A Magic of Twilight

Ana retreated again. He started to pursue her, but she scowled and that seemed to stop his advance. “What do you want of me?” she asked.

“What are you after?”

“I want you to come with me. To Mahri’s rooms in Oldtown.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You wanted me to teach you how to use the Ilmodo again. I could begin that process. And there are things there that you should see.

That we both need to see.”

“You’re not Karl. I don’t believe that.” It can’t be true. I don’t want it to be true. And she knew that it was not only because of the horror of thinking of Karl trapped in Mahri’s body. It was because that meant that the sacrifice of her body to the Kraljiki had been unnecessary.

“It’s true regardless,” he told her. “But whether you can believe it or not, I can still help you. Let me try, Ana. Please.”

Denial forced her another step backward. She was at the corner of the building, one hand on the marble seams. She could feel the sunlight at her back. Another step, and she could run. “12 Rue a’Jeunesse,”

Mahri told her. “I’ll be there. Tonight.”

“Not tonight,” she told him. “It’s not possible.”

“Then tomorrow night,” he insisted. “Ana, it’s very important.”

She didn’t reply. She took another step backward, then turned and hurried away. She didn’t look back to see if he pursued her, not until she was safely in the crowds of the plaza. When she looked, she could not see him at all.

At her apartment, she let Watha and Sunna help her change into a formal dress robe and comb and arrange her hair. She tried not to think of Mahri or of Karl as they fussed over her, as Beida came in to announce that the Kraljiki’s carriage had arrived, as she was driven again over the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli to his palace on the Isle A’Kralji, as Renard led her to the private back corridors and into the Kraljiki’s apartment.

As she went to him and kissed him, as she knew he expected that.

He had made it clear to her that he wished his lovers to be actively affectionate in private, that he gave no pretense of propriety and expected none. There was a sharp, faint odor lingering around him, and his response was perfunctory, a bare brush of lips. “Is something wrong, Justi?” Ana asked. Francesca, was her immediate suspicion. She’s done something, said something. . She been expecting this-following her meeting with Francesca outside the Reception Hall, she knew that the Vajica would not easily give up her relationship with Justi, and it was not a subject that she could broach with him. Not safely. Francesca’s presence had been in the background of all their conversations since, but Justi had never directly mentioned her.

But Justi put his fingers on his temples, closing his eyes, and Ana realized that she was smelling the scent of cloves. “You’ve a headache?”

“A horrible one,” he answered. “It feels as if a smithy were smashing his hammer on the inside of my skull. I can’t seem to rid myself of it, and the healer’s potions have been worse than useless. I’m sorry, Ana.”

“Don’t be,” she told him. “Here, sit and let me rub your temples. I used to do that with Matarh when she had headaches, and she would do it for me.” He allowed her to lead him to one of the chairs in the apartment, and she stood behind him, massaging his forehead and scalp. She expected him to be tense, but he seemed relaxed and comfortable.

“You’re not chanting,” he said after a few moments.

She stopped. “Kraljiki?”

“Ana, you and the Archigos came every night after the Gschnas to my matarh. You kept her alive when she should have died immediately after ci’Recroix did his despicable act-you, not the Archigos. Matarh told me once that you had the ‘healing touch,’ and we both know what she really meant by that.”

“Kraljiki, the Divolonte. .” Ana began. Her hands had fallen to her sides, and Justi turned in the chair to look at her.

“I understand what the Divolonte says. I also know that the Archigos will sometimes look the other way when a teni uses that power.

There’s no one here but the two of us, Ana. Who would know?”

She trembled. She looked down at the floor rather than at him. Her stomach burned. The walls of the apartment seemed to loom impossibly close, trapping her. “I can’t. .”

His eyebrows raised, his already-prominent chin jutted forward even more. “You would refuse me that?”

You can’t refuse. You have to try. . “No, Justi. . But. . I’m so tired, and I don’t know. .”

“Try,” he said, the single word burning in her ears. He turned away from her again, leaning back in his chair, obviously expecting her obedience.

Ana took a breath. She closed her eyes. Cenzi, I pray to You to help me now. Please. I can’t do this without You. I know that. . She spoke the calming, prepatory prayer that U’Teni cu’Dosteau had taught her so long ago, letting the phrases open her mind to the Ilmodo. She could feel the energy pulsing around her after she finished the prayer, but it seemed to linger just outside the touch of her mind, almost mocking her with its proximity. She ignored the gathering feeling of failure, the sense that Cenzi had abandoned her for interest in the Numetodo.

She allowed herself to find the words of healing, the syllables in words she did not know, and her hands moved as she chanted, following the path the words of release demanded. The Ilmodo writhed and sparked around her, yet continued to elude her grasp. She started the chant again, almost sobbing with frustration. Cenzi, I beg of You. I am sorry for my failures. I am weak, and ask You to forgive me my weakness and make me Your vessel again. .

The Ilmodo slid around her again, and this time, this time she felt the cold shock of contact. She groaned aloud with relief, snatching at the Ilmodo with her mind before it could dance away once more. The words and her hands shaped the power. She took the Gift and moved her awareness to the man in front of her, she put her hands on his head again and let herself fall into him, searching for the pain in him and ready to release the Ilmodo to erase it. .

Thank you, Cenzi.

. . and she felt nothing. There was no pain in Justi’s head. No throbbing of agony in his temples or his neck. She moved through his body, searching. . There was a nagging stiffness in his knees and lower back from years of hard usage in the saddle and on the fencing arena, and a clustering of scar tissue on his side from injuries in one of the Garde Civile’s campaigns in which he’d been wounded. Nothing else.

The Ilmodo burned in her and she could not hold it any longer, so she released it: to his knees, the spine, the scars. As the energy rushed from her, she gasped and sagged to the floor, exhausted.

He has no headache. . Cenzi, what have I done?

She felt more than saw his hands around her, too weak to resist him as he lifted her and took her into the bedroom and laid her down there.

“Thank you, Ana,” he said. “I’m feeling much better now. . ”

Justi ca’Mazzak

“Well, was I right, Justi?” Francesca asked. “Did the Archigos’ little whore perform as I told you?”

He thought about lying to her, just to see how she’d respond, but he cupped one of her breasts in his hand and kissed the soft flesh there. “It was as you said,” Justi answered. “She used the Ilmodo against the laws of the Divolonte.” He saw her try to hide a smug, self-congratulatory smile and fail. She’s ruthless but predictable. Those were, in Justi’s opinion, good qualities for a Kraljiki’s wife.

“It’s as my vatarh said,” Francesca corrected him gently. “That whore and the Archigos use the Ilmodo against the Divolonte. They

both deserve to be cast out of the Faith. They deserve the fate you should also give the Numetodo who are in the Bastida. You know that’s why she gave herself to you-to save her Numetodo lover. She’s nothing more than a harlot.”