fire, then Hirzg Fynn accompanied by Archigos Semini and Francesca, and Allesandra and Jan a few steps behind them, followed by a final group of servants and e’teni. As they approached the intricately-carved entranceway to the tombs, decorated with bas-reliefs of the historical accomplishments of the Hirzgai, Allesandra could hear whisperings and the rustling of cloth and an occasional cough or sneeze: the ca’-and-cu’ who had been invited to witness the ceremony. These were the elite of Firenzcia, most of them relatives of Fynn and Allesandra: families who were intertwined and intermarried with their own, or those who had served for decades with Hirzg Jan.
Torchlight and teni light together slid over the coiled bodies of fantastic creatures carved on the walls, the stern features of carved Hirzgai and the broken bodies of enemies at their feet. The Chevarittai of the Red Lancers came to attention, their lances (the blades masked in scarlet cloth) clashing against polished dress armor. The other ca’-and-cu’ bowed low and the whispers faded to silence as the new Hirzg entered the large chamber. Allesandra could see their glances slide from Fynn to her, and to Jan as well. Jan noticed the attention; she felt him stiffen at her side with an intake of breath. She nodded to them-the slightest movement of her head, the faintest hint of a smile.
Look at her, as cold as this chamber… It was what they would be thinking, some of them. She’s no doubt pleased to see old Jan dead after he left her with the Kraljiki and the false Archigos for so long. She probably wishes Fynn were there with him so she could be the Hirzgin.
None of them knew her. None of them knew what her true thoughts were. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely certain she knew them herself. She was still reeling from the news about Ana, and if she showed signs of grief, it was for her, not her vatarh.
The casket containing the remains of Hirzg Jan sat near the entrance to his interment chamber, next to the huge round stone that would seal off the niche. The coffin was draped in a tapestry cloth that depicted his victory over the T’Sha at Lake Cresci. There was nothing celebrating Passe a’Fiume or Jan’s bold, foolish attack on Nessantico a decade before: those days when Allesandra had ridden with him, when she’d watched her vatarh adoringly, when he’d promised to give her the city of Nessantico.
Instead, Nessantico had snatched her from him and given Fynn the place at her vatarh’s right hand.
Fynn saluted the lancers, who relaxed their stances. “I would like to thank everyone for being here,” he said. “I know Vatarh is looking down from the arms of Cenzi, appreciating this tribute to him. And I also know that he would forgive us for not lingering here when warm fires and food await us above.” Fynn received quiet laughter at that, and he smiled. “Archigos, if you would…”
Semini moved quickly forward with the teni and gave his blessing over the casket. He motioned Allesandra and Jan forward as the teni began to chant the benediction. They went to the casket, bowed, then placed their hands on the tapestry. “I wish you’d had more chance to know him,” she whispered to Jan as the teni chanted, putting her hand atop his. “He wasn’t always as angry and brusque as he was in his later years.”
“You’ve told me that,” he said. “Several times. But it’s still not the memory of him I’ll take with me, is it?” She glanced at her son; he was frowning down at the casket.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she told him.
“I’ve no doubt about it, Matarh.”
Allesandra suppressed the retort she might have made; she would say nothing here. People were already glancing at them curiously, wondering what secrets they might be whispering and at the sharp edge in her son’s voice. She lifted her hand and stepped back, allowing Fynn to approach.
She wondered what her brother thought as he stood there, his hand on the casket and his head bowed.
After a few minutes, Fynn also stepped away. He nodded to the lancers; four of them came forward to take the casket. Their faces were somber as they lifted the coffin and slid it forward into the niche that awaited it. Stone grated on wood, the sound echoing. The four stepped back, and another quartet put their shoulders to the sealing stone, which groaned and resisted as it turned slowly. The massive wheel of rock advanced along a groove carved in the floor toward the deep cut into which it would settle and rest. The stone was carved with the glyphs of Old Firenzcian, a language spoken only by scholars now, as thick as a man’s arm, and standing half again a man’s height. As the great wheel reached the end of the groove and dropped into the cut where it was supposed to rest, there came a tremendous cracking sound. A fissure shot through its carved face and the top third of the stone toppled. Allesandra knew she must have screamed a warning, but it was over before any of them could move or react. The mass of the stone crushed one of the lancers entirely underneath it and smashed the legs of another as it fell to the ground.
The pinned lancer’s screams were piercing and shrill as thick blood ran from underneath the stone.
This is a sign… She couldn’t stop the thought-as the remainder of the lancers rushed forward, as ca’-and-cu’, teni, and servants hurried to help or stared frozen in horror at the rear of the chamber. Jan was among those trying desperately to lift the burial stone, and Fynn was shouting useless orders into the chaos.
Vatarh did this. Somehow he did this. He does not rest easily… .
Eneas cu’Kinnear
He was going to die here in the Hellins.
That feeling of an awful destiny washed over Eneas as he stood with the Holdings forces on the crest of a hill not far outside Munereo, as they watched the strangely-shaped banners of the Westlanders approaching from the direction of Lake Malik, as he heard the war-teni begin chanting in preparation for battle. A’Offizier Meric ca’Matin was with him, as well as the other offiziers of the battalion and several pages ready to run messages between the companies. The cornets and flags were set to relay orders. A hundred strides down the slope, the ranks of the Holdings army were arrayed, restless and nervous.
Eneas had been in a half dozen battles and countless skirmishes and confrontations in the last several years. This sense of impending doom was something he’d never felt before. He could feel sweat rolling down his face under the thick iron helmet, and it was not just the sun that caused the perspiration. He wanted to shout denial to the sky, but he could not. Not here. Not in front of his troops. Instead, he bowed his head and he prayed.
Oh, Great Cenzi, why do You send this premonition to me? What are You saying to me?
Eneas was an o’offizier with the Garde Civile of the Holdings. His commander in the field, A’Offizier ca’Matin, had told him only yesterday that he had put in the recommendation that Eneas be made Chevaritt, that the document was already on its way across the Strettosei to Nessantico. His vatarh would be proud-twenty-five years ago, Eneas’ vatarh had served with the Regent ca’Rudka at Passe a’Fiume and been badly burned, losing both an arm and an eye during that horrible siege. The Garde Civile had given him the citation and the pension he was due, and though their family had been raised from ce’Kinnear to ci’Kinnear as a result, his vatarh had always talked about how he could have become one of the chevarittai if he hadn’t been injured, how those aspirations had been taken from him by the Firenzcian teni-fire that had disfigured him and ended his career.
Eneas had never wanted to be either chevaritt or offizier. He would have preferred that his career path was that of a teni in the Concenzia Faith rather than the one he’d found in the Garde Civile. He’d felt the calling of Cenzi ever since he’d been a young boy; indeed, he’d petitioned his parents to send him to the temple as an acolyte. But his vatarh had insisted on the martial road. “We’re just ci’, my son, and barely that,” he’d said. “Our family doesn’t have the solas to send you to the teni. That’s for the ca’-and-cu’ who can afford it. You’ll join the Garde, as I did. You’ll do as I did…”
Eneas had done better than his vatarh. “Falsoteni,” his men dubbed him for his piousness, for his strict attention to the rules of the Divolonte, for his insistence that the men under his command attend the rites at the Munereo Temple on the proper Days of Observance. But they also claimed that Cenzi Himself protected Eneas-and through Eneas, themselves. In the Battle of the Mounds near Lake Malik, as an e’offizier in his second real battle, he’d been the only surviving offizier of his company as they were ripped apart by a far superior Westlander force. He’d managed to surprise the Westlanders by feigning retreat, then marching the remnants of his troops through marshland to attack the enemy from a flank unprotected by their nahualli-the terrifying spellcasters of the Westlanders, the ones who called the Ilmodo the X’in Ka.
Heretics, they were. False teni worshiping false gods. The thought of the nahualli enraged Eneas.
Eneas had managed to inflict severe losses on the Westlander flank and to hold the ground until reinforcements arrived. As a reward for his actions, he’d been promoted to o’offizier; a few months later, after the
