by R. J. Larson
News of your honor, Lord Aeyrievale, has unleashed a tempest within the Grand Assembly. Be prepared. Undeniable jealousy now inspires your father’s enemies to do their worst, and East Guard’s Lantec supporters have already suffered for championing this excursion to Parne. Those with shortsighted views now call us warmongers, naming your father as the chief instigator and you as his singular reason for risking the lives of our soldiers.
Kien growled, almost hearing Father raging from this distance. Yet a gnawing guilt bit at the edge of his thoughts. Was he partially responsible for this confrontation? Infinite? Have I judged wrongly in this? Have I acted impetuously instead of trusting You?
Silence answered. Not reassuring. Gloomily, Kien continued reading Rol’s message.
As a result, when you are summoned, you must, unfortunately, defend yourself from a point of weakness. Your personal integrity and your continued good standing with the military are vital. If you give Belaal the slightest concession—much less a victory—you will be condemned.
Truth is, we are all condemned. For speaking my mind in the Parnian matter, my home was defaced by vandals. Insult enough to make one consider invading the swamp of politics. . . .
General Rol, a politician? Not a bad idea, except that the Tracelands would lose its finest general.
After a lengthy political digression, Rol concluded:
I advise you to set aside, unopened, any official communications from the Grand Assembly, should they arrive before the Parnian conflict is finished. If the communication is hand-delivered, do not accept it, but return to East Guard as soon as Belaal is defeated. I order you to burn this parchment.
Kien dropped the parchment into his tent’s low, fiery brazier and watched it burn.
Jon muttered, “Bad news?”
“Unwelcomed, but not dire yet. I pray your wife writes convincing letters to the wives of those assemblymen.”
“She’s your sister. She’ll charm them.”
Yes. But charm had its limits. Kien sat on his cot and stared up at the tent’s sloping, oiled canopy. Was he guilty of helping to set this invasion in motion for his own purposes? Was his love for Ela—despite his honorable intentions—against his Creator’s will?
Infinite, please guide me!
Ela woke, startled, as the well’s cover scraped and echoed high above her. Zade Chacen’s distinctive, resonant voice called, “You are forsaken! Cursed as you cursed me! Dead, as you killed my sons! Do you still praise the Infinite?”
She squinted at the light above. Working her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth, she called upward, “Yes!” Her teeth chattered as she said the word. So hard that Ela clenched her jaw, not daring to say more. Yes. Should she abandon Him because He was silent?
Infinite? Will You remain quiet while I die, thirsting for You?
She blinked at the scanty tears stinging the edges of her eyes, craving His voice. The reason she’d become a prophet was for the joy of hearing Him. Yet now He seemed absent.
Was He testing her?
She repeated the verses of praise that had lulled her to sleep. You are like no other. There is no god beside You. . . .
Chacen’s gloating laughter summoned her attention once more. He overturned a bucket, dumping its contents into the well. A brittle clatter resounded against the stone walls. Dark fragments descended toward her. Ela ducked her head into her arms, shut her eyes, and screamed. Searing pains sliced into her scalp and shoulders, and fiery slashes cut along her already wounded biceps.
She sobbed through her clenched jaw. Hearing the cover thud above her, she was entombed in thick blackness once more. What had Chacen tossed at her?
Ela worked her chilled fingers through her hair, feeling warm bloodied gashes. Finding shards in her scalp.
Broken pottery. No doubt Parne’s former chief priest meant to inflict fresh wounds. Well, he’d succeeded. Blood slithered down Ela’s face, neck, and arms. Trembling with the pain, she dug for any shards remaining in her flesh, throwing them clumsily to the opposite side of the well. Why couldn’t she stop shivering? She was warmer now. Too warm, considering her continual bath in the mud. Why?
When the answer occurred to her, Ela’s shivering redoubled.
Fever. From the poisonous yellow ore.
Dying was going to be harder than she’d imagined.
Infinite.
32
Fighting impatience, Kien sat on a low stool in the royal pavilion and studied Siphra’s prophets. Lean, sharp-eyed men in plain, layered robes.
As composed as Ela when facing royalty, the eldest prophet told Akabe, “The Infinite, your Creator, commands you and your allies to obey in this. If you enter Parne, spare no one who lifts any sort of weapon against you. Whatever their appearance, do not pity them, for they will carry deceit and death, corrupting others for as long as they live.”
Prime Minister Aun frowned, pondering this order in silence. Beside Kien, Jon whispered, “This could easily go wrong for us! You know how this will be presented in the Grand Assembly. Certain parties will scream that we lifted weapons against vulnerable citizens in their own homes!”
“Yes,” Kien agreed beneath his breath. “But, remember, Belaal will butcher everyone in Parne, not just those bearing weapons. Moreover, we have the right to defend ourselves. Even a dying foe can inflict a fatal wound.” Good of Lorteus to beat this idea into him.
Akabe’s face settled in grim, unwilling lines. “What of those who do not lift weapons against us?”
The second prophet’s eyes gleamed as if pleased. “Lead them from Parne, Majesty. They are given to your care.”
Finally—an acceptable answer! Kien exhaled, relieved. Jon nodded mute agreement.
“And Parne?” the young king demanded, leaning forward in his chair. “What is the Infinite’s will for the city itself?”
“You must burn the city—it is corrupted as rotten wood.”
Kien’s stomach tightened. An understandable command. The city and its ores must be destroyed. However . . . Kien frowned. Jon spoke the truth. This whole situation could easily turn into a political mire when the dust settled. Too much didn’t align with the Tracelands’ ideals of warfare. Burn, not rebuild a beleaguered city? Kill, not subdue and assist resident civilians who’d survived a siege? Certain factions of the Grand Assembly would surely demand punishment for the Tracelands’ commanders.
Infinite? Is such destruction necessary?
The response struck Kien, so physical and immediate that he flinched.
Have you seen rebel Parnian hearts, Judge Kien? Do you comprehend their thoughts and see what they have done—what they will do, corrupting the future souls they encounter? Souls I love even now?
He managed a whisper. “No.”
Jon stared as if fearing for Kien’s wits. But the eldest prophet almost smiled. His dark eyes glittering with understanding, the prophet said, “Therefore, you must obey.”
Kien looked away from the man. One of Akabe’s advisors spoke, his voice rough. Agitated. “What of Belaal and its allies?”
The younger prophet said, “You will wait upon Belaal and attack at the given time.”
More waiting—ugh! Kien gritted his teeth, wrestling irritation and his fear for Ela.
Another advisor, thin and fussy in elaborate robes, argued from Kien’s left, “All well and good, but why has the Infinite allowed such destruction upon a city—a people—He loves?”
The elder Siphran prophet whirled upon the advisor, ferocious. “Do not think your Creator is pleased by this! He mourns! He allows these events not because He cannot prevent disaster, but because He granted mortals dominion over this realm of dust when they rebelled and strayed from His love, according to their own hearts. Now He has revealed His will to save His faithful ones. Make your choices, all of you.”
The prophet’s keen-eyed stare cut through Kien once more, raising unnerving chills. “You must live with the consequences of your decisions. Yet He will bring good from evil.”
Was there a promise within those words? Kien hoped so. Unable to restrain himself, Kien asked, “What has happened to Parne’s prophet?”
Both prophets stilled. The youngest shook his head. The elder said, “We’ve been told nothing. We pray she survives.”
Had two days passed? Three? Chills shook Ela like a dried reed in a windstorm. Her parched lips seeped metal-tasting blood where they’d split. All her wounds trickled ooze, while her swollen arms felt laden with weights. And her head pounded. An absolute battlefield of pain, but not from a vision.
She’d welcome a vision’s agony now. Anything to indicate her Creator’s presence. If she had the strength, she’d scream. Beat her fists bloody on these dark walls, demanding answers. But her voice was the barest whisper. “Infinite.” Unable to continue aloud, she thought, Where are You? I’m in torment! Haven’t I been faithful? Remember me! I’ve been mocked by my enemies. Abused by a man who once claimed to love me. Beaten by priests and my own relatives! Now I suffer alone. Day and night I’ve called Your Name. . . .
Dry heaves crushed her efforts, causing her to struggle against the hardening mud. When she could finally summon a coherent thought, Ela pleaded in silence: How have I failed?
Incandescent mist shimmered before her sleep-deprived eyes now. Green-blue in the darkness. Real? Or another hallucination offered by her fevered mind? She licked more blood from her lips and stared as the haze took exquisite form. An otherworldly masklike face. Whispering.
“Do you yet believe? Do you serve Him still? Here in your tomb . . .”
The beautiful mask multiplied, becoming many. Each questioning her softly, mirroring her terrors in an all-encompassing chorus. “Why do you wait on Him? Where is your Lord?”
She blinked at the faces. Tried to comprehend them. Not mortal. “Who . . .” Who are you?
Fevered imaginings? Deceivers taking advantage of her weakened state, trying to draw her into their realm? No. Ela recoiled inwardly. If the faces were nothing but her fever, then what would resistance matter? Yet if they existed beyond her mortal realm, becoming present to tempt her, she must fight. Snatches of verses worked through her thoughts.
“My—” Her dry mouth refused to recite. She poured the verses from her heart instead: My soul weeps for Your presence, my Lord. O Infinite, hear my cry! Deliver me from my enemies . . . scatter them with Your mighty hand. . . . I trust in You. . . .
Empty nausea seized her again. When she was able to lift her head once more, only blackness met her gaze. Tears Ela could no longer shed burned at the edges of her eyes. Infinite? Remember me—
Before she finished her unspoken prayer, fatigue took hold. Elusive sleep finally wrapped around her like a cloak, removing her from misery.
Kien sat up on his cot, shaking off sleep, a hand to his sword. What was that noise? He blinked at the day’s first gray hints of light. Bryce staggered into Kien’s tent, so unsteady that Kien jumped, an edge of horror threatening. Had he lost another servant? “Are you wounded?”
“No, my lord. Just wearied.” The man swayed.
“Sit, before you fall!” Before Kien could reach him, Bryce dropped to the floor. Kien crouched beside the man. “Are you sure you’re well?”
“Quite sure.” The servant sighed, then mumbled, “And we’re safe enough fer now.”
“You’re certain?”
“As I live, m’lord. Wouldn’t risk . . . otherwise . . .” Whatever explanation the man tried to make faded as he lost consciousness on the rough carpet.
Feeling Bryce’s pulse, Kien relaxed. Steady. The man was sound asleep. Probably sleepwalked his way here. Fine. Kien covered Bryce with a quilt, then gathered his gear. Outside, he tied his tent’s entry flaps. First, he would check Scythe. Then he would tell the king that their volunteer spy had returned.
Kien stepped back from Akabe’s worktable as Bryce strode into the royal pavilion. Garbed in clean clothes—and hopefully more coherent after a morning’s sleep—Bryce bowed to Tsir Aun and Akabe, who was seated at the table, elbow deep in official documents. Bryce also bowed to Kien, who shook his head. The servant grimaced, then half knelt before the king, offering a leather scroll. “Your enemies’ encampments, Majesty.”
A map! Would it show some Parnian failing, or a lack of oversight from Belaal—offering a way to reach Ela?
Kien crowded alongside the prime minister and Jon as Akabe unfurled the scroll over his table. Studying the map’s outlines, Akabe laughed. “Perfect! You’ll be rewarded for this, Bryce. Now, explain your map, and tell us if you have any other good news.”
“Rather, sir.” Bryce’s calm brown eyes gleamed as he pointed to details on the map. “You’ve heard nothing from the enemy because Belaal has found a weakness in Parne’s wall—here—and they’ve fixed all their attention upon sapping its foundations. Belaal is building giant catapults—here, and there. Parne’s defenders are resisting the attack on its wall, but not strongly enough.” Bryce’s elation faded, becoming solemn. “It’s clear Parne’s citizens are weakened. Their movements and defensive strategies are almost nonexistent. Once Belaal has undermined the wall’s foundation, their catapults will bring down the whole section as a rockslide. We should hear a sound like thunder when the section crumbles.”
“But then Belaal must deal with Parne’s inner walls,” Jon pointed out. Tracing the main wall’s stark line, he said, “Homes are stacked all along here, one upon another like staggered bricks.”
“Perhaps we should allow Belaal to clear some of those too.” Akabe stood and brought his big fists down on either side of the map—a triumphant, crushing gesture that shook the table. “Knowing this, we wait. Let them finish our gateway, then we attack. Within the Infinite’s will.” Settling a bit, he grinned at Bryce. “What else? Surely they know we’re here.”
“They do, sir. I heard their talk. All three camps scorn our numbers. Their forces far exceed our own, and they believe you are here to plunder Parne. They await your messenger.”
The king shrugged. “No need to distract them. Let them send the first messenger to us.”
Bryce allowed himself to smile. “I believe they will, sir. Most likely to spy about for provisions. Belaal’s supply lines are failing. While I was there, the soldiers were ordered to observe strict food rations using provisions confiscated from Parnian traders.”
Kien leaned toward the map. “If they’re rationing so severely, then we should remain battle ready and double our watchmen. It’s likely they’d attack us for food.”
Jon asked, “What about their water supplies?”
“Much as ours, sir. They’ve dug wells and every drop is measured. Drought has dried the streams. We could use a good rain.”
Curious, Kien asked, “You weren’t questioned at all?”
“Not much, sir,” Bryce said. “Belaal thought I belonged to the Eosyths. The Agocii believed I’d arrived with Belaal. None deemed me worthy of interest once they’d decided my origin. My one difficulty was lack of sleep.”
Settling into his chair once more, Akabe grinned. “You were blessed, and we are grateful for your return. Do you require anything else? More sleep?”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
Aware of the king’s counselors twitching with their impatience to return to official procedures and documents, Kien stood and nodded in correct Tracelander form. “With your permission, sir, we’ll depart.”
“Trade me, Aeyrievale,” Akabe offered with a grim smile. “I’ll run the destroyer. You sign documents.”
“A worthy try, O King.” Kien bowed his head and departed, feeling half-wild with the enforced wait. But even an all-out run on Scythe wouldn’t help. When might they save Ela?
Outside the royal pavilion, Bryce said, “Thank you, my lord, for your concern.”
“I’m not a lord, Bryce,” Kien told him. “You need not bow and treat me as one.”
“There you’re wrong, sir, and we prefer it so.”
“We?”
“Aey
rievale. And the king.”
Fightmaster Lorteus marched up, halting their conversation. Perfect.
Kien drew his sword and scowled at the man, glad for the chance to thrash someone while enduring the frustrations of waiting.
Sweat poured off Kien’s face and slithered down his chest, back, and arms, stinging his fresh waster-inflicted welts and bruises. Evade. Attack. No mercy! He feinted a lunge. Lorteus threw a low strike and betrayed an opening, chest height. Kien charged, hammered down the fightmaster’s waster, stomped it flat to the ground, and then whipped his own waster into the hollow behind Lorteus’s chin. “Swallow!” he commanded, knowing Lorteus couldn’t without difficulty.
The fightmaster bared his teeth. “Finished.”
Finally! Kien kicked the waster from beneath his feet, then lowered his own weapon just enough to allow Lorteus to step backward.
“Very good,” Lorteus approved. “Now we eat.”
Obviously nothing wholesome, by his tone. Kien braced. “What now?” A putrid stew? Rotting bread?
“Specialties from your own people.”
I have no people. Kien bit down the words, suddenly aware of Bryce at his side. Bearing a tray of brown cubed . . . cheese? And dried meat that looked as if it had been aged for several hundred years. In pig slop.
Bryce, the traitor, smiled secretively. Kien glared at the man. “Did Lorteus pay you?”
“No, sir.”
“Do I pay you?”
“Yes, sir.”
I do? “How?”
“With your revenues, my lord,” Bryce said, again with the hidden smile. “Or you will when you formally accept your place as Aeyrievale’s lord. I’m your steward and sometimes-marshal, among my other duties.”
“And, obviously, you’re displeased with the king’s choice of a potential lord if you’re offering me this . . . food.”
Lorteus chuckled, exceedingly pleased. “Enjoy your evening meal.”
Kien snapped a look at the fightmaster. Until Bryce interposed. “I dare you, sir.”