A Magic of Dawn

Rochelle Botelli

“ That Bastardo Ci’Lawli took me off the list for chevaritt,” cu’Kella said, swearing under his breath. As Rochelle had instructed the man, he didn’t turn around to look into the shadows where she stood. “He sent my daughter away, who was carrying the Hirzg’s child, and they’re offering me almost nothing, nothing, in return. Why, I’d have been ca’Kella when the Hirzg made the announcement if it hadn’t been for ci’Lawli’s interference. I may even have become a councillor in time. Now ci’Lawli has to pay-for me, for my daughter, for my family’s fortune.”

It was an old tale, a variation on one she’d already heard a hand of times in her short career as the White Stone, one that her matarh had no doubt listened to innumerable times. “If that’s what you wish, Vajiki,” Rochelle said to the man, casting her voice in a low and ominous tone, “then leave the solas and the stone I told you to bring as a sign, and go home. Within the month, the man will be dead. I promise you that.”

He’d left the bag of gold coins and the pale, flat stone. Rochelle had taken it.

Rance ca’Lawli. Killing him would mean being close to her vatarh. She could feel the thrill inside her at the thought.

She manufactured an identity for herself. Matarh had shown her how the White Stone did that. She already had four or five false identities ready for use, a few she’d used in the past: girls who had been born within a few years of herself, but who had died in infancy. They were everything from common, unranked people to those of ca’ status. For the latter, she knew their genealogy, knew their parents, their towns and their titles, and who they knew. Matarh had warned her how careful one had to be with false identities, especially as one climbed the social scale to the ca’and-cu’. She’d given Rochelle the cautionary tale of how she’d nearly been exposed, here in Brezno, when Matarh had called herself Elissa ca’Karina, when “Elissa” and the A’Hirzg Jan had been lovers.

When Rochelle herself had been conceived.

“The elite know each other,” Matarh had said to Rochelle, after Rochelle’s second or third kill as the White Stone, not long before Matarh died. “Oh, shut up-you don’t know what you’re talking about.” That last had been an aside to one of the voices in her matarh’s head; Rochelle had learned to filter out such comments. “They’re a closed group, many of them related to one another, and family relationships are important to them-and because of that, they know them. You must be careful what you say, because the slightest misstatement can reveal you. Yes, I know that, you idiot. Why do you keep tormenting me this way? Shut up! Just shut up!” She clasped her hands to her ears as if she could stop the interior dialogue, rocking back and forth in her chair as if in pain.

Two days later, Matarh was dead. Killed by her own hand.

Rochelle didn’t need that caution here. She presented herself to Rance ci’Lawli as Rhianna Berkell, an unranked young woman of Sesemora who had come to Brezno seeking her fortune, and who looked to make her start on the palais staff. She had in hand recommendations on the stationery of three chevarittai of Sesemora, with whom she’d supposedly worked. The stationery and the names on them were genuine, the paper stolen when she’d been in Sesemora with her matarh years ago; the recommendations were, of course, entirely false. But Rochelle was an accomplished actress: she knew what to say, how to present herself, and what skills would put her in the best situation on the palais staff. She also knew how to flirt without being obvious, and ci’Lawli was susceptible to the attentions of a young, handsome woman. Three days later, the summons came to the inn where she was staying: she was to be hired. Aide ci’Lawli placed her on the royal staff, who cared for the Hirzg’s wing of the palais and who worked directly with ci’Lawli. Over the next several days, she made certain that her work was superior, and she watched. She watched ci’Lawli so that she could learn his habits and routines.

She also found herself occasionally in the same room as her vatarh. Once or twice, she thought she noticed him looking at her strangely, and she wondered if he felt the same pull she felt. But most of the time, especially if his wife or children were in the room, he paid no more attention to her than to the paintings on the walls; she was-like the rest of the staff-simply part of the furniture of the palais.

Today, she’d been sent to clear the reception room outside the main rooms of the Hirzg’s apartments. The children were elsewhere, but Jan and the Hirzgin had taken breakfast with Ambassador ca’Rudka of the Holdings, who was leaving Brezno today.

As she entered from the servant’s door with a tray to clear the table, ca’Rudka-whose face made her shudder, with that horrible silver nose glued to his wrinkled skin-was bowing to both Jan and Brie. “.. . will convey to the Kraljica your letter as soon as I return.”

“By which time, you’ll have no doubt read it yourself, just to make sure it matches what I’ve told you,” Jan said. He chuckled. Rochelle loved the sound of his laughter: full of rich, unalloyed warmth. She liked the sound of his voice as well. She wished she had known it in her childhood, had heard him whispering to her at night as he wished her good night, or as he cradled her in his arms in front of a fire, telling her stories of his own youth, or perhaps the tales of the long history of Firenzcia and their ancestors.

“Now, Jan, don’t go giving the Ambassador ideas,” the Hirzgin interjected. Rochelle wasn’t sure how she felt about the matarh of her half-siblings. Hirzgin Brie seemed to genuinely care for Jan, but Rochelle had already heard comments and seen glances that made her wonder how well-reciprocated that affection might be. There was the palais gossip also, but Rochelle wasn’t yet privy to the details of the carefully whispered suspicions.

“Don’t worry,” Sergei said to the two of them. “The Hirzg has already told me exactly how he feels, but I trust he’s couched it more diplomatically in the letter to the Kraljica. At least I hope so.” The three of them chuckled again, but the amusement was short this time, and tinged with something else that Rochelle couldn’t quite decipher. Sergei’s voice was suddenly serious and muted. “I truly hope that we can find some way through this without resorting to violence. A new war would not be good for either the Holdings or the Coalition.”

“That depends entirely on my matarh,” Jan answered.

“And it depends on the Coalition not provoking her in the meantime,” Sergei responded. He nodded, and bowed to the two of them. “I’m away, then. I’ll send a response by fast-courier as soon as I’ve spoken with Kraljica Allesandra. Give my love to the children, and may Cenzi bless both of you.”

He bowed again and left the room as Rochelle continued to pile dirty dishes on the tray. “I’ll go see to the children,” Brie said to Jan. “Are you coming, my dear?”

“In a few moments,” he told her.

“Oh.” The strange, dead inflection of the single word made Rochelle glance up from her work, but Brie was already walking toward the entrance to the inner chambers, her back to Rochelle. She bent down to her work again, the dishes clattering softly as she stacked them.

“You’re new on the staff.”

It took a moment for Rochelle to realize that Jan had addressed her. She saw him gazing at her from the other side of the table. She curtsied quickly, her head down, as she’d seen the other servants do in his presence. “Yes, my Hirzg,” she answered, not looking up at him. “I was hired only a week ago.”

“Then you’ve obviously impressed Rance, if he’s put you on palais staff. What’s your name?”

“Rhianna Berkell.”

“Rhianna Berkell,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “That has a pretty sound. Well, Rhianna, if you do well here, you might find yourself one day with a ce’ before your name. Rance himself was ce’Lawli only two years ago, and now he’s ci’Lawli. He’ll almost certainly be cu’Lawli one day. We reward those who serve us well.”

“Thank you, sir.” She curtsied again. “I should get these back to the kitchen…”

“Look at me,” he said-he said it gently, softly, and she lifted up her face. Their eyes met, and his gaze remained on her face. “You remind me of…” He stopped. His regard seemed to drift away for a moment, as if he were lost in memory. “… someone I knew.”

He reached out, the fingertips of his right hand stroking her cheek-the touch, she thought, of a vatarh. She dropped her gaze quickly, but she could still feel the touch of his fingertips on her skin for long breaths afterward. “The tray, my Hirzg,” she said.

“Ah, yes. That. Certainly. Thank you, Rhianna. I appreciate it.”

She lifted the tray and stepped toward the servants’ door. She could feel his gaze on her back as she pushed the door open with her hip. She didn’t dare look back, afraid that if she did, she would blurt out the secret, that she would call him by the name she longed to use.

Vatarh…

She could not do that. Not now.

Not yet.