by S L Farrell
The innkeeper looked up to the sky where stars twinkled and crowded in empty blackness. “Lightning striking without a storm,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a portent, I tell you. The Moitidi are telling us that we’ve lost our way.”
A portent. Enéas found himself smiling at the man’s words, unaware of how prophetic they were. This was indeed a portent, a portent of Cénzi’s desire for him.
The next day, he was in Vouziers. During the long ride, he’d prayed harder than he ever had, and Cénzi had answered him. He knew what he must do here, and though it bothered him, he was a soldier and soldiers always performed their duty, however onerous it might be.
On reaching Vouziers and obtaining lodgings for the night, he put on his uniform and slung a heavy leather pouch around his shoulder. He’d filled a long leather sack with pebbles; that he put into the inner pocket of his bashta. As the wind-horns blew Third Call, he entered the temple for the evening service, which was performed by the A’Téni of Vouziers herself. After the Admonition and the Blessing, Enéas followed the procession of téni from the temple and out onto the temple’s plaza, alight with téni-lamps against the darkening sky. The a’téni was in conversation with the ca’-and-cu’ of the city, and Enéas went instead to one of her o’téni assistants, a sallow man whose mouth seemed to struggle with the smile he gave Enéas.
“Good evening, O’Offizier,” the téni said, giving Enéas the sign of Cénzi. “I’m sorry, should I know you?”
Enéas shook his head as he returned the gesture. “No, O’Téni. I’m passing through town on my way to Nessantico. I’ve just returned from the Hellins and the war there.”
The o’téni’s eyes widened slightly, and his thick lips pursed. “Ah. Then I must bless you for your service to the Holdings. How goes the war against the heathen Westlanders?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” Enéas answered. He glanced around the temple square. “I wish I could tell you differently. And here . . .” He shook his head dolefully, watching the o’téni carefully. “I’ve been nearly fifteen years away, and I come back to find much changed. Numetodo walking the street openly, mocking Cénzi with their words and their spells . . .” Yes, he had judged the man correctly: the téni’s eyes narrowed and the lips pressed together even more tightly. He leaned forward conspiratorially and half-whispered to Enéas.
“It’s indeed a shame that you, who have served your Kraljiki so well, should come back to see that. My a’téni would disagree, but I blame Archigos Ana for this state—and look what it got her: the thrice-damned Numetodo killed her anyway. Archigos Kenne . . .” The o’téni made a gesture of disgust. “Phah! He’s no better. Worse, in fact. Why, in Nessantico you see people flaunting the Divolonté openly these days: the Numetodo tell them that anyone can use the Ilmodo, that it doesn’t require Cénzi’s Gift, and they show them how to do their small spells: to light a fire, or to chill the wine. They won’t use the spells openly, but in their homes, when they think Cénzi isn’t watching . . .” The o’téni shook his head again.
“The Numetodo are a blight,” Enéas said. “Old Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca had the right idea about them.”
The o’téni looked about guiltily at the mention. “That’s not a name one should bandy about openly, O’Offizier,” he said. “Not with his marriage-son claiming to be Archigos in Brezno.”
Enéas gave the sign of Cénzi again. “I apologize, O’Téni. That’s another sore point for a soldier like me, I’m afraid. The Holdings should be one again, and so should the Faith. It pains me to see them broken, as it pains me to see the Numetodo being so brazen.”
“I understand,” the o’téni said. “Why, here in Vouziers, the Numetodo have their own building.” He pointed down one of the streets leading off the plaza. “Right down there, within sight of this very temple, with their sign emblazoned on the front. It’s a disgrace, and one that Cénzi won’t long allow.”
“On that point, you’re right, O’Téni,” Enéas answered. “That’s exactly what Cénzi tells me.” With that, the o’téni glanced at Enéas strangely, but Enéas gave him no chance to say anything else, bowing to him and moving off quickly across the plaza toward the street that the man had indicated. He whistled a tune as he walked, a Darkmavis song that his matarh had sung to him, long ago, back when the world still made sense to him and Kraljica Marguerite was still on the Sun Throne.
He found the Numetodo building easily enough—the carving over the lintel of the main door was a seashell, the sign of the Numetodo. There was an inn across the lane from the building, and he went into the tavern and ordered wine and a meal, sitting at one of the outside tables. He sipped the wine and ate slowly, watching the place of the Numetodo as the sky went fully dark above him between the buildings.
Three times, he saw someone enter; twice, someone left, but neither time did Cénzi speak to him, so he continued to wait, eating and occasionally touching the leather pouch on the ground alongside him for reassurance. It was nearly two turns of the glass later, with the streets having gone nearly empty before refilling again with those who preferred the anonymity of night, that he saw a man leave the Numetodo building, and Cénzi stirred within him.
That one . . . Enéas felt the call strongly, and he shouldered his pack, left a silver siqil on the table for his meal and wine, and hurried after the man. His quarry was an older man: bald on the top with a fringe of white hair all around. He was wearing tunic and pants, not a bashta, and was bareheaded—it would be difficult to lose him even in a crowd.
It was quickly apparent why Cénzi had chosen this one; he walked down the street toward the temple plaza. The téni-lights were beginning to fade, and there were few people in the plaza, though the temple domes themselves were still brilliantly lit, golden against the star-pricked sky. Enéas glanced quickly around for an utilino and saw none. He hurried forward, and the Numetodo, hearing his footsteps, turned. Enéas saw the spell-word on the man’s lips, his hands coming up as if about to make a gesture, and Enéas smiled broadly, waving at the man as if hailing a long-lost friend.
The man squinted, as if uncertain of the face before him. His hand dropped, his lips spread in a tentative returning smile. “Do I know—?”
That was as far he got. Enéas pulled the leather sack of pebbles from his pocket and, in the same fluid motion, struck the man hard in the side of his head with it. The Numetodo crumpled, unconscious, and Enéas caught the man in his arm as he sagged. He draped a limp arm over his shoulder and pulled up on the man’s belt. He laughed as if drunken, singing off-key as he dragged the man in the direction of the temple’s side door. Someone seeing them from a distance would think they were two inebriated friends staggering across the plaza. Enéas cast a last look over his shoulder as he reached the doors; no one seemed to be watching. He pulled on the heavy, bronze-plated door, adorned with images of the Moitidi and their struggle with Cénzi: that much hadn’t changed—the temple doors were rarely locked, open to those who might wish to come in and pray, or to the indigent who might need a place to sleep during the night at the price of an Admonition by the téni who found them in the morning. Enéas slipped into the cool darkness of the temple. It was empty, and the sound of his breathing and his boot steps were loud as he dragged the Numetodo’s dead weight up the main aisle, finally dropping him against the lectern at the front of the quire. He unslung the pack from his shoulder and put it on the Numetodo’s lap, uncoiling the long cotton string from the top. He fed it out carefully as he backed down the aisle.
I will show you your own small Gift, Cénzi had told him only this afternoon. I will show you how to make your own fire. The chant and the gestures had come to him then, and though Enéas knew it was against the Divolonté for someone not of the téni to use the Ilmodo, he knew that this was Cénzi’s wish and he would not be punished for it. He spoke the chant now near the temple entrance, and he felt the cold of the Ilmodo flowing in his veins and the Second World opening to his mind: between his moving hands there was an
impossible heat and light, and he let it fall to the end of the cord and the fuse began to sputter and fume.
“Hey! Who’s there! What’s this!”
He saw a téni come from one of the archways leading off from the quire—the o’téni he’d spoken to earlier—and Enéas ducked down quickly, though the spell left him strangely tired, as if he’d been working hard all day. He heard the téni give a call and other footsteps echoed. “Who’s this? What’s going on?” someone said, as the fire on the fuse traveled quickly away from Enéas toward the lectern. When it was nearly there, Enéas rose to his feet and ran toward the door. He caught a glimpse of the o’téni and few e’téni, walking quickly toward the slumped, unmoving Numetodo, and someone pointed to Enéas . . .
. . . but it was already too late.
A dragon roared and belched fire, and the concussion picked Enéas up and threw him against the bronze doors. Half conscious, he fell to the stone flags as bits of rock and marble pelted him. When the hard, quick rain passed, he lifted his head. There was something red on the floor in front of him: the Numetodo’s leg, he realized with a start, still clad in his loose pants. Near the front of the temple, someone was screaming, a long wail interspersed with curses. Groaning, Enéas tried to sit up. He was bleeding from cuts and scrapes and his body was bruised from his collision with the bronze doors, but otherwise Cénzi had spared him. The doors of the temple were flung open in front of him, and an utilino rushed in and past Enéas, blowing hard on his whistle. Téni were rushing in from the alcoves. The high lectern had toppled, laying broken in the aisle, and there was blood and parts of bodies everywhere. The Numetodo . . . he could see the man’s head and the top of his torso, torn from his body and tossed into the aisle. The rest of him, where the bag of black sand had lain . . . Enéas couldn’t see the rest.
For a moment he felt nausea: this was too much like the war, and the memories of what he’d seen in the Hellins threatened to overwhelm him. Acid filled his throat, his stomach heaved, but Cénzi’s voice was in his head, too.
This is what they deserve, those who defy Me. You, Enéas, you are my Moitidi of Death, my chosen Weapon.
But I don’t want this, he wanted to say, but even as he thought the words, he felt the anger of Cénzi rising up, a heat in his brain that made his head pound, and he went to his knees, clutching his skull between his hands.
Everything was confusion. People were pushing past him. He could still hear the wounded téni screaming. “. . . Numetodo . . . I recognize him . . .” Enéas heard the word amidst the chaos, and he smiled. As more people entered from the plaza, shouting and calling, he took the opportunity to slink to the side and into the shadows.
He went out into the night, feeling Cénzi’s presence warming him.
You are fit for the task I have set for you. Now—go to Nessantico, and I will speak to you there . . .
Audric ca’Dakwi
THE COUNCIL OF CA’ FOR NESSANTICO met on the first floor of the Grande Palais on the Isle a’Kralji, where they had several suites of rooms and a small staff of palais servants dedicated entirely to their needs. The Council of Ca’, for most of the great Kraljica Marguerite’s reign, as well as that of her son Kraljiki Justi, had been largely a social organization, coming to the palais to sign the papers passed to them by the Kralji and the royal staff—a task they performed with little thought or discussion, otherwise spending their time relaxing in their sumptuous private offices or socializing in the well-appointed dining room and lounges of the Council’s section of the Kralji’s Palais. For many decades, being a “councillor” was mostly an honorary position, their duties ceremonial and hardly taxing, and their stipend for serving on the Council generous.
But with Kraljiki Justi’s passing, with Audric being in his minority when he ascended to the Sun Throne, the Council had been required to assume a more active role in government. It was the Council of Ca’ who had named Sergei ca’Rudka as Regent; it was the Council who now created and passed new legislation (until very recently, with the Regent’s input as well), it was the Council who controlled the purse strings of Nessantico, it was the Council with whom the Regent was required to consult on any matter of policy within the Holdings, or any diplomatic decisions regarding the Coalition, the Hellins, or the other countries within the Holdings.
The Council had been required to wake from its comfortable, long slumber, and to a large extent it had. The last election for the Council, four years ago, had been aggressive and harsh; four of the seven members had been deposed, replaced by far more ambitious ca’.
Audric knew the history of the Council; Sergei had yammered on about it interminably, and Maister ci’Blaylock had spoken of the same in his lectures. Now his great-matarh gave him the same warnings.
“You need to be careful, Audric. Remember that each of the councillors wants to be where you are. They want the ring and the staff; they want to sit on the Sun Throne. They are jealous of you, and you must convince them that in giving you what you want, they will find themselves closer to their own goals.”
Great-Matarh Marguerite was staring at him as he walked down the corridor to the Hall of the Sun Throne, where the Council awaited him. The wheels of the easel on which her painting rested were quiet today; he’d insisted that Marlon grease them with duck fat before the meeting. The servants pushed the easel down the inner corridor of the palais in front of Audric, careful to match his erratic, slow pace, while Marlon and Seaton supported him at either side. He’d had a bad day; it was a misty and cool day, and he allowed himself to cough even as he heard his great-mam’s voice comforting him.
“You can allow it, this once,” she told him. “This once, your weakness will be our strength. But after this, you must be stronger. You will be stronger.”
“I will, Great-Matarh,” he said. “I will be strong after today, and the sickness will leave me.” From the periphery of his vision, he saw Marlon look at him strangely, though the man said nothing.
Seaton gestured to the hall servants, who opened the door to the hall and bowed as Audric and his great-matarh entered. Inside, the Council members rose from their seats before the Sun Throne and also bowed, though their bows were but the barest lowering of heads. Audric could see Sigourney ca’Ludovici’s eyes as she inclined her head, though her gaze seemed to be more on the painting of Marguerite than on him. He went to the Sun Throne, Marlon helping him up the set of three stairs to the platform on which it sat, and let himself drop into the cushioned seat. He coughed then—he could not stop the paroxysm—as light flared deep inside the crystal and surrounded him in a bath of yellow: as the Throne had done for long generations whenever a Kralji had sat there. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his silken bashta as the Council stood before him and Seaton wheeled the easel to the right side of the throne, so that Marguerite glared balefully out at the seven ca’.
“Look at them,” she said to Audric. “Look how hungrily they stare at the Sun Throne. They’re all wondering how they might come to sit where you are. Start by being firm with them, Audric. Show them that you are in charge of this meeting, not them. Then . . . then do as you must.”
“I will,” he told her. The ca’ were already starting to seat themselves, and he raised his voice, addressing them. “There’s no need to take your seats,” he told the ca’. “Our business here should take but a few grains of the glass.”
Caught in mid-movement, the ca’ straightened again with a rustling of bashta and tashta, and gazes in his direction that ranged from questioning to nearly angry. “Forgive me, Kraljiki,” Sigourney ca’Ludovici said, “but things may not be as straightforward as you think.”
“But they are, Vajica ca’Ludovici,” Audric told her. “The traitor ca’Rudka is in the Bastida; the Council has had the time you asked for to consult with each other and deliberate. Will you name another Regent, or will you allow me to rule as Kraljiki as I should? Those are the only two options before you, and you should have made a decision.” The long speech cost him,
as he knew it would. He bent over coughing even as his great-matarh laughed softly in his head, covering his mouth with a kerchief that was quickly stained with red blotches. He crumpled the linen in his hand, but not so much that they could not see the blood.
He opened his eyes to see ca’Ludovici staring at his hand. Her gaze lifted abruptly, and she smiled the smile of a cat spying a cornered mouse, glancing back once at the other Council members. “Perhaps you’re right, Kraljiki. After all, the day is damp and we shouldn’t keep you away from the comfort of your chambers.”
She took a breath, and Audric heard Marguerite whisper to him in that space. “Now. Tell her what she wants to hear.”
“I am stronger now than I have been in years,” Audric said, but he forced himself to cough again, to pause as if for breath between the words. It did not require much acting. “But I also am aware of my youth and inexperience, and I would look to the Council of Ca’ for their advice, and perhaps to you especially, Councillor ca’Ludovici, as my mentor.”
She bowed at that, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her face. “You are indeed wise past your years, Kraljiki, which means that it gives me pleasure to tell you that we have deliberated, all of us, and have come to agreement. Kraljiki Audric, despite your youth, the Council of Ca’ will not name a new Regent.”