A Magic of Twilight

have no chance of competing.” Her gaze stayed on him as she smiled.

“You honor me, A’Kralj,” she murmured.

“A’Kralj,” A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca said, “we must talk later. I have some news I would like to relate to you. Perhaps after the unveiling of the Kraljica’s portrait?”

Justi smiled at that. After the unveiling, there may be no need for words.

“I would be pleased to do so, A’Teni.” He glanced upward, where a star seemed to be descending from the ceiling, in a new fanfare of krumhorns and trumpets. A space was cleared beneath the lowering brilliance, and servants hurried forward with chairs. Justi could see the Archigos and his matarh being seated, and one of Renard’s aides was moving earnestly in his direction. “If you’ll excuse me, A’Teni. It is the duty of the A’Kralj to be submissively at the Kraljica’s side at these moments, I’m afraid.”

Ca’Cellibrecca bowed slightly, and Justi released Francesca’s hand, squeezing it gently beforehand so that she smiled. He moved quickly to the center of the hall, where the star pulsed and radiated, so bright that he had to shade his eyes. Renard, standing next to O’Teni cu’Seranta just behind the high back of the Kraljica’s chair, gestured to the empty chair to the right, its back just slightly lower than either that of the Kraljica or the Archigos. The star sent harsh shadows dancing madly behind the spectators. As Justi slid into his seat, the star flared in the colors of Nessantico’s standard: alternating blue and gold. Then it went dark, and the crowd gasped, blinking and trying to adjust their sight to what seemed to be sudden night. Justi closed his own eyes, purple-and-yellow afterimages chasing themselves behind his eyelids. When he opened them again, a tall rectangle draped in black cloth stood before them, caught in a white glow from teni-lit lamps set near it.

“Where’s that damned painter?” Justi heard Renard whisper harshly behind his seat. “He’s supposed to be here. .” He heard an attendant patter off. Justi smiled inwardly. The crowd was beginning to mutter restlessly as the draped painting remained unrevealed. “Matarh,” Justi said, leaning over to her. “I think Vajiki ci’Recroix suffers from a sudden modesty regarding his painting skills. Perhaps O’Teni cu’Seranta might take his duties. .” He glanced at the young woman and smiled.

“Yes. Ana, if you would. .”

The O’Teni bowed. He heard her take a deep, nervous breath as she moved around the chairs and out into the glare. She went to the draped painting, made a deep bow with the sign of Cenzi to the seated trio, then pulled the silken cloth from the painting.

The room was a large, massed inhalation. Even Justi found himself drawing in breath. The painting. .

It was magnificent. There was no other word for it. Ci’Recroix’s

brush had snared the Kraljica as if in the midst of turning toward the viewer. The figure seated on the Sun Throne was captured larger than life-size. The lighting was chiaroscuro, her features illuminated from the side, each hair on her head and each fold in her face visible. The mouth was slightly open and one hand was lifting from her lap, as if she were beckoning to someone and about to speak to them.

The painting seemed almost to writhe in place, so lifelike and realistic that Justi could almost believe his matarh could step from the frame of the picture and onto the tiles of the hall.

The applause began as a smattering, then quickly became a tidal wave of appreciation that swept over the hall, deafening and tremendous. People pressed forward to see better. .

And the Kraljica, next to Justi, gave a strangled cry. He looked over to see her fall.

Ana cu’Seranta

“Matarh, I think Vajiki ci’Recroix suffers from a sudden modesty regarding his painting skills. Perhaps o’Teni cu’Seranta

might take his duties. .” The A’Kralj glanced over the back of his chair toward her and smiled. It was a polished, artificial smile, and it held no warmth. Ana found herself recoiling from it.

Yes. Ana, if you would,” she heard the Kraljica say, and she wanted to refuse but then the Archigos nodded, his gaze solemn, and she forced herself to bow in agreement. She could feel the stares of the crowd on her as she moved into the brilliant pool of light around the painting. Her breath was caught high in her throat; she thought she might faint, but she forced herself to take a deep, long breath. She saw Envoy ci’Vliomani standing well behind the Kraljica, Archigos, and A’Kralj, at the railing of the half-landing at the edge of the hall. He lifted a hand to her, shaking his head. She wondered at that as she performed the deep curtsy that etiquette required. She put her hand on the soft cloth that draped the canvas.

She tugged, and the shroud fell away like a dark cloud. Ana gasped.

She would have sworn that she saw the image underneath shift in that instant, as if the figure had been startled at the sudden movement, that its eyes stared at her own for an instant before turning away to look at the three people seated before it.

She heard the crowd gasp at the same time. . and she felt. . she felt. .

Ana wasn’t sure what it was. The sense was like a winter river rushing through her as she stood there next to the painting, a river that flowed from the Kraljica in her chair toward the painting itself, a cold so intense that it burned, and the invisible waters were loud with a wail that was the voice of the Kraljica herself.

Ana saw the Kraljica start to rise in her chair, her face distraught and terrified, then just as suddenly she crumpled and fell forward. Her head made a terrible hollow sound as it struck the tiles. Her dress, still alive with teni-illumination, pooled around her.

For a moment, everything was frozen in tableau. Ana could see them all: The A’Kralj, motionless except for his head turned toward his matarh; the Archigos lurching forward in his chair, his stubby feet dangling; Renard, behind the Kraljica’s chair, his hand reaching helplessly and far too late for her; the commandant’s face stern and terrifying, glaring at the crowd as if searching for someone; Envoy ci’Vliomani, at the rear of the crowd, turning away. Then everything moved again. Renard shoved the throne-chair aside and rushed toward the Kraljica as the A’Kralj slid to his knees beside her; the Archigos pushed away from his seat, a chant on his lips; the commandant drew his sword as the crowd pushed inward; Karl ci’Vliomani vanished in the sea of movement.

Ana rushed away from the painting herself to huddle next to the Kraljica.

“Back!” she heard the commandant shout. “Everyone move back!”

But they were still pressing forward, drawn by the commotion, and the Archigos lifted his hand, still chanting. She felt the ripple of power flow outward from him, a shimmering of air that pushed past her without touching but then hardened into a wall that shoved back at the crowd, holding them.

The A’Kralj had lifted his matarh in his arms; Ana could see her breathing, gasping as he pushed himself up, and she felt relief- she isn’t dead. “Renard!” the A’Kralj shouted. “Call for the healer. Bring him to the Kraljica’s rooms. Now!” Renard bowed and hurried off.

“Archigos. .”

“I will clear the way,” the Archigos said, and Ana felt the invisible wall shift. A path began to open before them. She could hear the commandant shouting orders to his staff, and the crowd roar was deafening.

“Ana, come with us.”

She followed the Archigos, going ahead of the A’Kralj. They moved

quickly from the hall, out a side door and across a corridor to another door. Servants scurried ahead of them. The door opened into a staircase and they went up a quick two flights, and Ana found herself finally in the corridors of the Kraljica’s private apartment. More servants appeared, opening the doors and ushering them into the Kraljica’s bedchamber, where the A’Kralj laid the Kraljica down on her bed. “Matarh,” he said, “can you hear me?”

A faint nod. The Kraljica’s eyes flickered open, showing mostly the whites of her eyes traced with red veins. “I felt. . my heart was tearing out of me. . my head splitting. .” Her voice was a husk, barely audible. “So tired. .”

“Where’s that healer?” the A’Kralj said, his voice loud and his face flushed. He went to the door. “Renard!” he shouted.

“A’Kralj,” the Archigos said. His voice was weary and trembling, but Justi spun around, his eyes blazing. “The commandant will need you downstairs, to reassure the guests.”

The A’Kralj glanced at the bed. “If my matarh is in danger. .”

“She’s resting now,” the Archigos said, soothingly. “You have your duty to perform. The ca’-and-cu’ will be in an uproar, and they need your leadership at this moment. Your matarh needs it.”

Ana saw the A’Kralj’s lips press together. The flush in his face lessened, though his gaze stayed on the bed.