Justi sniffed, his nose almost touching the painting. “Yes, Matarh,” he answered. “Perfectly. As always.” As he spoke, there was a quiet knock on the doors. Justi straightened, taking a long breath, as Marguerite scowled at him. “And perfectly timed as well. Matarh, I’ll leave you.”
“There is more I need to discuss with you, Justi.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. But it will have to wait. Your painter awaits.”
Justi started toward the door. “Justi,” Marguerite called out and he stopped. “I am your Matarh and you are my son, my only child. I am also the Kraljica, and you are the A’Kralj. You will always be my son. As to the other. . some of your cousins would love nothing better than to see me change my decision as to my heir. And I can.”
Justi didn’t reply, but went to the door and opened it. Marguerite caught a glimpse of a tall man standing just outside: black robe, black hair, black beard, black pupils-a fragment of night walking in the daylight. Justi nodded to the man, who clasped hands to forehead as he bowed. “Vajiki ci’Recroix,” Justi said. “I must say I admire your talent very much. The Kraljica is waiting just inside. I hope you can capture all the complexities she hides so well. . ”
Ana cu’Seranta
As they approached the temple, the crowds became more dense and the acolyte’s bell ringing was a constant din too near Ana’s ear for comfort. For the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, the population of Nessantico swelled with tourists and visitors hoping to meet the Kraljica and mingle with the ca’-and-cu’. Every day, the Archigos emerged from the temple to bless the crowds promptly at Second Call, then proceeded along the Avi a’Parete and over the River A’Sele via the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli. There, at the Old Temple on the Isle A’Kralji, he offered up prayers of thanksgiving for the Kraljica’s continued health.
Near the temple plaza, a line of Garde Kralji, the city guards, held back the crowds from the doors through which the Archigos would appear. The gardai’s brass-tipped staffs jutted above the heads of the onlookers like the posts of a fence, and Ana could glimpse the midnight blue of their uniforms through the less somber colors of those waiting for the Archigos to appear. The acolyte standing at the door to Ana’s carriage produced a whistle from under his robes and blew a piercing note. The gardai responded, opening a gap in the crowd for the carriage to pass through. They rode into the plaza, the wheels of the carriage chattering against the marble flags set there, the teni-driver’s chant ending as the carriage came to a halt to the east of the main doors. The acolyte hopped down from his perch and opened the door, assisting Ana to the ground.
“Who am I supposed to see?” she asked the acolyte, glancing around.
She saw no one obviously waiting for them. “U’Teni cu’Dosteau?”
“Wait here,” the acolyte answered. “That’s all I was told. After the Archigos’ blessing. .”
The great wind-horns, one in each of the six domes of the temple, sounded at that moment: low, sonorous notes that throbbed and moaned like giants in distress, the wail clawing at the stones of the buildings bordering the plaza and driving clouds of pigeons up from the rooftops. The crowd went silent under the assault, pressing clasped hands to foreheads as the huge temple doors-carved into intertwined trees-swung open. Ana made the same gesture of obeisance alongside the carriage. A phalanx of acolyte celebrants in simple white robes emerged first, each with an incense brazier clanking and swaying on the end of brass chains, the fragrant smoke curling and drifting in the slight breeze. As they entered the sunlight they began to sing, their melodi-ous, youthful voices dancing with the intricate harmonies of Darkmavis’ well-known hymn Cenzi Eternal. A dozen green-robed a’teni of the Archigos’ Council followed them-the highest of the teni, elderly men and women blinking at the assault of daylight after the dimness within the temple’s basilica. Then, finally, came the Archigos’ open carriage, wrought in the shape of Cenzi’s fractured globe, the blue of the seas a pure lapis lazuli, the green and gold of the continents a matrix of emeralds and gold, the crack that rent the world bright with tiny blood-red rubies. A teni chanted alongside each of the four wheels of the carriage and the wheels turned in response, while the green-robed Archigos himself stood atop the globe, pressing his own clasped hands to forehead as if he were no more than any of the people in the crowd. Four acolytes in white robes carried long poles, over which was draped an awning of gold-and-green silk, sheltering the Archigos from the elements.
Archigos Dhosti ca’Millac, despite his standing as head of the Con-cenzia Faith, hardly cut a magnificent figure. The dwarf was old-nearly as old as the Kraljica herself. His liver-spotted scalp was bordered by a short hedge of white hair just above the ears and low around the back of his skull. His already-shrunken stature was further diminished by the bowing of his spine, which forced his chin down onto his chest, and the arms which emerged from the short, wide sleeves of his stately robes were thin, wobbling with loose, wrinkled skin. Yet the eyes were alert and bright, and the mouth smiled.
Ana smiled in return, just seeing him; she had never been this close to the Archigos before, not even in the Temple during ceremonies. It was probably just coincidence, but he seemed to notice her as well, nodding once in her direction before turning back to the crowds. He lifted his hands, his voice-no doubt strengthened by his mastery of the Ilmodo-beginning to call the traditional blessing of Cenzi on the throngs.
Ana heard the disturbance before she saw it: another voice striving against that of the Archigos. Turning her head from the Archigos toward the crowd, she caught a glimpse of someone standing in the midst of the kneeling throngs. The gardai saw the man at the same moment and began to move toward him, but they were already too late. The stranger-she saw a ruddy complexion and hair the color of summer straw-moved his hands in a pushing motion and the gardai between him and the Archigos went down as if struck by an invisible fist, as well as those in a circle around him.
The acolyte next to Ana sucked in his breath; the teni in the driv-er’s seat of her carriage grunted in alarm. The crowd was shouting now:
“A Numetodo. .! The Archigos. .!” Ana couldn’t hear the magic-chanting of the man, but his mouth still moved and a blue-white, sputtering glow had swallowed his right hand. Ana had seen similar effects, had performed them imperfectly herself, for that matter. She knew the set of words that could conjure up the heat of the air, could concentrate it into a ball-but the Numetodo performed the spell faster than any teni, with just a few words. .
The gardai the man had struck down were starting to stagger up, but she knew none of them could reach him quickly enough to prevent the attack. Ana knew that the Archigos had seen the disturbance as well, but when she glanced at him he was still smiling, his hands still raised in blessing even though he’d stopped speaking. Otherwise, he had not reacted.
The Numetodo-he had to be one of that shadowy group; who else would dare to do something like this? — swung his arm in a throwing motion and the spitting glare in his hand arced toward the Archigos.
Ana, almost without realizing, had begun whispering a chant herself, and as the glow hissed in the air toward the Archigos-who still smiled-she cupped her hands before her and brought them together.
The ball of blue fire fizzled, sputtered, and vanished long before it reached the Archigos. The Numetodo, standing stupefied in the plaza as his attack failed, went down under a rush of the Garde Kralji. She saw his capture as she staggered with the release of her spell and the inevitable weariness surged over her. For a moment, there was darkness at the edges of her vision and she thought she might faint entirely away, but the shadow passed, leaving her with only an immense fatigue.