A Magic of Nightfall

Jan ca’Vorl

Jan found his Matarh standing on the balcony of their apartments in Brezno Palais. She was staring down at the activity on the main square. The Archigos’ Temple loomed against the skyline directly opposite them, nearly half a mile away, and nearly every foot of that distance was covered with people. The square was illuminated with teni-lights in yellow and green and gold, dancing in the globes of the lampposts, and the markets and shops around the vast open area were thronged with shoppers. Music drifted thin and fragile toward them from street performers, wafting above the hum of a thousand conversations.

“It’s a scene worth painting, isn’t it?” he asked her, then before she could answer. “What’s the matter, Matarh? You’ve been keeping to yourself ever since the party. Is it Vatarh?”

She turned at that. Her gaze slid from his face to the chevaritt’s star that he wore, and he thought that her tentative smile wavered momentarily. “It’s just been an overwhelming few weeks,” she told him. Her hand brushed imaginary lint from his shoulders. “That’s all.”

“I think Vatarh’s behavior has been abysmal since he came here,” Jan said. “I swear, sometimes I think I could kill the man. But I’m sure you’ve been far more tempted than me.” He laughed to take the edge from his words, but she didn’t join him. She half-turned, looking back down toward the square.

“You’re a chevaritt,” she said. “Someday you’ll go to war, and someday you’ll have to actually kill someone else-or be killed yourself. You’ll be forced to make that decision and it’s irrevocable. I know…”

“You know? ” Jan frowned. “Matarh, when did you-?”

She interrupted him before he could finish the half-mocking question. “I was eleven, nearly twelve. I killed the Westlander spellcaster Mahri, or I helped Ana kill him.”

“Mahri? The man responsible for Kraljica Marguerite’s death?” Is this a joke? he wanted to add, but the look on her face stopped him.

“I stabbed him with the knife Vatarh had given me, stabbed him as he was trying to kill Ana. I never told anyone afterward, and neither did Ana. She was always careful to protect me.” She was looking at her hands on the railing; Jan wondered if she expected to see blood there. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond. He imagined his matarh, the knife in her hand.

“That must have been hard.”

She shook her head. “No. It was easy. That’s the strange part. I didn’t even think about it; I just attacked him. It was only afterward

…” She took a long breath. “Did you ever think about how it might be if someone you knew were dead-that it might be better for everyone involved if that were the case?”

“Now there’s a morbid subject.”

“Someone killed Ana because they thought that their world would be better if she were out of the way. Or maybe they did it because someone they believed in told them to do it and they were just following orders. Or maybe just because they thought it might change things. Sometimes that’s all the reason someone needs-you don’t think about the people who might care for the victim, or what the repercussions might be. You do it because… well, I guess sometimes you aren’t certain why.”

“You’re making me worry more, Matarh.”

She did laugh at that, though Jan thought there was still a sadness to the sound. “Don’t,” she said. “I’m just in a strange mood.”

“Everyone thinks that way sometimes.” Jan shrugged. “I’ll wager that every child has at some time wished his parents dead-especially after they’ve done something stupid and been caught and punished. Why, there was that time that I stole the knife from your…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Was that the same one? You said Great-Vatarh had given it to you.”

Another laugh. “It was. I remember that; I found you using the knife to cut up some apples in the kitchen and I snatched it back from you and spanked you so hard, and you were refusing to cry or apologize, and so I hit you harder.”

“I did cry. Afterward. And I have to admit that I was so mad that I thought about…” He shrugged again. “Well, you know. But the thought didn’t last long-not after you brought up the pie to my room, and promised to give me the knife one day.” He smiled at her. “I’m still waiting.”

“Stay here,” she said. She left the railing and brushed past him. He heard her rustling about in her room, then came back out into the chill evening. “Here,” she said, holding out a knife in a worn leather scabbard, its black horn and steel hilt gleaming, with tiny ruby jewels set around the pommel. “This was originally Hirzg Karin’s knife, and he gave it to his son, your Great-Vatarh Jan, who gave it to me. Now it’s yours.”

He pushed it back to her. “Matarh, I can’t…” but she pressed the weapon forward again.

“No, take it,” she insisted, and he did. He slid the blade partway from the scabbard. Dark Firenzcian steel reflected his face back to him. “Given who we are, Jan, both of us have to make truly difficult decisions that we’re not entirely comfortable with, but we’ll make them because they seem best for those we care most for. Just remember that sometimes decisions are final. And fatal.”

With that, she pulled him to her, and brought his head down to kiss him on the cheek, and when she spoke, she sounded like the matarh he remembered. “Now, don’t cut yourself with that. Promise?”

He grinned at her. “Promise,” he said.