by S L Farrell
“More warriors and nahualli will die if you do this, Tecuhtli. Many more.” Even though he had seen the Long Path, no future was certain. He had also seen that there would be peace—for a time—if Citlali stayed here. But not forever. The Holdings would be back, and this time they would bring an army that would be terrifying.
“I know. Yet isn’t that what the true warrior desires?”
“There are still wars to fight here. Not all of our cousins beyond the White-Peak Wall pay tribute to Tlaxcala—you can add their skulls to the rack.”
Citlali nodded as Niente spoke, but his gesture was tempered with a shrug. Niente could see the vision of the scrying bowl in the Tecuhtli’s eyes, glimmering there in his pupils. He could almost hear Axat’s laughter. This is what She wants of you. You want to deny it, but you know it.
“I hear Tecuhtli Zolin in my dream,” Citlali said. “His spirit calls to me from the land of the dead to finish what he started.”
“Zolin is too proud even in death, then,” Niente said, and Citlali barked laughter at that.
“Zolin refused to listen to you, Niente. I’ll listen. If you tell me that Axat says I shouldn’t go, I won’t.”
Niente sat, silently. Do you throw this to me as a test, Axat? he asked, and thought for a moment that he heard the response of Her sinister laughter. “I can’t tell you that, Tecuhtli,” he said.
Citlali laughed again, this time with satisfaction. He clapped his hands together loudly enough in his pleasure that the page outside lifted the flap of the tapestry and peered in momentarily. “I was certain you’d argue against this, Niente,” he roared. “I thought you would warn me of what you saw in the scrying bowl as you did Zolin, and tell me that I was being foolish. I thought you would say that I tempt the gods, and they would strike me down for my arrogance and pride, as they did Zolin.”
Niente smiled, taking another bite of meat as Citlali spoke. No, he would not tell Citlali what he’d seen in the bowl, because Axat had made it clear to him that he must not, not if he wanted the vision of the Long Path to come to fruition. He only bowed his head to the warrior. “I will be at your side, Tecuhtli Citlali, as I was at Zolin’s. I will be your Nahual, and I will look again on the Easterners’ land.”
Citlali rose from his seat—his body was still that of a muscular warrior, but there was the beginning of a paunch around his waist. That explained much of his eagerness to Niente: unlike the Nahual of the nahualli, the Tecuhtli—the highest of the High Warriors—rarely reached old age before a rival arose to challenge and kill him. If Citlali wanted his name to be remembered long after his time, he needed to make his mark on the world.
Ambition: it had killed many of the Tehuantin over the centuries.
“Page!” Citlali called, and the boy slid into the room from outside. “Call the High Warriors—tell them to come here tonight. The Tecuhtli and the Nahual wish to meet with them.” The boy made an obeisance and hurried away. Citlali turned back to Niente, and Niente saw him draw in his stomach self-consciously. “This will be a time of greatness for the Tehuantin,” he said. “Is that what you saw in the bowl, Nahual?”
To that, Niente could nod. “Indeed,” he said. “That is what I saw. Greatness.”
INCARNATIONS
Nico Morel
Varina ca’Pallo
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Niente
Sergei ca’Rudka
Brie ca’Ostheim
Varina ca’Pallo
Jan ca’Ostheim
Rochelle Botelli
Varina ca’Pallo
Nico Morel
THE BLAST FROM THE BLACK SAND was more powerful and stunning than Nico expected.
The concussion hit his chest like the fist of Cénzi. It fluttered the drapes of the puppet, pummeling the papiermâché head so strongly that none of them could hold it upright. The puppet toppled as people screamed and pieces of the Ambassador’s funeral bier began to rain down around them.
“Away!” Nico called to his followers. “Scatter! Quickly!”
The crowd was already fleeing; the gardai were confused and stunned. The Morellis evaporated into the crowd, lost in a few moments. Nico waited a few breaths, staring at the destruction. There were several people down, mostly the Numetodo who had been around the bier—he had no sympathy for death or injuries to them at all. Still, there were onlookers who had been hurt by flying debris. “I’m sorry,” Nico whispered to one of them, a woman bleeding profusely from a cut to the temple. “No one intended for you to be hurt. Cénzi will bless you for the blood you’ve spilled here today, and for your pain.”
He felt Liana tugging at his sleeve. “We have to go,” she said urgently. Nico glanced up. Ambassador ca’Rudka was rising clumsily from the twisted frame of the carriage following the bier; ca’Pallo’s heretic wife Varina was already out, staring in horror at the destruction of the bier. The horses pulling the Kraljica’s carriage had bolted and the driver was trying to bring them to a stop farther down the court, with gardai chasing after them. The blast had knocked the a’téni’s driver from his seat and ended his chant; her carriage had halted untouched well back from the rest.
Nico smiled at that—he hadn’t wished A’Téni ca’Paim any harm.
Where Karl’s body had lain, there was a black hole torn in the stone flags, with debris sprayed for a dozen strides all around. “Thank you, Cénzi,” he prayed, making the sign quickly. “Thank you for permitting me to do Your bidding.” He wondered if Varina would understand the irony of using black sand—the invention of Westlander heretics and recreated by Karl and Varina—against them.
He nodded as Liana tugged at his sleeve again. She was holding the swell of her stomach. “You’re all right?” he asked her, suddenly concerned that she’d been injured.
“I’m fine,” she told him, “but you need to go. Now!”
He shook his head at her. “Go on,” he said to her: calmly, quietly. “I’ll meet you at the house.” She hesitated, and he waved his hand toward her. “Go!” he said again, and this time she obeyed, hurrying away with the waddle of the heavily pregnant.
Nico turned back to the chaos. He watched the gardai from behind a screen of those who had also stayed behind, snared by the sight of all the destruction. He listened to Old Silvernose’s shouting as he tried to organize the rescue. He couldn’t entirely hold back the exultation he felt, though he tried since that was only his own foolish pride tugging at the corners of his mouth. Finally, he walked away slowly, calmly, at peace—as if out for a simple morning stroll.
They could catch him only if Cénzi willed it to be so, and if Cénzi willed such, then Nico would be comfortable with His decision. He was beyond the Kraljica’s or the Archigos’ authority. They could do nothing to him on their own.
So he walked away leisurely, his face solemn. Cénzi held him in His protective hands.
When he reached the safehouse the Morellis had established in Oldtown, a turn of the glass or more later, he entered into an ongoing celebration. Ancel slapped his shoulders; Liana hugged him desperately as the others gathered in the room shouted and grinned.
“A full hand of them dead, that’s what the word on the street is,” Ancel said. “And that bastard ca’Pallo’s body is strewn in bits over the Temple Court for the téni to clean up—that’ll teach the A’Téni to cozy up with the heretics. Too bad the blast spared ca’Pallo’s wife and Old Silvernose.”
Strangely, the glee in Ancel’s face soured Nico’s good mood. He looked at them, at their pleasure, and Cénzi moved in him. He frowned, his face darkening. “Why are you laughing? Why do you grin?” he asked them, and the scorn in his voice wiped the celebration from their mouths. The room went rapidly quiet. Liana released him; Ancel took a step back, his face suddenly crestfallen.
“I’m sorry, Absolute,” Ancel said, spreading his hands in apology. “Didn’t we do as Cénzi asked us to do?”
“We did,” Nico answered him. “And we succeeded only because we have His hands
over us. Should we celebrate that? Yes, we’ve sent several of the heretics to Him for His judgment, but we’ve taken away childrens’ vatarhs and matarhs, we’ve shattered their families. We’ve brought hardship on those close to them, and many of them are not our enemy. Many of them are believers. Should we be pleased that we’ve hurt them, that we’ve caused them pain?”
“I didn’t think—” Ancel began, and Nico cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“No, you didn’t. None of you did. Not even me.” He took a breath, and he felt Cénzi’s words filling his mind. “These are lives we’re talking about. These are people who are little different from us. Yes, they’re heretics. Yes, they poison the Holdings and the Faith with their very presence. Yes, they’re our enemies. But they are people nonetheless, and when we cause them pain, we bring pain upon ourselves at the same time.”
He could feel hot tears welling in his eyes, and he didn’t care that they spilled over and ran down his cheeks as his disciples watched. “I don’t mourn a broken cup. I don’t grieve if the strap on my sandal breaks. But I do cry for the Numetodo. I cry because they failed to see the truth. I cry because I could not convince them to follow the truth. I cry because it was given to me to be their executioner. I cry because it pains me to see the waste of their great potential.”
Then he felt Cénzi lift him, and he dragged his sleeve over his eyes as the anger left him. “Ancel,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. I’m not. You are my right hand, and you’ve done well today. All of you have, and we should be pleased that we were able to demonstrate Cénzi’s power to those who control the Holdings and the Faith. We have been good servants today. But it’s our task to always be good servants, to be ready to run when the Master calls us and to do His bidding no matter what he asks of us.”
Nico opened his arms, taking a step toward Ancel and enfolding him in his arms. He kissed the man’s cheek. “You know this. I know you do, and it wasn’t my place to scold you. Do you forgive me, my friend?”
Ancel grimaced, then let out a breath through his nose. He nodded, and Nico grabbed his head and kissed the crown of it. He clapped the man on the back. He smiled at them all. Liana embraced him again, pressing her stomach and their child to his.
“We’ve all done well today,” he said to them, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered in the room. “You are all blessed.”
Varina ca’Pallo
HER EARS WERE RINGING and she could barely hear the voices talking to her through the din. That was an improvement, at least: immediately after the blast she’d found herself entirely deafened. She’d been carried to the nearest building—one of the Holdings’ bureaucratic offices that dominated the Isle A’Kralji. Healers had been sent for; gardai had flitted in and out asking questions of her and Sergei. Even Commandant cu’Ingres had seen her, and the news he had brought her was grim. Kraljica Allesandra and A’Téni ca’Paim were both shaken but unharmed, but of the dozen Numetodo who had been accompanying Karl’s bier—all of them friends, most of them longtime members of the group—five were dead, and three more were seriously injured. Even if they lived, they would suffer from the effects of this day for the rest of their lives.
Varina cried for them more than she cried for Karl, who was beyond suffering.
Talbot had been among those escorting the bier; luckily, his injuries had been minor.
Varina frowned in concentration toward Sergei, who was leaning over her solicitously. She could see her warped reflection in his silver nose; her face was scratched, a long line of dried blood slicing across her forehead, and her right cheek was dark with a rising bruise. “The deafness should be temporary, the healers tells me,” he was saying. She had to concentrate on his lips to understand him. “That’s good news for both of us—my hearing has suffered enough in the last few years. They also tell me that none of your injuries are likely to be serious, though you’re going to be stiff and sore for several days. You don’t appear to have broken bones, though you should let them know if you feel sharp pain inside, or if your cuts start to grow red or foul.”
“It was Nico who did this?” she asked.
Sergei scowled. “Yes,” he said. “He and the Morellis. One of the gardai swears that he saw Nico in the group below the puppet.”
“Why would he do this? Karl and I never . . . never . . .” She bit at her lower lip, the tears threatening again at mention of his name.
“Hopefully you’ll get to ask the man yourself, when we find him,” Sergei told her. “And they will find him. I’ve already told Commandant cu’Ingres that I will personally oversee the search for Morel if he’s not already been captured by the time I return from Brezno.”
“You’re still going? You’re all right?”
“I’m old and tough—it will take more than a bit of black sand to stop me. I’ve already started an investigation into how they acquired the black sand; I suspect that someone within the Armory is a Morelli sympathizer. But with the recent border incursions, I have to go . . .” The smile collapsed as if under its own weight, and he placed his hand on Varina’s shoulder. “I’m so very sorry, Varina. This should never have happened. Karl deserved far better than this.”
The weeping overtook her then, and she could not speak. Sergei patted her shoulder, but his gaze was elsewhere. “Karl’s . . . body?” she managed to say, finally.
“Karl’s body,” he said, and she could see by the tightening of his lips that he wasn’t telling her everything, “has been recovered and is already on the pyre at the Kraljica’s Palais. The Garde Kralji have been stationed around it, and there are several Numetodo there as well, who say they won’t leave until the pyre’s been lit.”
“I need to go there, then.” Varina started up. She could feel her muscles protesting the movement, but she managed to sit. The room lurched around her, then settled.
“Varina, Kraljica Allesandra said she would light the pyre herself. The healers have said you should stay—”
“I need to go there,” she said, more firmly, and Sergei sighed. He nodded.
“I told the Kraljica that would be your answer. I’ll accompany you there . . .”
“Varina . . .” Kraljica Allesandra enveloped her as she stepped from the carriage after Sergei. “I am so sorry. I must take the blame for this atrocity. We obviously didn’t take all the precautions we should have, and that’s my responsibility.”
Varina shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said simply. Behind the courtiers and chevarittai who flanked Allesandra, she saw Mason ce’Fieur, a Numetodo and friend, and one of her students within the group. He nodded to her grimly. “Excuse me, Kraljica,” she said to Allesandra, and went to Mason. They embraced.
“A’Morce Numetodo,” he said, and the use of the title startled her. Karl had been the nominal head of the group for as long as she had been with them. She’d never considered that with his passing, the title might pass to her, but it seemed it had. “We’ve been waiting, all of us.”
She glanced toward the pyre. There were the ca’-andcu’ in their finery—the palais sycophants who wanted the Kraljica to see them—but there were also the Numetodo of the city, most of them ce’ or less: two hundred or more of them, faces she recognized, people she had worked with and taught. They stood there now, silent and patient.
The pyre was three people high, and the smell of oil was strong in the courtyard between the scaffold-latticed wings of the palais. At the top of the pyramidal stack of timbers, a closed wooden coffin had been set—no longer the body draped in the flag of Paeti. Varina’s lips tightened at the sight and her stomach overturned, sending acid burning in the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, once. “Let’s do this,” she said. “We’ll have more pyres to light for the rest of our fallen soon enough.”
With Sergei on her left, the Kraljica on her right, and the Numetodo closing ranks behind her, she advanced to the base of the pyre. She looked up at the coffin and for a moment had to pause, overwhelmed by memories o
f Karl. Her stomach churned anew, and she closed her eyes briefly.
She opened them again, finding in her mind the spell she’d prepared last night. It sat in her head like an egg on the edge of bursting, and she caressed it with her thoughts. This was the way of the Numetodo: like the téni, they used a pattern of words and hand movements to shape the spell—a formula that must be followed. Like the téni, the effort of spell-casting cost them in exhaustion and weakness. Unlike the téni, they did not call on Cénzi or attribute the power to any deity at all; unlike the téni, they did not have to cast their spell immediately upon finishing the incantation. The Numetodo knew how to hold the spell in their minds, to be released with a word and a single gesture much later. The Numetodo could thus “pay in advance” the weakness that came with spell-casting and not be affected later. They could cast a prepared spell in the moment it took to speak and gesture.
She did that now. Standing before the pyre, she opened the spell. “Tine,” she said in the language of Paeti, Karl’s homeland. Fire. She made a motion as if casting a stone at the base of the pyre. A sun erupted within the center of the pyramid, yellow-white and so hot that the wavering shimmer of it struck the onlookers like a hurricane wind. The oiled timbers caught with an audible k-WHOOMP, and flames leaped toward the sky, twirling tornadoes of sparks ahead of them. A fume of smoke followed, drifting toward the distant rooftops of the palais where a wind tore at the column and smeared it westward toward the Old Temple and the River A’Sele.
