Judge

by R. J. Larson

  “I’ll be silent as the dead,” Kien promised. He suppressed a sudden chill as he fastened his new black-bound scabbard onto the belt. What if he was a prophet and had just foretold his own demise? “Actually, sir, I won’t be here to ruin the fun or to enjoy it. I’m leaving for ToronSea this afternoon.”

  “ToronSea—that barnacle on a rock? Whatever for?”

  “At the Infinite’s command. I’m supposed to seek the Infinite’s followers there and correct them. And I’m told I’ll need to warn some Ateans in the vicinity to seek the Infinite.”

  Rol frowned. “The Infinite, eh?” While the general had never professed belief in his Creator, he didn’t deny the Infinite’s existence. “Not that I’m questioning matters, but isn’t this Ela of Parne’s role? She’s the prophet and messenger, my boy—the little kingdom-shaker. Or have you turned prophet as well?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Good. I hope not either. I commissioned you for military duty. Your job is to negotiate treaties with our foes and our allies! And to represent the legal interests of our enlisted men. Not to dabble in soothsaying. Is that understood?”

  Soothsaying? Kien wasn’t entirely sure he liked that designation. “Understood, sir.”

  Rol lifted a silver eyebrow and stared at Kien’s jaw. “Did you cut yourself with a razor?”

  A tinge of heat swept Kien’s face. He focused on sliding the new sword into its scabbard. “Yes, General. I was interrupted while shaving.”

  “You worry me, Lantec. I ought to confiscate that sword until I’m certain you can handle it. How long will you be gone?”

  “About five days.” Kien hoped the estimate was realistic. Six weeks was the extent of his military leave. If he spent almost two days’ travel each way and one day in ToronSea itself, he could look forward to almost five weeks of courting Ela. With enough time to practice bow-hunting and racing destroyers with his brother-in-law, Jon.

  The general’s voice quieted. “This won’t involve a local revolt or other such commotion, will it?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” Kien admitted. “I haven’t received much information beyond orders to depart today.”

  “A need-to-know basis, eh?”

  “Not even that much, sir.”

  “Not good.” The general puffed out a breath. “I’ve heard reports of trouble around ToronSea. Robberies and such. Are you certain there’s no chance of military involvement? Do I need to cancel your leave?”

  “Yes, sir. And no, sir!”

  “Hmph. I’m denying all knowledge of this if the worst happens, Lantec. Fair warning.”

  “Fairly warned, General.”

  “And don’t lose your sword. Otherwise, you’ll be in chains when we catch you.”

  Chains? Memories resurfaced of his months as a political prisoner in Istgard, the Tracelands’ neighboring country to the west. Kien shuddered. Before suffering imprisonment again, he would run—or fight. “Agreed, sir.” Did this mean the general had granted unofficial permission for Kien to take the Azurnite sword with him to ToronSea? Well, he hadn’t explicitly forbidden Kien to take the sword. Another unarticulated command from a superior. Splendid.

  Rol’s suddenly dour expression reflected Kien’s own dissatisfaction. “Keep me informed of events in ToronSea. Discreetly. We can’t have our own citizens taking offense, eh?”

  “No, sir.” Kien bowed and took leave.

  Outside, Scythe was clomping in agitated circles around the huge chaining block. He halted and stomped as if urging haste. Kien released Scythe’s chain and latched it to the beast’s huge leather war collar. “Easy. We’ll visit Ela now.”

  Climbing the war collar’s narrow rungs, Kien seated himself on Scythe’s quilt-padded back. The instant Kien shoved his booted feet into the collar’s footholds and gathered the reins, his destroyer charged ahead like an arrow shot from a bow.

  “Hey!” Kien gripped a handhold on the war collar and caught his breath. At this speed, the beast would trample someone in East Guard’s streets. He tightened the reins. “Scythe, what’s your problem? Slow down!”

  The destroyer didn’t respond. His hoofbeats thundered through the streets and echoed off the stately pillared public buildings with such force that Kien’s ears rang. On the stone-paved street ahead, citizens shrieked and scattered in justifiable fear for their lives. A black-robed scholar tripped, but managed to scramble out of Scythe’s path.

  Seeing civil lawsuits and fines in the making, Kien bellowed, “Walk!”

  Scythe walked, but he trembled and groaned. Clearly his agitation indicated more than simple fury at being chained during Kien’s visit with the general. Only one thing could throw a destroyer into such emotional turmoil—a master in danger. As current master, Kien was certainly shaken but not in much physical danger. Therefore, Scythe’s other master must be suffering. Perhaps dying. Sweat lifted on Kien’s skin. “Ela!”

  Gritting his teeth, Kien held the destroyer to a reasonable pace through the city of East Guard. But as they approached Temple Hill’s broad wood-shaded slopes—beyond the city’s jurisdiction—he leaned forward, braced himself, and gave the huge horse free rein along the dirt road. “No trampling anyone. Go!”

  Trees shivered and swayed into a blur as Scythe bolted up the hillside road. Breathing in massive gusts, the warhorse crested Temple Hill and dashed into its broad clearing, slowing only when he rounded the temple’s ruins. A cluster of girls screeched and scattered from a mat in the sunlit grass, leaving four figures in Scythe’s path. Kien called to the destroyer, “Walk!”

  Scythe growled, but obeyed.

  Studying the four ladies ahead, Kien immediately recognized his sister, Beka, with Ela’s diminutive sister, Tzana, and Ela’s spry self-appointed chaperone, Tamri Het. All three were kneeling beside Ela, who lay curled up on the mat.

  Ela . . . As Kien dismounted, Scythe cautiously nuzzled Ela’s ashen face.

  Crouching next to his sister, Kien asked, “What happened?”

  Beka’s eyes brimmed with tears. “She lost all color, then whispered to herself and fainted. But before fainting, she screamed. Oh, Kien, I’ve never heard such a scream!”

  Tzana rubbed a gnarled little hand over her sister’s arm as if trying to coax Ela awake. “She’ll wake up soon, I think.”

  Kien pressed his fingertips against Ela’s cold wrist. The slightest pulse imaginable threaded beneath his touch. Ela’s eyes flickered beneath her eyelids. Kien unpinned his cloak and—as Scythe grunted approval—he draped the warm fabric over Ela. He didn’t like her deathly pallor, or the chill of her skin. But at least he knew what had knocked her unconscious. “She’s inside a vision. Though I’ve never seen one hit her with such force.”

  The other girls were returning now, casting wary, tearful glances at Scythe. “He won’t hurt you,” Kien promised. “He’s worried about Ela.”

  “As if we’re not?” one of the girls sniffed, just a hint of indignation edging her voice.

  Alarmed by the girl’s tone, Kien eyed her. Recognized her. Lovely and spoiled Xiana Iscove. With Nia Rol—the general’s daughter. Kien suppressed a wince. Wonderful. If Ela wasn’t in such torment, he would run. A battlefield was more enticing. His parents wanted him to marry one of these girls.

  Never. Wouldn’t happen. Not even if Ela’s lessons and exemplary character improved her students tenfold.

  He kept his gaze on Ela and waited, praying aloud. “Infinite, restore her, please.”

  One of Ela’s hands rested just outside the cloak’s dark edge. As Kien started to tuck his cloak around those limp fingers, a blue-white light flashed within her bloodless palm and took the shape of a thin, iridescent, weathered vinewood staff.

  Kien stared. The prophet’s branch—Ela’s insignia. He’d seen the branch transform itself before, but he didn’t know the sacred object could simply materialize from nothing. Amazing . . .

  The branch’s glow intensified, exuding warmth. To Kien’s relief, Ela clenched the branch fierc
ely, gasped, and opened her eyes. One of her younger students burst into tears.

  Ignoring the commotion, Kien leaned forward. “Ela?”

  Ela blinked and took another breath. No. She didn’t want to live. Not if living meant facing Parne. She shut her eyes tight and willed herself to perish.

  “Ela?” Kien’s voice beckoned, low and so concerned that Ela’s longing to die faded. For now at least. Was Kien here? She feared opening her eyes. Kien might vanish. Then the vision of Parne would reappear.

  Warm, soggy destroyer breath wafted over Ela’s cheek, followed by the light grazing nudge of an equine muzzle. Scythe . . . Pet.

  The destroyer licked her cheek and throat, his wet tongue so raspy that Ela raised a defensive hand. “Pet,” she mumbled, eyes still closed, “No licking.” Destroyer drool. Ick. At least his breath was sweet. Like flower petals. And warm tree sap. She concentrated on petals and tree sap. More tolerable than her vision of Parne’s ruin. Smoothing the destroyer’s soft muzzle, she asked, “What have you been eating?”

  “My mother’s garden,” Kien said, also real.

  Ela looked up at him—his beautiful gray eyes. Appealing lips. No-no. Not prophet-like, allowing herself to be captivated by his handsome face and charming soul. Think of something else. Yes. Scythe had feasted in Ara Lantec’s perfect garden. “The whole garden?”

  “Every petal and leaf. With the exception of five spice-gum trees.”

  “Oh, Pet!” Tzana scolded Scythe, disappointment weighing her little-girl voice. “You ate all the flowers?”

  “All of Mother’s flowers?” Beka asked, horrified.

  Scythe gave a trifling sniff and looked away. At any other time, Ela might have laughed.

  Kien scowled at the destroyer. “Naturally you’re unconcerned, you monster. You aren’t paying for the damage. Are you?”

  Trying to be hopeful about the garden at least, Ela sat up. Her senses wavered, forcing her to support herself with the branch. “Perhaps Pet . . . Scythe . . . simply gave all the plants a severe pruning and everything will be even lovelier next spring.”

  “Trampled and splintered plants aren’t pruned.” Kien leaned forward, turning grim. “And you, Parnian, are avoiding a subject we actually want to discuss. What did you see in your vision?”

  Xiana Iscove’s bored expression brightened. “Yes, please tell us!”

  Aware of the listening girls, Ela touched her sister’s frail shoulder. “Tzana, could you bring me something warm to drink, please?” Just remembering the vision chilled her, despite Kien’s heavy cloak.

  Beside Tzana, Tamri said, “What am I thinking? Naturally, you’d need something warm to drink after such a shock. We’ll hurry. Tzana dear, come help me.” The older woman stood, so nimble that Ela envied her. What was it like to be eighty? Truly eighty. She could only wonder. She’d never experience old age for herself.

  “Thank you, Tamri.” The instant Tzana was beyond earshot, Ela said softly, “Parne is now in open rebellion against the Infinite and has been judged. I need to warn my family and friends—and anyone who will listen. Perhaps they’ll survive.”

  All five girls stared at her, incredulous. Beka frowned, her long-lashed brown eyes narrowing. “Survive what?”

  “The siege.”

  “A siege?” Kien’s expression turned cold. Soldierly. “When? And besieged by whom?”

  “In one month. The country of Belaal will bring its army against Parne first, with two allied tribal nations—the Agocii and the Eosyths—seeking control of Parne’s wealth and resources. They’ll be followed by the countries of Istgard and Siphra, with a smaller force from the Tracelands, all hoping to defeat Belaal.”

  “Istgard? And Siphra!” Kien shook his head. “No. You must be mistaken. Belaal and its neighboring tribes, I understand—they’re constantly creating turmoil, north and south. But not Istgard and Siphra. They’re our allies! We’d know!”

  Kien doubted her? How dare he! Just what she didn’t need. Ela tugged his cloak from her shoulders and wadded it into his arms, not caring if she died of the cold. She’d have to face death anyway. “Yes, Istgard and Siphra! They’ll want to protect their own interests during the siege, as will the Tracelands.”

  Scythe nudged Kien and whickered concerned-destroyer noises.

  Kien shoved the warhorse’s muzzle away. “Ela, Istgard and Siphra have no interests in Parne! Why would they? If I’d—”

  As if Parne was nothing? Oh! “They do! Istgard and Siphra must protect their own borders, particularly if Belaal acquires more gold and weapons to support its attacks! I notice you’re not very concerned about the Tracelands’ involvement!” Why was he arguing with her?

  Nia Rol gasped, making Ela look at her. “Father would have said something, I’m sure, if we were planning to invade Parne. . . . Not that I listen to everything, mind you, but . . .”

  When Nia’s half-coherent protest faded, Kien said, “I’m not concerned about the Tracelands, because if our allies are involved in any military action, then of course we’ll support them.” He hesitated. “Are you telling me that you’re going to Parne, knowing it’ll be under siege? Ela, I forbid it!”

  “No you don’t!” She wanted to wallop him with the branch. Who did he think he was? Didn’t she have enough trouble without his misguided interference? Pet bumped her, exhaling an anxious rumble. Ela leaned away from him and scowled at Kien. “I’m Parne’s prophet. I have to go, whether or not you approve.”

  “Ela—!”

  “Kien!” She stood. Swayed.

  Kien jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm. She shook him off. “Stop!”

  “No. Listen to me! You don’t need to—”

  “You listen!” As Ela aimed the branch at Kien, the destroyer stamped and snorted as if prepared for battle—then nosed his way between them. Ela cried, “Pet, move! I want to beat your master!”

  The destroyer groaned and stood his ground.

  3

  Ela wanted to beat him? Kien scowled, stepping backward as Scythe muscled him away and then halted, blocking Kien from Ela. Didn’t Ela realize he was concerned for her safety? If she would just listen to his suggestions!

  Beside Kien, Beka grabbed his sleeve. “Look, you’ve upset your destroyer.”

  “He started my morning by upsetting me,” Kien argued. He shoved at the destroyer’s huge black shoulder. “Move, you lummox!” Naturally, the beast didn’t budge. But his powerful muscles were twitching. Wildly. Adopting a calmer tone, Kien called out, “Ela, he seems certain you want to injure me. Do you?”

  “Trust your destroyer!” Ela yelled. “You’ve basically said I don’t know what I’m talking about!” To Scythe, she said, “Pet, never mind. You stand right where you are!”

  The giant horse shut his eyes and groaned again. Probably because she’d called him Pet.

  Unseen, some of Ela’s students were now giggling. Xiana’s too-cheerful voice cooed, “Oh, beat him a little, Ela. He deserves it!”

  Kien fumed. Was Xiana referring to Scythe, or to him?

  Beka tugged at Kien’s sleeve, clearly irked. “You two cannot give your destroyer conflicting orders. You’ll drive him insane!”

  Kien opened his mouth to snap a reply at his sister, then paused. She was right. And Ela was right. But that didn’t make him wrong. His training in diplomacy took hold. Kien sat down, looked past the destroyer’s immense black hooves and legs, and studied the opposition. Ela’s face wasn’t visible, but he saw her fingers restlessly tapping the branch. Then she aimed a fierce kick at a fold on the mat. Bad-tempered little prophet. With pretty feet. At least she seemed mostly recovered from her vision.

  Keeping his voice reasonable, he called, “Ela, I’m leaving for ToronSea this afternoon, and I’d prefer to depart with blessings from the prophet of Parne.”

  Ela’s hands and feet stilled. She thumped the branch against the mat and bent to stare at him. “ToronSea? But . . . why? You’ve just returned home!”

  She sounded lik
e his mother. She’d miss him. Kien grinned. “You’re the prophet. You tell me.”

  Ela sat down and shut her eyes, evidently questioning the Infinite. Her students sat on either side of her, whispering, then smiling at him and Beka from their side of the destroyer.

  Beka sat next to Kien and hissed, “What’s this about ToronSea?”

  “Listen,” he muttered. “You won’t believe it.”

  Apparently finished communing with the Infinite, Ela opened her dark eyes and stared at him, horror-struck. “You’re being sent to ToronSea in my place. Because I’m going to Parne.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But . . . we don’t know what you’ll be facing!” Whatever color she’d recovered faded.

  Kien realized she didn’t like it one bit that he would confront danger on the Infinite’s behalf. He wanted to say, Now you understand how I feel about you being caught in a siege. But tormenting Ela wouldn’t gain the answers he sought. “I only know that I’m leaving today. Any advice for a temporary prophet?”

  Her voice distant, shaken, she simply said, “You must obey the Infinite.”

  “That’s the reason I’m going,” Kien pointed out. He instantly regretted his challenging tone, half expecting to see Ela fling the branch at him like a javelin.

  Instead, she rubbed a hand over her face, seeming dangerously close to tears. Worse than a makeshift javelin, as far as Kien was concerned. Could she be overwhelmed by fear for him? It was pleasant to think Ela loved him enough to be distraught.

  After a pause, she looked up, addressing the destroyer. “Dear rascal, you can move now. We’re finished quarreling.”

  The destroyer ambled away, but lingered at the closest clumps of shrubs, still watching.

  Tzana returned, carrying Ela’s rough mantle. Tamri followed with a ceramic goblet of steaming liquid. Ela wrapped herself in the mantle, then nestled Tzana in her lap. She thanked Tamri and accepted the goblet, but made no effort to drink. Kien wished she would. She looked almost lifeless.