Enéas cu’Kinnear
“YOU UNDOUBTEDLY HAVE CÉNZI watching over you,
O’Offizier cu’Kinnear, though the news you carry is most
disturbing.” Donatien ca’Sibelli, Commandant of the Holdings forces
in the Hellins and twin brother to Sigourney ca’Ludovici of the
Council of Ca’, paced behind his desk as Enéas stood at attention
before him. The room reflected the man: clean and sparse, with
nothing to distract the eye. The desktop was polished, with a
single stack of paper on it, aligned perfectly to the edge of the
desk. An inkwell and pen quill were set on the other side, with a
container of blotting sand forming a perfect right angle above
them. The wastebasket was empty. A single, plain wooden chair had
been placed before the desk. The blue-and-gold banner of Nessantico
hung limply on a pole in one corner.
Ca’Sibelli, in his
office at least, allowed nothing to intrude on his duty as
commandant. There was no questioning ca’Sibelli’s loyalty or
bravery—he had fought well against overwhelming odds in the Battle
of the Fens and had been decorated and promoted by Kraljiki Justi,
and his sister had served the state in her way, but Enéas had
always suspected that the man’s brain was as sparsely furnished as
his office.
“Sit, O’Offizier,”
ca’Sibelli said, waving to the chair and taking his own seat. He
plucked the top sheet from the reports and placed it in front of
him as Enéas took his seat. The commandant’s forefinger moved under
the text as he scanned it. “A’Offizier ca’Matin will be sorely
missed. Seeing him sacrificed at the whims of the false gods those
savages worship must have been horrific, and you’re extremely
fortunate to have avoided the same fate, O’Offizier.”
Enéas had wondered at
that himself, and the offiziers who had debriefed him since his
return had often said the same, some of them with an undertone of
accusation in their voices. He’d been three days in the wilderness
around Lake Malik, avoiding Westlander villages and keeping his
horse moving north and east. On the fourth day, starving and weak,
his mount nearly exhausted, he’d glimpsed riders on a hill. They’d
seen him as well and came galloping toward him. He’d waited for
them, knowing that—enemy or friend—he couldn’t outrun them. Cénzi
had smiled on him again: the group was a small Holdings
reconnaissance patrol and not Westlander soldiers. They’d fed him,
listened in astonishment to his tale, and brought him back to their
outpost.
Over the next few
days, as word was sent back to Munereo and the order dispatched
that Enéas was to return to Munereo, he learned that barely a third
of the army led by A’Offizier ca’Matin had managed to limp home
after the chaotic retreat. Of his own unit, he was the lone
survivor. The shock of the news had sent Enéas to his knees,
praying to Cénzi for the souls of the men he’d known and commanded.
Too many of them gone now. Far too many. The loss stunned him and
left him reeling.
Now, Enéas simply
nodded at the commandant’s comment and watched as the man continued
to read, muttering to himself.
“The nahualli
were with the army, then. Our
intelligence was wrong.”
“Yes, sir. Though
I’ve fought against them many times and I’ve never seen spells like
these—fire exploding from the ground underneath us, those circles
of dark sand . . .” Enéas swallowed hard, remembering. “One of
those spells went off near me, and I don’t remember anything after
that until . . . after the battle was already over. They thought I
was dead.”
“Cénzi put His hand
over you and saved you,” ca’Sibelli commented, and Enéas nodded
again. He believed that. He’d been more and more certain of it over
the days since he’d left the Tehuantin encampment. Cénzi had
blessed him. Cénzi was saving him for a special reason—he
knew this. He could feel it. At night,
he seemed to hear Cenzi’s voice, telling him what He wanted Enéas
to do.
Enéas would obey, as
any good téni would.
“Cénzi was indeed
with me, Commandant.” Enéas felt that fervently—what other answer
could there be? He had expected to die, and yet Cénzi had reached
out to the heathen Niente and touched the man’s heart. That was the
only explanation. And despite the hunger and thirst, despite the
exhaustion after he’d left the Westlanders, in some ways Enéas had
never quite felt so invigorated, so full of life and alive. His very soul burned inside him. Sometimes
he could feel energy tingling in his fingertips. “That’s why,
Commandant, I’ve made the request to return to Nessantico. I feel
that this is the task for which Cénzi has spared me.”
There was a destiny
for him to fulfill. That was why he escaped the Westlanders; it had
been Cénzi working within Nahual Niente. Nothing more. Certainly
not the workings of their false god Axat.
Ca’Sibelli had
frowned slightly with Enéas’ last comment. He ruffled his papers
again. “I have prepared a report to send back to Nessantico,”
ca’Sibelli continued, “and a recommendation for a commendation for
you, O’Offizer cu’Kinnear. But still, we’d sorely miss your
experience and your leadership here, especially with the loss of
A’Offizier ca’Matin.”
“That’s kind of you
to say, Commandant,” Enéas answered. It was not like him to protest
in the face of orders, but Cénzi was a higher authority. “But
reports are dry things, and those in Nessantico, especially the
Regent and the Kraljiki, need to know how dire our circumstances
are here. I think . . . I believe I would be well-suited to take
the message back. I can talk directly to those in Nessantico about
how things are here. They can hear from my lips what has happened.
I can convince them; Cénzi tells me that I can.”
You will go to your leader. You will talk to him, and you
will give him a message for us. . . . He thought, for a
moment, that he heard that sentence in a great, deep voice within
his head. Enéas was too startled to speak immediately.
“Commandant,” Enéas continued, “I do understand that my place is
here with the troops, especially with the Westlanders threatening
to advance on Munereo herself. I will return here, as soon as I
possibly can, but I can give your report so much more impact. I
promise you that. I would suggest that you go yourself, but your
expertise and leadership are critical to our victory against the
Westlanders.”
Ca’Sibelli waved his
hand. The movement stirred the top papers on the desk, and he
stopped to align them again. He sighed. “I suppose one offizier
more or less isn’t going to make a difference—or, rather, I believe
you when you say you can make far more difference speaking to the
Kraljiki and the Council of Ca’ than by bearing a sword here.
Perhaps you’re right about Cénzi’s Will. All right, O’Offizier
cu’Kinnear: you will leave tomorrow morning at first light on the
Stormcloud. E’Offizier cu’Montgomeri
has my report for you to deliver; you may pick it up as you leave.
I will expect you back here with Stormcloud’s return.”
Ca’Sibelli stood, and
Enéas scrambled to his feet to salute. “You already know that
A’Offizier ca’Matin had recommended you for the title of
Chevaritt,” the commandant told him as he returned the salute. “I
have signed off on that recommendation; it will also be on the
Stormcloud for the Kraljiki to sign. I
suspect that there are great things in store for you, O’Offizier.
Great things.”
Enéas nodded. He
suspected that also. Cénzi would make certain of it.