by S L Farrell
He remembered that sand, strewn in circles on the ground. The thunder, the flash, the pain . . .
Each night, close together in the tent, Niente would sit erect and chant for a few turns of the glass at least, his eyes closed, while Enéas lay near him. Sometimes he would sprinkle one of the ingredients from the casks on the ground between them while he chanted. Enéas could feel the power of the Ilmodo in the air, causing the hair on his neck to rise and prickling his skin, and he prayed to Cénzi while Niente cast his spells, trying to offset with his prayers the heretical use of the Ilmodo. All around them there would be silence: none of the other nahualli were chanting as Niente did, and Enéas wondered at that. He also wondered at how—afterward—he seemed to feel a warmth inside himself, as if the sun’s radiance were filling his own lungs. Whatever spell Niente was casting, Enéas seemed to be affected by it.
He wondered if Niente felt the same warmth and energy, but the nahualli always seemed more exhausted than exhilarated by his efforts, and the man moaned as he slept, as if he were in pain and when he awoke in the morning, there were new lines on his face, like an old apple.
On the third night, after the chanting, rather than falling asleep as he usually did, Niente placed a small bronze bowl near the opening to the tent so that the light of the campfire fell on it. The bowl was decorated around the rim with a frieze of stylized people and animals, many of which Enéas didn’t recognize. As Enéas watched, Niente poured water into the bowl, then sifted a small amount of finely-ground, ruddy powder into his hand from a leather pouch. Niente dusted the surface of the water with the powder, chanting as he did so. The water began to glow, an unnatural, blue-green illumination that made the nahualli’s face appear spectral and dead. The man stared into the bowl, silent, the eerie light playing over his face, shifting and merging. Curiosity made Enéas slide forward to see better. Pushing himself up, he glanced over Niente’s shoulder.
Inside the bowl, in the water, was a cityscape. He recognized it immediately: Nessantico. He could see the Pontica a’Brezi Veste and the vista of the Avi a’Parete leading down to the pillared, marble public entrance to the Kralj’s Palais. He could see the Old Temple, but cu’Brunelli’s magnificent new dome looked as if it had fallen in completely; there was nothing but a blackened hole there where it was to have been placed. People seemed to be walking the streets, but they were few, most with their heads down and hurrying as if afraid to be seen. The streets were trash-filled and dirty, and the palais had a visible crack on its southern wall and the northern wing was a ruin. Across the street, what had been a glorious residence was now a blackened hulk. A pall of smoke seemed to lay over the city. Enéas leaned closer to see better into the water . . .
. . . and Niente’s fingers stirred the water and the vision dissolved, the light going dark. Enéas was staring down only at water, the brass bottom of the bowl flecked with the granules of powder.
“What was that?” Enéas asked Niente, sitting back. The man shrugged.
“Heresy, to you,” he said. “The magic of the wrong god.”
“I saw . . . I thought I saw . . . Nessantico.”
“Perhaps you did,” Niente answered. “Axat grants the visions She wishes.”
“Visions of what?” He remembered the smoke, the fissure in the palais wall, the hurrying, frightened people . . .
Niente didn’t answer Enéas. He cast the water in the bowl outside the tent and wiped the bowl with the hem of his clothes. He placed it in his pack, next to the cotton padding that served as his bed. “How do you feel, Enéas?” he asked.
“I feel fine,” he answered.
“It’s time you returned to your own people.”
“What?” Enéas shook his head, unbelieving. “You said—”
“I said that the soldiers would kill you if you try to escape. And they would. But . . . there will be no moon tonight. Axat hides Her face, and rain is coming. There will be a horse outside our tent when the storm reaches us. When you hear it, go outside to the horse. Ride hard; no one will pursue you until morning. If you’re lucky, if Axat smiles on you, you will come to Munereo a few days before we do.”
“You’re letting me go? You’d let me warn my people and tell them to be ready for your army?”
Niente smiled. “The army of Tehuantin has nothing to fear from your people. Not here in our own country. Go,” he said. “Axat doesn’t intend for you to die here. You’ve been prepared for another fate—a far better one. You will go to your leader. You will talk to him, and you will give him a message for us.”
“Prepared? By whom—your Axat? I don’t believe in Her,” Enéas told him. “She’s not my god, and She doesn’t control my fate, and I am not a messenger boy for you.”
“Ah.” Niente lay down on his bedding and pulled a blanket over him against the night cold. “Well, then stay here if that’s what you wish. It is your choice.”
“What is this message?” Enéas asked the man.
“You’ll know it when the time comes.”
Niente said nothing more. After a time, Enéas heard the man snoring. He lay there, wondering. He could still feel the residual tingling of Niente’s earlier chant, as if his fingertips and toes had fallen asleep. Prickles crawled his limbs, almost painful but energizing at the same time. The sensation kept him awake for what seemed turns of the glass: while Niente slept, as the sounds of the encampment slowly subsided until he could hear sleeping men all around him and the soft patter of rain began to drum against the fabric of the tent, accompanied by flashes of lightning and the occasional grumbles of thunder.
Close by, a horse nickered.
Enéas slid from under his blanket and crawled to the tent’s opening. Outside, the rain had become steady, pooling in black puddles dancing with spray. A few strides away, a horse stood with its head down, pulling at tufts of wet grass. The creature was bridled and saddled, but the reins hung down as if the animal had pulled away from where it had been placed. A lightning flash illuminated the encampment, freezing for a moment the falling streaks of rain, and thunder snarled close by. The horse stamped nervously at the light and sound, and Enéas thought it might bolt.
It was the duty of the soldier to escape if possible.
It’s time you returned to your own people. You will go to your leader. You will talk to him, and you will give him a message for us.
Enéas glanced around; in the midst of the storm, it was difficult to see, but there seemed to be no one awake. The camp guards had retreated into their tents against the storm. He gathered himself, then stood up outside the tent. The rain slicked his hair and soaked his clothing as he stepped toward the horse, his hand out as he clucked encouragingly to the animal, murmuring soft words. The horse lifted its head but otherwise remained still, looking at him. He took the reins and patted the soaked, muscular neck. “It’s time,” he told the horse.
A few breaths later, he was astride and galloping away.
Jan ca’Vörl
WHEN HE ENTERED to take breakfast with his matarh, she was standing at the window to the room with the shutters open, and he thought he saw sunlight glinting on her eyes as if, perhaps, she’d been crying recently. If so, he could make a guess as to why. “Vatarh shouldn’t treat you as he does,” he said. “Especially with something this important. I’ve told him how I feel, too.”
She turned to him, taking his hands. The corners of her lips lifted in a smile. “It doesn’t matter, Jan. Not anymore. I’m past him being able to hurt me.” He felt her fingers tighten against his. “Besides, he’s given me all I really want.”
She pulled him toward her and kissed his forehead. “Hungry?” she asked. “I had the kitchen make sweet cheese rétes. I know how much you like them.” She led him to the table, laden with juice and milk, with eggs and bacon, sliced bread and butter, and a plate of delicate pastry strudels oozing white, creamy cheese. “Sit across from me,” she said, “so we can talk.” She handed him the plate of rétes, smiling as he took one.
&nbs
p; “You look tired, Matarh.”
“Do I?” She put a hand to her face. “I’ll have to get my handmaid to take care of that. This will be a long day.”
Jan took a bite of the strudel, enjoying the honeyed tartness of the cheese and the delicate hint of sweetnuts in the pastry dough. He could feel his matarh’s gaze on him, watching. “Does it bother you?” he asked impulsively. “Onczio Fynn being Hïrzg, I mean?”
“I’ve thought about it enough,” she answered. Her hand came up to touch her cheek again. “I’ll confess that I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about that . . .” She hesitated, looking down at the tablecloth. “. . . and other things.”
He was afraid that was all she was going to say. “And . . . ?”
She smiled. “I’ve decided that I don’t wish to be Hïrzgin. I think Cénzi has other plans for me.”
He searched her face, looking for a lie there. He couldn’t imagine being able to say that himself if he’d been in her position, if his birth-right had been stolen from him that way. Yet he saw nothing in her expression to gainsay what she’d said. “That’s good,” he said.
The trace of a smile touched her lips. “Why is that good?”
“Because I like Onczio Fynn,” he said.
Frost in summer, the smile dissolved. “Jan, one of the traits I love about you is that you’re willing to trust the people you care about. I don’t want you to lose that. But you need to be careful with Fynn.”
“You really don’t know him yourself, Matarh. You’ve said that.”
“I have. And I don’t. But neither do you, not after a few days with him. He has a vile temper. He may be generous to those he feels are his allies, but if he suspects you’re against him . . .”
“I think you’re overstating things,” he interrupted. “He’s been nothing but kind to me, and he doesn’t think you’re on his side. Be fair, Matarh.”
“I am,” she answered. “More than you know. What would you say if I said he’d threatened you?”
“I wouldn’t believe it,” Jan answered reflexively, then realized that he might be calling his matarh a liar. “Unless you’ve heard that yourself, from Fynn’s own lips.” He cocked his head at her. “Have you, Matarh?”
She was already shaking her head. “No,” she answered. “I haven’t. Still—promise me you’ll be careful with him.”
“Of course I will,” he told her, and was rewarded with the return of her smile.
“Good,” she said. “Now will you pass me that plate of rétes? I’ve been dying to try them . . .”
Sergei ca’Rudka
THE NEWS WAS not good.
The communiqué—the latest report on the continuing battles in the Hellins—had come by fast-ship from Munereo, over the Strettosei to the great island of Karnmor, over the Nostrosei that lay between Karnmor and the mainland to the city of Fossano, then by rider along the A’Sele to Villembouchure, and from there to Nessantico. With favorable winds and riders who didn’t care about how hard they rode their horses, the paper had been two weeks in arriving. The casualty figures alone made Sergei shake his head dolefully. He handed the paper to Archigos Kenne; the older man peered at it myopically, holding it so close to his face that Sergei couldn’t see his expression.
“You’ll note, Archigos, that we now control nothing of the Hellins beyond the area immediately around Munereo, with an arm along the sea extending northward toward Tobarro,” Sergei said impatiently as Kenne labored over Commandant ca’Sibelli’s tiny, cramped handwriting. “Sending out A’Offizier ca’Matin and his battalion to confront the Westlander army was a mistake, in my estimation, but it’s one that’s already been made and paid for by now, I suspect. I hope ca’Matin is still alive; he’s one of the few good offiziers we have there. I think it would have been better had ca’Sibelli pulled back into defensive positions against this latest offensive, rather than trying to push the Westlanders back, but ca’Sibelli was never one for defense. We’ve already lost the Lake Malik area. I suspect we’re going to lose Munereo next.”
“You showed this to Audric? You told him what you just told me?” Kenne’s eyes appeared over the edge of the thick yellow paper, then vanished again. Sergei could hear the man muttering aloud to himself as he read.
“I did. He said: ‘Commandant Ca’Sibelli is doing exactly what I would have him do. It’s as I said—he needs more troops.’ ” Sergei paused. He glanced around the Archigos’ office. There was no one else there, but he lowered his voice anyway; one never knew who might be listening at doors. “We argued; I thought he might die in front of me, he was coughing and breathing so badly. He kept looking past me to Kraljica Marguerite’s portrait, and he was saying . . .” Sergei hesitated again, not certain how much he wanted to share with Kenne. “. . . disturbing things. He insists on calling the Council of Ca’ together and demanding that he be given autonomy as Kraljiki. He wants my title stripped from me; he wants no Regent in Nessantico.”
It sounded so emotionless, stated so flatly. Sergei had seen what Kenne could not: the way the shouting distorted Audric’s features, the red flush that crept up from the boy’s neck to cover his cheeks, the flecks of saliva flying from his mouth, the eyes wide and haunted.
“I am Kraljiki!” Audric shouted at Sergei, his arms flailing. “You will do as I tell you to do, Regent, or I will have you thrown into the Bastida!” The last words had been screams, each one shouted in its own breath. Audric’s hysterics caused the hall gardai as well Audric’s domestiques de chambre, Marlon and Seaton, to open the bedchamber’s doors to peer in. Sergei waved them all away, and the doors closed again. Audric’s gaze went past Sergei and up, and Sergei glanced over his shoulder. The room was fiery, far too hot for Sergei’s comfort, the flames in the great fireplace illuminating the portrait of Marguerite above the mantel. Audric was staring at her, his lips moving wordlessly.
“This report, Audric, is conclusive evidence that—”
“You will address me with the proper respect, Regent, or I will have you flogged in the palais square.”
Sergei allowed himself a breath, forcing down the retort that threatened to spill out. “Kraljiki, this report shows that the Hellins may well be lost already. Ca’Matin is the best offizier we have there—frankly, I trust his judgment more than Commandant ca’Sibelli’s. If he has failed to stop the Westlanders—”
“Then the wrath of Nessantico will fall fully upon them,” Audric shrieked, then fell back in a fit of coughing . . .
The rest of the conversation had gone no better.
“It may not be genuine madness, Sergei. Perhaps his illness, or a fever . . .” Kenne began.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sergei interrupted. “Illness or simple lunacy; there’s no difference if he can’t be cured. Kenne, I intend to go to the Council of Ca’ myself, and request that they declare Audric incompetent.”
Kenne laid the paper down at that. Sergei could see the trembling in the man’s fingers, could hear it in the rustling the paper made. He pursed his lips as if tasting something sour. “Some of them will think that you’re attempting to grab power yourself, Sergei, that this is nothing more than you trying to place yourself on the Sun Throne. It’s what Audric will tell them, I suspect. It’s certainly what I’d tell them in his place. I can see Sigourney believing the same.”
“Is that what you think, Kenne? Surely you know me better than that.” Sergei scoffed, shaking his head and pacing in front of the Archigos. I don’t want to be Kraljiki. What I want is worse than you or any of them think, and if you knew, you’d all refuse to help me. . . .
“No, Sergei. Not in the least,” Kenne said hurriedly. Too fast, entirely. The man would not look at him, telling Sergei that there was doubt in Kenne’s mind also. That was bad; if Kenne wondered at Sergei’s intentions, then the Council of Ca’ would have no trouble at all imagining the worst. “This is just all . . . so distressing,” the Archigos continued. “I don’t know what to think. To declare a Kraljiki incompetent . . .” He sho
ok his head, his fingers tapping the report. “He’s still just a boy, after all. A young man. Young men often say things that perhaps they shouldn’t, or become more excited than they should, and when that boy is not only ca’ but has been the A’Kralj and is now Kraljiki, well . . .”