especially among the war-teni, had the rank of o’teni. Nico surveyed their faces as he entered the room behind Ancel and Liana. His arm was around Liana’s waist protectively; he saw some of them notice that and smile, as if they were pleased to see that the Absolute of the Morellis, Cenzi’s Voice, the Sword of the Divolonte, was as human as them, that he could love someone and produce an heir.
Nico kissed Liana’s cheek and smiled at her as she and Ancel moved to the side of the crowded room-the largest of three small rooms in their current refuge in Oldtown. The place stank of mold and rat feces, and the boards creaked and groaned under their weight, but Cenzi had told him that none of the Garde Kralji would find them here for now, so it must do. Nico gave them all the sign of Cenzi, which they returned.
They bowed their heads to him as well, every one. Nico nodded at that. He could feel Cenzi’s presence: a heat in the core of his body and a fire in his voice.
“Cenzi has told me that I can trust you,” he said without preamble. “He has shown me the heart of each one of you, and I know you. You have taken a great risk tonight to be here, and He knows this and blesses each of you for your devotion, and I appreciate it as well. I know that you hold the Toustour and the Divolonte to be the true Word of Cenzi. I know that you feel, as I do, that leaders of the Faith have lost their way. Archigos Karrol, A’Teni ca’Paim: they have abandoned Cenzi for the secular world, listening too much to Kraljica Allesandra and Hirzg Jan and too little to the Great Voice. I tell you …”
Nico paused, looking at each of them in turn, holding their gazes. He could sense Cenzi’s power building inside him. He let it do so, let the energy sear the words he would say. They emerged from his mouth as if he were spitting red coals and fire. The words raged in the tiny, dingy room; it wreathed them with Cenzi’s anger. “Cenzi said He would give us a sign, and He has sent us an unmistakable one. He has shown us in fire, in ash, and in blood how angry He is with the Faith. It was not enough that the Faith has coddled the unbelievers, the Numetodo, who deny Him entirely. No. Now He has sent the Tehuantin, heathens who worship a false god, to punish us for having fallen away from Him. There is but one way to save us. To cool Cenzi’s displeasure and to end His punishment, we must take our Faith back. We must take back the Faith for Cenzi, and for the people who truly believe. We must take it back now!”
Nico paused, gathering the energy once again. They were listening to him, rapt in the power of Cenzi’s words. Nico drew himself up, He raised his hands and his face to the bowed ceiling. He let Cenzi take his voice fully. “It is time,” he roared. “It is time to rise up and throw off the Archigos and a’teni who refuse to follow Cenzi’s path.”
The command snapped their heads up, pulled them from their seats. For a moment, it was chaos in the room, with dozens of voices contending as Liana and Ancel tried to calm them. It was only when Nico raised his hands that quiet returned. Nico pointed to one of the war-teni, the slashes of an o’teni on his green robes. “You,” he said. “Tell me why your face is so full of fear.”
The war-teni rubbed a hand through short, dark hair. He glanced around at the others before answering. “Absolute,” the man answered. “You ask us to go against the oaths we have all taken as teni-the oaths that we made to Cenzi.”
“I know that oath. I have taken it myself,” Nico answered. “I pledged to obey the Archigos and to follow the Toustour and Divolonte, as did you. That is why I no longer use the Ilmodo even though Cenzi’s Gift burns within me. But listen to me now: it is the Archigos and the a’teni who listen to him who have broken their oaths, for they make it impossible for us to both obey them and obey the Toustour and Divolonte. If the Archigos, with his orders, demands that we break with the Toustour and Divolonte, which come to us through Cenzi, then it is our duty -as teni and by the oath we’ve all taken-to refuse to obey them.”
The o’teni was nodding before Nico finished speaking, and he turned to the others. “Do any of you have more objections? Come, let us hear them.”
One of the e’teni lifted a tentative hand, and Nico gestured to him. “Absolute, there are those who say that you only wish to be Archigos yourself.”
Nico smiled at that, clapping his hands together. “I wish to serve the Faith however Cenzi demands that I serve it. If Cenzi would one day bring me to the Archigos’ throne, then I would be a poor servant if I refused Him. But I’d also be a poor servant if I let pride and desire govern my actions.” He pointed to the teni, then let his finger sweep over all of them. “I would tell you, all of you, that you should watch me as I watch the Archigos, and if you see me ever, ever acting in my own interests rather than those of the Faith, then you should raise your voices against me. Do you wish to do that now? Do you?”
They were silent. Nico let the quiet reign, listening to the sounds of their breaths, the noise their feet made on the rough boards under their feet. Finally, he gave them the sign of Cenzi again. “I thank you,” he said. “And Cenzi thanks you. Now-listen to me. Here is what we must do…”
Rochelle Botelli
Stag fall was more beautiful than any description she’d had of it.
The palais sat in the center of hundreds of acres of mountainous forest, clinging to the side of one of the tallest slopes like a limpet, with arms of thick-hewn timbers that supported its many balconies and wings. The approach to the villa was long and arduous, the road winding back and forth across the face of the heavily-wooded and ancient mountains of the range. The switchbacks would have drawn any enemy laying siege to Stag Fall into long, vulnerable lines, and there were cliffs above many of the sections where defenders could easily send boulders, arrows, and spells down upon hapless attackers. Morning and night, thick, white mists rose from the valleys, so dense that they muffled all sound and confused any sense of direction.
The palais itself was built from rich oak and adorned with other precious hardwoods. It was polished and gleaming, its dark-paneled rooms large with huge inviting hearths that were used year-round; even in summer when Brezno would be sweltering, the nights here still held a chill. Rochelle had thought Brezno Palais foreboding: a fortress of cold stone. Stag Fall was a glimpse into another world, a forest world. Stag Fall was softer and more inviting than Brezno Palais, but it was no less formidable and no less a fortress.
A caretaker staff remained permanently at Stag Fall to care for the villa when the Hirzg or other notables were not there, but with the Hirzg and his family arriving, the permanent staff was placed under the control of the Hirzg’s personal staff. Paulus ci’Simone was no Rance ci’Lawli, and it showed in his rough and almost territorial interaction with the two staffs. Rochelle had seen Rance’s ability to smooth ruffled feathers between staffs; Pauli was far less polished, and tended to bark orders rather than listen to explanations. Rochelle witnessed it daily.
“Damn it, woman, the Hirzgin won’t eat the venison cooked that lightly. Do you know absolutely nothing about how your mistress prefers her meat? Another half-mark of the glass on the fire, at least! There should be no red left in it.”
Paulus glared at the cook, who slapped the cut of meat back onto a spit and thrust it over the open fire again. Paulus made a sound of disgust. “Rhianna!” he barked. “As soon as this incompetent has the meat acceptably cooked, make certain the meal gets up to the Hirzgin’s room while it’s still hot. She’s been waiting too long already. I can’t waste my time here any longer-I have to see to the Hirzg’s attendants now; they seem to have misplaced his riding leathers.”
Rochelle curtsied, and Paulus stalked away from the kitchen. “Bastardo!” she heard the cook mutter as soon as he was safely out of earshot. She was a stout woman of middle years, the skin hanging under her arms wobbling as she moved. “He thinks he’s already ca’-and-cu’. I’ll spit in his food tonight-see how he likes that.” The rest of the kitchen staff chuckled.
“He’s just scared,” Rochelle told her. “He knows he’s swimming out of his depth.”
“Well, he’s no Rance ci’Lawli, that’s certain, may Cenzi rest his soul,” the cook responded. She shook her head and turned the spit. Grease hissed and crackled as it dripped into the cook fire. “That was a terrible thing, his murder. The White Stone, they say. Wouldn’t surprise me if that worm Paulus was the one who hired her, just to take old Rance’s position.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial husk. “They say Rance was laid open from throat to cock like a filleted fish, and every wall of his bedroom was covered in his blood.” The skin under the cook’s chin was as loose as that under her arms; it swayed as she glanced back at Rochelle. She pushed back the red turban wrapped around her head to absorb the sweat from the kitchen fires. “Did you see any of that, girl?”
The image of Rance open-eyed in death came back to Rochelle, and she shivered. She touched the pebble in
