by R. J. Larson
“Trust can be earned, and your reputation can be restored—it’s not too late. Meanwhile, learn to manage your province.”
“Like a common overseer? My dear girl—”
She glared. Oh, he was making forgiveness a serious ordeal!
Ruestock exhaled gustily. “Excuse me. I cannot help myself, seeing your exquisite face.”
Impossible man. Would forgiveness offer him a chance for true understanding of his Creator? Infinite? Silence compelled her toward mercy. “This will be your final reprieve. And before you argue your innocence, remember that men have died because of your schemes.”
“An unjust accusation!”
“Is it? Do you wish me to recite the circumstances?”
Silent and unmistakably hostile, Ruestock shifted his gaze to the roof beams.
Jailor Amak cleared his throat. “Can you prove his guilt?”
Ela shook her head. “The dead weren’t Tracelanders, sir, and I have no proof. The only thing you can punish him for is attempted robbery—yet he is Siphran.”
The jailor and Jon both looked disappointed. A sharp tap on the door caused them to straighten. Members of the city’s council filed in, men and women in long formal robes. As if eager to evade attention, Jailor Amak whisked Ruestock out and quietly closed the door.
Jon nodded to Selwin, who picked up his writing utensil, then Jon addressed the council. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice. The Tracelands appreciates your time. I am Commander Jon Thel, and this is Ela, Prophet of Parne.”
Ela noticed their shifting gazes and stances. Like children caught in wrongdoing. When Jon eyed her, prompting her silently, Ela asked, “Why are you endangering the Tracelands’ treaty with Istgard by demanding more than the Istgardians can provide? They are restoring your city as agreed. But the wall—which is something Ytar should have built generations ago—did not exist during Istgard’s attack. The Infinite demands an explanation. Why are you causing such trouble now?”
After an uncomfortable silence, a thin, officious councilwoman pursed her lips, then sniffed, “We believe they owe us a wall. We are thinking of our children.”
His tone ice, Jon said, “You’re being greedy. Your country negotiated with its new allies in mutual good faith. You accepted those terms—excellent terms! If you want a wall, you must give up at least half the new buildings. Or would you prefer to return all the money Istgard paid you in restitution?”
The council members began to squabble. Ela shut her eyes, foreseeing a long night.
A headache brought Kien into awareness. Pain. Absolute darkness. And the realization that he was drawing breath. Seaweed-scented breath, perhaps, but it was better than none. “Ugh.” His arms and legs felt unbearably heavy. Dead.
Struggling to work life into his limbs, Kien twisted within his black confines. Nauseating rotten-fish stench surrounded him, and—from the slippery, taut feel of it—mucoused muscle. Still in the sea monster’s gullet. Why was he even alive? “Infinite, why have You saved me?”
He’d deserved to die for his disobedience. Still deserved punishment. Yet now . . .
If the Infinite allowed him to live, he would fulfill his Creator’s commands, whatever they might be. He would praise the Infinite to anyone who would listen. He would listen.
He would obey.
The monster lurched, its muscles tightening around Kien as if the beast realized he was still alive and intended to crush him. The sea beast heaved, its surrounding muscles contracting with such force that Kien yelled—and regretted it amid a mouthful of seaweed-and-bile-tasting mucous. Before he could spit, the monster’s muscles constricted again. Violently. Hurtling Kien through the beast’s gullet and open jaws, shooting him like a projectile into blindingly brilliant morning light. And fresh air.
He landed face-down in hard-packed sand, earning a mouthful of grit. “Ugh!” Eyes watering, Kien spat out the sand and looked around, squinting. Breathing. Burning with pain from scalp to heel, but alive. Truly alive. He’d been heaved up on shore. Living vomit. Something he’d never aspired to be. But wasn’t it better to be sea-monster vomit than sea-monster excrement? “Infinite . . . thank You!”
His voice was a croak. A rasping mockery of itself. He coughed, cleared his throat, then hacked mucous, his entire body screaming with the effort. Undeserving of existence. “Thank You!” Trembling, Kien prostrated himself on the sand and wept. “I failed! I deserved no mercy yet You pardoned me!” He felt his Creator’s presence now, cloak-like and calming, surrounding him. Promising a new beginning. Divine and unmerited amnesty to a headstrong rebel. “Whatever You command, I will do! I am Your servant!”
As his eyes adjusted to the sun’s brightness, Kien finally looked out at the ocean. The sea beast was thrashing amid the onrushing blue-green waves, working itself into deeper waters. A unique, beautiful creature . . . armored scales, crest, and fins shimmering in iridescent pearl hues. He watched the beast depart, marveling at their Creator’s handiwork and His forgiveness.
Weakened by his ordeal, Kien dropped onto the sand, dragged his sea-infused cloak about himself, and shut his eyes. He blessed the Infinite again. Then dozed. Until a cackling voice called out, “Looks sun-fried an’ near gutted to me!”
Sun-fried? Near gutted? Kien willed himself into alertness, fear making his heart pound. Surely he hadn’t survived the digestive tract of a sea monster only to be attacked by ruffians.
Cautious, praying his movements were hidden by his cloak, Kien slid a hand along his belt. Yes, there was his dagger and the sword, both safe in their scabbards. Though he barely had strength to wield the dagger. He hoped the ruffian wasn’t clever enough to perceive the truth.
In one desperate move, he flung aside his cloak and sat up, aiming his dagger at the source of the voice. “Stand back!”
A wizened old beachcomber, clad in a bunchy, stained linen tunic, skittered backward, scrawny arms upraised, his dark eyes bugged in fear. “Aw, no! We mean no harm.”
“Keep it that way!” Kien growled.
The beachcomber fled, shoving a scrawny boy ahead of him. Fast for being so emaciated.
Kien paused, hit with remorse. Had he reacted too hastily—threatening the man when he should have sought their Creator’s will? Infinite, I’ve already failed my resolutions! Forgive me. . . .
Kien slid his dagger into its sheath, then noticed his hands. Red. Wrinkled. Skin peeling like a molting reptile’s, as if he’d been burned. No wonder he was in such pain. Horrified, Kien touched his face, his raw fingertips grazed areas of loosening flesh over his nose and cheeks.
So the old beachcomber’s sun-fried an’ near gutted observation was understandable. As was his fear. But the flesh beneath the molted surface seemed intact—though searingly tender. Truly, until his flesh healed . . . he was a freak.
Queasy, Kien inspected his gear. The various silvery metals on his new sword and the few coins in his pouch gleamed as if freshly polished. However, his leather scabbard and coin pouch looked faded, weatherworn, and waterlogged. As did his boots. Ah well. Once they dried, they’d be fine. For shoveling manure. Which was approximately what he smelled like right now.
He hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the gritty squish of liquid and sand in his boots. He could only imagine what his feet must look like. No, better not to imagine the feet.
Kien suspected a thorough dousing in water—even salt water—was necessary. Obviously, sea-monster gut juices weren’t healthful, and the thought of allowing them to dry on his skin and clothes sent a shudder down his spine. Trudging toward the waves, Kien checked for carnivorous aquatic creatures, then dropped into the surf, almost yelling at the water’s vicious sting as it met with his raw skin. His flesh seemed ready to slide off his body. Which brought up another thought. Were his garments falling apart?
Kien inspected his frayed, fading cloak, and saw holes in his now-discolored tunic and leggings. His garments had been almost new when he left the Tracelands. Now he’d be mortified to
give them to a beggar. No doubt his vagabond appearance offered the ultimate lesson in humility. “And well deserved,” he told the Infinite. “Please forgive me if I forget and complain.”
After diving beneath the waves for a final tormenting rinse, Kien hurried onshore. His stomach was growling now. Loudly.
He hoped his innards weren’t peeling.
As he wrung out his cloak and drained his boots, trying to ignore his reptile-skinned feet, Kien looked around. Was that a city wall in the distance? “Infinite? Forgive me, but there’s no one else to ask, since I’ve frightened the locals. . . . Where am I?”
Adar-iyr.
Adar-iyr? That thoroughly disreputable island-kingdom off the coast of Siphra? An island-kingdom filled with the dregs, the lowermost scrapings of mortal life, all of whom indulged—if the stories were true—in every sort of corruption. Murders and fleshly depravities worthy of any Atean enclave. Kien hesitated, suspecting bad news. “Will I travel home from here?”
No. I brought you to Adar-iyr to offer you another chance to obey My will.
Yes. He would obey, no matter what the Infinite requested. But curiosity nagged at him, accompanied by irrepressible wonderment. “You gave the sea beast directions?”
Blaring trumpets woke Ela. As Tzana stirred beside her in the quilt-heaped bed, Ela hauled herself upright, straightened her robes, and stumbled to the window of their rented room. Shoving aside the wooden latch, she opened the shutter and blinked at ruddy dawnlight. Echoes of more trumpets vibrated through the air. A young man ran down the street, his voice raised in shrill panic. “Soldiers! Banners! Ytar is under attack!”
“Infinite!” Ela flung on her mantle, swooped up the blanketed Tzana, grabbed the branch, and rushed outside.
9
As Ela ran barefoot across the slab-paved street to Jon and Beka’s lodgings, Tzana hugged her neck, demanding, “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” Infinite? Any hints? Praying, Ela shifted Tzana and the branch in her arms and pounded on Jon and Beka’s door until a vision sent her staggering into the wooden doorpost.
Beka, already garbed in her robes and boots, opened the door, grabbed Ela’s arm, and hauled her and Tzana inside. “Ela! What’s happening?”
“I just asked the Infinite the same thing.” Ela pressed a hand to her aching head.
Finished buckling his sword, Jon leaned down to stare her in the eyes. “Obviously you’ve received the answer. Looks like a painful response. Is the situation serious?”
“Potentially. We must hurry.”
While Jon donned his cloak, Beka frowned at Ela’s bare feet like a dictatorial big sister. “Where are your boots?”
“I’ve no time to lace them on. You’ll have to endure my rustic appearance.”
“It seems I must.”
Deep hoofbeat reverberations thundered from a distance, drumming through the walls, the noise making Ela wince. Tzana whooped in Ela’s arms. “Pet’s coming!”
Ela crossed to the window. “The destroyers have broken out of the stables—they’re fetching us.”
Jon muttered, “Yes. And I suppose we’ll be billed for the stable doors.” He marched outside.
Beka pinned a deep blue mantle around her shoulders, then joined Ela. “Ready.”
They dashed into the street, just as all three destroyers rounded a far turn, looking half-wild. Fearful for Ytar’s already panicked citizens, Ela raised the branch. “Walk, you three!”
Pet slowed at once, but Jon’s rascal horse, Savage, rumbled in complaint, while Beka’s elegant mare snorted angrily. Beka called, “Audacity! Stop fussing. Come here, and kneel!”
Audacity obliged, allowing Beka to climb onto her back, but she gave Ela a sidelong look, as if considering her a spoilsport.
Ela boosted Tzana onto Pet, who’d also knelt though he twitched with impatience. Beyond them, Jon vaulted onto Savage’s back, then called to Ela, “Which way?”
“West, toward Istgard!” But she had no need to explain “west” to the destroyers. The instant Ela grasped Pet’s mane, the monster warhorse stood and trotted down the street, his sonorous huffs chasing pedestrians out of their way. Savage and Audacity kept pace, in obvious agreement with Pet’s sense of direction.
Jon yelled, “Trust destroyers to scent a conflict. Ela, where are we headed?”
“To meet the household of Istgard’s new prime minister. Not a military force.”
“But it’s evidently been perceived as one, given all the uproar.” Jon’s expression tightened as if appalled by the confrontation’s potentially awful outcome.
Equally horrified, Beka gasped, “Ytar will be at fault if the prime minister dies!”
Ela nodded. “Which is why we must prevent an attack.”
They rode through Ytar’s western district—a pristine collection of buildings, all recently rebuilt by Istgard’s funds. Agitated citizens, mostly older men, women, and boys, streamed from Ytar, carrying swords or pikes and congregating in the bordering field. Battle ready.
Across the field, Ela spied the prime minister’s household. The riders had halted beneath their green and gold banners, seeming taken aback by the hostile crowd.
A chill of nerves prickled Ela’s arms. She wouldn’t die here, that much was certain. Her lot was cast in Parne. But knowing she would survive Istgard didn’t guarantee that Ela and Tzana and the Thels would escape injury. Nor were the destroyers safe. The Istgardians, however, were most at risk, judging by threats snarled from amid the crowd.
A ruddy-faced woman brandished a rusted pike toward the visitors, her eyes burning with hatred. “They started this!”
“Murderers!” a young man yelled.
Tzana leaned back against Ela, her small voice clear and worried. “Why is everyone angry?”
“Because the people of Ytar believe something that isn’t true,” Ela said. “Pray that they don’t behave even more foolishly.”
Obedient, Tzana tucked down her chin and shut her eyes, praying.
Jon swept a look over the throng and called to Beka and Ela. “We split up and prevent them from advancing. Beka to the left, Ela to the right. Be careful, please!”
“Yes, dear,” Beka answered, chin up and shoulders back. “Heed your own warning!”
While they rode out to confront the makeshift army, Ela breathed, “Infinite, please don’t let anyone die.” She edged the crowd and coaxed Pet into the open field to face the Ytarians. As Pet stomped and snorted equine threats, the branch sent out spirals of warmth and light. Hoping to convey calm authority, Ela lifted her voice. “I am Ela, Prophet of Parne. All of you, lower your weapons and disperse! Ytar is not being invaded. The warmongers who attacked you are dead—buried in your own fields. You are threatening a private household that intends only good!”
A burly man argued at the top of his lungs, “Good?” He spat. “They’re from Istgard! And I say—”
At the front center of the crowd, Jon interrupted the man’s tirade. “Use your brains! Think! You see the Istgard banners, yes, but where are their shields? They are not soldiers and have no plans to attack you! If you harm this family and its servants, you will disgrace the Tracelands and jeopardize your futures. All of you, lower your weapons and disperse!”
Their warnings—not to mention the branch’s formidable glow and three irate destroyers—subdued the crowd. Some members of the makeshift army edged away.
His voice echoing, Jon continued. “Anyone foolish enough to advance will be arrested. If you survive our destroyers!” More would-be combatants retreated from the throng.
Over her shoulder, Ela glimpsed a solitary gray-cloaked rider on a destroyer, approaching from the Istgard party. With marvelous composure, the rider raised a broken pike with a banner of gold-edged white gossamer trailing from its shattered tip. The gossamer banner, obviously a woman’s sacrificed veil, rippled in the breeze like a delicate testimony, avowing the visitors’ peaceable intentions.
Seeming convinced by this femini
ne frippery, most of the Ytarians lowered their weapons and stared.
The dark-eyed, powerfully built Istgardian surveyed the throng without expression. When the last swords and pikes were lowered, his gaze finally rested on Ela. She exhaled gratefully, delighted to see him again. Istgard’s prime minister was a most honorable man—as well as being her former guard, and one of the few people who’d protected Ela, Tzana, and Kien during their imprisonment in Istgard. “Tsir Aun!”
Dignified as ever, Tsir Aun said, “Parnian. I should have expected to see you in the midst of such commotion. Can you never stay out of trouble?”
“I’m not the one causing trouble,” Ela argued, squelching a smile. “But you will, Prime Minister, if you dare insult me.”
The prime minister allowed a trace of amusement to ease his stern, handsome features. “Indeed. If I insult you, my beloved wife will trouble me for the remainder of my short existence.” He flicked a look at Jon. “May I address the welcoming committee?”
Jon coughed. “By all means, sir. But try not to provoke them further.”
“Four destroyers can hold this pitiable army in check,” Tsir Aun muttered. He slid the makeshift gossamer banner into a holder on his destroyer’s intricate war collar, removed a scrolled parchment from his belt, and then commanded his destroyer. “Wrath, walk. No biting.”
Wrath snorted and took a few steps toward the crowd.
The Ytarians backed away. At least twenty men and women turned and fled into the city. In the crook of Ela’s arm, Tzana straightened and frowned. “That destroyer wouldn’t really eat them. Why are they running?”
“They’re not as brave as you,” Ela said. “Hush now and listen to Tsir Aun.”
Unhurried, Tsir Aun halted Wrath and lifted the scroll and his voice. “Good citizens of Ytar, I am Tsir Aun, Istgard’s prime minister. This is your most recent list of complaints concerning our plans for rebuilding your city. I’ve traveled here because I wish to personally discuss this list with your council and reach a consensus before continuing the work.”