Enéas cu’Kinnear
SECOND CÉNZIDI. The day he was to meet with the
Kraljiki.
This is your time, your moment. This day, I will take you
up into Me and hold you, and you will be forever happy and at ease.
Today . . .
“Thank you, Cénzi,”
Enéas whispered gratefully. “Thank you. I am your servant, your
vessel.”
He had taken the
ground niter, charcoal, and sulfur; mixing them carefully together
with stale urine as Cénzi had directed him to do, until he had
created the black sand of the Westlanders. He placed the cakes of
black sand into a leather satchel, which he draped over his
uniform. He had rehearsed in his mind the spell of fire Cénzi had
given him until he knew the gestures and the chant and could do the
simple spell in the space of a few breaths. Yes, this would
demonstrate to the Kraljiki what the Westlanders could do. It would
make Nessantico realize how important and how dangerous this war
had become.
Then, finally, he
tidied the room, so that it would look neat for those who would
come to look at it afterward.
As he walked to the
Kraljiki’s palais for his audience, he let himself take in the
sights of Nessantico, absorbing everything the city he loved so
much had to offer. He strolled along the North Bank of the Isle
a’Kralji from his rooms, gazing fondly at the gated towers of the
Pontica Mordei and watching a flatboat piled high with crates slide
under its stonework span. The A’Sele gleamed in sunlight, wavelets
sparking and dancing. Couples sat with linked arms on the grassy
bank, lost in the presence of each other. A quartet of e’téni
hurried past him on their way to some task, their green robes
swaying around their ankles and the faint smell of incense trailing
after them. Enéas could hear the chaotic, eternal voice of the
city, the sound of thousands of voices speaking at
once.
He passed the Old
Temple, gazing upward at the impossible dome the artisan Brunelli
was constructing, the largest in the world—if it didn’t collapse
under the terrible weight of the masonry. He frowned once, at the
sight of a street performer who was juggling balls that he had set
aglow with a spell—that was Numetodo work, not done with the
prayers of a téni, and it bothered Enéas to see such a thing done
publicly, without any of the onlookers being upset by
it.
Archigos Ana allowed the people to lose sight of truth and
faith. She coddled the Numetodo and allowed their heresy to
spread—and that’s why the Holdings and the Faith are now split in
two and broken. I have sent the Westlanders as a sign and a
warning. Today, you will bring them a final warning for
Me.
The voice spoke low
and sinister in his head. Karl made the sign of Cénzi, scowling at
the juggler and the audience around him before walking
on.
The Kraljiki’s Palais
was white and gold against a sky that looked painted. Enéas had
been to the palais once before, as an e’offizier aide accompanying
his a’offizier to a meeting with the Council of Ca’, but this would
be the first time that he would actually be before the Sun Throne.
He gave his Lettre a’Approche to the garda at the side gates, who
scanned it, ran a finger across the embossed seal, and saluted
Enéas. “You are expected, O’Offizier cu’Kinnear,” he said,
gesturing. A servant boy came running, in the gold-and-blue livery
of the Kraljiki’s staff. Enéas followed the boy across sculpted,
polished grounds set with topiaries and flower gardens, with
several ca’-and-cu’ courtiers strolling the white-pebbled walkways.
Enéas’ guide took him through a side door and into the palais
itself, and down a corridor of pale pink marble, the floor
burnished to a high sheen and téni-lamps set every few strides,
though there was enough light coming through the windows at either
end that the lamps were unlit. “Wait here, O’Offizier,” the boy
said, pausing at a door where two gardai were standing at
attention. “The public reception is nearly over. I’ll see if the
Kraljiki is ready to meet with you.” The gardai opened the door and
the boy slipped inside. Enéas glimpsed the crowd of supplicants and
heard the quiet hush of whispered conversations; faintly, someone
was talking more loudly: a boy’s voice, hoarse and broken with
coughs. He thought he saw the Sun Throne, bright against the
shuttered half-twilight of the hall beyond. The door closed again
before he could see more.
“How goes the war,
O’Offizier?” one of the door gardai asked. “Everyone’s been waiting
for a fast-ship from the Hellins, but it hasn’t come.”
“It won’t come,” Enéas told him.
The two gardai
glanced at each other. “O’Offizier?”
“It won’t come,”
Enéas repeated. “Cénzi has already told me that.”
Another glance. Enéas
saw a quick roll of eyes. “Oh, Cénzi
told you. I see.”
“You don’t talk to
Cénzi, E’Offizier?” Enéas asked the man. “Then I pity
you.”
The door opened again
and cut off any rejoinder the man might have made. It wasn’t the
boy, but an older man, his livery marked with the Kraljiki’s
insignia. “I’m Marlon,” he said. “The Kraljiki’s ready for you.
Follow me.”
The gardai held the
doors open for Enéas to pass through. The hall was still crowded,
clustered with ca’-and-cu’ and those lucky enough to have their
names placed on the Second Cénzidi list of supplicants. They
watched Enéas enter behind Marlon, their faces reflecting mingled
curiosity and resentment as it became apparent that he was being
taken directly to the Sun Throne.
The windows of the
hall had been partially shuttered, so that the room was both dim
and sweltering. At the far end of the hall, the Sun Throne
shimmered with a sun-yellow glow, outlining the form of a young
man. Enéas had known that Kraljiki Audric was young, but still his
appearance startled him. He seemed small for his years,
barrel-chested but otherwise thin, his cheeks sunken and the
hollows of his eyes dark. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but the boy
looked more feverish than warm.
One of the Council of
Ca’ stood at his left hand: an older woman with obviously-dyed
black hair who stared at him with the predatory eyes of a hawk,
though Enéas didn’t recognize her. A portrait of Kraljica
Marguerite was set at Audric’s right hand. The impact of the
painting was stunning: Enéas had never seen anything so lifelike
and solid—more of a presence than the woman on the other side of
the throne. Enéas could imagine the Kraljica staring at him as he
came near, and the feeling was not a pleasant one. It made him want
to cradle the pouch he carried; it made him want to turn and
flee.
You cannot. I will not let you. Cénzi roared in his
head, and Enéas shook his head like a dog trying to rid himself of
fleas.
The Kraljiki cleared
his throat as Enéas approached, a liquid sound. He coughed once,
and Enéas heard phlegm rattling in the boy’s lungs. His mouth hung
half-open, and he clutched a lace cloth spotted with blood in his
right hand. “O’Offizier cu’Kinnear,” the Kraljiki said as Enéas
came to the dais and bowed. “I understand from Archigos Kenne that
you have come from the war in the Hellins with news for us.” The
Kraljiki spoke haltingly and slowly, pausing often for breath and
occasionally stifling a cough with the handkerchief. “We have heard
of your fine record in the Garde Civile, and we salute you for your
service to the throne. And I am happy to tell you that I have
signed your Lettre a’Chevaritt, effective
immediately.”
Enéas bowed again.
“Kraljiki, I am humbled, and I praise Cénzi, who makes all things
possible.”
“Yes,” the Kraljiki
answered. “We have also heard of your great devotion to the Faith,
and that you once considered a career as a téni. The Holdings are
pleased that you chose a martial career instead.”
“I continue to serve
Cénzi, either way,” Enéas told him, inclining his
head.
The Kraljiki, looking
bored, seemingly listening to someone else. He glanced over at the
painting of Marguerite and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I would think
so.” Enéas wasn’t certain whether Audric had addressed him or not.
He hesitated, and Audric’s attention came back to him. “Your news,
O’Offizier? What of the Hellins? We’ve heard nothing for over a
month now.”
“I have brought you
something,” Enéas told the Krlajiki. He patted the leather case:
gently, almost a caress. He took the strap from around his head and
held the pouch out toward Audric. “If I may approach . . .
?”
Audric nodded, and
Enéas stepped up onto the platform of the Sun Throne. Closer now,
he noticed the smell of sickness lingering around the Kraljiki: the
odor of corruption, a foulness of breath. He pretended not to
notice, handing the pouch to Audric, who put it on his lap. The
Kraljiki peered inside, putting his hand inside to feel what was
there. “Bricks of sand?” he asked, his forehead creased with
puzzlement. His nose wrinkled at the smell. “Dark
earth?”
“No,” Enéas told him
softly. “Let me show you . . .”
With the voice of
Cénzi calling in his head, he began the chant: quickly, his hands
darting. From the corner of his vision, he saw the woman at the
Kraljiki’s left startle, then step away from the throne. He heard
someone behind him in the audience shout. Audric’s mouth opened as
if he were about to speak.
Fierce fire bloomed
between Enéas’ hands. He leaned forward, held it over the open lips
of the pouch, and let it fall.
Cénzi roared His
pleasure. The world exploded into eternal light and
sound.