by S L Farrell
The unease that had afflicted Eneas before the battle deepened, settling like a deathly chill in his lungs so that he labored to breathe and his sword felt like a leaden weight in his hands. He urged his horse forward onto the sand and as he did so, he shouted: a wordless cry to banish the feeling with noise and rage.
He was answered by a sound he’d never heard before.
The sound… it was as if one of the Earth Moitidi-those unworthy children of Cenzi-had screamed an unearthly and deep roar, and the sound pulled Eneas’ head around to the left toward its source. Orange fire and foul, black smoke erupted from the ground. Dirt clods fell around Eneas like a solid rain, spattering him, and with it… with it were parts of bodies. A hand, still clutching a broken sword, rebounded from the neck of Enean’s destrier and fell to the ground. He stared at the gory object. He heard the screams then, belatedly.
“It’s the nahualli! Sorcery!” Eneas screamed in warning to his troops, to the awful hand that had fallen from the sky.
He was answered with a roar that was even louder than the first, a blast that blinded him with its light as the force of it lifted him bodily, tearing him from saddle and horse. A demigod had plucked him up-Eneas seemed to hover for a breath or more: this… this is Cenzi’s premonition and warning… -and flung him back down to earth as if in disgust.
The earth rose up to meet him.
He remembered nothing else after that.
Karl ca’Vliomani
Karl clutched a necklace in his hand: a shell of polished gray stone that he had given to Ana, long ago. The necklace had been around her neck when she died; Sergei had given it to him. Flecks of Ana’s blood were caught in the deep ridges. He tightened his fingers hard around the shell, feeling the hard edges press into his palm. The pain didn’t matter; it meant that he could still feel something other than the emptiness that filled him now.
Who did this? Why would they kill Ana?
Karl had lost too many of the people he most cared about over the years. He’d wrapped himself in grief and sorrow and sometimes anger at their passing, he’d awakened at night certain he’d heard their voices or thinking that “Oh, today I should call on him or her…” only to remember that the person in his mind was forever, irrevocably, gone.
This… this was worse than any of those deaths. This was a knife-blow to his heart, and he could feel himself bleeding inside.
Can I survive this? I’ve lost my best friend, the woman I love.. ..
Karl was seated at the front of the temple, with Regent Sergei and Kraljiki Audric to his left and the newly-installed Archigos Kenne and the a’teni of the Faith to his right. Kenne had been Ana’s friend and ally from the beginning, when they had both been part of Archigos Dhosti’s staff. Now, looking two decades older than his actual years, his hair white and hands shaking with an eternal palsy, Kenne appeared severely uncomfortable with the responsibility thrust upon him. The Archigos leaned over to Karl and patted his hand. He said something that Karl didn’t hear against the choir’s singing: “Long Lament,” by the composer ce’Miella. Kenne’s actual words didn’t matter: Karl nodded, because he knew it was expected.
In the pew directly behind them, in the midst of the ca’-and-cu’, was Varina and Mika ci’Gilan; like Varina, Mika was also a longtime friend of Karl and Ana. Mika was the local head of the Numetodo faction in Nessantico, directing the research of the sect here. Varina’s hand touched Karl’s shoulder; without looking back, he covered it with his own before letting his hand, like a dead thing, slide into his lap. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder; her hand remained there.
The embrace was meant to be comfort, he knew, but it was simply an empty weight.
Who did this? Karl had heard a dozen rumors. Predictably, some blamed the Numetodo. Some Firenzcia. Some the Brezno branch of the Faith. The wildest story said that the assassin called the White Stone had been responsible, that there’d been a pale pebble on Ana’s left eye when she was found, the White Stone’s signature.
That last rumor was certainly not true. But the others… Karl didn’t know. But he vowed he would find out.
Karl had envied, sometimes, the comfort of faith that Ana had. He and Ana had even spoken of that, the night that he’d learned Kaitlin was dead: the woman he’d married and who had borne him his two sons on the Isle a’Paeti. Kaitlin had steadfastly refused to come with him to Nessantico. Kaitlin had known of the deep friendship between Karl and Ana; Karl was just as certain that Kaitlin knew that-despite Karl’s reassurances and promises-for Karl, at least, there was more than friendship there.
He had never been able to lie easily to her. He told himself he loved Kaitlin, but he was never really able to lie to himself either.
The night he’d received the horrible letter from Paeti that Kaitlin had fallen ill and died, he’d been devastated. He never quite knew how Ana learned of it, but she came to him that evening. She fed him, she held him, she let him cry and wail and shout and grieve. Most tellingly, she never tried to give him the comfort of faith as she would have with any of her followers. She never mentioned Cenzi, not until he spoke, wiping away the tears with the sleeve of his bashta.. ..
“I envy you,” he said.
They were sitting by the fire she’d started in the hearth. Tea simmered in a pot. The wood was damp; it hissed and sputtered and cracked under the assault of the flames, sending fountains of orange-red ash spiraling up the chimney.
She raised a single eyebrow toward him.
“You believe that Cenzi takes the souls of those who die,” he told her. “You believe that they continue to exist within Him, and that it’s possible you may one day meet them again. I…” Tears threatened him again and he forced them down. “I don’t have that hope.”
“Having faith doesn’t take away the pain,” she told him. “Or very little of it. Nothing can ease the grief and loss we all feel: not faith, not the Ilmodo. Time, perhaps, might manage it, and that only blunts the sorrow.” Folding the sleeve of her robe around her hand, she took the teapot from the crane and poured the brew into their cups. She handed him the jar of honey. “I still remember my matarh. Sometimes it all comes back to me, everything I felt when she died, as if it had just happened yesterday.” Her fingers brushed his cheek; he could feel their softness drag against stubble. “That will happen for you, too, I’m afraid.”
“Then what good is your faith, Ana?”
She smiled, as if she’d been expecting his question. “Faith isn’t a commodity,” she told him. “You don’t buy it because it will do this or that for you. You have belief or you don’t, and belief gives you what it gives you. You don’t have faith, my love-Cenzi knows I’d give it to you if I could. I’ve certainly talked about it enough with you over the years. You Numetodo… you try to wrap the world in reason and logic, and so faith just crumples into dust whenever you touch it because you try to impose rationality on it. You’ll do that with Kaitlin, too-you’ll try to find reasons and logic in her death.” She touched him again. “There’s no reason that she died, Karl. There’s no logic to it. It just happened, and it had nothing to do with you or with your feelings for her or what happened between the two of you.”
“Not even Cenzi’s will?”
She lifted her chin. She smiled at him sadly, the firelight warm and yellow on her face. “Not even that. It’s a rare person who Cenzi cares about enough to change the Fate-Moitidi’s dice roll for them. It was your Kaitlin’s time. That’s all. It’s not your fault, Karl. It’s not.”
That had been nine years ago. He’d traveled back to Paeti to see Kaitlin’s grave and to be with his sons. He’d even brought Nilles and Colin back to Nessantico with him when he’d returned the next year. Nilles had stayed two years with him, Colin four, until they’d reached their majority at sixteen. Both had eventually left the city to return to the Isle. Nilles had already given him a great-daughter-three years old now-that he’d yet to see.
He’d stayed here because his work was in the Holdings, he tol
d anyone who asked. But truthfully, it was because this was where Ana was. There were those who knew that, but they weren’t many and most pretended not to see.
Varina’s hand tightened again on his shoulder and dropped away.
Karl stared at Ana’s wrapped-and-shrouded body on the stone altar and the phalanx of six fire-teni gathered in a circle around it. The corpse was layered in green silk wound with golden metallic thread. The threads glinted in the multicolored light from the stained glass in the temple’s windows; censers fumed around the altar, wreathing sunbeams in fragrant smoke. He could not believe it was Ana bundled and displayed there. He would not believe it. It was someone else. The memory he had of the light, of the concussive roar, of her body torn apart, the blood, the dark dust… It was false. It had to be false. Even the thought was too painful to endure.
Kaitlin’s death, that of his parents, all the others that had passed over the decades: none of them hurt like this. None.
Someone had killed the one person he loved most in the world, had struck down a woman who had struggled more than anyone since Kraljica Marguerite to keep peace within the Holdings, who believed in reconciliation before confrontation, who might have potentially reunited the broken halves of both the Holdings and the Concenzia Faith. There would be no comfort for Karl until he knew who had done this, and until that person was dead. If there was an afterlife as Ana had believed, then Karl would let the murderer’s soul be condemned to care for Ana for eternity. If there were gods, if Cenzi truly existed, if there were justice after death, then that’s what must happen.
He would have faith in that: a grim, dark, and uncompromising faith.
Archigos Kenne patted his hand and whispered more words he couldn’t hear. The Regent Sergei’s shoulder pressed against his to the left. Kraljiki Audric wheezed on the other side of the Regent, his labored breath louder than the chanting of the teni. He heard Varina weeping softly in the pew behind him.
The fire-teni stirred around the green-wrapped body. Their hands moved in the dance of the Ilmodo, their voices lifted in a unison chant that fought against the choir’s ethereal voices. They spread their hands wide as if in benediction, and the fierce blaze of Ilmodo-fire erupted around Ana’s body. The heat of the magical flames washed over them, savage and relentless. There were no sparks, no pyre feeding them: while the Kralji and the ca’-and-cu’ burned in flames fed by wood and oil, the teni burned their own with the Ilmodo-quickly and furiously. The Ilmodo-fire consumed the body in the space of a few breaths, the metallic-green fabric turning black instantly, the heat shimmer so intense that Ana’s body seemed to shake within it. As Karl watched, as his body instinctively leaned back against the fierce assault of the heat, Ana was taken.
The flames died abruptly as the choir ended their song. Cold air rushed back around them, a wind that tousled hair and fluttered cloth. On the altar now, there was nothing but gray ash and a few fragments of bone.
The mortal cage of Ana was gone.
“She is back in Cenzi’s hands now,” Archigos Kenne said to Karl. “He will give her solace.”
And I will give her better than solace. He nodded silently to the Archigos. I will give her revenge.
Allesandra ca’Vorl
“ It was not a sign.”
Fynn slammed his fisted hand hard on the arm of his chair. The servants standing ready along the wall to serve dinner shivered at the sound. The long scar down the right side of his face burned white against his flushed face. “I don’t care what they’re saying. What happened was a terrible accident. Nothing more. It was not a sign.”
“Of course you’re right, Brother,” Allesandra told him soothingly. She paused-a single breath-and gestured to the Magyarian servants: they were taking supper in Allesandra’s rooms within the palais. The servants moved forward, ladling soup into the bowls and pouring wine. Fynn sat at the table’s head; Allesandra at the foot. Archigos Semini and his wife were to Fynn’s right; her son Jan to the left.
Allesandra had heard some of the rumors herself. Hirzg Jan is upset that Fynn has taken the crown, not his daughter… The Hirzg’s soul cannot rest… I heard from one of the servants in the palais that his ghost still walks the halls at night, moaning and crying out as if angry… There were dozens of the tales surging through Brezno, twisted depending on the agenda of those who spoke them, and growing larger and more outrageous each time they were told. Cenzi sends a warning to the Hirzg that the Holdings and the Faith must become one again… The souls of all those the Hirzg killed-the Numetodo, the Nessanticans, the Tennshah-pursue him and will not allow him to rest… They say that when the sealing stone fell, those in the chamber heard the old Hirzg’s voice call out with a curse on Firenzcia…
The soup had been served and the silence had stretched too long. Allesandra could hear the breathing of the servants and the distant, muffled clatter of the cook and the kitchen help a floor below them. “I understand that the other lancer has died also,” Allesandra commented when it was apparent that no one else was willing to start a conversation.
Fynn glared at her down the length of the table “That was Cenzi’s Blessing,” he said. “The man would never have walked again. The healer said his spine was broken; if I were him, I’d rather die than live the rest of my life as a useless cripple.”
“I’m sure he felt the same as you, Brother.” She kept her voice carefully neutral. “And I’m sure that the Archigos did what he could to ease his passing.” Another pause. “As far as the Divolonte would allow, of course,” she added.
Francesca let her spoon clatter back to the table at that. “You may have been soiled by the beliefs of the false Archigos during your years with her, A’Hirzg,” she declaimed coldly, “but I assure you that my husband has not. He would never -”
“Francesca!” Semini’s rebuke caused Francesca to snap her mouth closed, like a carp gulping on a riverbank. He glared at her, then clasped hands to forehead as he turned to Allesandra. His gaze held hers. Allesandra had always thought that the Archigos had exquisite eyes: powerful and engaging. She had also noticed that when she was in the room, Semini often paid close attention to her. That had never bothered her; she enjoyed his attentions. She’d thought, back when her vatarh had finally ransomed her, that he might have married her to Semini, had he not already been tied to Francesca. That would have been a powerful marriage, allying both the political and religious powers within the state, and Semini might have been someone she could have come to love, as well. Even now… She closed off that thought, quickly. She had taken lovers during her marriage, yes-as she had known Pauli had also done-but always carefully. Always discreetly. An affair with the Archigos… that would be difficult to conceal.
“I apologize, A’Hirzg,” Semini said. “Sometimes my wife’s, ahh, devotion to the Faith causes her to speak too harshly. I did give the poor lancer what comfort I could, at the Hirzg’s request.” He addressed Fynn then. “My Hirzg, you shouldn’t be concerned with the gossip of the rabble. In fact, I will make it clear in my next Admonition that those who believe that there are portents in this horrible incident are mistaken, and that these wild rumors are simply lies. I’ve already had people begin to make inquiries as to who is spreading all the vile gossip-I would say that if the Garde Hirzg takes a few of them into custody, especially a few of those of lower rank, and, ahh, convinces them to recant publicly before they’re executed for treason, that would certainly act as a lesson to the others. I think we’d find that all the talk about what happened at your vatarh’s burial would vanish as quickly as snow in Daritria.”
Francesca was nodding at her husband’s words. “We should treat these people no better than we would the Numetodo,” she agreed. “Just as the Numetodo are traitors to the Faith, these rumormongers are traitors to our Hirzg. A few bodies swaying in gibbets will adequately shut the mouth of the populace.” She glanced at Allesandra. “Wouldn’t you agree, A’Hirzg?” she asked, her voice far too gentle and far too eager. The woman actually leaned for
ward at the table, emphasizing her humped back.
“I think it’s dangerous to equate rumormongering with heresy, Vajica ca’Cellibrecca,” she began carefully, but Jan interrupted her.
“If you punish people for gossiping, you’ll convince them instead that the rumors are true,” her son said, the first words he’d spoken since they’d sat at the table, then shrugged as the others looked at him. “Well, that’s the truth,” he insisted. “If you give them the sermon you suggest, Archigos, you’ll just be drawing more attention to what happened, which will make people believe the rumors even more. It’s better to say and do nothing at all; all this talk will fade away on its own when nothing else happens. Every time one of us repeats the gossip, even to deny or refute it, we make it seem more real and more important than it is.”
She followed Jan’s gaze from Semini to the others at the table. Semini was glowering, his eyebrows lowered like thunderclouds over those captivating eyes; Francesca’s mouth gaped open as if she were too stunned for words at the boy’s impertinence; she gave a cough of derision and waved a hand like a claw in Jan’s direction, as if warding off a beggar’s curse. Fynn was staring down at the tablecloth in front of him. “It’s better to say and do nothing,” Jan repeated into the silence, his voice thinner and more uncertain now, “or what happened will become a sign. You’ll all have turned it into one.”
Allesandra touched his arm: it was what she would have said, if less diplomatically spoken. “Well said,” she whispered to him. He might have smiled momentarily; it was difficult to tell.