A Magic of Nightfall

The White Stone

The bitch gave her no time… no time…

Anger almost overcame caution. She had wanted to wait another week, because if the truth were told, she wasn’t sure she wanted to do this-not because of the death that would result, but because it meant that “Elissa” would necessarily have to vanish. She was no longer certain she wanted that to happen; she’d thought maybe, if she had the time, she could arrange to circumvent that. But now…

She had a few days, no more: the time it would take the A’Hirzg’s letter to go from Brezno to Jablunkov and back. Before the response came, she would need to be far from here-for two reasons.

The confrontation with the A’Hirzg and the Archigos had shaken her. She’d gone immediately to Jan, and he’d proudly told her that Allesandra had sent the letter by fast courier. She’d had to pretend to be delighted with the news; it had been far more difficult than she’d expected. Two days, then, for the letter to arrive at the palais in Jablunkov, where an attendant would no doubt open it immediately, read it, and realize something was terribly amiss. There would be quick discussion, a hastily-scrawled response, and a new rider would be hurrying back to Brezno with orders to make all haste. For all she knew, the letter had already reached Jablunkov.

She had to act now.

When the response came, telling the A’Hirzg that Elissa ca’Karina was long dead, she either had to be gone, or she had to have something that she could use as a weapon against that knowledge. The new gossip around the palais was how often the A’Hirzg and the Archigos seemed to be together lately. The looks that she’d seen between the two certainly hinted that they were more than friends, but even if she could prove that, there was nothing there she could use-they were too powerful, and she had no intention of being locked up in Brezno Bastida.

No, she would be the White Stone, as she should be. She would honor her contract and she would vanish, as the Stone always did.

She heard mocking laughter inside her with the decision.

The Moitidi of Fate were with her, at least. Fynn wasn’t particularly a man of deep habits, but there were certain routines he followed. She’d come to the court prepared to do whatever it took to become Fynn’s lover, but she’d found that an impossible task. Jan had been the next best choice, as the Hirzg’s current favorite companion outside his bed.

She’d also found herself genuinely liking the young man despite all her attempts to focus on the task for which she’d been so well-paid. She would have drawn out this contract for as long as she could, because she found herself comfortable with Jan, because she enjoyed his talk, his affection, and the attention he paid her during their nights together. Because she enjoyed pretending that maybe, maybe, she could have this life with him, that she could remain Elissa forever. She had wondered-skeptically, almost with fear-if she might love the young man.

The voices had howled with that, roaring with amusement.

“Fool!” the voices inside railed at her now. “How stupid can you be? Did you care about any of us when you killed us? Did you regret what you did? No! Why should you care now? This is your fault. You don’t have emotions; you can’t afford them-that’s what you always said!”

They were right. She knew it. She’d been stupid and left herself vulnerable, something she should never have done, and now she would pay for her own folly. “Shut up!” she shouted back to them. “I know! Leave me alone!”

They only laughed, spewing back their hatred to her.

Focus. Think of only the target. Focus, or you’ll die. Be the White Stone, not Elissa. Be what you are.

Fynn… Habits… Vulnerabilities…

Focus.

She’d watched Fynn follow his patterns for the past two weeks: at least twice during the rotation of days, Fynn would go riding with Jan and others of the court. She had been on those rides, and saw the attention that Fynn paid to Jan, who also rode alongside the Hirzg, the two of them conversing and laughing. On their return, Fynn would retire to his rooms. Not long afterward, his domestique de chambre, Roderigo, would emerge and go to the stables, bringing back Hamlin, one of the stableboys who-she could not help but notice-was nearly the same age, build, and complexion as Jan. Roderigo would escort Hamlin to the doors of Fynn’s chambers and depart as soon as the boy entered, returning precisely a half-turn of the glass later, by which time Hamlin would have left once more.

She’d watched the routine play out four times now, and she was relatively confident in its security. And today… today the Hirzg and Jan were going out riding. She pleaded a headache and remained behind even though Jan’s visible disappointment made her resolve waver. While they were gone, she moved through the corridors near the Hirzg’s rooms, smiling gently at the courtiers and servants she passed, then sliding quickly into an empty corridor. The main hallways were patrolled by gardai, but not those small corridors used by the servants, and at this time of day, the servants were busy in the massive kitchens below or were working in the rooms themselves. A picklock plucked from her tresses quickly opened a secured door, and she slid into the Hirzg’s apartments: an empty private office room just off the bedchamber. She could hear Roderigo giving orders to the under-servants in the next room, telling them what they needed to clean and how it was to be done. She slid behind a thick tapestry covering the wall (on the cloth, mounted chevarittai of the Firenzcian army trampled the soldiers of Tennshah underneath hooves and spears) and waited, closing her eyes and breathing slowly.

Listening to the voices. Listening to them mock her, cajole her, warn her…

In the darkness, they were especially loud.

A turn of the glass or more later, she heard Fynn’s muffled voice and Roderigo answering him. A door closed, and then there was silence, not even the interior voices speaking. She waited a few breaths, then slid the tapestry aside, padding in her suede-soled shoes to the door of Fynn’s bedchamber.

“My Hirzg,” she said softly.

Fynn was seated on his bed, his bashta half-undone, and he leaped up at the sound of her voice, whirling about. She saw him reach for his sword-on the bed in its scabbard, the belt looped next to it, then stop with his hand on the hilt when he recognized her. “Vajica ca’Karina,” he said, his voice nearly a purr. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” His hand had not left the sword hilt. The man was careful-she had to give him that much.

“Roderigo… let me in,” she told him, trying to sound flustered and uncertain. “I… I met him in the corridor just now. It was Jan who… who talked to Roderigo first, my Hirzg. I’m here at his behest.”

She watched his hand. His fist relaxed around the hilt. He frowned. “Then I need to speak to Roderigo,” he said. “What is this about our Jan?”

She lowered her gaze as a demure and slightly frightened young woman might, looking at him through her lashes. “We… I know we both love him, my Hirzg, and I know how much he respects and admires you. Even more than his own vatarh.”

Fynn’s hand had left the sword hilt; she took a step closer to him. “You know that he’s asked the A’Hirzg to speak to my family?” she asked him. Fynn nodded and stood erect, turning his back to the weapon on the bed. That made her smile genuine as she took a step toward him. “Jan has tremendous gratitude for your friendship,” she told him. Another step. “He wished me to give you a… a gift in appreciation.”

Another. She was within arm’s length of him now.

“A gift?” Fynn’s gaze slid from her face to her body. He laughed as she took a final step, her tashta brushing against him. “Perhaps Jan doesn’t know me as well as he might think. What gift is this?”

“Let me show you,” she said. With that she put her left arm around him, pulling him tight to her. With the same motion, she reached to the belt of her tashta and took the long dagger from its sheath in the small of her back. She plunged the blade between his ribs and twisted it. His mouth opened in pain and shock, and she stifled his shout with her open mouth. His arms pushed at her, but she was too close and his muscles were already weakening.

It was already over, though it took his body a few breaths to realize it.

When he stopped struggling and went limp in her arms, she laid him on his bed. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She shook two small stones from a pouch tucked in her bosom and placed them over the eyes: the pale one that Allesandra had given her over the left, her own stone-the one she’d carried for so long-over the right. She let them stay there: as she stripped the bloodied tashta from her body and flung it into the fireplace, as she washed his blood from her hands and arms in his own basin, as she dressed herself quickly in the tashta she’d left in the other room. Finally, she plucked the stone from his right eye and placed it back in its pouch, tucking its familiar weight under the low collar of the tashta. She thought she could already hear Fynn, wailing as the others welcomed him…

Then, silent except for the voices in her head, she fled the way she’d come.

She heard poor Hamlin’s terrified scream just as she reached the main corridors, and the shouts of hurried orders from the gardai offiziers as they rushed to the Hirzg’s chambers.

She turned her back on them and hurried from the palais.