by R. J. Larson
Rit grumbled. “Ya could’ve spoke a cup for me, seein’ how I’m runnin’ yer errands.” But he ambled off, the coins in his fist.
Kien eyed the Siphran coins. Most likely they’d been brought into the Tracelands by Siphra’s Atean faction. “I see you carry Siphran coins. I’ve heard ToronSea has accepted refugees after the Siphran crisis.”
Chully shifted on the bench. “‘The Siphran crisis.’ A pretty way to say it, yes.”
Giff glanced over his shoulder at the inn’s other occupants, then gave Kien a frown. “You said you’re a general’s judge or some-such. Why are you here? What have we done that the military is interested in ToronSea?”
“The military isn’t interested in ToronSea.” Kien leaned forward. “The Infinite is.”
Chully snorted. Giff stared. Rit returned with three steaming mugs and a grin. “There, y’are! Steeped char root with syrup. I’ll bring our stew in a blink or three.”
“Thank you.” Kien chose a random mug and hoped it wasn’t poisoned. He sipped, then set down the mug and waited. No burning. No throat-closing. No giddiness. He drank a bit more.
And he watched his reluctant hosts. Mentioning the Infinite had made them nervous. Chully drank. Giff cleared his throat. “What would you–with your military sword and your fine East Guard speech—know of the Infinite?”
“Enough to ride here at His command for almost two days in the rain, when I’d rather not, to speak to people I’ve never met.”
Chully paused, holding his mug in midair. “Meaning us?”
Was the man going to throw the drink at him? “Do you follow the Infinite?”
“Some people have honor enough to follow the ancient ways,” Giff muttered.
“And some don’t,” Chully added, with a scowl at Giff that threatened a clash.
Kien took another drink, evaluating his argumentative hosts. They seemed to be friends, though with a few unsettled quarrels. Not helpful. Perhaps he’d been too certain of finishing this business tonight. Even so, he must hurry matters. “If I need to speak to those leading the Infinite’s faithful here in ToronSea, where would I go to find them?”
Giff remained silent. Chully thumped his now-emptied mug on the table. “Why?”
His patience thinning, Kien said, “Because they’re being tempted to follow the ways of the Atea-worshipers from Siphra. The Infinite sent me to warn any strays that He is displeased.”
Both men stared at him as if he were the bumbling Rit. Giff leaned forward. “You’re claiming to speak for the Infinite?”
“Will you listen if I do?”
Chully laughed. “What if no one believes you?”
“That is their problem.” Kien supposed it would be counterproductive to pull out his sword again. Though the impulse intensified as the irritating Rit trotted over, bearing a tray. With a flourish, Rit displayed four wooden bowls of thick stew, spoons, a round loaf of bread on a board skewered by a knife, and a slender clay pitcher. He thumped the bowls, spoons, and bread on the table and plopped himself on the bench beside Kien.
“So, my Otris dealt ya a wallop?” He chortled, seeming pleased by the thought.
“Yes. Fortunately, I’ve survived.” Kien watched as Rit lifted the miniature pitcher and poured a golden stream of sauce over his stew and—without asking—over Kien’s. Fermented, oily fish sauce by the smell of the stuff. Was it considered rude in ToronSea to refuse the local food? Kien stirred the sauce into his stew, then lifted a spoonful, hoping that hunger would make this mess edible. Not bad. Hearty. Flavorful and a bit salty.
Encouraged, he spoke to Chully and Giff again, determined to speed along his mission in order to seek help in Siphra for Ela. “I was also instructed to speak to certain refugees you’ve sheltered here.”
Rit swallowed, then stuck his spoon into the stew, where it remained upright. “Why? Ya sound as if it’s a bad thing that we’ve offered a home to th’ poor Siphrans.”
“Whether it’s a bad thing or not depends on the Siphrans themselves, doesn’t it?”
“Well, ye won’t find ’em here tonight.” Rit lifted his spoon. “They’re at worship, with some from the town. Otris’s taken by their ceremonies.”
Chully was frowning. “Quite taken, it seems. I’d wager he’s abandoned the night watch.”
“Not that it matters,” Giff added. “He’s caused enough turmoil for one night.”
Had Otris forgotten to tend Father’s horse? Even if the poor beast couldn’t match an eyelash to Scythe, it deserved a thorough grooming and proper food. Not to mention that all of Kien’s gear was still tied to the creature. He swallowed the last of his stew, then stood and bowed his head slightly toward the others, taking leave. “Which way to the public stables?”
Chully grunted. “Four houses to the right, turn, then three buildings to the right.”
“Thank you.” Kien lifted his cloak from the peg near the door, flung it on, and hurried outside. The rain had departed, leaving a fog that misted his face and hair. Counting his way past the houses, then turning right, Kien rushed down the street and found the stables.
Worse, he found them unbarred and unattended. If Father’s horse was missing—
Inside, an oil lamp barely glimmered within a stone niche high in one wall. Kien waited until his eyes had adjusted, then checked the stalls. Father’s horse was in the third stall, evidently untouched and still bearing Kien’s gear. Sighing with relief, he unburdened the creature, groomed it, then found water and hay. Good hay, he noted. Sweet scented and dry. Enough like East Guard’s that he needn’t fear colic, he was sure. A sick horse couldn’t carry him to Siphra.
Finished with the horse, Kien shouldered his gear and trudged from the stable. Good thing Otris was honest. Or, more likely, distracted by the chance to escape night watch in favor of the Atean ceremonies.
The ceremonies. Was Otris in attendance?
Kien paused in the misty night, listening intently. Nothing. He walked farther into the town until remote chanting caught his attention. Repetitive, almost lulling rhythms echoing from a wooden slant-roofed structure, unlike the other stone structures in ToronSea. Surely these were the Ateans.
Kien glanced around. No one. And the mist would obscure anyone trying to see him from a distance. He placed his gear in the darkness beneath a tree, then crossed the clearing before the slant-roofed structure and studied its walls. Several narrow backlit ventilation slats gleamed just beneath the roof’s edge, but there were no windows. To be expected.
Ritual strangulations demanded concealment.
Obviously, if he wished to halt any murderous rites, then he ought to approach the door as anyone else would. Thin slivers of light showed beneath the door and near its hinges. Kien focused on those slight gaps at the hinges. He crept up the stone steps and leaned down, shifting until he gained a fractional view of the hall’s interior.
Lamps rimmed what he could see of the walls. As for the worshipers . . .
Granted, he saw no evidence of ritual strangulations being performed. But murder was, perhaps, the only thing Kien didn’t glimpse within the hall.
As the pulse-beats of the chants intensified, some of the worshipers ran blades over their arms and chests, allowing blood to flow down their skin. Others were disrobing and indiscriminately reaching for partners. And there was young Otris, reveling in the midst of it all.
Kien winced and turned away from the door. This was Atean worship? An orgy of bloodletting and intimate intermingling?
Appealing rites, in the most primitive way. Provided one didn’t, or couldn’t, consider the potentially dire disease-sharing consequences of such licentious behavior. Shuddering, Kien hurried to collect his gear. He felt unclean, longing to scour those fragmented images from his eyes and his thoughts.
No wonder the Infinite had sent him here.
Tomorrow, he must deal with the Ateans. Lifting his knapsack, Kien gritted his teeth against the stabbing ache in his shoulder and against images of the worshipers cape
ring through his thoughts.
How could he speak to those reprobates civilly with such dissolute images frolicking in his mind?
Impossible!
If the Ateans said or did anything offensive tomorrow, he would run them from ToronSea at sword point.
6
Seated outside the inn’s benches in the early morning light, Kien watched Chully and Giff’s bleary faces as he told them of the Atean rites. “Believe me, I know what I saw, and I wish I hadn’t seen it. Otris was cavorting with them, unclothed.” Both men flinched, clearly squeamish at the thought. Kien continued. “Who knows how many of your young people will be lured into this licentious behavior? The Ateans will corrupt this town—and others—if they remain.”
Giff rubbed his hands down his unshaven face, then sighed. “We considered it an act of mercy to shelter them after everything they’ve suffered.”
“You have only their word that they suffered. Did they appear to be starved, mentally tormented, or beaten when they arrived?”
“No,” Giff muttered.
“Send them away!” Kien urged, impatient to be gone himself. “Those of you who follow the Infinite should have nothing to do with them.”
Giff shook his head in apparent disbelief. Beside him Chully looked up at the gray skies, tight-lipped. After an instant of heavy silence, he said, “We’ll consider what you’ve said.”
“Don’t consider. Take action!”
Now Chully glared. “Who are you to be rushing in here and telling us how to manage our town? What if I tell you that the citizens of ToronSea voted to allow these refugees to live here, eh? What if I tell you that we regard it as a point of honor to provide sanctuary as we’ve promised?”
“You were not in possession of all the facts,” Kien argued. “What will happen to honor when all your citizens are disease-pocked and the Ateans have usurped control of your town and thrown you out?”
“They haven’t yet!” Chully snapped. “And Tracelander you might be, but you aren’t one of us, so back off and let us manage our own concerns!”
Not good enough. Kien growled. “Who is your mayor?”
Silent, Giff nodded toward Chully, who folded his big arms and lifted his chin.
Forcing down his frustration, Kien tried another angle. “Who leads the Infinite’s followers in ToronSea?”
“My family,” Giff admitted, as if the words cost him something. “But—” A hint of defiance crept into his voice. “From what I’ve heard all my life, we’re the last of the Infinite’s faithful in the Tracelands. No one else honors the ancient ways, and our gathering isn’t much more than my own kindred. Which means the Ateans outnumber us. Moreover, we haven’t found them to be dishonorable in their dealings with us.”
Giff was siding with them? Undoubtedly beguiled by the Ateans’ ways. Kien measured his words. “You’d allow them to remain, though they’ll ultimately corrupt your town?”
As Giff shrugged vague agreement, Chully said, “Listen. You and the others from up north have no right to meddle in our affairs here. We say they stay unless they give us good reason to cast ’em out. Until then, Judge, leave us alone.”
“If that’s all you have to say, then I’ll repeat my message to you, Giff, from the Infinite. He’s displeased that you and some of His followers are beguiled by the Ateans. He reminds you to be faithful to Him and seek His will.” Kien bowed to the men, knowing the motion was as sarcastic as his words. “By-your-leave, sirs.”
Scowling, Kien strode toward the Ateans’ stark sharp-roofed wooden hall. He would deliver the Infinite’s message to the first Atean he saw, then return to the inn, gather his gear, and ride out of this place to seek help in Munra for Parne.
The Ateans’ hall seemed unremarkable this morning, its edges softened in the gray mist, its newness already faintly weathered by the ocean’s salt air. Laughter echoed toward Kien from within the building. An agreeable sound. But agreeable laughter or not, he wasn’t about to set one foot inside that structure.
Kien leaned against a young tree in the green open space before the hall and watched, fingering the hilt of his Azurnite sword. The voices, men’s and women’s, lifted in idle-sounding chatter and amiable taunts. Soon, a man and a woman, both simply clad in flowing gray and green robes, stepped outside and headed for a nearby lean-to, which was filled with wood.
As they returned, arms full, Kien intercepted them at the hall’s entry. The woman smiled at Kien and the man started to speak, but Kien aimed his warning at the pair like a verbal weapon. “The Infinite sees your failings and seeks your deluded hearts. If you’re wise you will hear Him!”
They both gaped. Kien turned away. Done.
He marched toward the inn, determined to forget ToronSea. Stubborn, foolish . . . !
Turn right.
“What?”
The Infinite repeated the command in Kien’s thoughts, calm and deliberate. Turn right.
Kien turned, baffled. Wasn’t his designated task here finished? “Do you want me to walk down this lane?”
Yes.
Why? Kien strode along the designated road, a pleasant-seeming route of mist-veiled stone houses and towers, many edged by evergreens and moss. He hadn’t realized ToronSea was so quaint and rustic. The farther he walked, the more Kien wished he had a better opinion of the place. It would have been an excellent vacation town.
Before long, the rhythmic liquid hiss and tumult of ocean waves crashing against rocks met Kien’s ears. A brisk air current whipped his hair. “How far should I walk?”
He shouldn’t have asked. An invisible hand gripped his unbruised shoulder and forced him onward. The sensation was akin to the day Father had caught Kien’s three-year-old self dropping Mother’s best dishes one-by-one for the pleasure of seeing and hearing them shatter on the kitchen’s stone floor. But this was worse. The stern, invisible grip informed Kien that he’d be unable to cajole his Creator into excusing him as easily as he’d charmed Father.
Did you follow My orders?
Hadn’t he? The unseen hand was propelling him onto a cliff. “I thought I did.” Kien’s own thoughts rebuked him now, like tattletale traitors: You acted as you pleased. You said what you thought and did more than you were commanded. You spoke in hatred and haste! You didn’t consult your Creator! Your attitude was the same as any rebel’s!
Despite the mist and the chill breeze, he began to sweat.
The Infinite gave him a scruff-of-the-neck shake. Did you seek My direction before pronouncing your verdict upon random Ateans, Judge Kien?
“No.” He’d spoken to the wrong Ateans. . . .
Do you believe that you have a better understanding of mortals than their Creator? Can you see their souls, Judge? Do you perceive their hearts?
“No.” Kien was within a foot’s width of the cliff’s edge now. The water below was visible despite the mist. Dark, angry waves foamed against the stones, dashing upward like living things striving to climb up that rocky wall. To snatch at him. Like claws. Actual seafoam claws. Kien felt his knees weaken, but the Infinite held him upright.
What is the proper sentence for one who has disobeyed Me?
In a whisper nearly drowned by the raging surf, Kien said, “I don’t know.”
Death!
The hand swept him off the cliff, casting him sideways, far into the mist.
When the breathtaking momentum of the Infinite’s blow faded, a sickening wave of vertigo curdled his stomach, and he fell toward the hissing, raging sea. Kien gasped. Was this how he would die? Infinite! Forgive me. . . .
Dark waves rushed at him, seething.
He hit the water boots first. Brine bubbles swept over his face and into his nostrils as he sliced deep into the ocean. Above the surface, the clouds parted. The sun’s glow suddenly pierced the waters . . . and illuminated an eye as large as Kien’s head. An immense sea beast’s silver iris, its dark pupil reflecting Kien. Seeing him. Perhaps considering him a meal.
Hit by sunlight, the monster
’s iris contracted in a flash, its pupil suddenly a thin slit of ominous black in a pale iridescent circle.
Jolted, Kien stared into that fearsome giant eye and resisted panic. Infinite?
No answer. His lungs constricting, Kien struggled backward in the water. Unfood-like, he hoped. Would wielding an Azurnite sword make him appear dangerous? Difficult to digest? At most, Kien guessed he could blind that colossal eye, and hack at one of those tough pectoral fins. Not enough to kill the creature. Even half blind and minus a bit of flesh, the beast could still swallow Kien whole.
And there was the risk of dropping the sword—he’d never recover it in this ocean.
Air. He needed air. Would he seem too much like prey if he worked toward the surface?
Cloak and boots dragging at him, Kien pushed upward, away from the beast. In the current below, the perverse creature swung about, aligned itself alarmingly beneath Kien’s feet, and swept toward him.
No! Kien kicked, fighting to reach the surface. A shoal of slender crimson fish dashed around him, their panic mirroring his terror.
Below Kien, the beast opened its mouth. The cavernous yawning maw surged toward him, sucking him into darkness within the thud of a heartbeat. Mingling Kien with tiny flapping fish and a sludge of seaweed. Surrounding him with the beast’s slippery interior—the horrific give of living muscle.
This is how he would die. . . . Smothered and digested within a sea monster’s gullet.
Suffocating, Kien tugged at his sword. If he could somehow cut through the beast’s belly—but the monster’s guts tightened around Kien, constricting his arms.
A sickening downward plunge in his own belly told Kien the creature was swimming toward the ocean’s floor. Away from air and light. And any hope of survival.
Ela had warned him to obey. Ela!
With the beast’s descent, a crushing pressure clamped around Kien. Intensifying. Overwhelming him until he expelled his final breath in a scream.