his matarh could never allow herself to like Fynn, could never treat him as brother, could never trust him.
But he liked the man, his onczio.
Fynn had sent a note to Jan immediately after Second Call, inviting Jan to join him for the afternoon briefing. Jan sat alongside Fynn, with Fynn leaning over to whisper wry comments to him as the various ministers and advisers updated the new Hirzg on current political situations. Helmad cu’Gottering, Commandant of the Garde Brezno, related that there had been a minor skirmish with Tennshah loyalists east of Lake Cresci, easily put down. (“You should see them run like whipped dogs when they see real soldiers riding through their hovels. They’re all afraid of good Firenzcian steel,” Fynn said softly into Jan’s ear. “My own blade has the blood of uncounted dozens of Tennshah soldiers staining it. In the Autumn, if you’d like, we could tour the region, and maybe chase some of these rebels ourselves.”)
Starkkapitan Armen ca’Damont of the Firenzcian Garde Civile gave Fynn an update on the Holdings’ war in the Hellins, which-if everything the starkkapitan said was true-was not going well for the Holdings and the Kraljiki. (“The Holdings doesn’t know how to wage a real war, Jan. They depended on Firenzcia for that for too long and they’ve forgotten. If we could send our Garde Civile and a battalion of good Red Lancers over there for a month, we could put down these Westlanders for good.”)
Archigos Semini speculated on who the Concord A’Teni might name as the new Archigos of “that false and despicable Faith in Nessantico,” giving them a long and tedious commentary on each of the a’teni of the major towns in the Holdings and their relative strengths and weaknesses. He contended that A’Teni ca’Weber of Prajnoli would ultimately become the next Archigos in Nessantico. (“And in the end it won’t matter which one they pick, so all this hot air and effort was a waste of our time, eh?”)
There were reports on a food shortage in East Magyaria (“You did have enough to eat for lunch, didn’t you?”), on trade inequities between Firenzcia and Sesemora (“Do you find this as boring as I do?”), on the relative value of the Firenzcian solas against the Holdings solas (“By Cenzi, wake me up when this one’s finished talking, would you, Nephew?”). By the end, Jan was no longer listening. Glancing over at Fynn, he could see that his onczio’s eyes had glazed over as well. The new Hirzg’s fingers were tapping the polished tabletop impatiently and he was squirming restlessly in his seat. When the next minister rose to give her report, Fynn raised his hand. “Enough!” he said. “Send me your report and I’ll read it. I’m sure it’s fascinating, but my ears are about to fall off my head from overuse, and I’ve promised my nephew a hunt. Leave us!”
They grumbled inaudibly, they frowned, but they all bowed and left the room. Fynn motioned to the servants standing against the walls to bring in refreshments. “So…” Fynn said as they nibbled on breads and meats and drank the wine, “the life of a Hirzg is delightful, isn’t it? All that babbling, on and on and on… I see why Vatarh was always in a sour mood before these briefings.”
“I think Archigos Semini was mistaken,” Jan said. He wasn’t certain why he said that; somehow, he trusted that Fynn would listen. Matarh always lectured him, as if she were teacher and he student; Vatarh was more concerned with his own pleasure than listening to his son’s opinions. Onczio Fynn, on the other hand, had actually listened to him last night at supper, when the others at the table would have preferred he stay quiet. So he spoke his mind now, his voice trembling only a little. “Ca’Weber won’t be named Archigos. The Concord will pick Kenne ca’Fionta.”
Fynn raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “Why do you say that? Semini seemed to think that ca’Fionta was the weakest of the lot.”
“That’s exactly why,” Jan answered, more eagerly now, ticking off points on his fingers. “Archigos Semini is assuming that the Concord A’Teni will think as he would think, and would choose the person he would choose. They won’t. The rest of the a’teni will be worried now-Archigos Ana’s assassination has made them see that a strong Archigos has enemies, and they’re also wondering how long the Faith can remained sundered, now that Archigos Ana is dead. So they’ll choose Kenne: because he is weak, and because he’s older than any of the rest of them, and even if he’s ultimately a bad choice, they won’t have to deal with it for decades.”
Fynn laughed. He clanked the rim of his goblet against Jan’s. Leaning toward Jan, he put a burly arm around his shoulders. “Well spoken, and we’ll see soon enough if you’re right. What else are you holding back? Come on now, you can’t keep the rest from me.”
Fynn was smiling and Jan smiled in return, feeling a warmth toward the man. “Starkkapitan ca’Damont might be right about the war in the Hellins, but he misses the importance of the war. With the Holdings’ Garde Civile concentrating on that struggle and bleeding resources, money, and soldiers every month, they can’t be looking east with any strength. They’re in a weak negotiating position against the Coalition; they’re in an even worse position militarily. A strong Hirzg might take advantage of that, one way or another.”
Fynn’s eyebrows climbed higher. His arm tightened around Jan’s shoulders. “By Cenzi,” he said, “I should make you my councillor, Nephew. You have your matarh’s subtle mind.”
He hugged Jan again one-handed, then sagged back in his chair. “Ah! I like you, Jan! It makes me wonder what I missed with my sister.” Fynn frowned at that and took another gulp of his wine. “Did you know that I wasn’t even aware I had a sister until I was nine or so? Vatarh never once mentioned her to me. Never. Didn’t speak her name once; it was as if she’d never existed for him. Then, when he decided he’d finally ransom her, he sat me down and explained how she’d been snatched away by the Witch Archigos. He didn’t tell me how that ended his war with the Holdings; that I learned much later. Vatarh was always bitter about that, his one defeat. I suppose Allesandra was the symbol of that failure for him-he certainly married her off quickly once she returned. I never really knew her…”
He took another long drink of the wine and slammed the goblet back down on the table so hard that Jan jumped. Wine spilled; the base of the goblet left a crescent-moon divot in the table.
“Now, we hunt!” Fynn declared, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Come on, Nephew. We’re off to Stag Fall.”
Eneas cu’Kinnear
If he were dead, the afterlife wasn’t anything like the one the teni had promised to the faithful.
Eneas’ afterlife was illuminated by dim, ruddy light, and it stank of rotting flesh and brimstone. The ground on which he lay was wet and hard, with fists of stone that poked into his back. The teni had always said how all a person’s bodily ills would be healed when he finally rested in Cenzi’s arms, that those who had lost limbs would have them restored, that there would be no more pain.
But Eneas’ breath rattled in his lungs, and when he tried to move, the agony made him cry out.
He heard wings flapping in response, punctuated with hoarse squawks of alarm. Eneas blinked, and the redness moved with his eyelids. He slowly lifted a protesting hand and wiped at his eyes. The red filter cleared somewhat, and he realized that he’d been looking through a film of sticky blood at a moonlit landscape, his head on muddy ground. An umber mountain lifted a scant finger’s distance from him. He blinked again, squinting: a fallen, dead horse: his destrier. Cenzi, you left me alive. As the realization came to him, two clawed feet appeared at the summit of the equine mountain, followed by another irritated squawk, and Eneas moved his gaze to see one of the Hellins’ carrion birds, the creature soldiers called rippers: ugly birds with a wingspan of two mens’ height or more, great hooked beaks set in a featherless, spectrally-white face, expressionless eyes like black marbles, and curved talons to rip open the corpses on which they preferred to feast. There was nothing like these beasts in the Holdings.
The bird stared at him as if contemplating a fine meal set before it. Eneas propped himself up on his elbows; it was the closest he could manage to sitting up; the bird screeched in annoyance and flapped off. Eneas could feel the foul wind stirred by its wings.
Not dead. Not yet. Praise Cenzi.
He tried to remember how he’d come to be here, but it was a muddle in his head. He remembered talking to A’Offizier ca’Matin, and the start of the charge, the rush downhill toward the Westlander force. Then… then…
Nothing.
He shook his head to shake loose the memory. That was a mistake. The world whirled around him, the redness returned, and pain shot through his temples. He caught himself before he fell back down to the ground again and waited for the earth to stop spinning. Again, he pushed himself to a full sitting position and touched his
