S Farrell - A Magic of Nightfall

If a city can have a gender, Nessantico was female

Once, she had been young and vital: the city, the woman. During her ascension, she had transformed herself into the most famous, the most beautiful, the most powerful of her kind.

She looked at herself now and wondered-as someone might who glimpses herself all unexpected in a mirror and is startled and disturbed by the image staring back-if those attributes still held true.

Oh, she knew that youth was fleeting and ephemeral. After all, the people dwelling within her walls led lives that were short and harsh. For them, the mirrored face changed relentlessly with each passing day until that morning when they realized that the reflection in the silvered glass was lined and tired, that the gray at the temples had spread and whitened. They might feel their joints protesting at a movement that had once required no effort or thought at all, or discover that injuries now required weeks rather than days to heal, or that illnesses lingered like unwelcome guests-or worse, transitioned from lingering to chronic.

The chill of mortality seeped into their mortal bones like slow ice.

Mortality: Nessantico felt it, too. Those within her disguised her lines and folds with the cosmetics of architecture. Look, she could say: there is cuBrunellis grand dome for the Old Temple-fifteen years under construction now-which when finished will be the largest free-standing dome in the known world. There: thats caCasselis ornate and beautiful Theatre aKralji on the Isle, capable of holding an audience of two thousand, with acoustics so fine that everyone can hear the slightest whisper on the stage; there, the Grande Libreria on the South Bank, begun under Kraljiki Justis reign and containing all the greatest intellectual works of humankind. Listen: that is the sweet music of ceMiella, whose compositions rival the lush melodies of the master Darkmavis. Gaze on the symbol-laden paintings and murals of ceVaggio, whose ability to paint figures is often compared to that of the tragic master ciRecroix. There is so much vibrant life here within Nessantico: all the plays and the dances, the celebrations and gaiety.

All is the same here as it has always been; no, all is better.

Yet she had changed, and she knew it. There were signs and portents. In Oldtown, not long ago, there was a woman born with the legs of a tarantula who (it was whispered) could kill with a single glance from her faceted eyes. There had been the affliction of thousands of green toads from the Fens two springs ago, so thick that they had covered the nearby lanes in a writhing mass a hands span deep. In the sewers of the North Bank, a creature with the head of a dragon, the body of a bull, and the hands and feet of a human was said to prowl, eating rats that had grown to the size of wolves.

There were the real, inarguable signs, too. The Holdings had been broken, that strong alliance of countries forged slowly over centuries. After an ill-fated attack on Nessantico in the wake of Kraljica Marguerites assassination, the city Brezno had become her rival as Firenzcia gathered around itself several of its neighboring lands: a Coalition under the direction of Hirzg Jan caVorl.

The Concenzia Faith, too, had been sundered, and it was not what it had been. Archigos Ana sat in the temple on the South Bank, yes, but another called himself Archigos in Brezno. Within Nessantico, the heretical Numetodo took on new adherents, and it was not uncommon to see someone casting a spell who was not wearing green robes or calling first on Cenzi.

Signs and portents. Change. The older Nessantico grew, the more change became difficult for her.

Caught in her own unwelcome autumn, Nessantico-the city, the woman-stared at her reflection in the dark waters of the River ASele and wondered

And, like many in her position, she denied what she saw.

Her Vatarh had been the sun around which she had orbited for as long as she could remember. Now that sun, at long last, was setting.

The message had arrived from Brezno by fast-rider, and she stared at the words scrawled by a hasty, fair hand. Your vatarh is dying. If you want to see him, hurry. That was the entire message. It was signed by Archigos Semini of Brezno and sealed with his signet.

Vatarh is dying The great Hirzg Jan of Firenzcia, after whom she had named her only child, was passing. The words set alight a sour fire in her belly; the words swam on the page with the salt tears that welled unbidden in her eyes. She sat there-at her fine desk, in her opulent offices near the Gyulas palais in Malacki-and she saw a droplet hit the paper to smudge the inked words.

She hated that Vatarh could still affect her so strongly; she hated that she cared. She should have hated him, but she couldnt. No matter how hard shed tried over the years, she couldnt.

One might curse the sun for its scorching heat or its absence, but without the sun there was no life.

I hate him, she declared to Archigos Ana. It had been two years since Ana had snatched her away from her vatarh to hold her as hostage. Two years, and he still hadnt paid the ransom to bring her back. She was thirteen, on the cusp of her menarche, and he had abandoned her. What had originally been anxiety and disappointment had slowly transformed inside her into anger. At least thats what she believed.

No, you dont, Ana said quietly, stroking her hair. They were standing on the balcony of her apartments in the Temple complex in Nessantico, staring down to where knots of green-clad teni hurried to their duties. Not really. If he paid the ransom tomorrow, you would be glowing and ready to run back to him. Look inside yourself, Allesandra. Look honestly. Isnt that true?

Well, he must hate me, she retorted, or hed have paid.

Ana had hugged her tightly then. He will, she told Allesandra. He will. Its just Allesandra, your vatarh wished to sit on the Sun Throne. He has always been a proud man, and because I took you away, he was never able to realize his dream. You remind him of all he lost. And thats my fault. Not yours. Its not yours at all.

Vatarh hadnt paid. Not for ten long years. It had been Fynn, the new son her matarh Greta had given the Hirzg, who basked in Vatarhs affections, who was taught the ways of war, who was named as the new AHirzg-the title that should have been hers.

Instead of her vatarh and her matarh, it was Archigos Ana who became her surrogate parent, shepherding her through puberty and adolescence, comforting Allesandra through her first crushes and infatuations, teaching her the ways of ca-and-cu society, escorting her to dances and parties, treating her not as a captive but as a niece it had become her responsibility to raise.

I love you, Tantzia, Allesandra said to Ana. Shed taken to calling the Archigos aunt. The news had come to Kraljiki Justi that a treaty between the Holdings and the Firenzcian Coalition was to be signed in Passe aFiume, and as part of the negotiations, Hirzg Jan had finally paid the ransom for his daughter. Shed been a decade in Nessantico, nearly half her life. Now, at twenty-one, she was to return to the life shed lost so long ago and she was frightened by the prospect. Once, this had been all shed wanted. Now

Part of her wanted to stay here. Here, where she knew she was loved.

Ana folded her in her arms. Allesandra was taller than the Archigos now, and Ana had to raise up on tiptoes to kiss her forehead. I love you, too, Allesandra. Ill miss you, but its time for you to go home. Just know that I will always be here for you. Always. You are part of my heart, my dear. Forever.

Allesandra had hoped that she could bask in the sun of her vatarhs love again. Yes, shed heard all about how the new AHirzg Fynn was the child Hirzg Jan had always desired: skilled at riding, at the sword, at diplomacy. Shed heard how he was being groomed already for a career in the Garde Firenzcia. But she had once been the pride of her vatarh, too. Surely, she could become so again.