Allesandra ca’Vörl
ALLESANDRA ATTENDED THE THIRD CALL service at the Old
Temple, as was her usual pattern while in the city. The Admonition,
delivered by A’Téni ca’Paim herself, was pleasingly stern, though
Allesandra noticed that several of the téni attendants seemed to
frown at her rhetoric against “those who would follow the teachings
not of the Archigos of the Faith, but of self-styled disciples of
Cénzi,” an obvious reference to Nico Morel and his
followers.
She also found
herself pleased to see Erik ca’Vikej at the service, seated several
rows behind the royal pew reserved for the Kralji. Despite knowing
that Sergei would be upset, and that A’Téni ca’Paim would
undoubtedly include the incident in her weekly report to Archigos
Karrol in Brezno, she had one of her attendants go back and invite
ca’Vikej forward to sit in the pew with her. He bowed to her as he
took his seat near her. His smile dazzled, his eyes sparkled.
Allesandra felt again the pull of the man—the people she’d set to
checking his background had already told her that he was one of
those individuals that people would easily follow—a natural
leader.
They had also told
her that he was a widower, whose wife had died birthing the last of
his three children, who were currently living with relatives in
exile in Namarro.
He would be a fine
Gyula, should the Moitidi who governed fate ordain that for him.
And if that happened . . . well, Allesandra, like Marguerite before
her, believed that marriage was a fine weapon to wield. And if
one’s spouse was at least pleasant to be with, that was a
bonus.
After the service,
she allowed ca’Vikej to take her arm as they proceeded first from
the temple, Allesandra nodding to those she knew as she passed
them. “A stern warning from the A’Téni,” he commented. His voice
was warm and low, his breath smelled pleasantly of some eastern
spice. “Thank you, Kraljica, for allowing me the privilege of
sitting with you.”
“I was surprised to
see you there, Vajiki,” she said.
“I once thought of
becoming a téni myself,” he told her. “My vatarh talked me out of
it, but ever since . . .” She felt him shrug. “I still find great
comfort in the Faith. And besides, I knew there was a good chance
you would be attending.”
“Ah? And why would
that be important, Vajiki?” she asked.
He laughed at that,
deep and throaty and genuine. She liked that laugh, liked the way
it deepened the lines around the man’s eyes. “I never had the
chance to properly thank you for the dance at the Gschnas,
Kraljica.”
“That’s all? Are all
Magyarians so aggressively courteous, Vajiki?”
Again, the laugh.
They were approaching the doors, and the téni there opened them
wide. The western sky above the buildings that fringed the plaza
was touched with red and orange, as if the clouds were afire. They
entered out into a cool evening. A crowd of citizens had
gathered—some who had come out of the side doors of the temple to
see the Kraljica, as well as the usual curious tourists.
Allesandra’s carriage was waiting several steps away, the driver
already holding open the door for her. They cheered as she emerged
from the temple, and Allesandra lifted her hand to them. “No, I’m
afraid not,” ca’Vikej answered as the crowd roared. “But they don’t
have the incentive of your beauty. As you can see, even your
subjects are overcome.”
Now it was Allesandra
who laughed, stopping momentarily. “You’ve inherited your vatarh’s
golden tongue, I see, but I don’t flatter that easily, Vajiki.
Forgive me if I say that I suspect your motives are more
political than personal.”
“In that, you’d be—”
he began to reply. But a shout from the front of the crowd
interrupted him.
“Don’t be a traitor
to your own faith, Kraljica!” a male voice shouted. His voice was
strangely loud, as if enhanced by the Ilmodo, and all heads turned
toward it. The gardai holding back the crowd were suddenly shoved
aside as if some invisible, gigantic hand had pushed them sprawling
to the flags of the pavement, and a green-clad téni, the slash of
his rank on the robes telling Allesandra that he was an o’téni,
stepped through the gap. She recognized him, though she didn’t know
his name; his was a face she’d glimpsed among A’Téni ca’Paim’s
staff. “You defile Cénzi if you bring the body of a Numetodo
heretic into this sacred place. Cénzi will not allow it!” The
o’téni stalked closer. Allesandra felt ca’Vikej’s arm leave hers.
“Those who are truly faithful will stop this travesty if we must!”
The man’s face was twisted as he shouted, and now he began to
chant, his hands moving in the pattern of a spell. But Allesandra
heard the whisper of steel being drawn from a scabbard, and
ca’Vikej had rushed from her side. One muscular arm was around the
téni’s head and a dagger in his hand was pressed against the man’s
throat.
“Another word,” she
heard him say in the téni’s ear, “and you’ll have no throat with
which to talk.”
The téni’s hands
dropped and he stopped his chant. The gardai, regaining their feet,
were now around him as well, several of them stepping between
Allesandra and the téni. She heard shouts and cries. Hands hurried
her to her carriage. Past uniformed shoulders, she saw the téni
being dragged away, still screaming. “. . . betraying the Faith . . . no better than a Numetodo
herself . . .”
She stepped up onto
the carriage, and saw ca’Vikej, the dagger taken from him, also
being hurried away. “No!” she shouted. “Bring Vajiki ca’Vikej
here.”
They brought him to
her, a garda holding each arm. “You may release him,” she told
them; they reluctantly let go of ca’Vikej. “Give me his dagger,”
she said, and one of them handed it to her. “Vajiki, in my
carriage, please.”
As the door of the
carriage closed and the driver urged the horses forward, Allesandra
glanced at ca’Vikej. He was disheveled, his clothing torn, and
there was a long scratch on his shaved head with beads of darkening
blood along it. She lifted his dagger from her lap—a long, curved
weapon, crafted from dark, satiny Firenzcian steel with a carved
ivory handle. She turned it in her hand, admiring it. “Very few
people are permitted to bear a weapon in the presence of the
Kraljica,” she said to him, keeping her face stern and unsmiling.
“Especially one made in the Coalition.”
He inclined his head
to her. “Then I beg your forgiveness, Kraljica. I will remember
that. Please, keep it as my gift to you; the blade was forged by my
great-vatarh—my vatarh Stor gave it to me before . . .” She saw a
brief flash of teeth in the dimness of the carriage. The springs of
the seats groaned once as they jounced over the curb of the temple
plaza onto the street.
She allowed herself
to smile, then. “I thank you for your gift,” she said. “But in this
case, I think it’s better to return it. Let that be my gift to
you.” She handed the dagger to him.
He hefted it in his
hand, touched the hilt to his lips. “Thank you, Kraljica,” he said.
“The blade is now more valuable to me than ever.” She watched him
sheathe it again in the well-worn leather hidden under the blouse
of his bashta.
“Are you hungry,
Vajiki?” she asked him. “We could take supper at the palais, and
then . . .” She smiled again. “We could talk, you and
I.”
He inclined his head
in the deep Magyarian fashion. “I would like that very much,” he
said. His voice was like the purr of a great kitten, and Allesandra
found herself stirring at the sound of it.
“Excellent,” she
said.
