A Magic of Nightfall

Jan ca’Vorl

“I’m sorry, Onczio Fynn,” Jan whispered. “This shouldn’t have happened, and I hope… I hope that this wasn’t my fault.” His voice echoed in the vault, stirring faint ghosts of himself. The guttering light of the torch made shadows lurch and jump around the sealing stones of the tombs. Twice now he’d watched the Hirzg laid to rest in these dank and somber chambers, far too quickly. Vatarh and son. At least Fynn’s interment hadn’t been accompanied by omens and further death. His had been a slow, somber ritual, one that left Jan’s chest heavy and cold.

He’d searched everywhere for Elissa. He’d sent riders out from Brezno, scouring the roads and inns and villages for her in all directions. Roderigo had told him that he hadn’t seen Elissa near Fynn’s chambers. “But I was away from him when it happened. She might have managed to sneak in-or someone else might have. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

The words tasted of bile and poison. He tried to convince himself that it had all been coincidence. Matarh had shown him the letter she’d received from the ca’Karina family: Elissa was an impostor pretending to be ca’. But perhaps that was all: she’d fled because she’d known that her deception was going to be revealed. Maybe that was the entirety of it. Or… Perhaps she’d gone to see Fynn, to plead her case with him knowing that she was about to be exposed as a fraud, and had interrupted The White Stone at his work. Perhaps she’d fled in terror before the famed assassin had glimpsed her, too frightened to even stay in the city after what she’d seen. Or perhaps-worse-The White Stone had seen her, and taken her to murder elsewhere.

None of it convinced Jan. He knew what they were thinking, all of them, and when the suspicion settled in his gut, he also knew they were right. A pretender in the court, a pretender who was the lover of the King’s favorite companion-the conclusion was obvious. Elissa had been the White Stone’s accomplice, or she was the White Stone herself.

Either thought made Jan’s head whirl. He remembered the time he’d spent with her, the conversations, the flirtations, the kisses; the rising, quick breaths as they explored each other; the slick, oily heat of lovemaking, the laughter afterward… Her body, sleek and enticing in the warm bath of candlelight; the curve of her breasts beaded with the sweat of their passion; the dark, soft and enticing triangle at the joining of her legs…

He shook his head to banish the thoughts.

It couldn’t be her. Couldn’t. Yet…

Jan put his hand on the sealing stone of Fynn’s tomb, letting his fingers trace the incised bas-reliefs there. “I’m sorry,” he said again to the corpse.

If it had, somehow, been Elissa, then the question still unanswered was who had hired The White Stone. The Stone would not kill without a contract. Someone had paid for this. Whether Elissa had been the knife or simply the helper didn’t matter. It hadn’t been her who had made the decision. Someone else had ordered the death.

Jan bowed his head until his forehead touched the cold stone. “I’ll find out who did this,” he said: to Cenzi, to Fynn, to the haunted air. “I’ll find out, and I will give you justice, Onczio.”

Jan took in a long breath of the cold, damp air. He rose on protesting knees and took the torch from its sconce. Then he began the long climb back up toward the day.