“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,” Eneas 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?” Eneas asked the man.
“You’ll know it when the time comes.”
Niente said nothing more. After a time, Eneas 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.
Eneas 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 Eneas 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.
Eneas 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’Vorl
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 retes. 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 retes, smiling as he took one.
“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 Hirzg, 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 Hirzgin. I think Cenzi 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 retes? I’ve been dying to try them…”
Sergei ca’Rudka
The news was not good.
The communique-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.”