A Magic of Dawn

Sergei ca’Rudka

Capitaine Ari Ce’denis looked weary, as if he hadn’t slept well for a few days. That was probably true, since the Bastida’s cells were stuffed as they had rarely been: with the rebellious war-teni, with the Morellis who had survived the assault on the Old Temple. And there was their prized prisoner: Nico Morel.

“I’ve good news for you, Ari. I’m told that those war-teni who ask forgiveness and recant all Morelli views will be released,” Sergei told ce’Denis. The Capitaine did not look at the roll of stained leather that Sergei had set down alongside the chair in which he sat. He didn’t look at Sergei at all; it seemed that the papers on his desk were far more interesting. He picked them up, shuffled them, and set them down again as he listened to Sergei. “Archigos Karrol has already sent a message to that effect, and the Archigos himself should be here in a few days. If the war-teni agree to fight with the army, he’ll send them to the front line and let Cenzi decide whether to allow them to live or not.”

Ce’Denis nodded. “And the Morellis? What of their disposition?”

“Those who were teni but not war-teni will be judged individually by a Concord of Peers, which Archigos Karrol intends to convene on arrival. Those who were not teni will go through the usual judicial procedures and be brought before the Council of Ca’ for their judgment.”

“And Nico Morel?”

Sergei smiled. “He is a special case, and he will be handled as such. The Kraljica has placed him entirely under my jurisdiction.”

The Capitaine did glance at the leather roll then, a look that seemed equal parts disgust and fascination. “I take it that you’re here to talk with the prisoner.” There was just the slightest hesitation and stress to the word “talk,” as if another term had first intruded into ce’Denis’ mind.

“I am,” Sergei told him. “The Kraljica has determined that there will be no execution of Morel, and she will be refusing to hand him over to the Concenzia Faith. He is…” A smile. “Mine.”

The Capitaine’s eyebrows lifted at that, but he said nothing: a good soldier. “Morel is in the Kralji’s Cell of the main tower,” he told Sergei. “You know the way.”

Sergei smiled again. “I do, indeed. And I’ll leave you to your duties, Ari. We should have lunch together one of these days-after the current crisis has passed, perhaps.”

Ce’Denis nodded; neither of them took the suggestion for anything more than politeness. Sergei stood, pushing himelf up with the knob of his cane and tucking the leather roll under his free arm. He inclined his head to ce’Denis-he’d risen at the same time, and now saluted Sergei. He left the man’s office, walking across the courtyard and glancing up at the skull of the dragon mounted on the wall above.

The gardai at the door of the main tower saluted him as he approached. As they opened the massive steel-clad door, a wave of cold air scented with human waste and despair washed over him. Sergei took a deep breath-the familiar smell made him feel momentarily young. Even his own brief interment here had not changed that response.

He slowly made his way up the winding staircase, peering occasionally into the cells that opened on either side, resting on each landing to recover his breath. Once, he could have leaped these stairs two at a time, from bottom to top. Now, each step was a separate mountain that must be surmounted. He was panting heavily despite the frequent stops when he reached the top level.

The garda stationed there saluted Sergei, stiffening to attention. “Open the door, and then go get yourself some refreshment,” Sergei told him. “I’ll take responsibility for the prisoner.”

“Ambassador?” The garda’s forehead creased with puzzlement. “You shouldn’t be alone with the prisoner. It’s not safe for you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sergei told him.

“At least let me chain him to the wall first.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sergei repeated, more firmly this time. “Go on.”

The garda frowned and almost audibly sighed-perhaps with disappointment at missing Sergei’s “interview” with the prisoner-and finally saluted again. His keys rattled and hinges groaned as he opened the cell door. Sergei waited until he heard the man’s bootsteps fade down the stairs. Then he peered into the cell itself.

This was the cell for the most important prisoners. It had held pretenders to the Sun Throne, it had even held a few who beforehand had given themselves the title of Kraljiki or Kraljica. Karl had once been imprisoned here, and Sergei himself-they had both managed to escape: Karl through Mahri’s magic, and Sergei with Karl and Varina’s help. Sergei remembered the cell all too well: a frigid stone floor covered with filthy straw, a single bed with a thin blanket, a small wooden table for meals, an opening in the outer wall leading to a narrow balcony from where the prisoner could look out over the city (and from which more than one prisoner had decided to end his incarceration by falling into the courtyard far below.)

Nico was standing on that balcony now, staring outward. Sergei didn’t know if the young man hadn’t heard him enter, or if he didn’t care. His hair was mussed and greasy, standing up erratically between the straps of the silencer laced around his head. His hands and feet were bound with iron chains and manacles so he could only manage a rattling shuffle.

Sergei stepped inside the cell. Leaning on his cane, he spoke loudly, as if declaiming from a stage. “A single dew drop lingers on black iron, reflecting a free sky, waiting to be breathed up by the fierce sun and fall yet again, exhaled by cloud.

So a soul, eternal, will also never vanish but only cloak itself anew and return.”

Nico had turned at Sergei’s recitation. He stared at Sergei now, with those eyes that were still compelling and powerful. “The poem ‘Rebirth’ by Levo ca’Niomi,” he said to Nico. “You’ve heard of him, yes? I think I have that one right-I once spent far too many turns of the glass memorizing his poetry while sitting in the Capitaine’s office here. We have the original manuscripts of ca’Niomi’s poetry here, did you know that? He had a very nice hand, rather ornate. He spent decades here after his thankfully short reign as Kraljiki; this very cell is where he composed all the verses for which he’s so famous. So you see, a life spent imprisoned need not be an entirely wasted one.”

Nico stared through the straps of the silencer. Saliva dripped from the leather-wrapped piece protruding into his mouth, shining among the strands of his beard and darkening the front of his plain tunic. Sergei could hear his breath rattling around the device.

“If you promise me that you’ll not use the Ilmodo-not that I think you can with your hands bound that way-and if you promise to make no attempt to escape, I will remove the silencer. I will expect you to swear to Cenzi that you’ll do neither. Nod your head if you agree.”

Nico nodded, slowly, and Sergei set down the leather roll on the bed, then came over to the young man. “Turn around,” he said, “and crouch down a little so I can get to the buckles…” Carefully, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the device from Nico’s head, the man gagging as the metal piece was removed from his mouth. Sergei stepped back, the silencer dangling from his hand, the buckles jingling.

“Stay where you are,” he told Nico. He walked slowly outside the open cell door and, groaning, bent over to pick up the garda’s water flask. He brought it inside, handing it to Nico. “Go on…”

He watched the young man drink, gulping down the water. Nico handed the flask back to Sergei, who set it on the table. “Are you going to torture me now?” Nico asked. His beautiful voice was harshened and torn by having worn the silencer for so long. He cleared his throat, and Sergei heard the breath rattling in his lungs-prisoners often became sick here, and many died from the wet lung disease. He wondered if Nico would be one.

“Is that what you think I am, your torturer?” he asked Nico. “Does the thought frighten you? Do you wonder what it will feel like, whether you’ll be able to stand the pain, whether you’ll scream and scream until your throat is raw, when you hear your bones snap, when you see the blood flowing, when you’re forced to watch parts of your body flayed and torn and crushed? Do you wonder if you’ll beg for it to end, that you’ll promise me anything if I would just stop?” He could not entirely keep the eagerness from his voice; he knew Nico heard it.

Nico gulped audibly, his throat moving under the thin scraggly beard. Sergei saw his eyes glance over to the leather roll on his bed. “I know about you, Silvernose,” Nico said. “Everyone does.”

“Do they? What is it they say, I wonder? No, don’t answer. I’ve a question for you instead-how does it feel to know that you’re going to be remembered as someone even more reviled than me? How does it feel to know that, because of your pride and arrogance and misplaced faith, the woman who was carrying your child is dead?”

Sergei saw tears form in Nico’s eyes, saw them grow and fall down his cheeks untouched. “You can’t hurt me more than that,” Nico said, his voice breaking with emotion. “You can’t cause me more pain than I’ve already caused myself.”

“Brave words,” Sergei answered, “even if they’re not true.”

Deliberately, he went over to the roll of leather, leaning his cane against the bed. He bent down as if he were about to open the ties that held it closed, then straightened again. “I met an interesting young woman on the way back to Nessantico,” he said.

Nico scowled. “I’m not interested in your filthy debauchery, ca’Rudka.”

Sergei almost laughed. “There was no ‘debauchery,’ I’m afraid. Not that I wouldn’t have been interested, mind you, especially since I wonder if she might not have shared my, umm, preferences. But there was conversation. Strangely, I saw a mirror of myself in her, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Even worse than the genuine one.” He touched his nose for emphasis. “But I wondered… Can she change herself? Can she avoid becoming what I’ve become, or is that a hopeless task? Are we what Cenzi makes us, or can we change what we’re given? It’s an interesting question, isn’t it?”

He bent down again to the leather roll. He pulled on the ties, unknotting them. He paused, fingertips on the old, soft leather, looking back over his shoulder at Nico, who was staring in dread fascination: as they all did, all of them whom he was about to torture.

They all looked. They could not fail to look.

“It’s a question we might discuss, you and I,” Sergei said. “I’d be curious to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

With that, he flicked open the leather roll. Inside, cushioned, was a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of wine. He heard Nico’s gasp of relief and disbelief. “Varina ca’Pallo sent these,” Sergei told him. “You have her to thank for your life.”

“My life?” Sergei heard the breath of hope in his voice, and he nodded.

“She pleaded for you with the Kraljica. As you might have expected, you were to be given first to the Archigos so he could take your hands and your tongue, and then tortured and executed by the Garde Kralji-all in public so the citizens could hear your screams and see the blood. But your life has been spared-by a Numetodo. By a woman you profess to hate. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Why?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Sergei answered. “Had it been my choice, you would already be dead and your body, hands, and tongue would be hanging from the Pontica a’Kralji as a lesson to others. But Varina…” He shrugged. “She loved you, Nico. Both she and Karl would have taken you for their own son, if they’d had the chance. In another life, you might have been Numetodo yourself.”

Nico shook his head in denial, but the movement of his head was slow and faint.