A Magic of Nightfall

The Battle Begun: Sigourney ca’Ludovici

Commandant Aleron ca’Gerodi stood before Sigourney and the rest of the Council of Ca’ in armor spattered with blood, his helm dented by a sword strike, his face coated with mud, soot, and gore. “I’m sorry, Kraljica, Councillors,” he said. His voice was as exhausted as his stance. “We could not hold them…”

Ca’Mazzak hissed like a steam kettle too long over the fire. Sigourney closed her eye. She took a long breath, full of soot and ash, and coughed. Her lungs were full of the stench. She opened her eye again. Through the haze of smoke, she could see the ruins of the palais, parts of it still actively burning. She and the Council had taken refuge in the Old Temple, which despite the shattered dome, was still largely intact. The main nave was packed with the treasures of the palais: paintings (including the charred one of Kraljica Marguerite), gold-and-silver place settings, the ceremonial clothes, the staffs and crowns worn by a hundred Kralji-they were all here, though much-too much-had been lost in the blaze. Sigourney sat on the Sun Throne at the entrance to the dome chamber, though if the throne were alight, it was not apparent in the brightness of the sun through the great hole torn in the dome. The sun mocked her, shining bright in a cloudless sky.

One of the attendants handed her a goblet of the cuore della volpe to ease the coughing and the pain. She sipped at the cool liquid, though it was brown and cloudy in the golden cup.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“We managed to halt their advance finally,” ca’Gerodi told her. “They didn’t reach the Avi a’Parete, but they have most of the streets to the west of it on the North Bank. They have the village of Viaux. There was a fierce battle near the River Market and for a time they held it, but we pushed them back. I’ve moved a battalion to protect the Pontica Kralji, but that’s left the Nortegate area more open than I would like.”

The councillors muttered to themselves. “This is unacceptable,” ca’Mazzak said, more loudly.

“Then perhaps you should have left Commandant cu’Ulcai alive,” Sigourney told the man. “Or would you care to take up the sword yourself?” Ca’Mazzak grumbled and subsided. Ca’Gerodi seemed to waver on his feet, and Sigourney motioned to one of the servants to bring a chair; the man sank gratefully onto the cushioned seat, uncaring of the filth he smeared on the brocade. “What are you telling me, Commandant?” Sigourney asked him. “That tonight they will set the rest of the city on fire, that tomorrow they will overrun us entirely? You said that you had more than enough men. You said that-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupted, then-as Sigourney snapped her mouth shut at his rudeness-seemed to realize what he’d done and shook his head. “Pardon me, Kraljica; I haven’t slept since the night before last. But yes, that’s exactly what I fear: that tonight will bring more of the Westlanders’ awful fire, and that when they attack tomorrow…” He brought his head up, gazing at her with eyes sagging and brown. “I will give my life to protect Nessantico, if that is what is required.”

“Aleron…” Sigourney started to push up from the Sun Throne, forgetting for a moment her injuries, then fell back. The movement caused her to cough again. The councillors watched her. She knew now what she must do, and the realization burned at her, as painful as her wounded body. “Go. Get what rest you can, and we will deal with whatever tonight and tomorrow bring. Go on. Sleep while you can…”

Ca’Gerodi rose and saluted her. Limping, he left the room. When he’d gone, Sigourney gestured to one of the servants. “Bring me a scribe,” she told him. “And I will also need a rider-the best we have-to take a message east to the Hirzg.”

The servant’s eyes widened momentarily, then he bowed and hurried away.

“Kraljica,” ca’Mazzak said. “You can’t-”

“We have no choice,” she told him, told all of them. “No choice. This is no longer about us.”

Sigourney leaned back against the cushioned seat of the Sun Throne; it smelled of woodsmoke. It smelled of defeat.