A Magic of Nightfall (18 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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Covered in her own blood and his, she let the knife drop, kneeling alongside him. His dead eyes stared at her.
“When a thing dies, the right eye remembers the last thing they see—the last face they saw. . . .”
She half-crawled to the bank of the Loudwater. She found a stone there, a white and water-polished pebble the size of a large coin. She brought the stone back and pressed it down over his right eye. Then she huddled there, a few steps away from him, until the sun was nearly down and the goats came around her bleating and wanting to go home to their stables. She woke as if from a sleep, seeing the body there, and she found that curiosity drove her forward toward it. Her hand trembled as she reached down to his face, to the pebble-covered right eye. She took the stone from that eye, and it felt strangely warm. The eye underneath it was gray and clouded, and though she looked carefully into it, she saw nothing there: no image of herself. Nothing at all. She clutched the pebble in her hand: so warm, almost throbbing with life. Her breath shuddered as she clutched it to her breast.
She left then, leaving his body there. She walked south, not north, and she took the pebble with her.
She would never return to the village of her birth. She would never see her matarh again.
The White Stone turned in her sleep. “
I didn’t mean to hurt you, girl,
” Old Pieter whispered in her dreams. “
Didn’t mean to change you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. . . .”
OMENS
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Audric ca’Dakwi
Sergei ca’Rudka
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Karl ca’Vliomani
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Jan ca’Vörl
Sergei ca’Rudka
Nico Morel
Varina ci’Pallo
Allesandra ca’Vörl
The White Stone
Enéas cu’Kinnear
H
E WISHED NOW that he’d bothered to learn more of the Westlander speech.
Enéas knew some of their words, enough to get by in the crowded, fragrant, and loud bazaars of Munereo. There, among chattering, jostling crowds, one could find sweet perfumes from the plains of the West Horn; the rich, black, and sweet nuggets from the jungles along the Great Southern River; intricate painted basketry from the people of the Great Spine; fine woolen fabrics from the sheep of the northern hills of Paeti, dyed with brilliant hues of green and orange and patterned with intricate knotted geometric patterns; exotic herbs and fruits that the sellers claimed came all the way from the great interior lakes of the western continent. In the official markets, Enéas could find inferior products priced twice or three times as much as he’d pay in the open bazaars, sold by Westlanders who understood the speech of Nessantico.
But it was at the bazaars, hidden away in the maze of narrow streets of the city where the original inhabitants still lived, that the true treasures could be found, and there no one would speak Nessantican even if they knew it.
Munereo . . . It was a dream. Another life, like his time in Nessantico itself. Against harsh reality, those times felt as if they’d happened to someone else, in another lifetime entirely.
He knew those of full native blood called themselves the Tehuantin. It was the Tehuantin they fought now, who had come pouring into the Hellins from the mountains to the west after Commandant Petrus ca’Helfier had been murdered, after the commandant had raped or fallen in love with—depending on who you asked—a Tehuantin woman. Ca’Helfier had been assassinated by a Westlander. Then the new commandant—Donatien ca’Sibelli—had retaliated, there had been riots and growing turmoil and unrest, and the strife had finally escalated into open war, with more and more of the Tehuantin coming into the Hellins.
Now Enéas was to be another casualty in that war.
If that is Your will, Cénzi, then I come to You gladly. . . .
Enéas groaned as a sandaled foot kicked him in the ribs, taking away his breath and his memories. Someone growled fast and mostly unintelligible Tehuantin speech at him. “. . . up . . .” he heard. “. . . time . . ” Enéas forced his eyes to open, slitted against the fierce sun, to see a Westlander’s face scowling down at him: tea-colored skin; the cheeks tattooed with the blue-black slashes of the warrior caste; white teeth; bamboo armor laced around him, a curved Westlander sword in the hand he used to gesture, the sound of the blade audible as it cut the air.
Enéas tried to move his hands and found them bound tightly together behind his back. He struggled to push himself up, but his wounded leg and ankle refused to cooperate. “No,” he said in the Westlander tongue, trying to make the refusal sound less than defiant. He cast about in his exhaustion-muddled mind for words he could use. “I . . . hurt. No can . . . up.” He hoped the Westlander could understand his mangled syntax and accent.
The Westlander gave an exasperated sigh. He lifted the sword and Enéas knew he was about to die.
I come to You, Cénzi.
He waited for the strike, staring upward to see the death blow, to let the man know he wasn’t afraid.
“No.” He heard the word—another voice. A hand stopped the Westlander’s hand as he began the downward slice. Another Tehuantin stepped into Enéas’ sight. This one’s face was untouched by caste marks, his hands were uncallused and soft in appearance, and he wore simple loose clothing that wasn’t unlike the bashtas and tashtas of home. Except for the feather-decorated cap that the man wore over his dark, oiled hair, he could have passed in Nessantico for simply another foreigner. “No, Zolin,” the man repeated to the warrior, then loosed a torrent of words that were too fast for Enéas to understand. The warrior grunted and sheathed his weapon. He gestured once at Enéas. “. . . bad . . . your choice . . . Nahual Niente,” the man said and stalked away.
Nahual.
That meant his rescuer was the head of the nahualli, the war-téni of the Westlanders. “Niente” might be a name, might be a secondary title; Enéas didn’t know. He stared at the man. He noticed that the man’s belt held two of the strange, ivory-tube devices that had been used to murder A’Offizier ca’Matin. Enéas wondered if he would be next; he would have preferred the sword. He gave another quick silent prayer to Cénzi, closing his eyes.
“Can you walk, O’Offizier?”
Enéas opened his eyes at the heavily-accented Nessantican. Nahual Niente was staring at him. He shook his head. “Not easily. My ankle and leg . . .”
The man grunted and crouched next to Enéas. He touched Enéas’ leg through his uniform pants, his hands probing. Enéas gave an involuntary yelp as the nahualli manipulated his foot. The man grunted again. He called to someone, and a young man came running over with a large leather pouch that he gave to the spellcaster. The man rummaged inside and brought out a length of white flaxen cloth. He wrapped it around Enéas’ leg, slapping at Enéas’ hand when he tried to stop him. “Lay back,” he said, “if you want to live.”
After wrapping Enéas’ leg completely, the nahualli stood. He made a gesture and spoke a word in his own language. Immediately, Enéas felt the cloth tightening around his leg and he cried out. He clawed at the fabric, but it was no longer soft flax. His leg felt as if it were encased in a vise of unrelenting steel, and a slow fire raged within his limb as he thrashed on the ground, as the Nahual chanted in his own language.
Enéas’ thrashing did no good. The heat flared until he screamed with the pain . . .
. . . and the fire abruptly went out. Enéas tore at the cloth again, and it was only cloth and nothing more. He unwrapped his leg while the nahualli watched impassively, expecting to see his flesh blistered and black and crushed. But the bruises that had mottled his leg were gone, and the swelling around his ankle had subsided.
“Now get up,” the nahualli said.
Enéas did. There was no pain and his leg was whole and strong.
Cénzi, what has he done? I’m sorry . . .
“Why did you do this?” Enéas said angrily.
The man looked at Enéas the way one regarded a witless child. “So you could walk.”
“Healing with the Ilmodo is against the Divolonté,” Enéas said angrily. “My recovery was in Cénzi’s hands, not yours. It is His choice to heal me or not. You savages use the Ilmodo wrongly.”
The nahualli scoffed at that. “I used a charm that I could have used on one of my own, O’Offizier. You’re standing, you’re healed, and yet you’re ungrateful. Are all of your people so arrogant and stupid?”
“Cénzi—” Enéas began, but the man cut him off with a gesture.
“Your Cénzi isn’t here. Here, Axat and Sakal rule, and it is the X’in Ka and not your Ilmodo that I’ve used. I’m not one of your téni. Now, you’ll walk with me.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“No place you would know. Walk, or die here if that will make you feel better.”
“You’ll kill me anyway. I saw what you did to the ones you captured.” Enéas gestured toward the devices on the man’s belt. The nahualli touched them, his fingers stroking the curved bone.
“Believe what you will,” he said. “Walk with me, or die here. I don’t care which.”
He began to walk away. Standing, Enéas could see the Westlander encampment being broken around him in a gloomy, rain-threatening morning. Already, many of the Tehuantin troops were marching away to the northeast: their offiziers mounted, the men walking with long spears over their shoulders. Enéas could see the blackened circle that was the remains of the great campfire he’d seen the night before, still smoking and fuming. The unmistakable blackened, spoked arches of a rib cage rose from the embers. He shuddered at that, knowing that the skeleton must be ca’Matin or another of his fellow soldiers.
Enéas saw the nahualli gesture to one of the warriors he passed, pointing back to Enéas.
Cénzi, what should I do? What do You want of me?
As if in answer, the clouds parted to the northwest and he saw a shaft of sun paint the emerald hills in the distance before vanishing again.
“Wait,” Enéas said. “I’ll walk with you.”
Audric ca’Dakwi
“
Y
OU CAN’T TELL ANYONE that I speak to you, Audric,” Gremma said. The painted eyes in her portrait glinted in warning, and her varnished face frowned. “You do understand that, don’t you?”
“I could . . . tell Sergei,” Audric suggested. He stood before the painting, holding a candelabra. He’d dismissed Seaton and Marlon for the night, though he knew that they were sleeping in the chamber beyond and would come if he called. His breathing was labored; he fought for every breath, the words coming out in gasping spasms. He could feel the heat of the fire in the hearth on his front. “He would . . . believe me. He would . . . understand. You trusted . . . him, didn’t you?”
But the face in the painting shook her head, the motion barely perceptible in the erratic candlelight. “No,” she whispered. “Not even Sergei. That I am speaking to you, that I am advising you must be our secret, Audric. Our secret. And you must start by asserting yourself, Audric: as I did, from the very start.”
“I’m not . . . sixteen. Sergei is . . . Regent, and it is . . . his word that . . . the Council of Ca’ . . . listens to . . . Sigourney and the others . . .” The effort of speaking cost him, and he could not finish. He closed his eyes, listening for her answer.

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