by S L Farrell
She was never again going to let someone take advantage of her. She was never going to be weak. She was never going to let herself be vulnerable.
She had to kill a few of her “teachers,” when they became too dangerous or when they tried to become too close, when they began to pry or to guess her secrets. She had left her calling card with each of them, a white pebble over the left eye. The White Stone . . . She’d begun to hear the name, whispered in the streets. He always leaves a stone on the left eye . . .
They always assumed it was “he”; that was protection, too. She could walk anywhere and never be suspected.
And they never knew there were always two stones; that she took one from victim’s right eye to keep with her. To keep them with her.
That stone was in the small leather pouch tied around her neck, nestled between her breasts under her clothing. That was with her always.
She touched the pouch now as the crowds surged toward the dais, as the A’Hïrzg stood up covered in the blood of the assassin and the new Hïrzg raised his hands to the crowds and called out for them to be calm.
The White Stone smiled at that.
Death . . . Death was always calm.
INCLINATIONS
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Audric ca’Dakwi
Sergei ca’Rudka
Jan ca’Vörl
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Karl ca’Vliomani
Nico Morel
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Allesandra ca’Vörl
The White Stone
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“IT IS WITH MUCH PLEASURE and gratitude that I award you the Star of the Chevarittai. You may be young in years, Chevaritt Jan ca’Vörl, but I know of no one more deserving of the title.”
The applause welled out from those in attendance in the antechamber of the ballroom of Brezno Palais. Jan beamed as Fynn—wearing the golden band of the Hïrzg in his hair and the signet ring on his finger—pinned the gilded star on the red shoulder sash of his bashta, then handed him a gift that had belonged to Allesandra’s vatarh and Jan’s namesake: a sword of dark Firenzcian steel, hardened in fire and cold water and honed to a razor’s edge. Allesandra watched as Jan cupped his hand around the inlaid hilt of the weapon and placed it in the scabbard. Fynn tied the weapon to Jan’s belt, then clutched his nephew to him as the applause rose. Standing next to the two, Allesandra heard the words that Fynn whispered into Jan’s ear.
“That was a truly brave act, Nephew, though I was in no real danger. I would have certainly ducked out of the way of the fool’s spell.”
To Allesandra, the true fool was Fynn. His boasting was bad enough, and he’d ignored Allesandra’s part in having saved his life. It was as if she hadn’t been there at all, as if Jan had noticed the assassin all on his own.
She told herself that she didn’t care, that it simply met the low expectations she had of her brother, but the thought didn’t convince.
The door to the ballroom opened a moment later, and Fynn gestured. “Come, let us all enjoy this celebration,” he said to the ca’-and-cu’ and the gathered chevarittai. Fynn put his arm around Jan, and together they entered the ballroom as the musicians began to play and dozens of chanting e’téni lit the lamps of the room all at once. Pauli offered Allesandra his arm; she took it—duty and appearance—and they followed next. Behind them, Archigos Semini and Francesca entered.
Allesandra could feel Semini’s gaze on her back.
Following the assassination attempt, there had been a purge of anyone in Brezno suspected of being Numetodo. That, certainly, was also expected. There was another, somewhat less brutal purge within the staff of the new Hïrzg—confirming what Fynn had told Allesandra about how he would treat anyone who opposed him. Every servant, everyone below cu’ rank employed by the palais was questioned by the Commandant of the Garde Hïrzg. A half dozen staff members, suspected of Numetodo leanings, were taken to the Bastida to be interrogated more fully. The palais maister who had hired the would-be assassin was found guilty of negligence. His position was taken away, his family was humbled to ce’, and the maister himself lost his hands as punishment. The assassin’s family was rounded up; no one had seen them since they entered the Bastida. A Numetodo said to have aided the assassin was flayed, drawn, and quartered in Brezno Square, the executioner keeping him carefully alive as long as possible, his screams echoing among the buildings as the crowd watched and shouted insults and gibes toward the man. The assassin’s body, so unfortunately killed during the attack, was gibbeted and displayed in an iron cage swinging on a chain from Falwin’s sword. The gardai around the palais were doubled, with soldiers from the Garde Firenzcia brought in to supplement them. Rumors flitted through the city as quickly and numerous as sparrows.
Two ca’ had been killed in the attack by the errant spell; their funerals were elaborate and well-attended. Six more of the spectators on the dais had been burned and injured in the attack, four of them seriously; it was said that the coffers of the Hïrzg compensated them well enough to keep their families silent and satisfied.
Allesandra could still feel tension in the air, even during this celebration. The servants kept their heads judiciously down, and if anyone noticed the gardai lining the walls carefully watching the festivities or the remarkable number of téni in attendance, no one remarked on it. It was better to smile and stay silent.
Pauli danced with Allesandra once—the barest spousal requirement. As soon as the dance was over, he excused himself. She knew she would glimpse him only across the room henceforth, and soon she’d find him missing entirely to return to his own, separate, chambers in the visitor’s wing of the palais sometime early in the morning. Jan danced with her also, but his attentions were demanded by Fynn and by the crowds of sycophants around the Hïrzg. The young women, especially, seemed to find Jan’s presence quite pleasant. Allesandra decided that she would need to pay careful attention to Jan for the rest of the their stay in Brezno as she watched one of the young and unmarried ca’ women take her son’s arm and lead him onto the floor.
“You surprised me, A’Hïrzg.” Semini’s voice came from behind her. “I didn’t realize you had such deep love for your brother as to put yourself between him and an assassin, even if the Hïrzg seems to have conveniently forgotten that you did so.”
Allesandra glanced around them to be certain no one was within easy earshot, and then turned to the Archigos, leaning in toward him with a whisper. “And I was surprised that the Archigos would hire a Numetodo.”
His smile might have twitched slightly, his eyes might have narrowed. “I would never do that, A’Hïrzg.”
“There’s no need for false modesty, Semini,” she told him. “I thought the idea brilliant, when the irony struck me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, A’Hïrzg,” he answered stiffly.
“Ah, but you do,” she said. “And you’re now in my debt, Archigos. After all, the assassin wasn’t able to answer any embarrassing questions afterward, was he? That was my doing—for you, Archigos, though my brother was terribly disappointed that there was no one to torture afterward. Come, you want to know why I did it, don’t you? Let’s take some air, Archigos, where we can be seen but not heard.”
Allesandra led him to one of the open balcony entrances. The balcony was empty. She stood directly across from the doors, where anyone looking out would see them. The music wafted out past them and into the night; they could see the dancers, among them the Hïrzg and Jan. Allesandra turned to look at the grounds, alight with hundreds of téni-lights; a few couples were strolling there. “It almost reminds me of Nessantico and the Avi . . .” She turned from the railing. “Almost. I realize that I know very little about your personal life, Archigos. Have you ever been to Nessantico?”
Semini nodded his head. He was watching her as a wary dog might watch another. “I was ordained here in Brezno by Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca, my marriage-
vatarh, but as a young o’téni I traveled with him to Nessantico several times when he was A’téni of Brezno.”
“Then you undoubtedly understand why Nessantico was always the center of the Holdings. There’s a grandeur and history there that one can’t feel anywhere else. You can understand why—some day when the Holdings are unified again—Nessantico will become the center of the known world once again. I’m certain of that.” She touched his arm; she could feel him draw back. “I want to thank you, Semini. You gave me the perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Fynn just how loyal I was to him—despite the way Vatarh disposed of me as heir, despite Fynn’s paranoia and suspicions toward me, despite all the arguments and quarrels we’ve had. He’ll never suspect again that I or Jan would conspire against him.”
Even in the dimness of the balcony, lit only by téni-lamps set on either end of the railings, she could see color darken his face. His hands made fists at his sides, and he looked away from her. He said nothing.
“Kraljiki Audric won’t live long, from what I’m told,” she continued. “I’ve discovered that I really don’t want to be the Hïrzgin, Semini. But when the day arrives that the Holdings become one again—let us say, under a Kraljica—it will need a strong Hïrzg to be the Holdings’ sword, the role Firenzcia has always played. Now, my son will make a grand Hïrzg one day, don’t you think? A wonderful leader.”
His eyes widened slightly. “You want—”
“Yes,” she answered before he could finish the question.
“You took an incredible risk, Allesandra.”
“Well, I’ll admit you did rather startle me with your audacity. I almost decided to just let it happen. But large ambitions require large risks—as you obviously realize. And you owe me for the risk I took, Semini, because I made certain afterward that the assassination attempt can’t be easily traced back to you. I destroyed the evidence that could talk.”
“I had nothing to do . . .”
She waved at his weak protest. “Come now. Only the moon can hear us here, and we both know better. There’s still evidence against you, should I be forced to reveal it. We both know that if I were to relate to Fynn some of the conversations we’ve had, or to tell him about the missive you received from the Regent of Nessantico—” Semini’s eyes widened further at that, and Allesandra knew that her guess had been right, “—well, we know that the interrogators in the Bastida can extract a full confession from anyone. Fynn would order such an interrogation, even of the Archigos, should I insist. After all, I’m his loyal sister, who interposed herself between him and that vile Numetodo. And if you tried to tell him that I was involved, too, why, my actions and those of Jan would give the lie to that accusation, wouldn’t they?”
“What do you want?” Semini asked dully. He stepped back from her, as if her presence was a contamination. That pleased Allesandra; it meant that all the posturing was over. His fine, dark eyes flashed with the reflections of the téni-lights below them, his stance was that of a cornered bear, powerful and ready to defend itself to the death. She found she liked that.
“Actually, I don’t want anything more than what you want yourself,” she told him. “You and I are still on the same side, even though I know that you’re feeling uncertain of that. I like you, Semini. I do. I would like you to become the One Archigos. And you will be—if you do as I tell you. You made two mistakes, Semini. One was thinking that Fynn was only useful to us dead when, in fact, we want him alive. For now.”
“And the second?”
She tilted her head to the side, regarding him. “You thought that you were the one who should be making the decisions for us. I don’t expect you to make that mistake again. Back when I was a hostage in Nessantico, Archigos Ana often told how the Archigos always serves two masters: Cénzi for the Faith, and the person on the Sun Throne for the Holdings.”
She touched his arm once more. This time he did not draw back, and she laced her arm with his. “Come, let’s dance together, Archigos, since neither of our respective spouses seem to care. Let’s see how well we might move together.”
She urged him from the balcony and out again into the noise and light of the ballroom.
Enéas cu’Kinnear
“YOU UNDOUBTEDLY HAVE CÉNZI watching over you, O’Offizier cu’Kinnear, though the news you carry is most disturbing.” Donatien ca’Sibelli, Commandant of the Holdings forces in the Hellins and twin brother to Sigourney ca’Ludovici of the Council of Ca’, paced behind his desk as Enéas stood at attention before him. The room reflected the man: clean and sparse, with nothing to distract the eye. The desktop was polished, with a single stack of paper on it, aligned perfectly to the edge of the desk. An inkwell and pen quill were set on the other side, with a container of blotting sand forming a perfect right angle above them. The wastebasket was empty. A single, plain wooden chair had been placed before the desk. The blue-and-gold banner of Nessantico hung limply on a pole in one corner.
Ca’Sibelli, in his office at least, allowed nothing to intrude on his duty as commandant. There was no questioning ca’Sibelli’s loyalty or bravery—he had fought well against overwhelming odds in the Battle of the Fens and had been decorated and promoted by Kraljiki Justi, and his sister had served the state in her way, but Enéas had always suspected that the man’s brain was as sparsely furnished as his office.
“Sit, O’Offizier,” ca’Sibelli said, waving to the chair and taking his own seat. He plucked the top sheet from the reports and placed it in front of him as Enéas took his seat. The commandant’s forefinger moved under the text as he scanned it. “A’Offizier ca’Matin will be sorely missed. Seeing him sacrificed at the whims of the false gods those savages worship must have been horrific, and you’re extremely fortunate to have avoided the same fate, O’Offizier.”
Enéas had wondered at that himself, and the offiziers who had debriefed him since his return had often said the same, some of them with an undertone of accusation in their voices. He’d been three days in the wilderness around Lake Malik, avoiding Westlander villages and keeping his horse moving north and east. On the fourth day, starving and weak, his mount nearly exhausted, he’d glimpsed riders on a hill. They’d seen him as well and came galloping toward him. He’d waited for them, knowing that—enemy or friend—he couldn’t outrun them. Cénzi had smiled on him again: the group was a small Holdings reconnaissance patrol and not Westlander soldiers. They’d fed him, listened in astonishment to his tale, and brought him back to their outpost.
Over the next few days, as word was sent back to Munereo and the order dispatched that Enéas was to return to Munereo, he learned that barely a third of the army led by A’Offizier ca’Matin had managed to limp home after the chaotic retreat. Of his own unit, he was the lone survivor. The shock of the news had sent Enéas to his knees, praying to Cénzi for the souls of the men he’d known and commanded. Too many of them gone now. Far too many. The loss stunned him and left him reeling.
Now, Enéas simply nodded at the commandant’s comment and watched as the man continued to read, muttering to himself.
“The nahualli were with the army, then. Our intelligence was wrong.”
“Yes, sir. Though I’ve fought against them many times and I’ve never seen spells like these—fire exploding from the ground underneath us, those circles of dark sand . . .” Enéas swallowed hard, remembering. “One of those spells went off near me, and I don’t remember anything after that until . . . after the battle was already over. They thought I was dead.”
“Cénzi put His hand over you and saved you,” ca’Sibelli commented, and Enéas nodded again. He believed that. He’d been more and more certain of it over the days since he’d left the Tehuantin encampment. Cénzi had blessed him. Cénzi was saving him for a special reason—he knew this. He could feel it. At night, he seemed to hear Cenzi’s voice, telling him what He wanted Enéas to do.
Enéas would obey, as any good téni would.
“Cénzi was indeed with me, Commandant.” Enéas felt that
fervently—what other answer could there be? He had expected to die, and yet Cénzi had reached out to the heathen Niente and touched the man’s heart. That was the only explanation. And despite the hunger and thirst, despite the exhaustion after he’d left the Westlanders, in some ways Enéas had never quite felt so invigorated, so full of life and alive. His very soul burned inside him. Sometimes he could feel energy tingling in his fingertips. “That’s why, Commandant, I’ve made the request to return to Nessantico. I feel that this is the task for which Cénzi has spared me.”
There was a destiny for him to fulfill. That was why he escaped the Westlanders; it had been Cénzi working within Nahual Niente. Nothing more. Certainly not the workings of their false god Axat.
Ca’Sibelli had frowned slightly with Enéas’ last comment. He ruffled his papers again. “I have prepared a report to send back to Nessantico,” ca’Sibelli continued, “and a recommendation for a commendation for you, O’Offizer cu’Kinnear. But still, we’d sorely miss your experience and your leadership here, especially with the loss of A’Offizier ca’Matin.”
