Judge

by R. J. Larson

  A challenge to his courage. Kien sighed at the vile-looking cubes. “What is it you’re trying to feed me?”

  “Dried Aeryon meat and Bannulk cheese.”

  Helpful for once, Lorteus offered, “Ulk is the sound you’ll make just before you puke up the cheese.”

  Perhaps. But Lorteus had never swallowed sea-beast bile while inside the beast. Surrounded by rotting fish, no less. Kien deliberately recalled the taste and smell of bile, then chewed a cube of the acrid cheese. Close enough. He swallowed. And waited. Unpleasant, but not threatening a digestive revolt either. Surprising. He bit off an edge of the Aeryon meat. Harsh. Salty and leathern. With a tongue-grating mineral aftertaste. Only slightly better than the cheese. He frowned at Bryce. “You’ve eaten this?”

  “All my life, sir.”

  “No wonder you volunteer to invade enemy camps alone. You’re trying to kill yourself to avoid Aeyrievale’s food.”

  Bryce laughed. “No, my lord. I’m fond of Bannulk cheese. And of Aeryon meat when we kill one of the beasts. But Aeyrievale is not a typical fief. Takes a bit of courage to live there.”

  “Which is why they’ve had no lord for years,” Lorteus said. Helpful again.

  Kien scowled but asked Bryce the next, most logical question. “What happened to your last lord?”

  “The last true one? Murdered, my lord. By King Segere and Queen Raenna—may they rot forever.”

  It was the first time Kien had seen Bryce’s air of calm disrupted. Hatred of Siphra’s former king and queen glittered in his eyes. “Their designated lord—an idle, pretty man and no true lord—died within a week of his arrival. Of a fall.”

  “A fall?”

  “Yes, sir.” Calm again, Bryce said, “The designated lord disregarded my advice and fell off a cliff trying to escape an aeryon.” As if to reassure Kien, Bryce said, “You seem more level-headed, my lord.”

  Comforting. “Bryce, you and Aeyrievale cannot depend upon me to become your lord. I’m a Tracelander. We do not accept titles or honors of nobility.”

  “We ask you to not set aside this bequest lightly, sir. We need you. Without a lord, our revenues are divided up by the former favorites of Segere and his queen. You would put a stop to such abuse. You would also command the funds to control the aeryons.”

  Not asking for much, were they? Only his heritage, his future, and possibly his life. Unable to disappoint Bryce immediately, Kien sighed. “I’ll consider what you’ve said. Meanwhile . . .” He nodded toward Parne and lowered his voice so Lorteus couldn’t hear. “The woman I love is trapped behind those walls. Until she’s safe, we won’t discuss this again.”

  “Understandable, sir.”

  “Bryce, how close is Belaal to bringing down the wall?”

  “Mere days, unless the Parnians muster better defense tactics. So those walls and a battle stand between you and your love.” Bryce sighed. “May she survive.”

  Survive. The very word he’d say to Ela if he could. Just survive.

  While he risked his own future to reach her.

  33

  Standing outside his tent, Kien drew in a slow breath. Moisture imbued the nighttime air. “There’s a scent of rain,” he called over his shoulder to Bryce. Moreover, the stars above them were vanishing. Clouds. Kien’s thoughts soared as a raindrop splashed against his face. Infinite! Be merciful—send us a downpour! Perhaps some of Parne’s misery would be eased. “We should set out every possible container to catch the rainwater. It’ll ease our rationing!”

  “I’ll tell others as soon as we’ve finished here, sir.” Bryce immediately snatched cooking pots, pitchers, cups, even tarps and fabric. Kien helped him arrange everything in front of the tent. As they set out the last utensils, a torrent of rain splatted onto Kien’s scalp. Thank You! He tore off his cloak, boots, and outer tunics and stashed them with his weapons inside his tent. A shower would be worth running around half-clad.

  Bryce laughed at him but followed his example, then darted off to alert others.

  Kien hurried to Jon’s tent. “If you’re sleeping, brother, you’d best wake up and bathe!”

  After an instant, Jon emerged, his shadowed outline disheveled. His voice sleepy. Disgruntled. “What are you talking about?” He halted, put out a hand, felt rain, and whooped. Kien helped him place every available container and tarp in front of his tent. Then they raced off to alert Akabe.

  Seeing them, Akabe chuckled, obviously glad to interrupt his late-night council meeting. “You Tracelanders are insane. Armies are supposed to reek!” But he followed their example, horrifying his loitering council members by stripping off his royal insignias and grabbing potential water vessels. The dignified men argued until Akabe said, “Don’t expect me to share my water with you later! And if you stink, but I do not, you’re forbidden to approach me with any documents whatsoever.”

  Threatened with the halt of formalities, Akabe’s council members rushed off to their tents. The young king ordered all empty water barrels to be opened and set throughout the camp, then he marched into the rain. “May it fall only on us!”

  The words sounded like a prayer. Kien echoed the plea silently. This rain was a blessing, unless it fortified their enemies. Infinite, as You will.

  The entire army was now alerted. Tracelanders, Siphrans, and Istgardians were all enjoying the downpour as they worked to fill the army’s barrels and vessels, giving up sleep for the gift of water.

  Halfway through the night, Scythe was unleashed and trailing Kien, nudging his shoulders, exhaling soggy-destroyer sighs into Kien’s hair. Worrying him. At last, certain all available barrels stood filled, Kien retrieved cloths and wiped down the monster-horse in the darkness, hoping to soothe him. “What are you sensing?” he asked the beast. “Is Ela in pain?”

  Scythe’s answering rumble sounded like the beginning of a groan.

  “We’ll find her,” Kien said, trying to reassure himself as much as his destroyer. Unable to endure the thought that Ela must be injured, Kien changed the subject as he swept streams of undoubtedly dirty water off Scythe’s back. “Tomorrow, if the weather’s cleared, I’ll comb your mane and tail, then polish your hooves. And you’d better cooperate.”

  The beast whooshed out a mournful breath that would have drenched Kien if he weren’t already soaked. A shadow appeared at his elbow now. A talking shadow. Bryce.

  “Sir. We’ve visitors in the camp, asking for Commander Thel and the king.”

  “Visitors?” Kien’s wet skin crawled with alarm. “From Belaal?”

  “No, my lord. From Parne. Refugees—men, women, children. I thought you’d wish to greet them. Here is your cloak.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Bryce.” Refugees. Perhaps Ela was here! Kien flung the cloak over his shoulders and buckled the clasp. At least it made him look slightly less sodden and disreputable. “Where are they?”

  As they walked, Kien shook out his hair and pushed it back from his face. Scythe immediately rumpled his hair with a fretful shove that made Kien’s heart sink. If Ela had arrived with these refugees, the destroyer would be exultant. Obviously not. He reached up and gave the beast’s wet mane a futile smoothing. “No biting anyone.”

  Scythe snuffed.

  Bryce led Kien to Jon’s tent. Scythe bumped his shoulder as if to follow. Kien rubbed his neck. “Wait.”

  Inside, Jon’s tent was humid with a crowd of rain-drenched refugees. Unable to see his brother-in-law, Kien called, “Jon?”

  “Kien!” A hand lifted above the refugees, who stared at Kien, curious despite their obvious fatigue. “Here.”

  Sidling through the crowd, Kien found Jon. At once, Jon gripped his shoulder as if to brace him. “Kien, these are Ela’s parents and her baby brother.”

  Her parents. Naturally, he’d meet them while looking half-drowned. However, they seemed equally waterlogged. As Jon introduced them, Kien noted glimpses of Ela in Kalme Roeh’s delicate face and in Dan Roeh’s forthright, searching gaze. Even Ela’s infant brother reflec
ted hints of Ela with those dark curls and big brown eyes. If only Tzana were with them.

  Kien extended his hand to Dan Roeh. “Sir. I’m honored to meet you.” Would the man consider it forward of Kien to ask about Ela immediately? Kien suspected so. Better to ask his second most pressing question. And his third and fourth. “How did you escape Parne? Might Belaal invade your city by the same route? Might we go inside?”

  “Too dangerous—despite my wish to return.” Dan Roeh studied Kien as if trying to pick his soul to bits. “We waited until dark, covered our tunnel with dead bushes and brush, then hurried away. It’s a miracle we weren’t seen—we emerged within sight of Belaal’s encampment.” He exhaled. “Believe me, we were grateful to find Siphra’s army beyond our eastern wall—as we’d been told.”

  “Though it was a long walk,” another man grumbled behind Roeh.

  His complaint alerted Kien to their distress. “I’ll find food. And, sir,” he said, nodding to Dan, “you and your family and friends may use my tent as your own. I’ll shelter with my brother-in-law. I’ll see if I can arrange for other tents as well.”

  The man’s face relaxed visibly, and his wife managed a tremulous smile. Roeh said, “May the Infinite bless you for your kindness.”

  May He bless me with Ela’s safety, Kien added silently. He would gladly chance entering Parne alone through the secret tunnel. However, he would not risk Ela’s life bringing her out the same way. Better to wait until he could ride Scythe into the city.

  Better to wait until the Infinite’s designated time.

  Infinite? When?

  Ela saw Tzana playing on the floor of their stone chamber on East Guard’s Temple Hill. Delighted, she scooped up her tiny sister and hugged her within the comfort of their cherished Traceland sanctuary. Smiling, Tzana snuggled against Ela. And Tamri Het—dear fussing chaperone!—enfolded them both within her arms. Abruptly, the stone floor and walls warped around them. Tzana vanished from Ela’s embrace. No! She looked at Tamri, who dissolved into darkness, surrounded by agonized screams.

  Pain jolted Ela from the Traceland refuge. And her own screams. Oh no! Awake again.

  Her leg muscles were cramping. Hard. If only she could rub them. Shivering, she opened her eyes to blackness. To hostile solitude and misery. In desperation, she squeezed her eyes shut and reached for the consolation of her dream. For Tzana’s joyous giggles. So much better than the ravening hollow within her stomach. The feverish drumbeats within her skull. And the weighted torment of her arms and legs. Ela worked her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth.

  “Infinite . . . ?” How much longer?

  She drifted, imagining herself outside this tomb-well. In sunlight. Trailed by Pet. Walking with Kien, hearing his laughter and basking in the bright warmth of his gray eyes. So good to see him, even in this poison-induced delirium. Infinite? Thank You.

  Surely her Creator waited with her now, through the silence. If only she could hear His voice! Better than water, His voice. Worth dying young for. Part of the bargain. He’d warned her that she would face an early death. She couldn’t complain that He’d been dishonest.

  No regrets. Not for loving Kien. Nor for loving the Infinite. Though she wished her death could be easier. Chacen’s fault. Where was he? The daily taunting must be near. She’d almost be glad to see him. Someone real. “Hmm.” What was she thinking?

  Her muscles twitched and cramped anew, making her whimper, while the hollow in her stomach growled as if threatening to consume her from the inside out. Yet starvation wouldn’t come soon enough. Thirst, the poison, and her fever would devour her long before.

  Unable to move or escape the pain, Ela retreated inward. Listening.

  On the infuriatingly slow fourth morning of their encampment at Parne, Kien watched three horsemen ride alongside the wall. Their dust-besmirched yellow surcoats and the gold-garnished blue banner proclaimed their origin and their status as messengers.

  “Belaal,” Bryce muttered, turning aside—Kien suspected—to avoid being seen and recognized.

  “To spy, no doubt.” Kien pivoted about-face. “Return to Commander Thel’s tent and stay hidden. I’ll go wait on the king.” He’d learn what he could. Then act as needed.

  “Sir,” Bryce cautioned, “the oldest man is General Siyrsun. Twice, I was ordered—with other foot soldiers—to move from his path. He is one of the few enemies who looked directly into my face.”

  “And you believe he’s particularly keen-eyed?”

  “I was reminded of an aeryon, my lord. He’s cruel and enjoys his own power. Though he’s not wearing symbols of his rank, which concerns me. Have care.”

  “Thank you, Bryce.”

  Kien hurried toward the royal pavilion. A general posing as a nobody? Interesting. Were the other two representatives false as well? Spies? Assassins?

  Quickening his pace, Kien gripped his sword. Outside the pavilion, Kien paused to catch his breath and survey the gathering crowd. Peaceable enough. Encouraged, Kien strode inside.

  Akabe stood in the tent’s center, semicircled by his counselors, allies, prophets, and men-at-arms—all listening to a visitor’s extravagant opening speech. Akabe acknowledged Kien with a swift, tense glance that conveyed his mistrust of the situation. Had the prophets warned their king of some danger?

  Deliberately, Kien stood with the prophets, causing Jon and the other Tracelanders on the opposite side of the pavilion to raise their eyebrows. Beside Jon, Tsir Aun frowned, then gave his attention to the messengers. One of the younger representatives was speaking, complimenting Akabe in flowing accents. “Our king, the noble Bel-Tygeon—prized of the heavens!—is eager to greet Siphra’s lord. He sends his regards and asks what you wish to gain from your venture to Parne.”

  Akabe smiled slightly. “I defend my people and their interests. Belaal’s recent actions toward its neighbors have been unpredictable. We prefer certainty. Parne, isolated as it is, has never been our ally, yet its location merits Siphra’s interest.”

  “And Istgard’s,” Tsir Aun added.

  Jon nodded formal agreement. “As well as the Tracelands’.”

  The smooth-voiced messenger’s face betrayed nothing but a placid acceptance of their replies. But Kien noticed General Siyrsun’s gaze cutting about the pavilion while his mouth puckered like the drawn strings of a money purse.

  Beside Kien, the eldest prophet exhaled a command beneath his breath. “Speak what you’ve learned. Your Creator commands you.”

  “You could speak it,” Kien muttered, amused despite his aggravation, remembering his earliest conversations with Ela. “You’re a prophet.”

  “I haven’t been told what you’ve learned.” Despite his whisper, the prophet sounded disgruntled. “I was told only that you must not conceal what you know!”

  “Fine.” Were all prophets bad-tempered while on duty? At least Siphran prophets didn’t carry insignias like Ela’s branch. Otherwise, Kien suspected, he would’ve been thumped on the head for tormenting this particular servant of the Infinite. If only it could be Ela standing with him, ready to demand truth from their enemy. If . . . No. He couldn’t risk daydreams of Ela now. Kien focused on the representatives and waited for an opportunity to confront the general.

  “ . . . surprised,” another of the representatives was saying to Akabe. “We observed you received rain.”

  “We were blessed with rain,” Akabe agreed, quiet. He would refuse to discuss water supplies, Kien was sure.

  Before Belaal’s loquacious representative could respond, the testy prophet beside Kien called out, “The Infinite, your Creator, sent a downpour to Siphra and its allies. For Belaal and its supporters, however, there will be no blessings until your king acknowledges he is not god.”

  General Siyrsun’s mouth pursed again. He scowled at the prophets and Kien.

  Deliberately resting one hand on his sword’s hilt, Kien asked, “General Siyrsun, have you nothing to say to Siphra’s king or its allies?”

  Siyrsun
gaped. As did everyone. One of Akabe’s more nervous council members stuttered into the shocked hush, “A-an enemy’s general? Here? Unannounced before our king? Why?”

  Reflecting the council member’s suspicion, Akabe’s guards unsheathed their swords and closed the gap between their king and Belaal’s general.

  Akabe said, “You three messengers, disrobe to your undergarments and discard your weapons. If you resist and my men must disarm you, we’ll confiscate your garments and return you to Belaal naked. Attack anyone, and we’ll kill you at once.”

  When the general hesitated, Tsir Aun half drew his sword and glared, clearly ready to fight. Kien followed suit, his heartbeat quickening. Jon and his subordinate-commander echoed his motion, though the subordinate looked displeased.

  Siyrsun hissed something to his Belaal inferiors. They removed their surcoats and outer tunics, flinging them into a pile before Akabe’s guards. Weaponry followed in a clattering heap. Sheathed daggers were unlaced from forearms. Short-swords were unbuckled from belts girded to their waists, thighs, and inside their boots.

  As Belaal’s general tossed down his final dagger—and no doubt felt a draft through his short tunic—he cut a look at Kien’s insignias. “Tracelander, how did you recognize me?”

  It wouldn’t do to taunt the man. “I was granted the knowledge, sir.”

  The general’s nostrils flared. “Who are you?”

  “No one you’ve met. I’m a military judge, specializing in treaties.” How much should he say? Could he persuade these men to open negotiations toward Belaal’s withdrawal from Parne?

  Siyrsun’s hostility sundered the notion at once. “However you came by such knowledge, Tracelander, you have insulted me and my men, and caused us to suffer this indignity! By the name of my king who is my god, I will seek you in battle!”

  “You’ll regret finding me, sir.” Scythe would be sure of it. “May I advise immediate talks between our countries instead? Negotiation will be preferable to your army’s annihilation.”

  “I’ll cut out your tongue first!” Siyrsun sneered. “Then I will flay and gut you!”