Brie ca’Ostheim
THE DRUMS BEAT CADENCE as the army approached the
city. The a’offiziers, following orders relayed from Stakkapitän
ca’Damont, steered the army toward the fields north of the Avi
a’Firenzcia and didn’t enter the city itself. The citizenry of the
villages just outside the gates cheered the advancing battalions
and the silver-and-black banners that waved above them. And they
especially cheered the Hïrzgin who accompanied them.
Brie waved back to
them, smiling the smile she’d perfected over the years for state
affairs, a mask behind which she could hide her own uncertainty and
fears, a cheerful gesture to the crowds detached from any true
awareness. On the nearest of the fields where the army was to
encamp, a tent had been erected, flying both the banners of
Nessantico and Firenzcia, blue and gold mingling with black and
silver. As Brie’s carriage approached, the flaps of the tent opened
and a crowned figure appeared flanked by Garde Brezno in the
uniform of the Holdings, and Brie saw Sergei ca’Rudka standing just
behind the crowned figure. Brie recognized the woman immediately
from the paintings she’d seen of her: Allesandra. The Kraljica
strode forward with her arms wide, her own smile nearly as wide.
Sergei limped after her. “Where is my marriage-daughter?”
Allesandra said as she approached Brie’s carriage. “Where is the
Hïrzgin?”
Soldiers hurried
forward to open the doors of her carriage and place a step below
for her. Brie took the offered hand and stepped out into the sun,
blinking and keeping her own smile fastened to her face. She
allowed Allesandra to fold her in her embrace, kissing her on one
cheek, then the other. Allesandra smelled of rose and pomegranate;
her grip was surprisingly strong and surprisingly genuine. “This
moment should have come years ago,” she whispered in Brie’s ear. “I
apologize for that; it was my fault. I have wanted to know you and
your children for so long . . .”
Her voice trailed
off. Brie held Allesandra’s hands. She gazed at the older woman’s
eyes, at the folds that cushioned them, at the powder dusting the
skin and the blue shadows under her painted and plucked brows. She
could see Jan in the shape of those eyes and in the lines of her
face; she could see a reflection of Elissa, Kriege, Caelor, and
Eria as well. Even that voice, taken down in pitch . .
.
“I’ve wanted this
moment myself,” Brie told her. “For longer than you might imagine,
Kraljica. We have so much to talk about.” She knew that Jan would
scold her for saying what she said next, but she didn’t care. She
had looked into Allesandra’s face and she had seen no monster
there. ‘I want my children to know their great-matarh—as she is,
not as Jan has portrayed her.”
Brie saw pain pass
over Allesandra’s face at that. “I believe it’s Venerable Carin in
the Toustour who advises us that the distress of truth is always
preferable to the balm of lies,” Allesandra answered. “Still, there
are times when I think we all prefer the lies. I’m certain that
Jan, in his mind, spoke what he believed to be the truth about me.
I’m afraid I’ve not always been a good matarh to him, and I have
done things—”
Brie hurried to cut
off whatever admission Allesandra intended to make, squeezing
Allesandra’s hands. “You have done, I’m sure, what was necessary
for you to do as Kraljica. I believe that Venerable Carin is also
the one who admonishes us that the past can’t be changed, only the
present. Let’s grasp this moment, Kraljica, you and I, and make the
present good.”
Allesandra smiled
again. “I hope my son appreciates the wife and counselor he has in
you,” she said.
Brie only returned
the smile, perfect and practiced. “He appreciates me as much as he
is able,” she answered, “and as little as he can get away
with.”
Allesandra laughed.
“Isn’t that the way of things?” she exclaimed. She hugged Brie
again, then took her hand. She raised it in the air, turning to the
soldiers and chevarittai around them. “This is Hïrzgin Brie,” she
proclaimed, “and I welcome her to Nessantico as my
marriage-daughter, and as the wife of the next Kraljiki and the
matarh to his heirs.”
Cheers erupted from
the ranks around them, and Brie bowed and waved to the assembly.
She wondered if they would still be cheering in a few days. “Are
you hungry?” Allesandra asked. “I have dinner waiting for us in the
tent . . .”
Brie let Allesandra
escort her to the tent. As she passed Sergei, she stopped and gave
the man the sign of Cénzi. “Hïrzgin,” the Silvernose said. “It’s
good to see you again.” He leaned closer to her then, his voice a
harsh, bare whisper. “And I have things to tell you as
well.”
With that, he leaned
away again, smiling at her, and waving her into the tent in
Allesandra’s wake.
“You’re certain the
girl was Rhianna?”
“Rochelle is her real
name; at least that’s what she claims. But yes, it was the same
young woman. I’m certain of it.”
“And she also claims
to be the daughter of the White Stone and Jan?”
Sergei nodded
silently. Brie sat back in her chair, shaking her head but not
knowing how to respond. She wanted to protest, wanted to cry,
wanted to scream in rage.
This explains so much. He’s still in love with her, after
all these years.
Allesandra had
returned to the city; Sergei remained behind after their dinner,
telling Allesandra that he would escort Brie to the palais himself
as soon as she was ready. The table that had held the dinner still
lay between them, though the servants had cleared it of everything
but a flagon of wine and some bread and cheese. Brie leaned forward
and tipped the flagon into her goblet, watching the wine splash
into the bottom. She leaned back again and sipped.
“I think it’s quite
possible she’s telling the truth,” Sergei continued. “I’m fairly
certain of it, in fact. I know that’s not what you wish to hear,
Hïrzgin, but we have to acknowledge that—given the history we both
know—it’s plausible.”
“But not
certain.”
He smiled under the
silver nose. “No, not certain. I have people out making inquiries
and checking some of the references she gave to me, but it will be
a long time before I hear from them given the current situation,
and who knows if they will ever uncover enough to prove things one
way or the other.” He shrugged. “Regardless, that is what Rochelle believes, true or
not.”
“And she’s
here.”
“She
is.”
Brie pondered that.
Did she and Jan plan this? Or is it just
coincidence? “Does Jan know? Does Allesandra?”
Sergei shook his
head. “Allesandra definitely doesn’t, nor have I spoken to Jan. I
wanted to tell you first. But they also need to be told.” Sergei
took in a long breath through his metal nose; the sound whistled
slightly. “The girl is dangerous, Hïrzgin. She has taken the mantle
of the White Stone to herself. She says that it was she who killed
Rance—hired by a man whose daughter you’d sent away for some
reason.”
“Oh.” The statement
was like a blow to the stomach. Brie set down the wine. Her hand
went to her throat. “By Cénzi, no . . . Mavel cu’Kella—she was with
child. Jan’s child. I had to remove her from the court and send her
away. It must have been her vatarh. He had been petitioning to be a
chevaritt, but after that . . .” She looked at Sergei, distraught.
“I caused Rance’s death,” she said. “It
was because of me.”
“It was because of
the girl’s vatarh,” Sergei answered. “Not you. You’re not
responsible for his actions.”
“And Rhianna, or
Rochelle . . . She was in the palais all that time, taking care of
me and my children, and Jan . . .” She went silent. Sergei said
nothing. She could feel him watching her. The
woman in my nightmare. Could that have been Rochelle? “I
feel sick,” she told Sergei. “That girl, Jan’s daughter, half sister to my own children . .
.”
“She’s a bastarda. She has no real claim to the
throne.”
“I know. There have
been enough of those,” she answered with a wry, self-deprecating
twist of her lips. “Still, she was the first, and Jan . . .” She
stopped, looked at Sergei. “I’m told you once met the woman who was
the White Stone.”
“No,” Sergei
answered. “I didn’t. But I came to Brezno not long after she, well,
after she assassinated Hïrzg Fynn. From what I remember, Rochelle
must look much as her matarh did at the time.”
Brie felt her heart
pounding hard in her chest. She felt the wine and her dinner
churning in her stomach. Again, the realization rose up inside her:
Jan still loves this Elissa, has never stopped
loving her. “Elissa,” Brie said. “That’s what the White
Stone called herself then. I didn’t know the history when Jan
wanted to name our daughter. I just thought it was a name he liked
. . .” She gave a bitter laugh. “I didn’t find out for another year
or more, when it was too late to change. I’ve never quite forgiven
him for that.”
“Do you want me to
tell Allesandra and Jan about Rochelle?”
Brie shivered with a
sudden chill. “You may inform Allesandra. But I’d like to be the
one to tell Jan. I’d like to see his face when he
learns.”
Sergei inclined his
head. He rose from his chair. “Then I’ll leave the Hïrzg to you,”
he said. “I’ll get our carriage ready, Hïrzgin. The Kraljica will
be wondering what happened to us.”
“Yes,” Brie said. “Do
that. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Sergei bowed and left
the room. Brie poured herself another goblet of wine. She sat there
for several breaths, just staring at the red liquid shimmering
against the golden surface. I want to see his
face . . .
She wondered how she
could tell him.
