Jan ca’Ostheim
JAN WASN’T CERTAIN that he could believe the story.
“She’s here in Brezno again? Are you certain?”
Commandant Eris
cu’Bloch of the Garde Brezno nodded, stroking one end of his long,
elaborate mustache. “It certainly appears so, my Hïrzg. Or someone
is trying to create that impression. The goltschlager ci’Braun was
found with a light-colored stone over his left eye, just as with
your onczio, and none of the gold had been disturbed—all of the
ingots were found still there. A common murderer or thief would
have taken the gold. I’m afraid all signs indicate that this was
indeed a contract murder by the White Stone.”
Archigos Karrol, who
had been at the palais when the news came, sniffed loudly. “There
have been no White Stone murders in a decade and more. I think this
is a fraud. The real White Stone is dead or retired.”
Commandant cu’Bloch
turned his bland gaze to the Archigos. The Archigos, approaching
his sixtieth birthday, had once been the A’Téni Karrol ca’Asano of
Malacki, until Jan had discovered that then-Archigos Semini
ca’Cellibrecca had betrayed Firenzcia. Archigos Karrol had been a
burly man whose presence and booming voice dominated a room, though
most of his earlier brawn had evaporated over the years except for
the paunch he retained in front. His hair had thinned and receded
to leave his skull bare; his long beard was an unrelenting white,
his skin was spotted with brown age marks, and his spine curved so
much that, when walking, the Archigos seemed to be eternally
staring at the floor and the cane he required to support himself.
Currently, he sat perched on a chair, frowning.
“That’s certainly
possible, Archigos,” the Commandant answered. “But, regardless, in
the last year or two I have been given three or four reports from
inside the Coalition that match this one. Perhaps the White Stone
tired of her retirement, or perhaps she has trained a
replacement.”
“Or someone wants to
profit from her reputation and is pretending to be her,” Karrol
retorted.
Cu’Bloch shrugged.
“That’s also possible, yes, but does it matter, either
way?”
Jan lifted a hand and
both men turned to him. “It’s not as if the White Stone is too old.
She was only a few years older than me when she killed Hïrzg Fynn,”
Jan commented. He couldn’t keep the hopefulness from his voice; he
saw Karrol glance at him strangely. “She’d be in her late thirties
now; no more than forty at the most. This still may be the original
White Stone.”
Cu’Bloch bowed to
Jan. “I have already given my offiziers a description of the way
she looked at that time, my Hïrzg, though fifteen years changes a
person, especially if that person wishes to change. She may look
quite different now.”
Jan remembered very
well how she had looked then: “Elissa ca’Karina,” she’d called
herself at the time, and he had been deeply in love with her. He’d
thought that it had been the same for her—he’d believed in their
mutual affection so strongly that he’d asked his matarh Allesandra
to open marriage negotiations with the ca’Karina family. Before the
ca’Karina family had responded with the news that their daughter
Elissa had died as an infant, the White Stone had killed his
matarh’s brother Fynn, then newly crowned as the Hïrzg, and fled
the city. He’d glimpsed her one more time: in Nessantico during the
war with the Tehuantin.
There, she had saved
his life, and he could never forget the last glance they had
shared. He was certain he had seen his love for her reflected in
her eyes.
Even though he had
married since, even though he felt a deep and abiding affection for
his wife and for their children, when he thought of Elissa,
something still stirred within him. He still looked for her, in the
mistresses he took.
Why would she come back here? Why would she return to
Brezno?
He found himself torn
by conflicting feelings—as he had when he’d thought of her in that
first year or two after he’d taken the crown of the Hïrzg. He was
repelled by what she’d done to Fynn, whom he’d loved as he might
have an older brother, yet he was drawn to her by the memory of her
laugh, her lips, her lovemaking, by the pure joy of being with her.
He had tried to reconcile the conflicting images in his head
countless times.
He had always
failed.
Jan had sent agents
searching for her in the years afterward. He wasn’t certain why,
wasn’t certain what he would do with her if she were captured. All
he knew was that he wanted her, wanted
to sit down with her and discover the truth. Of everything. He
wanted to know if she had loved him as he had her, wanted to know
if she had only used him to get close to Fynn, wanted to know why
she’d saved him in Nessantico.
Sergei ca’Rudka had
suggested that Elissa—whatever her real name might be—might have
been responsible for abducting the young Nico Morel from his matarh
during the Sack of Nessantico. But when Jan had interviewed the
young téni Morel who had at the time been assigned to the Archigos’
Temple in Brezno, Morel claimed to have no idea whether the
woman—whom he called Elle Botelli—had ever been the White Stone, or
where she might be now. “We always moved around,” Morel had told
Archigos Semini, when asked. “She never stayed longer than half a
year in any one place, and usually less than that. The woman was
touched; I can tell you that—the Moitidi inflicted her with voices.
That was Cénzi’s punishment for her sins.”
Morel—he was an
enigma himself, no less than the White Stone: an incredibly
charming and talented acolyte and téni who had been marked from the
beginning for rapid advancement. But he’d become an eloquent and
stubborn troublemaker who ended up cast out from the ranks of téni
when he claimed that Archigos Karrol and the Faith were no longer
supporting the tenets of Cénzi. Archigos Karrol, the upstart had
insisted, must either acknowledge his errors or be forcibly removed
from the throne. The young man had come closer to succeeding than
either Jan or Karrol had expected. There were still téni within the
Concénzia Faith who would follow the charismatic Nico if he called
on them.
Jan shook away his
thoughts. “Find this assassin—whomever she is,” Jan told the
Commandant. “I don’t care what resources it takes. The White Stone
or someone pretending to be her was in this city no more than a day
ago. She may still be here. Find her.”
The Commandant bowed,
smoothed his mustache once more, and left them.
“It can’t be her,”
Karrol persisted. “It must be an impostor. It might not even be a
woman.”
“Why? Why can’t it be
her?”
Karrol sputtered
momentarily. He wiped at his mouth with a large hand. “This just
doesn’t feel right,” he
grumbled.
Jan scowled. It
shouldn’t matter, one way or the other. He was long married now,
and if the affection he had for Brie ca’Ostheim didn’t burn as hot
and bright as his love for Elissa had, he did respect her and enjoy
her company. Her family had excellent political connections; she
understood the duties, obligations, and societal niceties of being
the Hïrzgin. She had produced four fine children for him. She
seemed to genuinely love him. There was a friendship between them,
and she knew to look the other way with the occasional lovers he
took. He should be content.
But Elissa . . .
There had been more there. He still felt the passion occasionally,
like the pulling of an old scar long thought to be healed. Now,
that ancient scar felt entirely ripped open. The White Stone has returned . . .
There was nothing
more he could do about it. Cu’Bloch would find her, or not. Jan
took a long breath, let it out again. “Enough of this,” he said.
“Archigos, what is it you wanted to talk to me about before the
Commandant distracted us?”
Karrol lifted his
head. The movement seemed painful; his knuckles tightened around
his staff. “Ambassador Karl ca’Pallo of Paeti, the Numetodo
A’Morce, has died.”
“I know that,” Jan
said impatiently. “I saw the news in Ambassador ca’Rudka’s last
dispatch. What of it?”
“I know you were
reluctant to have the Faith move against the Numetodo considering
the aid that ca’Pallo gave to both you and your matarh in the past.
But . . . I wonder if now . . .”
“If now what?” Jan interrupted. It was the old, old
conflict—one that Karrol’s predecessor Semini had believed in, that
Semini’s marriage-vatarh Orlandi had fought as well: the Numetodo
were a threat to all of those within the Faith—with their usage of
forbidden magic, with their lack of belief in any of the gods, with
their reliance on logic and science to explain the world. It was
the battle that Nico Morel championed too, more voraciously and
harshly than even the Archigos. Jan was far less convinced. For
him, belief in the Faith was a necessity of his title and little
else—it was like a political marriage. “You want to be become a
Morelli now, Archigos, and begin persecuting the Numetodo again? I
find that a bit ironic, myself, since it’s one of the things Morel
wanted the Faith to do all along.”
“Morel was stripped
of his title as o’téni because he would not accept the guidance of
his superiors,” Karrol answered. “He was insubordinate and
impatient and believed himself better than any a’téni or even
myself. He claims to speak directly with Cénzi. He’s a madman. But
even the mad occasionally say things that make sense.”
“You know my feelings
on this.”
“I do. And I know
your allegiance to the Faith is strong, my Hïrzg.” Jan chuckled
inwardly at that; Jan was no longer sure what he believed, though
he made the required motions. “But—if I may be permitted a bit of
blunt honesty, my Hïrzg—you listen too much to Ambassador ca’Rudka.
The Silvernose believes in nothing that doesn’t advance his own
interests.”
“And you would have
me listen more to you, is that it, Archigos?”
“I flatter myself
that I know you better than the Silvernose, my Hïrzg.” Jan sniffed
at that. Flattering himself was one thing the Archigos did very
well indeed. “Your matarh attaches herself to the Numetodo,” Karrol
continued. “The reports I get from A’Téni ca’Paim—”
“I see those same
reports,” Jan interrupted. “And I know my matarh. Better than
you.”
“No doubt,” Karrol
answered. “You undoubtedly know that Stor ca’Vikej’s son Erik is in
Nessantico, also—no doubt he is looking for her help to gain the
throne his vatarh couldn’t take. Each day Allesandra remains on the
Sun Throne, she becomes stronger, my Hïrzg.”
Jan scowled. He
tended to agree with Karrol on that, even if he’d never admit it.
He had given her the title she’d coveted for so long when
Nessantico was broken and shattered. It had seemed an appropriate
punishment at the time, an irony he couldn’t pass by. But she had
managed somehow to turn that irony on its head. He had expected her
to wither and fail, to realize her errors and beg his forgiveness
and help; she’d done none of those things. She’d rebuilt the city
and she’d managed to hold together the fragile connections between
the various rulers of the countries that made up the Holdings. With
Stor ca’Vikej, she’d nearly wrenched West Magyaria back to the
Holdings—she might have succeeded, had
she actually sent the full Nessantican army in support of the man’s
ragtag army of loyalists. As it was, he’d had to put all of
Firenzcian’s military might to bear in order to put down the
rebellion.
The Firenzcian
Coalition had been unable to profit from Nessantico’s misfortune.
Il Trebbio had briefly joined the Coalition in the wake of the
Tehuantin invasion, then a few months later had returned to the
Holdings when Allesandra had offered them a better treaty and
married one of the ca’Ludovici daughters to the current Ta’Mila of
Il Trebbio. Nammaro had entered into negotiations with Brezno, then
pulled away from them also.
No, his matarh had
shown herself to be all too wellskilled politically, and Jan should
have known. He should have seized the Sun Throne himself, should
have brought the Holdings forcibly into the Coalition with his army
still in the city. He could have done all that. But he’d been young
and inexperienced and blinded by the chance to humble his
matarh.
It wasn’t an
opportunity he would pass up again. And if Silvernose ca’Rudka was
right, he might have that opportunity. Soon.
There was a discreet,
soft knock on the door—that would be Rance ci’Lawli, his chief
secretary and aide, letting him know that the Council of Ca’ was in
their chamber waiting for him. And there was a question he wanted
to ask Rance, in any case: he had not seen Mavel cu’Kella for two
days now . . .
Jan smiled, grimly,
at Karrol. “Leave my matarh to me,” he told the Archigos, “and
concern yourself with the work of Cénzi, Archigos. Now, I have
other duties . . .”
Karrol, with little
good grace, rose from his chair. Bent over, he gave Jan the sign of
Cénzi. “The works of Cénzi extend even to matters of state, my
Hïrzg,” he said.
“So you always tell
me, Archigos,” Jan retorted. “Interminably.”
