A Magic of Nightfall Read Online Free Page B

to Cénzi,” Ana said. “No one else. I’m not destined for that kind of relationship in this life. I’ve told him that. I treasure his friendship and all he’s done for me and Nessantico. I love Karl dearly, more than I ever loved anyone else. But what he wants . . .” Her head moved slowly from side to side as her lips pressed together. “You should tell him how you feel.”

    “If I need to tell him, then it’s obvious that the feeling isn’t shared,” Varina answered. She managed to force her lips into an upward curve. “And I’m bound to my work, as you’re bound to Cénzi.”

    Ana stepped forward and gave Varina a quick hug. “Then Karl’s a fool, for not seeing how alike we are.”

Audric ca’Dakwi

    E VEN A KRALJIKI could not avoid his lessons, nor the examinations designed to scrape away whatever essence of knowledge clung to the inside of his skull.

    Audric stood before the Sun Throne with his hands clasped behind his back, facing his tutor, Maister ci’Blaylock. Behind the brittle, chalk-dusted stick of the maister, the audience gazed at Audric with smiling encouragement: a few chevarittai bedecked with their Blood Medals, the ca’-and-cu’, the usual courtiers, Sigourney ca’Ludovici, and a few other members of the Council of Ca’ . . . all those who wished Audric to notice that they had attended the young Kraljiki’s quarterly examination. At fourteen, Audric was all too aware of the flattering attention that came to him because of his lineage and his title.

    They weren’t there for the examination; they were there to be seen. By him. Only by him.

    He enjoyed that thought.

    “Year 471,” ci’Blaylock intoned, looking up from the scroll-laden lectern at which he stood. “The line of the Kralji.”

    An easy one, that. No challenge at all. “Kraljica Marguerite ca’Ludovici,” Audric answered quickly and firmly. He coughed then—he coughed often—and added: “Also known as the Généra a’Pace.”

    And also my great-matarh . . . Marguerite’s uneasily realistic portrait, painted by the late master artisan Edouard ci’Recroix—who had also created the large canvas of a peasant family that adorned this very Hall of the Sun Throne—hung in Audric’s bedroom. Marguerite watched him every night as he slept, and gave him the same strange, weary half-smile every morning when he woke. He’d wished many times that he’d had the chance to actually know her—he’d certainly heard enough tales regarding her. He sometimes wondered if all the tales were true: in the memories of the people of Nessantico, Kraljica Marguerite had presided over a Golden Age, an age of sunlight compared to the storm-wrapped politics of the present.

    The court applauded politely at his answer, smiling. Most of their pleasure was undoubtedly due to the fact that they were finally nearing the end of the examination, as Maister ci’Blaylock slowly climbed the ladder of history. They’d begun—nearly half a turn of the glass ago—in Year 413 with Kraljiki Henri VI, the first year of the ca’Ludovici line from which Audric himself was descended; the onlookers had been standing the entire time since, after all, one did not sit in the presence of the Kraljiki without permission. Audric knew the answers to the few remaining questions; how could he not, being so intricately bound up in his family’s life? A barely discernible sigh emanated from the court, along with a rustling of clothing as they shifted their stances. “Correct,” ci’Blaylock said, sniffing. He was a dark-skinned man, as many from the province of Namarro were. He dipped the tip of his quill pen into the inkwell of the lectern and made a short, deliberate mark on the open scroll. The scratch of the pen was loud. The wings of his white eyebrows fluttered above cataract-pale eyes. “Year 485. The line of the Archigi.”

    Cough. “Archigos Kasim ca’Velarina.” Cough.

    More polite applause, and another dip and scratch of the pen..