A Magic Of Nightfall Part 5

The effort made him groan.

"Archigos . . . Kenne . . ." Each word came out in its own separate breath accompanied by a rattling wheeze; he could do no better than that.

"Kraljiki," the Archigos said. "Please don't move. I've come to pray with you." Audric saw Archigos Kenne glance concernedly at the Regent. "Archigos Ana had a . . . special relations.h.i.+p with Cenzi that I'm afraid few teni can match, but I will do what I can. Lie back as comfortably as you can. Close your eyes and think of nothing but your breathing. Focus only on that. . . ."

His breath was racing, gasping. He could feel his heart lurching against the confines of his ribs. He could take only the smallest sip of precious air. Audric closed his eyes as the Archigos began to pray. Archigos Ana, when she came to him, would pray also, and she would gently place her hands on his chest. It was as if he could feel her inside him. He could hear her voice in his head and feel the power of the Ilmodo burning in his chest, searing away the blockages and allowing him to breathe fully again. She wrapped him in that interior heat, her voice chanting and yet at the same time speaking in his head. "You'll be fine, Audric. Cenzi is with you now, and He will make you better again. Just breathe slowly: nice long breaths. Yes, that's it . . ." Within a few minutes, he would be breathing naturally and easily once again, an ease that at first lasted months, but more recently only a few weeks.

Now, with Kenne, Audric heard the man's half-whispered prayers only with his ears. There was nothing inside at all. There was no warmth spreading throughout his chest. These were only the prayers of an old man, outside him and spoken in a quavering voice. There was no sense of the Ilmodo, no tingling of Cenzi's power-or perhaps there was, but it was so faint that Audric could barely feel it. Maybe there was warmth, perhaps the painful bellows of his lungs were moving slightly easier. Audric tried to take a deeper breath, but the effort sent him into spasmodic, dry coughing that made him hunch over on the bed. His eyes opened, and Marguerite frowned in her painting. He saw that fine droplets of blood had sprayed the blanket.

"You must fight this, Audric. If you die, our line dies, and with it our dream of Nessantico and the Holdings. . . ." He saw Marguerite's painted lips move, heard the voice that he had always imagined she would have. "You must fight this. I will help you. . . ."

Sergei had moved quickly to his side; he felt the Regent's strong hand on his back, heard him call sharply to Marlon. A cloth dipped in cool water was pa.s.sed to him. Audric took it gratefully, touching the fabric to his lips. He could taste the sweetness of the water. And yes, he could breathe somewhat better. "Thank you, Regent," he said. "I'm much . . . better now . . . Archigos." His own voice sounded distant and dull, as if someone were half-covering his ears. It was Marguerite's voice that was clearest.

"Listen to me, Audric. I will help you. Listen to your great-matarh. . . ."

Archigos Kenne nodded but Audric could see the doubt in the man's eyes. "I'm sorry, Kraljiki. Archigos Ana . . . I know she could do much more for you."

Audric reached out to touch the man's hand. Kenne's skin was cool against his own, and dry as old paper. "I will be fine," he told the man. "I think . . . I have found the way."

The portrait of Marguerite smiled her lopsided smile at him, and he smiled back.

"There is too much for you to do to die. . . ."

"There is too much for me to do to die," he said to her, to them. It was both promise and threat.

Varina ci'Pallo.

IN THE DAYS WHEN SHE'D first joined the Numetodo, when she'd been a lowly initiate into their society and first met Mika and Karl, the Numetodo House had been a shabby house in the midst of Oldtown, masked by the squalor and filth of the buildings around it.

Now, the Numetodo House was a fine building on the South Bank, with a garden and burnished grounds out front and gates bordering the Ave a'Parete-a gift from Archigos Ana and (more reluctantly) Kraljiki Justi for their aid in ending the Firenzcian siege of the city in 521. Their more s.p.a.cious and lush accommodations helped to make the Numetodo more acceptable to the ca'-and-cu', but it had also made them more visible. In the past, the Numemtodo met in secret, and most members kept their affiliation a secret. No more. Varina had no doubt that all those who entered through the gates were noted by the utilino and Garde Kralji who constantly patrolled the Avi, and that information was funneled to the commandant-and from him to Sergei ca'Rudka, the Council of Ca', and the Kraljiki.

The Numetodo were known-which was fine as long as their beliefs were tolerated. But with the death of Ana, Varina was no longer certain how long that might be the case. Her fears drove her back to her research. . . .

Despite the paranoid rumors among the conservative Faithful, the bulk of the Numetodo research had nothing to do with magic at all: they were experimenting in physics and biology; they were creating beautiful and elegant mathematical theorems; they were delving into medicine; they were exploring alchemy; they were examining dusty tomes and digging at ancient sites to recreate history. But for Varina, it was magic that fascinated. What especially intrigued her was how the Faith, the Numetodo, and the Westlanders approached casting spells.

The Numetodo had long ago proved-despite the angry and sometimes violent denial of the Faith-that the energy of the Second World didn't require belief in any G.o.d at all. Call it the "Ilmodo" or the "Scath c.u.mhacht" or the "X'in Ka." It didn't matter. That realization had dissolved whatever remnants of faith Varina had when she first came to the Numetodo.

"Knowledge and understanding can be shaped by reason and logic alone; it's just not easy or simple. People created G.o.ds to explain the world so we didn't have the responsibility to figure things out ourselves." She'd heard Karl say that in a lecture he'd given, years ago when she was first considering joining the Numetodo. "Magic is no more a religious manifestation than the fact that an object dropped from your hand is going to fall to the ground."

Yes, the teni of the Faith and the Westlanders both used chants and hand motions to create the spell's framework, yet each of them had a different underlying "belief" which allowed them to harness the energy of magic. What the Numetodo realized was that the chants and hand motions used by spellcasters were only a "formula." A recipe. Nothing more. Speaking this sequence of syllables with that set of motions would net this result.

But the Westlanders . . . Varina hadn't met Mahri the Mad, but Karl and Ana had, and the tales of the Westlander nahualli from the h.e.l.lins had only verified what Karl and Ana had said of Mahri. The nahualli were able to place their spells within objects, which could then be triggered later by a word, or a gesture, or an action. Neither the teni nor the Numetodo could do that. The Westlander spellcasters called on their own G.o.ds for spells, as the teni did with theirs, but Varina was certain that Westlander G.o.ds were as imaginary and unnecessary as Cenzi and his Moitidi.

If she could learn the Westlanders' methods, if she could find the formula of just the right words and hand movements to place the Scath c.u.mhacht inside an inanimate object, then she could begin to duplicate what Mahri had been able to do. She'd been working on that, off and on, for a few years now. Worry drove Varina more than ever now: over what Ana's death meant to the Numetodo; over Karl's deep grief, which tore at Varina as much as her own.

If she couldn't understand why people would do such horrible things to each other, she would at least try to understand this.

She was in a nearly bare room in the lower levels of the House. On the table in front of her was a gla.s.s ball she'd purchased from a vendor in the River Market, sitting in a nest of cloth so it wouldn't roll. The ball had been inexpertly made; a curtain of small air bubbles ran though the center of it, the gla.s.s around them discolored and brown, but Varina didn't care-it had been cheap. Varina chanted, her hands moving: a simple, easy light spell, one of the first tricks taught to a Numetodo initiate. Weaving a light spell was effortless, but pus.h.i.+ng it inside the gla.s.s-that was far, far more difficult. It was like pus.h.i.+ng a hair through a stone wall. She could feel fatigue draining her strength. She ignored it, concentrating on the gla.s.s ball in front of her, trying to imagine the power of the Scath c.u.mhacht moving into the gla.s.s in the same way she would have placed it inside her own mind, visualizing the potential light deposited around those bubbles deep inside the gla.s.s, placing the release word there with it as a trigger.

The spell ended; she opened her eyes. Her muscles were trembling, as if she'd run for leagues or been lifting heavy weights for a turn of the gla.s.s. She had to force herself to remain standing. The ball was sitting on the table, and Varina allowed herself a small smile. Now, if- The ball began to vibrate, untouched. Varina took a step back as it rang like a gla.s.s goblet struck by a knife, there was a coruscation of brilliant yellow light, and the globe shattered. She felt a shard hit her upraised arm and she cried out.

"Are you all right?" She heard the voice behind her at the doorway: Mika. The Numetodo leader walked quickly into the room, shaking his balding head and rubbing at the close stubble on his chin. "You're bleeding, and you look like you haven't slept in a week." He pulled a chair over to the table and helped her sit down.

Varina lifted her arm-it felt as heavy as one of the marble blocks of the Kraljiki's Palais-and examined the cut in her foream. It was long but not deep, and Varina pulled a sliver of gla.s.s from the wound, grimacing. A thin line of blood ran down the arm toward her hand; she ignored it. "d.a.m.n it." Varina closed her eyes, then opened them again with an effort to look at the table: the globe had broken nearly in half along the curtain of bubbles, and the cloth on which it had been set was littered with gla.s.s fragments. "I was so close."

"I was watching," Mika said. He glanced at the shattered globe. "I thought you'd finally done it."

"I thought so, too." Varina shook her head. "But I'm too tired to try again."

"Just as well," Mika said. "I came down to tell you: Karl's back at his own apartments."

Varina c.o.c.ked her head quizzically. "I thought he was staying with you and Alia and the kids for the time being."

Mika shrugged. "Said he was fine, that he needed to get back to his own life. Needed to get back to Numetodo affairs and his work as Amba.s.sador."

"You don't sound like you believe that."

"I think . . ." Mika pressed his thin lips together. "Those are excuses. He's hurt and he's angry, and I'm not sure what he's going to do. I think he needs someone with him, to talk with him if he wants to talk, to make sure he's okay and that he doesn't do anything foolish. Ana's death has. .h.i.t him harder than he'll admit."

Mika went silent, and Varina felt that he was waiting for her to respond. But it was hard to just hold her head up. Blood dripped from her finger to the floor; the severed halves of the gla.s.s globe glinted accusingly at her in the lamplight. "I guess I could send Karoli or Lauren over," Mika said into the silence.

"I'll go," Varina said. "Just give me a few minutes. I have to clean up."

Mika grinned. "Let me help you," he said.

Jan ca'Vorl.

JAN LIKED FYNN. He wasn't sure how his matarh would feel about that.

Matarh had told him how she'd never known Fynn, how he'd been born only a few months after Archigos Ana had kidnapped her from Hirzg Jan's tent on the battlefield. When he was a child, Jan hadn't understood all the implications of that; now, he thought that he finally began to understand the dynamics of the relations.h.i.+p between older sister and younger brother, twisted and distorted by their vatarh's vanity and pride. He could understand how 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 h.e.l.lins, 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 a.s.suming 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 h.e.l.lins, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 h.e.l.lins' 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 head tentatively; his hair was crusted with dried blood and his fingers could feel the jagged outline of a long, deep cut. Eneas started to feel sick. He let his hand drop, closed his eyes, and took long, slow sips of air until the nausea pa.s.sed, reciting the Prayer of Acceptance to calm himself. He opened his eyes again, looking carefully around.

There were rippers everywhere; in the dim moonlight, the field seemed alive with them, the ground humped with the black hills of Eneas' fallen companions and their horses. The sickening, wet, tearing sound the birds made as they fed on the bodies was one he knew would haunt his nightmares forever. Far off, down the slope on which he sat, Eneas could see the gleam of a campfire, and around it the dark shapes of people moving. There was another sound, fainter: singing?

The figures outlined in the flame wore feathered devices on their heads, Eneas saw. They were Westlanders, then. "Tehuantin," as they called themselves. All the bodies around him wore the gold-trimmed uniforms of Nessantico, black with blood and dim moonlight rather than the brilliant blue they should have been.

We lost. We were slaughtered here, and those in Munereo may not know the outcome yet. Cenzi, is that why You saved me, so I could warn them . . . ?

Eneas tried to move; his legs didn't want to cooperate, and he realized that one leg was still trapped underneath the horse he'd been riding. As silently as he could, he pushed at the carca.s.s, shoving against it with his good leg, and eventually the leg came free. His ankle was swollen and tender; he wasn't certain he could walk on it.

He found his sword half-buried in the mud an arm's length away. He shoved the filthy blade into the scabbard lashed to his belt. Grimacing, he crawled toward the flames, half-dragging himself around the destrier.

Part of him screamed warning. He was moving toward the enemy; they would kill him if they saw him. The a'offiziers all spoke of how the Westlanders had walked the battlefield after Lake Malik, how they'd killed all the gardai who were still alive but crippled or badly wounded. Those who were only slightly injured they'd taken captive. The whispers of what they'd done to them were far, far worse.

The bonfire-immense and furious-crackled at the bottom of the slope, and gathered around it were Westlanders: thousands of them, while smaller fires dotted the landscape past the great conflagration where they were encamped. Eneas saw a group of horses lashed together to one side of the bonfire, a bit away from those seated around the flames.

If he could not walk, he could still ride.

The journey seemed to take ages. The stars wheeled around the Sailing Star, the moon rose to zenith and began to fall, the rippers continued their long b.l.o.o.d.y feast. Exhausted, Eneas rested behind the s.h.i.+eld of a pile of logs. The horses nickered nearby; he could smell them and hear their restless movements. The singing was louder now, a low-pitched and dissonant melody, the words they were chanting strange and unknown: a thousand voices, all singing together. The drone was maddeningly loud; the music vibrated in his chest and seemed to make the ground itself shake. He could see the Westlanders: skin bronzed like those from Namarro, their bamboo armor set with iron rings clas.h.i.+ng as they sang and swayed. The ma.s.sive logs of the pyre collapsed, sending sparks roaring upward.

One of the Westlanders at the front of the ranks rose to his feet and strode forward, raising bare muscular arms. Like the others, he wore a bamboo helmet adorned with bright, long feathers. A large, beaten silver plate lay on his chest from a chain around his neck, adorned with painted figures: that identified the man as one of the Westlander offiziers. His singing faded as he proclaimed something in a loud voice. Two more Westlander warriors came forward from the darkness on the other side of the fire, dragging between them the bloodied form of a man. The head lifted as they came into the firelight, and even at his distance Eneas recognized A'Offizier ca'Matin. He'd been stripped to the waist, and now they forced him to his knees in front of the Westlander offizier. Eneas heard ca'Matin praying to Cenzi, his face staring up at the sparks, the stars, and the moon, anywhere but at the Westlander.

The Westlander spoke to ca'Matin as he removed an odd device from a pouch on his belt. Eneas squinted, trying to see it as the offizier held it up, displaying it to the gathered troops. A short, curved barrel like the horn of a bull gleamed the color of ivory, the device set in a wooden handle. The offizier proffered the device to ca'Matin, handle foremost. When ca'Matin took it, his hands shaking visibly, his face uncertain, the warrior turned the ivory horn-Eneas heard a distinct, metallic click-and stepped back. He made a gesture as if he were reversing the device, then touching the tip of the horn to his abdomen. Ca'Matin shook his head, and the Westlander offizier sighed. His face seemed almost sympathetic as he took the instrument and reversed it in ca'Matin's hands. He nodded encouragingly as he pushed ca'Matin's hands back. The horn touched ca'Matin's stomach.

There was a flash that illuminated the entire landscape as if by a lightning stroke, and a booming thunderclap that drowned out Eneas' involuntary cry and sent the horses whinnying nervously and pulling against their hobbles. Ca'Matin's eyes and mouth went wide, though his expression seemed strangely ecstatic to Eneas, as if in his final moment Cenzi had touched him with glory.

Ca'Matin toppled, the device falling from his hands. His stomach was a b.l.o.o.d.y cavity, torn open as if a clawed fist had ripped him apart. Gore and blood spattered the ground underneath him, as well as the legs of Westlanders around him. The Westlander offizier raised his hands again, as the singing began once more. With a strange reverence, the two soldiers who had brought ca'Matin to the fire now wrapped his body in a cloth dyed with bright colors set in geometric patterns. They hurried the bundled corpse away into the shadows.

Eneas forced himself to move again, more desperately now. He didn't know what sorcery had been forced on ca'Matin, but he had to find a way back to Munereo: to warn them. Help me do this, Cenzi. . . . He began to crawl toward the horses. If he could pull himself up on one and throw his injured leg over . . . They might pursue him, but he knew this land as well as the Westlanders, perhaps better, and night would cover him.

He was to the horses now. These were captured Nessantican destriers, fitted with the livery he knew well, and more importantly, still harnessed with their bits and saddles. They were slower than the Westlanders' own steeds, but hardier. If he could get enough of a head start, the Westlander horses might tire before they could catch him.

With Cenzi's help . . .

Eneas unhobbled the legs of a large gray, keeping the animal between himself and the fire. The destrier nickered, showing the whites of her eyes in the moonlight, and Eneas whispered softly to her. "Shh . . . shh . . . It's all right . . . You'll be fine . . ." He grasped at the straps of the saddle and pulled himself upright, keeping weight off his injured ankle. He took the reins in one hand, stroking the animal's neck. "Shh . . . Quiet, now . . ." He would have to balance himself at least partially on his bad ankle to get a foot into the stirrup; gently, he put the foot on the ground and slowly gave it weight, biting his lower lip in his teeth at the pain. He could do it, for a moment. That was all it would take. . . .

He lifted his good foot and put it in the stirrup. A wave of knife cuts lanced from his ankle up his leg as for a moment it held all his weight, and the agony nearly made him faint. Desperately, he swung the bad leg over the horse's spine, almost crying out as the ankle slammed against the animal's thick body on the other side. But he was on the destrier now, half-laying on the mount's thick, muscular neck. He flicked the reins, kicking with his good leg. "Slow . . ." he told the gray. "Very slow now. Quietly . . ."

The gray tossed her head, then began to walk away from the other horses, heading back up the slope and away from the firelight and the encampment. The singing of the Westlanders covered the sound of iron-clad hooves on the ground. As soon as he was in the darkness again, as soon as he could put the shoulder of one of these hills between himself and the Westlanders, he could kick her into full gallop.

He was beginning to dare to think it was possible.

He nearly didn't notice the shape that moved to his left, the fragment of darkness that suddenly lifted and hurtled itself at him. He caught only a glimpse of a grim face before the man struck him from the side and bore him off the saddle. Light flared behind his eyes as he struck the ground, and Eneas screamed with the pain of his tormented leg, twisted underneath him. He heard the destrier galloping away, riderless, and then the shadow of a Westlander warrior was standing over him, his arm raised, and Eneas fell again into the dark.

Allesandra ca'Vorl.

"I WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE for my wife, A'Hirzg. She . . . well, the subject of the Witch Archigos always upsets her. They have a . . . history together, after all. Still, she should not have been so outspoken at dinner last night, especially toward you as the host."

Allesandra nodded to Archigos Semini. They were seated on a viewing platform high on a slope behind the Hirzg's private estate-the palais at Stag Fall, well outside Brezno. They faced east, the platform overlooking a wide, long meadow of tall gra.s.s dotted with wildflowers. There, below them, they could see a cl.u.s.ter of figures and horses: Fynn, Jan, and several others. On either side of the meadow, in the tall fir forest, drums echoed from the flanks of the steep, verdant hills that formed the landscape: the sound of the beaters, herding their prey toward the meadow and the waiting Hirzg.

Behind Allesandra on the balcony, servants bustled about with drinks and food as they set a long table for dinner. Otherwise, Allesandra and the Archigos were alone; all the other favored ca'-and-cu' who would be dining with them that evening were with the Hirzg's party in the meadow. Allesandra had little desire to be in such close proximity with her brother for that long. She wasn't certain why Semini had remained behind at the palais-Francesca was in the meadow with the others.