“What, Matarh?” he asked, but she knew that he had guessed, knew from the way his lips twisted below the crisp black line of his mustache.
Her son might be pampered, indolent, and perhaps somewhat dissolute, but he was not stupid.
“It’s been seven years now since Hannah died,” she said. “It’s time.
Time for you to marry again.” His features scrunched as if he’d bitten into a sour marshberry, but she ignored the look. She’d seen it too many times. “Marriage is a stronger and more permanent weapon than a sword,” she told him.
A barely-stifled sigh escaped him. “I know, Matarh. You’ve said that often enough. I thought of having the aphorism engraved on my saber.”
He sniffed, looking away from her and back to the painting.
“Then show me you understand,” she answered tartly, pressing her own lips together in annoyance at his tone.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked, but didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I take it you have candidates in mind? Someone appropriately connected, no doubt. Someone whose children might actually live.”
Marguerite sucked in her breath. “It wasn’t your wife’s fault that your children died. Why, little Henri was five and thriving when the Red Pox took him, and poor Margu. .” Her eyes filled with tears, as they often did when she thought of the granddaughter who’d been her namesake. Hannah might have been of the fertile ca’Mazzak line, whose descendants governed Sesemora, but she’d not had the luck of her matarh, who had nine children survive into adulthood. No, Marguerite was fairly certain that the fault lay in the ca’Ludovici seed. In Justi. Stout and plain herself, Hannah had nonetheless performed her spousal obligations, giving birth to eight children over the decade of her marriage to Justi, but only two of those had survived past the second year: Henri, the eighth and last, whose long and difficult birth Hannah had survived by less than a month; and Marguerite, secondborn, who had been eleven and the Kraljica’s favorite when the horse drawing her carriage had bolted unexpectedly and the careening vehicle had struck a tree. Marguerite herself had nursed the terribly injured girl and the Archigos had sent over- surreptitiously, since such a thing was heresy and specifically forbidden by the Divolonte-a teni skilled with healing chants, but still little Margu had not survived the night.
Marguerite had gone to the stables afterward and killed the horse herself.
“I know, Matarh,” Justi said. “It was Cenzi’s will that they died. And what is the Kraljica’s will, which is second only to Cenzi’s? Who am I to marry, some cowled waif from Magyaria? Someone of those half-wild families from Hellin? Which of the provinces are causing problems?
Have them send their daughters for your inspection so they may be subdued by marriage. Once more, rather than out-warring your adversaries, you will out-marry them. Tell me-who have you picked?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Justi.”
“I’m certain you don’t. And I’m certain that I care about your appreciation as much as you care about my feelings concerning this.
When are
Twenty-three years? Twenty-four? What has kept
For a moment, Marguerite feared that Justi knew about Renard, but the slackness in his face told her that it was simple irritation in his voice. “You know why I don’t marry.”
“Yes, I know. ‘The sword in the scabbard still threatens. .’ I’ve heard that one often enough, too.” Justi gave a sigh. His hands lifted and dropped back to his sides. “So who is it to be, Matarh? When will you make the grand announcement of my engagement, and when do I get to at least see a painting of this person?”
“I’ve selected no one as yet,” Marguerite told him. “I thought that perhaps you would like some input in this as the A’Kralj.” She saw the new grimace and could nearly hear the thought that no doubt accompanied it:
She was trying to placate him, knowing how strongly he believed in the tenets of Concenzia, but she saw that Justi was either no longer listening or disinterested. He was studying ci’Recroix’s painting as if answers might be hidden there. “You may make the decision, Justi, if that’s what you want,” she continued. “Find someone who appeals to you or not, as you prefer. Find someone who will understand that they need to look away from your. . indiscretions with half the
Justi sniffed, his nose almost touching the painting. “Yes, Matarh,” he answered. “Perfectly. As always.” As he spoke, there was a quiet knock on the doors. Justi straightened, taking a long breath, as Marguerite scowled at him. “And perfectly timed as well. Matarh, I’ll leave you.”
“There is more I need to discuss with you, Justi.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. But it will have to wait. Your painter awaits.”
Justi started toward the door. “Justi,” Marguerite called out and he stopped. “I am your Matarh and you are my son, my only child. I am also the Kraljica, and you are the A’Kralj. You will always be my son. As to the other. . some of your cousins would love nothing better than to see me change my decision as to my heir. And I can.”
Justi didn’t reply, but went to the door and opened it. Marguerite caught a glimpse of a tall man standing just outside: black robe, black hair, black beard, black pupils-a fragment of night walking in the daylight. Justi nodded to the man, who clasped hands to forehead as he bowed. “Vajiki ci’Recroix,” Justi said. “I must say I admire your talent very much. The Kraljica is waiting just inside. I hope you can capture all the complexities she hides so well. . ”
Ana cu’Seranta
As they approached the temple, the crowds became more dense and the acolyte’s bell ringing was a constant din too near Ana’s ear for comfort. For the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, the population of Nessantico swelled with tourists and visitors hoping to meet the Kraljica and mingle with the ca’-and-cu’. Every day, the Archigos emerged from the temple to bless the crowds promptly at Second Call, then proceeded along the Avi a’Parete and over the River A’Sele via the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli. There, at the Old Temple on the Isle A’Kralji, he offered up prayers of thanksgiving for the Kraljica’s continued health.
Near the temple plaza, a line of Garde Kralji, the city guards, held back the crowds from the doors through which the Archigos would appear. The gardai’s brass-tipped staffs jutted above the heads of the onlookers like the posts of a fence, and Ana could glimpse the midnight blue of their uniforms through the less somber colors of those waiting for the Archigos to appear. The acolyte standing at the door to Ana’s carriage produced a whistle from under his robes and blew a piercing note. The gardai responded, opening a gap in the crowd for the carriage to pass through. They rode into the plaza, the wheels of the carriage chattering against the marble flags set there, the teni-driver’s chant ending as the carriage came to a halt to the east of the main doors. The acolyte hopped down from his perch and opened the door, assisting Ana to the ground.
“Who am I supposed to see?” she asked the acolyte, glancing around.
She saw no one obviously waiting for them. “U’Teni cu’Dosteau?”
“Wait here,” the acolyte answered. “That’s all I was told. After the Archigos’ blessing. .”
The great wind-horns, one in each of the six domes of the temple, sounded at that moment: low, sonorous notes that throbbed and moaned like giants in distress, the wail clawing at the stones of the buildings bordering the plaza and driving clouds of pigeons up from the rooftops. The crowd went silent under the assault, pressing clasped hands to foreheads as the huge temple doors-carved into intertwined trees-swung open. Ana made the same gesture of obeisance alongside the carriage. A phalanx of acolyte celebrants in simple white robes emerged first, each with an incense brazier clanking and swaying on the end of brass chains, the fragrant smoke curling and drifting in the slight breeze. As they entered the sunlight they began to sing, their melodi-ous, youthful voices dancing with the intricate harmonies of Darkmavis’ well-known hymn
