A Magic of Nightfall

Sergei ca’Rudka

“There is truth in pain,” Sergei said. He’d spoken the aphorism many times over the years, said it so the victim knew that he must confess what Sergei wished him to confess. He also knew the statement for the lie it was. There was no “truth” in pain, not really. With the agony he inflicted, there came instead the ability to make the victim say anything that Sergei desired him to say. There came the ability to make “truth” whatever those in charge wished truth to be. The victim would say anything, agree to anything, confess to anything as long as there was a promise to end the torment.

Sergei smiled down at the man in chains before him, the instruments of torture dark and sinister in the roll of leather before him, but then the perception shifted: it was Sergei lying bound on the table, looking up into his own face. His hands were chained and cold fear twisted his bowels. He knew what he was about to feel; he had imposed it on many. He knew what he was about to feel, and he screamed in anticipation of the agony…

“Regent?”

Sergei bolted awake in his cell, the manacles binding his wrists rattling the short chain between them. He reached quickly for the knife that was still in his boot, making sure that his hand was around the hilt so that if they’d come to take him for interrogation, he could take his own life first.

He would not endure what he had forced others to endure.

But it was Aris cu’Falla, the Commandant of the Bastida, who had entered the room, and Sergei relaxed, letting his fingers slide from the hilt. Aris saluted the garda who had opened the door. “You may go,” he told the man. “There’s lunch for you on the lower landing. Come back here in half a turn of the glass.”

“Thank you, Commandant,” the garda said. He saluted and left. Aris left the door open. Sergei glanced at the yawning door from the bed on which he sat. Aris saw the glance.

“You wouldn’t get past me, Sergei. You know that. I have two hands of years on you, after all, and it’s my duty-not to mention my life-to stop you.”

“Did you leave the door open just to mock me, then?”

A smile came and vanished like spring frost. “Would you rather I shut and locked it?”

Sergei laughed grimly, and the laugh morphed into a cough heavy with phlegm. Aris touched his shoulder with concern as Sergei hunched over. “Would you like me to send for a healer, my friend?”

“Why, so I’m as healthy as possible when the Council orders me killed?” Sergei shook his head. “It’s just the dampness; my lungs don’t like it. So tell me, Aris, what news do you have?”

Aris pulled the single chair in the room over to him, the legs scraping loudly against the flags. “I’ve a garda I trust implicitly assigned to the Council-for my own safety in this troubled time, frankly. So much of what I know comes from him.”

“I don’t need the preamble, Aris-it’s not going to change your answer, and I suspect I already know it. Just tell me.”

Aris sighed. He turned the chair backward and sat, his arms folded over the back, his chin on his arms. “Sigourney ca’Ludovici is pushing the Council hard to give the Kraljiki the power he asks for. There’s to be a final meeting in a few days, and a vote is to be taken then.”

“They’ll actually give Audric what he wants?”

A nod wrinkled the bearded chin on his hands. “Yes. I think so.”

Sergei closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone wall. He could feel the chill of the rock through his thinning hair. “They’ll destroy Nessantico for the sake of power. They’re all-and Sigourney especially-thinking that Audric won’t last a year, which will leave the Sun Throne open for one of them-assuming I’m gone.”

“Sergei,” he heard Aris say in the darkness of his thoughts, “I’ll give you warning. I promise you that. I’ll give you time to-” He stopped.

“Thank you, Aris.”

“I would do more, if I could, but I have my family to think about. If the Council of Ca’ or the new Kralji found out I helped you to escape, well…”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sergei opened his eyes again, leaning forward. He cupped a hand on Aris’ face, the manacles jangling with the motion. “I’ve had a good life, Aris, and I’ve served three Kralji as well as I could. Cenzi will forgive me what I must do.”

“There’s still hope, and no need to do anything yet,” Aris said. “The Council may come to their senses and see that the Kraljiki’s sick in his mind as well as his body. They may yet release you; they will, if the effort of Archigos Kenne and the others loyal to you have any effect at all-Archigos Kenne has already pleaded your case to them, and his words still have some influence, after all. Don’t give up hope, Sergei. We both know all too well the history of the Bastida. Why, the Bastida held Harcourt ca’Denai for three years before he became Kraljiki.”

Sergei laughed, forcing down the cough that wanted to come with it. “We’re practical men, both of us, Aris. Realists. We don’t delude ourselves with false hope.”

“True enough,” Aris said. He stood. “I’ll have the garda bring your food up to you. And a healer to look at you, whether you want him or not.” He patted Sergei on the shoulder and started for the cell door, stopping with his hand on the handle. “If it comes to it, Sergei, I’ll send word to you before anyone comes to take you down to the donjons below.” He paused, looking significantly at Sergei. “So you can prepare yourself. You’ve my word on that.”

Sergei nodded. Aris saluted him and closed the door with a metallic clash. Sergei heard the grating of the key in the lock. He put his head back again, listening to the sound of cu’Falla’s bootsteps on the winding stairs of the tower.

He remembered the clean sound of screams echoing on stone, and the shrill, high pleading of those sent for questioning. He remembered their faces, taut with pain. There was an honesty in their agony, a purity of expression that could not be faked. He sometimes thought he glimpsed Cenzi in them: Cenzi as He had been when His own children, the Moitidi, had turned against Him and savaged His mortal body. Now, like Cenzi, Sergei might face the wrath of his own creation.

But he would not. He promised himself that. One way or the other, he would not.