Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Nightfall (42 page)
He didn’t. He drew his other hand back as if to strike her, his fingers curling into a fist. “No!” The shout was from Jan, running toward them. “Don’t, Vatarh.”
Allesandra smiled grimly at Pauli, at his still-upraised hand. “Go ahead,” she told him. “Do it if you’d like. I tell you now that it will be the last time you ever touch me.”
Pauli let the fisted hand drop. His fingers loosened on her sleeve and she shook herself away from him.
“I’m done with you, Pauli,” she told him. “You gave me all I ever needed from you long ago.”
Enéas cu’Kinnear
V
OUZIERS: A LANDLOCKED CITY, the largest in South Nessantico, the crossroads to Namarro and the sun-crazed southlands of Daritria beyond. Vouziers sat at the northern edge of the flatlands of South Nessantico, a farming country with vast fields of swaying grain. Vouziers’ people were like the land: solid, unpretentious, serious, and uncomplicated.
OUZIERS: A LANDLOCKED CITY, the largest in South Nessantico, the crossroads to Namarro and the sun-crazed southlands of Daritria beyond. Vouziers sat at the northern edge of the flatlands of South Nessantico, a farming country with vast fields of swaying grain. Vouziers’ people were like the land: solid, unpretentious, serious, and uncomplicated.
The coach took several days to reach Vouziers from Fossano. In a village along the way, he purchased all the sulfur the local alchemist had in his shop; the next night, he did the same in another. At each of their nightly stops, Enéas would take a private room at the inn. He would take out a few chunks of the charcoal and begin, slowly, to grind it into a black powder—he could hear Cénzi’s satisfaction when the charcoal had reached the required fineness. Then, with Cénzi’s voice warning him to be gentle and careful, he mixed the charcoal powder, the sulfur, and the niter together into the black sand of the Westlanders, tamping it softly into paper packages. Cénzi whispered the instructions into his head as he worked, and kept him safe.
The night before they reached Vouziers, he took a few of the packs out into the field after everyone was asleep. There, he poured the contents into a small, shallow hole he dug in the ground—the result reminded him uneasily of the black sands on the battlefields of the Hellins and his own defeat. As Cénzi’s Voice instructed him, he took a length of cotton cord impregnated with wax and particles of the black sand, buried one end in the black sand and uncoiled the rest on the ground as he stepped away from the hole.
Later,
he heard Cénzi say in his head,
I will show you how to make fire as the téni do. You should have been a téni, Enéas. That was My desire for you, but your parents didn’t listen to Me. But now I will make you all you should have been. You have My blessing. . . .
Later,
he heard Cénzi say in his head,
I will show you how to make fire as the téni do. You should have been a téni, Enéas. That was My desire for you, but your parents didn’t listen to Me. But now I will make you all you should have been. You have My blessing. . . .
Taking the shielded lantern he’d brought with him, Enéas lit the end of the cord. It hissed and fumed and sputtered, sparks gleaming in the darkness, and Enéas walked quickly away from it. He’d reached the inn and stepped into the common room when the eruption came: a sharp report louder than thunder that rattled the walls of the inn and fluttered the thick, translucent oiled paper in the windows, accompanied by a flash of momentary daylight. Everyone in the room jumped and craned their heads. “Cénzi’s balls!” the innkeeper growled. “The night is as clear as well water.”
The innkeeper went stomping outside, with the others trailing along behind. They first looked up to the cloudless sky and saw nothing. Out in the field, however, a small fire smoldered. As they approached, Enéas saw that the small hole he’d dug was now deep enough for a man to stand in up to his knees, and nearly an arm’s reach across. Stones and dirt had been flung out in all directions. It was as if Cénzi Himself had punched the earth angrily.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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