They were on the bridge now. It was theirs. The river moved sluggishly below them, and bodies fell from the rails to splash into its waters.
The Tehuantin roared. They sang as they killed, and Niente sang with them.
Varina ci’Pallo
The streets of Oldtown were awash with panicked citizens, most of them running eastward away from the approaching Westlander forces and the battles along the Avi a’Parete. They could all hear the sounds: the shouts reverberating down the lanes, the cries, the screams, the constant din of the wind-horns shrilling alarm from the temples. The smoke of the fires was smeared across the sky, filthy rags sometimes obscuring the sun, and the smell of fire and carnage was thick in the air.
Varina found herself staying close to Karl for most of the day. She would smile at him, nervous and uncertain, and he would give her the same smile back. “Promise me,” she said finally. They were alone in one of the rooms; Talis, Serafina, and Nico were in the other.
“Promise you what?”
“That whatever happens, it happens to us both. Save a last spell for us, and I’ll do the same.”
“It’s not going to be that bad,” he told her. “Talis… he’s one of them, after all.”
She nodded at that, as uncomforted by that fact as he was.
Late in the day, the smell of smoke became stronger. From the windows of their rooms, they could see thick, greasy smoke boiling up from the houses a street over to the west, with flames occasionally shooting up through the black. Ash was drifting down like gray snow. Karl imagined he could almost feel the heat. They went into the front room with the others.
“Everything’s burning,” Nico said. He looked more excited than concerned, but the adults all looked at each other worriedly. The faint crackling of the flames was audible in the silence.
“You’re right, Nico,” Varina said to him, glancing at Serafina. “I’m afraid the fire-teni are too busy elsewhere to do anything about this.” Varina’s gaze shifted from Serafina to Karl. Varina knew what he was thinking-it was what was on all of their minds: Can we stay here? Do we need to leave?
Less than a turn of the glass or more later, they all heard a loud commotion welling up from the west on the street outside. Varina opened the door to peer out. Not far down the street, a mob of several dozen people prowled the lane-not soldiers, not Westlanders, but those who lived in Oldtown. They were shouting, rushing from house to house and breaking in through doors and windows-she could hear the screams and cries of those inside as the mob pushed its way inside each house. They were looting, carrying out anything that appeared to be valuable: she could see some of them clutching stolen items as they marched; what else they were doing in those houses, she could only guess at. There were fires already burning in three or four houses farther down the street. The mob was shouting, screaming- “Take what you want! The city’s lost! Rise up! Rise up!”
Karl and Talis pushed past Varina toward the street as the mob continued its slow, chaotic progress toward them. Someone at the front noticed them and pointed, and several clots of looters surged toward them. “Stop this!” Karl called, and they mocked him, shouting back at him and shaking old or improvised weapons. Karl glanced at Talis, shaking his head. He lifted his hands, gesturing, and light blossomed between his hands. Alongside him, Talis had raised his staff, tapping it once on the pavement stones: a lightning bolt arrowed up from the knob toward the smoke-wrapped sky.
The mob stopped. Without a word, they scattered in a strange silence, scurrying in any direction as long as it was away from them. A few breaths later, the street was empty. “Well, that went rather well,” Karl said. He and Talis turned, and Varina saw their mouths drop open as they gaped.
Varina had cast her own spell even as Karl had cast his. She’d shaped the air around her with a sculptor’s touch, drawing upon it as a canvas and placing on it an image from her mind. She knew what Karl and Talis saw, looming behind them higher than any of the houses.
“A dragon!” Nico, in Serafina’s arms, shouted from the doorway of the house in delight. Karl laughed, clapping his hands, and Varina grinned. “Can you make it spit fire and fly?” Nico asked, and Varina shook her head at the boy.
“It can’t do anything. It just looks ferocious,” she told him. For a moment, the danger was forgotten, but then reality collapsed back around them as Varina let the spell go. The dragon vanished in a fume of green, smoky ribbons that the wind hurried away. The looters might be gone, but nothing had changed. They’d be back, soon enough, and the nearby fires still raged unchecked. The city was still under assault.
“Karl,” Varina said, “we can’t stay here.”
Karl looked once at Talis, saw the man nod slightly. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s time. Let’s gather what we need.” He clapped Talis on the shoulder and started toward the door.
Across the street, Varina saw a lone older woman-a beggar, from the look of her clothing. She was staring toward their house. As Varina noticed her, the woman seemed to nod, then hurried away into the dark, narrow space between the houses and was gone.
Sigourney ca’Ludovici
They put her in the Old Temple.
Commandant ca’Gerodi came fleeing back from the debacle at the Pontica Kralji, bellowing as he charged into the Old Temple to where Sigourney sat on the Sun Throne, telling her she and the Council of Ca’ must take what they could and flee immediately by the Pontica a’Brezi Veste to the South Bank and out of the city.
Sigourney refused. “Let the Council go if they must,” she said. “I am staying.”
“I can’t protect you, Kraljica,” ca’Gerodi told her. “They are coming, at any moment.”
“I’m not abandoning my city and my charge,” she responded coldly. “I will stay.”
In the end, her staff had taken what they could of the remaining treasures of the palais and fled the Isle a’Kralji. It was the same everywhere in Nessantico: in the vast Archigos’ Temple on the South Bank, at the Grand Libreria with its precious, irreplaceable vellum scrolls and books; at the Theatre a’Kralji and the Musee a’Artisans. Councillor ca’Mazzak and the rest of the Council had vanished as well. Fleeing south, the only direction still open to them…
Sigourney remained on the Sun Throne in the Old Temple, in the sunlight coming through the ruined, charred dome. Before she allowed the court herbalist to leave, she ordered him to prepare a special goblet of cuore della volpe, which now sat on the arm of the Sun Throne next to her. She wore a long, cerulean tashta with a yellow overcloak, hiding the fact that there was no leg below her right knee. She had the servants place a jeweled patch over the hole where her right eye had been, and apply egg powder to her face to hide the worst of the scars.
She waited on the ancient seat of Nessantico. Waited for the inevitable.
Outside, she could hear the battle raging: the shouting of men, the clashing of arms, the roar of war-teni spells. Smoke drifted overhead, dulling the sunlight. An elite guard of Garde Kralji was arrayed before her, their chain mail rustling as they shifted nervously, swords in hand and facing the doors to the temple. Commandant ca’Gerodi had left her a turn of the glass earlier. “I won’t see you again, Kraljica,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she told him. “I know. And I am sorry, too.”
She waited.
When the doors burst open, the gardai in front of her stiffened and started to rush forward. “No,” she told them. “Hold! Wait!” Several Westlander warriors entered the temple; with them was another man, this one without the tattoos of the warriors and carrying a burnished wooden staff: one of their spellcasters. They stopped, peering down the long aisle of the nave to where Sigourney was seated in a dusty shaft of sunlight. “Do any of you speak our language?” she called out.