On the third night, after the chanting, rather than falling asleep as he usually did, Niente placed a small bronze bowl near the opening to the tent so that the light of the campfire fell on it. The bowl was decorated around the rim with a frieze of stylized people and animals, many of which Eneas didn’t recognize. As Eneas watched, Niente poured water into the bowl, then sifted a small amount of finely-ground, ruddy powder into his hand from a leather pouch. Niente dusted the surface of the water with the powder, chanting as he did so. The water began to glow, an unnatural, blue-green illumination that made the nahualli’s face appear spectral and dead. The man stared into the bowl, silent, the eerie light playing over his face, shifting and merging. Curiosity made Eneas slide forward to see better. Pushing himself up, he glanced over Niente’s shoulder.
Inside the bowl, in the water, was a cityscape. He recognized it immediately: Nessantico. He could see the Pontica a’Brezi Veste and the vista of the Avi a’Parete leading down to the pillared, marble public entrance to the Kralj’s Palais. He could see the Old Temple, but cu’Brunelli’s magnificent new dome looked as if it had fallen in completely; there was nothing but a blackened hole there where it was to have been placed. People seemed to be walking the streets, but they were few, most with their heads down and hurrying as if afraid to be seen. The streets were trash-filled and dirty, and the palais had a visible crack on its southern wall and the northern wing was a ruin. Across the street, what had been a glorious residence was now a blackened hulk. A pall of smoke seemed to lay over the city. Eneas leaned closer to see better into the water…
… and Niente’s fingers stirred the water and the vision dissolved, the light going dark. Eneas was staring down only at water, the brass bottom of the bowl flecked with the granules of powder.
“What was that?” Eneas asked Niente, sitting back. The man shrugged.
“Heresy, to you,” he said. “The magic of the wrong god.”
“I saw… I thought I saw… Nessantico.”
“Perhaps you did,” Niente answered. “Axat grants the visions She wishes.”
“Visions of what?” He remembered the smoke, the fissure in the palais wall, the hurrying, frightened people…
Niente didn’t answer Eneas. He cast the water in the bowl outside the tent and wiped the bowl with the hem of his clothes. He placed it in his pack, next to the cotton padding that served as his bed. “How do you feel, Eneas?” he asked.
“I feel fine,” he answered.
“It’s time you returned to your own people.”
“What?” Eneas shook his head, unbelieving. “You said-”
“I said that the soldiers would kill you if you try to escape. And they would. But… there will be no moon tonight. Axat hides Her face, and rain is coming. There will be a horse outside our tent when the storm reaches us. When you hear it, go outside to the horse. Ride hard; no one will pursue you until morning. If you’re lucky, if Axat smiles on you, you will come to Munereo a few days before we do.”
“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
