Prophet (Books of the Infinite Book #1)

by R. J. Larson

  She went lightheaded. Think. Breathe. To faint, to trip, to fall, would be fatal.

  Never run from a scaln, Dan Roeh’s voice whispered through her memories. Scalns can outrun you in a charge. Your only hope is to stay, fight, and avoid being wounded.

  Fight with what?

  The creature padded toward her, slobber glistening and dripping from its mouth, as if anticipating the taste of her flesh. No, not slobber. Venom. Scalns paralyze their prey with venom, Father whispered.

  She was going to be paralyzed by venom, then devoured bite by flesh-shredding bite.

  The scaln hissed again, its malodorous breath reaching her in a warm, air-thickening current. Another thread of venom dripped from its broad mouth, from those jagged, blade-sharp teeth.

  “Never run from a scaln,” Ela warned herself.

  The creature eased nearer. Too near. Against all her self-warnings, Ela ran for the nearest snag beside a canyon wall.

  She flung herself at the snag’s weathered gray trunk, panting as she swiped toward the sanctuary of its limbs. Please. Please! She gripped a limb.

  The scaln’s gurgle became a growl, then an ear-piercing hiss. Rocks spattered behind her and another current of warm, fetid air lifted toward her, skimming her bare feet and legs.

  Something stabbed her right calf, then her left, searing as it tore downward to her feet. Ela screamed, clutched the barren limb even tighter, and hauled herself up, sobbing at the pain.

  Perched on the limb, Ela looked down at her foe. The scaln lurked at the snag’s trunk, flat yellow eyes ravenous, its desire to feast evidenced by its outpour of venom. Clearly, it was frustrated. She was safe.

  “Today, you starve!”

  The scaln hissed, gouged its vicious red claws into the gray snag, and began to climb.

  4

  Ela shrieked and threw her water bag, pelting the scaln’s red nostrils. The creature dropped to the ground, hissed fiercely, then stabbed its claws into the snag to climb again.

  She was going to die. “Infinite!”

  Listen!

  Ela gulped down a sob, listening hard. Watching the scaln bunch its rear legs onto the snag. Climbing nearer.

  Who am I?

  “My Creator!” The scaln approached striking distance, nauseating her with its stench.

  And the scaln’s Creator. Tell the scaln, by My Holy Name, I command it to depart.

  Gurgling thickly, the scaln swiped her shins with a blood-red claw and dragged her downward. Ela screamed in pain, clinging to the snag with all her might. “By His Holy Name, the Infinite commands you to depart!”

  The scaln recoiled, flattening against the snag’s trunk. Ela saw confusion in those yellow eyes. To her stupefaction, the creature dropped to the ground once more and lunged away, not looking back.

  “It’s gone? So easily?”

  Creation must acknowledge its Creator.

  Hands shaking, Ela swiped the tears from her face. Part of her longed to indulge in hysterics. A heel-drumming fit. Most improper when questioning the Infinite. “But why create a scaln? Or any such monster?”

  Even monsters have a place here. Each has its purpose—and a lesson to teach.

  Ela hoped she’d learned this lesson well enough never to repeat it. She muffled another sob and rubbed at fresh tears.

  Tell Me what you did wrong.

  Wrong? What had she done wrong? “I ran?”

  Pitiful answer. She’d failed the test, obviously. What else could she do but entreat compassion from her teacher? “Please, tell me what I did wrong.”

  If you had called My Name immediately, the scaln would not have wounded you.

  Humiliated, Ela accepted the rebuke. It made sense. Why would the Infinite allow her to die, prey to a scaln, before she’d truly begun her work as a prophet? She should have realized this. However, she was expecting death at any time, from every direction. And she hadn’t had much experience in such situations. Wasn’t it natural for her to panic just a little?

  An impulse of humor—not her own—slid into her thoughts.

  “Aw! Infinite!” Was He laughing at her pain?

  No, the Infinite responded, allowing her to sense His love and indulgence. I do not enjoy your pain. Rather, I treasure your spirit.

  She was treasured. The thought made her almost smile despite her wretchedness. If she was treasured . . . “Will You always save me so quickly if I command things in Your Holy Name?”

  Will those commands reveal My power, spirit, and glory?

  Oh. This was what He wanted her to remember. His will must be revealed in all her words and actions. “Help me to remember, Infinite. I’m begging You.” Would it be silly of her to beg for no more confrontations with scalns? And how could His glory possibly be revealed by her inglorious defeat?

  Her thought-questions remained unanswered. Instead, the Creator reminded Ela of His previous command. Return to your sister.

  “Yes.” She’d almost forgotten. Ela slid down the snag’s weathered gray trunk, flinching and sweating. Blood dripped from her wounds. The scaln’s claws had cut more deeply than she’d realized. Her legs were burning. Less as she moved. Sighing, she regathered her thoughts.

  Tzana. It would be wonderful to see Tzana again.

  Ela limped forward, moving more quickly than she would have believed possible. By the time she neared the place where she’d left Tzana, however, Ela’s legs were heavy—pain biting with each unwieldy step. She was dizzy. And the inside of her mouth felt powdered despite multiple sips of water. Her wounds were puffed now, deep red furrows cut into both legs. Worse, the blood hadn’t stopped dripping. Wasn’t this where she’d left Tzana? Ela’s vision blurred, the landscape rippling before her as if suffused by rising waves of sultry heat.

  She faltered, realizing she was ill, poisoned by the scaln’s wicked claws. Venom? Whatever it was, her symptoms were becoming unpleasant. Faintness threatened, and she would have allowed it, except that she knew she was in serious trouble. “Help me, Infinite.”

  Staggering now, Ela imagined cool water lapping at her toes, then washing her ankles. Hallucination, of course. Grass. Precious grass flanked each side of the stream. In this desert? Definitely a hallucination.

  “Ela.” A young woman splashed into the stream and grabbed her arm, half dragging her along, into a pool of water. Ela wobbled, then fell, submerged beneath the pool’s crystalline chill.

  Kien stared at the bowl of congealed gruel. Would he die more quickly by starving himself or by eating that rotten stuff?

  A delicate skittering in the straw alerted him to the approach of a mouse. The tiny creature emerged from the straw, paused for an instant, then sped across the stone floor to the bowl of gruel.

  “You are welcome to it,” Kien told his companion. “I hope you survive.”

  The ringing thump of the warden’s key and the rasp of the bolt sliding aside made Kien turn. The heavy door pivoted open and the warden tramped inside, followed by a palace guard—the ugly smirking lout who’d arrested Kien in the street last week.

  “I’m honored,” Kien told him, sarcasm ladled on as thick as the prison gruel. Not bothering to stand, he eyed the guard’s sword. Could he wrest it away long enough to use it on himself? Perhaps the guard would kill him first.

  Definitely an option worth considering.

  The guard intercepted Kien’s glance and slapped a protective hand on his sword. To the warden he snarled, “Get him to his feet and bind him.”

  Approaching Kien, the warden threatened, “You fight me and I’ll strike you hard enough to send you to the next realm.”

  “Do it!” Kien lunged for the man’s ankles and took him down.

  The warden’s head thumped against the floor—cushioned by the straw—and he yelled, “I’ll kill you!”

  The man tried to remove a wooden cudgel from his belt. Instinctively, Kien snatched the weapon away and hammered it against the warden’s kneecap. The man’s agonized screech pierced Kien’s ears. A small v
ictory, but nowhere near enough to avenge the Tracelands for Ytar.

  “Stop!” The palace guard grabbed Kien’s shoulder. Kien retaliated, cracking the cudgel against the guard’s hand with all his might. The man swore. “Demon! You broke my finger!”

  He pressed one greave-clad shin into Kien’s side and yanked the cudgel from Kien’s grip. “I’m commanded to bring you alive to the palace, but you don’t have to be in one piece!”

  The greave’s metal plating pressed into Kien’s already-cracked ribs, provoking breath-stopping pain. Kien yelped. He was ready to die, but couldn’t the palace thug just knife him quickly and plead self-defense over Kien’s corpse?

  It would be a magnificent death. Almost.

  Until then, he would be wise not to fight. Kien willed himself to rest as the guard clumsily bound his hands behind his back and growled about the pain from his broken finger. Finished, the guard shoved Kien and hauled his bound arms upward. “Get up!”

  Nearby, the warden said, “I can’t stand.”

  “I’ll send someone for you,” the guard muttered. He wrenched Kien’s arms again, and Kien managed to push one knee forward for balance enough to rise. The guard yanked him impatiently, prompting ferocious stabs from Kien’s ribs. “Move, Tracelander!”

  Clenching his teeth against the need to yell with pain, Kien stood. At least his legs worked. But the warden’s didn’t. Kien nearly grinned at the thought. Life was almost worth living.

  He hoped they hadn’t crushed the mouse.

  Outside, a small contingent of guards met Kien’s surly captor, apparently to escort them to the palace. Kien blinked against the sunlight. He hadn’t realized it was so warm outside—his cell was miserably cold. For an instant he turned his face skyward to bask in the sun’s rays. Until someone in the prison courtyard spat on his cloak.

  A blunt-faced citizen clad in an ordinary workman’s tunic and worn sandals glowered at him. “Assassin!”

  “I haven’t killed anyone!” Kien protested. Unlike the Istgardians. Other subjects of Istgard, evidently forewarned of Kien’s progress, gathered just beyond the prison’s gate. They taunted him, spat on him, and laughed. Someone threw a clump of moldy bread, which bounced from Kien’s shoulder to the guard’s.

  “None of that!” the guard bellowed. He ordered his companions to walk ahead in the street and warn onlookers against throwing refuse or spitting on the prisoner.

  “I’ve been condemned without a trial,” Kien said to no one. Not that it mattered. Condemnation meant execution, didn’t it? Perhaps he was walking to his death now. Good.

  The barrage of rotten food and spittle ceased, but not the taunts and curses. Why had he ever thought the Istgardians were sociable people? Had he actually considered them to be people? They sounded like animals.

  Men, women, and children howled at him from the doorways, then merged behind him in an unruly herd, screaming abuse, wishing him a painful death. Kien glared, despising them all. As the guard hauled him through the immense arched palace gates, Kien said, “Unhand me. You have weapons and my arms are bound. I won’t run.”

  To Kien’s surprise, the guard—though obviously displeased—didn’t argue. Perhaps his one little broken finger hurt too much. The man should experience a few broken ribs.

  Not bothering to disguise his contempt, Kien eyed the Istgardian courtiers as he passed them. Lingering near the king’s ornate fountain, several elaborately cloaked noblemen regarded Kien with undisguised sneers. Their jewel-adorned wives and daughters, however, gasped when they saw him, clearly upset. He’d flirted with most of them at receptions and balls during his ambassadorial service. “Never again,” Kien muttered.

  His boots echoed loudly against the polished marble floor as they entered Tek An’s vast audience chamber. Soaring white columns flanked either side of the hall. Golden lampstands glistened before each column, and a broad path of sparkling golden marble guided all eyes toward the king’s throne, a deeply cushioned marble-pedestaled bench, positioned before an elaborate gold screen.

  On the royal bench, watching Kien’s approach, Tek An sat like a gilded statue, his crown and robes threaded with shimmering metals and garnished with deep green gemstones. Impassive, he watched his noble subjects. They were remarkably quiet, Kien realized. Listening. Probably eager to see him condemned, then watch him die.

  Did the bloodthirsty creatures expect him to fight? Perhaps he would. If only to take a few of these deceivers with him when he died.

  As he approached the steps before Tek An’s throne, Kien saw Tek Lara. She looked ill. Had she been crying? She glanced at Kien, her somber red-rimmed eyes widening, her expression crumpling a bit as if fighting tears. Was she so worried about him?

  Kien allowed his contemptuous glare to soften as he returned her glance. Lara’s dark eyes brimmed, reflecting undeniable compassion, and her lips parted slightly as if she longed to speak to him. Instead, she looked away. Tek An was speaking—his words saturated with royal plurals.

  “Kien Lantec, you are accused of conspiracy against us. Just before they died, your servants were caught sending ciphers by messenger pigeon. The Tracelanders plot against our life and the well-being of our realm. Can you dispute this?”

  Kien scowled. Clearly Tek An and his minions hadn’t interpreted and read the ciphers, because none of them hinted at plots against Tek An. There were no such plots! Moreover, how could Kien—or anyone—dispute a charge conjured out of thin air?

  “I deny it completely. I’ve never sought to harm you in any way, O King.”

  Tek An scoffed, his broad brown face with its thinly sculpted black beard showing nothing but disdain. “You declare yourself and your country as being on friendly terms with us?”

  “We have been.” Pausing for cold effect, Kien added, “Until the massacre at Ytar.”

  He watched the king go livid. Losing a measure of royal dignity, Tek An blustered, “Ytar was a preemptory blow against a threat already brought about by your people! You are nothing but a pack of rebels, plotting against Istgard!”

  Rebels. Kien snarled at the word. Now Tek An’s courtly mask was gone. As was Kien’s mask. Good. Let the truth be told. After seven generations—seven!—Istgardian kings still regarded all Tracelanders as mutinous subjects. Kien managed to speak politely through his teeth, though Tek An deserved no courtesy. “How, O King, has my own generation, or my father’s generation, threatened you?”

  “How? Do not pretend!” Tek An jerked his chin toward a stout, pompous official in green and gold robes who stepped toward Kien, unsheathing an ornate sword.

  Kien braced himself. Now he would die.

  Exuding contempt like a bad odor, the official stood just beyond arm’s length and displayed his sword with both hands, as if holding an exceptional gem. Kien eyed the blade and froze, recognizing the metal’s rippling dark blue and gray seascape pattern. Azurnite. The official was correct. That blade was as precious as a large gem of rare quality. Kien’s father owned a similar sword. Apart from its beauty, Azurnite was derived from newly discovered Tracelandic ores, which produced much lighter, stronger blades—so sharp and amazingly flexible that they were already revered by the few officials wealthy enough to afford them.

  Had this Istgardian looted this sword from an assemblyman or a swordsmith in Ytar? No doubt it was at least part of the reason Tek An threatened Kien with conspiracy. The king and his officials wanted information. The conspiracy charge was a mere bargaining ploy.

  Kien shrugged. “That’s not my sword. Why are you showing it to me?”

  “You know of similar weapons,” Tek An prompted. “Your countrymen will produce more, then attack Riyan.”

  “I know nothing of an attack.”

  The king abandoned his rigid, majestic posture completely and leaned forward. “Do not scorn us as a fool, Lan Tek!”

  Noting the king’s emphasis on both syllables of his surname, Kien paused. What sort of game was Tek An playing by emphasizing the ancient form of the Lantec n
ame? Kien’s descent from a rebel Lan Tek prince of Istgard was hardly his own fault. However, Tek An pronounced the name as if Kien, not his ancestor, was the noble rebel. Kien glared. “It is the truth. I know nothing of an attack—it’s all in your royal imagination. As for the sword, what if I have seen other such blades in my homeland? What does it matter? We are all entitled to carry weapons for our own protection. And if those weapons happen to be works of art—all the better.” He wasn’t about to discuss the Azurnite, much less reveal the locations of the metal’s precious ores, if that was what Tek An wanted.

  “These are not ordinary weapons.” Tek An motioned Kien’s guard forward. “Demonstrate. Refresh his memory.”

  Kien almost told them he didn’t need a demonstration. But the thought of what was about to happen proved too irresistible. Particularly when it involved his lout of a guard.

  The guard trudged forward, drawing his sword with his good hand, while bringing the injured one protectively close to his side. The pompous official holding the blue Tracelandic sword grimaced in snobbish distaste, but nodded to the guard, who bowed. They circled, parrying each other’s attacks tentatively. Both men began to perspire. Tek An quickly lost patience. “Attack!”

  The guard yelled and lunged as if to kill. The official—eyes bugged—parried viciously. Their swords rang on impact. A metal shard flew at Tek An’s feet, clanging against the throne’s marble base, making him gasp and jump.

  Kien suppressed a laugh, though it would have been worth the pain from his ribs. What had the king expected?

  The guard uttered a low curse, glaring at his broken sword, then at the official, who sneered. Kien smiled.

  “Tell us you did not know about these new swords!” Tek An snapped.

  “I knew.” Kien hardened his voice and eyes. “I’ve seen them forged. But I’m no swordsmith. I don’t know the proportions of the ores they smelted for the metals. Or the exact mixtures of the metals. So why are you asking me anything?”

  “You know enough, Lan Tek. These are the ores, are they not?” The king snapped his fingers.