Ana stepped forward and gave Varina a quick hug. “Then Karl’s a fool, for not seeing how alike we are.”
Audric ca’Dakwi
Even 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 Genera 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.. “Correct. Year 503. The line of the Archigi.”
Audric took a breath and coughed again. “Archigos Dhosti ca’Millac,” he said. “The Dwarf.” Applause. Pen scratch. Audric heard the far door of the hall open; Regent Sergei ca’Rudka entered, striding quickly forward to where Audric was standing. Despite his years, the Regent moved with energy and a straight bearing. The courtiers, with a cautious glance, slid quickly aside to give him room. Sergei’s silver artificial nose alternately gleamed and dimmed in the shafts of failing sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Correct,” ci’Blaylock intoned. “Year 521. The line of the Kralji.”
That was easy: That was the year Audric’s vatarh had taken the Sun Throne after Marguerite’s assassination. Audric took another breath, but the effort sent him into a momentary coughing spasm: deep and filled with the ugly sound of liquid in his lungs. Afterward, he straightened and cleared his throat. “Kraljiki Justi ca’Dakwi,” he told ci’Blaylock and the courtiers. “The Great Warrior,” he added. That was the appellation Justi had given himself. Audric had heard the other whispered names given him when people thought no one was listening: Justi the One-Legged; Justi the Incompetent; Justi the Great Failure.
Those names no one would have dared say to the Kraljiki’s face while he’d been alive. Audric looked at the smiles pasted on the faces of the ca’-and-cu’ and wondered what names they called him when he was not there to hear.
Audric the Ill. Audric the Regent’s Puppet.
Again, applause came from the onlookers. Sergei, his arms crossed, didn’t join them. He watched from just behind Maister ci’Blaylock, who seemed to feel the pressure of the man’s presence. He glanced once over his shoulder at the Regent and shivered visibly. “Umm…” The old man shook his head, glanced at the scroll, then plunged an ink-stained forefinger toward it. “Year 521,” he said. “The line of the Archigi.”
That one was a longer answer but still easy. “Archigos Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca. The Great Traitor and first false Archigos of Brezno.” Audric coughed again, pausing to clear his throat. “Then the same year, after ca’Cellibrecca betrayed the Concenzia Faith and Kraljiki Justi at Passe a’Fiume, Archigos Ana ca’Seranta, the youngest teni ever named Archigos.”
Ana, who still held the title of Archigos. Ana, whom Audric loved as if she were the matarh he’d never known. Audric smiled at the mention of her name, and the applause that came then was genuine-Archigos Ana was well and truly loved by the people of Nessantico.
“Correct,” ci’Blaylock said. “Very good. Also Year 521. War and politics.”
“The Rebellion of Hirzg Jan ca’Vorl,” Audric answered quickly. The guttural Firenzcian syllables sent his lungs into spasm again. It took several breaths to stop them and manage to talk again. “The Hirzg was defeated by Kraljiki Justi at the Battle of the Fens,” he managed to croak out, finally.
“Excellent!” The voice was not ci’Blaylock’s but Sergei’s, as he applauded loudly and strode out to stand alongside Audric. The courtiers joined the applause belatedly and uncertainly. Sigourney ca’Ludovici, Audric noticed, didn’t applaud at all, only crossed her arms and glared. “Maister ci’Blaylock, I’m sure you’ve heard enough to make your judgment,” Sergei continued.
Ci’Blayblock frowned. “Regent, I wasn’t quite fin-” He stopped, and Audric saw him staring at the Regent’s frown. He laid down the quill and started to roll up the testing scroll. “Yes, that was very satisfactory,” he said. “Well done, Kraljiki, as always.”
“Good,” Sergei said. “Now, if all of you will excuse us…”
The Regent’s dismissal was abrupt but effective. Maister ci’Blaylock gathered up his scrolls and limped toward the nearest door; the courtiers drifted away like tendrils of fog on a sunny morning, smiling until they turned their backs. Audric could hear their furious whispering speculations as they left the hall. Sigourney, however, paused. “Is this something the Council of Ca’ should know?” she asked Sergei. She wasn’t looking at Audric; it was as if he weren’t important enough to be noticed.
Sergei shook his head. “Not at the moment, Councillor ca’Ludovici,” he said. “If it becomes so, be assured that I will let you know immediately.”
Sigourney sniffed at that, but she nodded to Sergei and bowed the proper obeisance to Audric before leaving the hall. Only a few servants remained, standing silently by the tapestry-hung stone walls, while two e-teni-priests of the Concenzia Faith-whispered prayers as they lit the lamps against the dying light. On the wall near the Sun Throne, the faces of the peasant family in ci’Recroix’s painting seemed to shiver in the light of the teni-fire.