other. There were fires burning in the warren of close-set buildings to the west of the Avi, the flames licking high enough to be seen from where she stood. A teni-driven carriage came rushing up from the Pontica Kralji, with a half dozen fire-teni aboard: their faces covered with soot; already exhausted from the effort of using their spells to extinguish the multitude of fires. A squadron of Garde Kralji, their swords out and their faces grim, accompanied them, surrounding a pack of sullen-looking men in plain bashtas, most of them very old or very young. “You!” the offizier of the squadron barked, pointing at a gray-bearded ancient lurking near the building nearest her. “And you!”-this to a youth who could not have been more than twelve, being pulled along by his matarh. “Both of you! Come with us! Lively, now!”