by R. J. Larson
She saw his probable fate and trembled, ready to burst into tears. Her throat tight with fear, she said, “Guard yourself, Ket. And please—I beg you!—call to the Infinite now, or you won’t live to see me locked away.”
He didn’t reply, for Tsir Aun approached and resumed his place at her side. However, before they could leave the palace courtyard, the commander of the king’s guards forestalled Tsir Aun, saluted, and said, “We give you custody of the convicted. You will take her to the prison and be sure the warden is informed of the new charges.”
“Of course,” Tsir Aun agreed.
The palace guards disbanded, heading off in various directions, no doubt glad to be relieved of their duties. Tsir Aun motioned to Ela. “Come.” As they walked to the gate, Tsir Aun sighed. “We will finish our final obligation for the night by returning you to the prison. At least you’ll be safe there.”
“And all will be well?” She couldn’t help asking the question.
“Yes,” Tsir Aun replied. But he hesitated in the deepening night. As if disquieted. To Ela’s profound gratitude, he readied a hand on his sword’s hilt—clearly alarmed.
At least someone had listened to her.
They turned onto the street outside the palace and headed for the prison, their combined footsteps sounding too loud over the street’s stone pavings. Ela’s mouth went dry. The palace wall to their left. That death-black street corner to their right. Her last few steps.
“Tsir Aun,” she begged, “I’m about to face darkness. Pray for me, please.”
Before he could reply, they turned the shadowed corner toward the prison and were besieged by a rush of scuffling footsteps. Masked faces. Muted cloaks.
Ela clutched Tzana and the branch to her chest and sucked in a terrified breath to scream.
Her cry was stifled.
Vanquished by the darkness.
9
Ela fought her way up from the black nothingness, into miserable consciousness.
Her parched tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. Piercing drumbeats pounded inside her aching head. And her shoulders hurt so intensely, it was as if her arms had almost been torn from her body. Worse, her arms were empty. No branch. No Tzana. What had happened?
Infinite?
Her silent plea—her desperation to hear His voice—was answered with a waiting calm. She sensed His presence, and it was enough for now. But . . .
Unable to open her eyes, Ela worked up enough moisture to swallow. She forced her tongue to move. “Tzana?”
“Hush,” a soft voice urged. “Rest.”
“No,” Ela mumbled, scared because the voice wasn’t Tzana’s. “Where’s my sister?”
“She is resting.”
Had Tzana been injured? Ela coerced her unwilling eyelids to lift. To see the owner of that soothing voice. Big, serious brown eyes, an oval face framed by a gilded veil. “Tek Lara.”
“Yes. I’m so glad you remember me!” To Ela’s confused amazement, the young noblewoman began to cry.
Ela found that her hands and arms worked, though they felt heavy, as if made of stone. She patted Lara’s arm clumsily, consoling her even as she scanned the stark stone room, looking for Tzana. “Why . . . are you crying? Where’s my sister? Was Tzana injured?”
“Yes, but believe me, your sister will recover. She was injured when you were knocked to the street. She has one arm in a sling and a few impressive bruises, but nothing else. I must say, your sister is remarkably good-natured.”
Ela’s panic eased. Swiping at her tears, Lara continued. “The warden’s wife is caring for her. However, the warden’s a bit annoyed at the situation. I suspect they’ve never had children of their own, the way his wife dotes on Tzana.”
“Dotes on her?” Ela tried to gather her wits. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Almost a full day. See?” Lara gestured toward a single narrow window, which framed the blaze of a crimson sunset. “Perhaps part of your trouble in recovering is that you were simply exhausted. Do you remember what happened?”
Moistening her lips, Ela said, “I warned Tsir Aun to be ready. I’d foreseen this darkness. Men—several at least—attacked us not far from the palace. Their faces were masked. I know nothing more.” She understood less. Why hadn’t the Infinite allowed her to escape this attack?
Was this another lesson she’d failed?
Tek Lara began to whisper, evidently fearful she’d be overheard. “Listen. I was told this morning that you were nearly dead. And that one of your guards died—though the two who survived fought off your assailants. You’re bruised everywhere and have, most likely, a concussion. My dear royal cousin hopes your prophetic abilities have been knocked out of you.”
They have not, the Infinite declared within her thoughts.
Such a swift answer to a question she hadn’t even formed coherently. Ela wanted to shake her head, but it hurt. “Your royal cousin will be disappointed. When can I see my sister?”
The thought that her sister might be in pain made Ela struggle to rise.
Her noble caretaker lifted a restraining hand. “No. Stay here until my physician has seen you. I’ll have Tzana brought here, but not until you and I have talked.”
Ela didn’t resist. Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t imagine walking anywhere without toppling over. “What do you need to discuss?”
“So many things—I should have written a list. Wait. Drink this first.” She offered Ela a delicately carved white stone cup.
Still lightheaded, Ela held herself up long enough to drain the cup of broth—and to notice she was wearing a clean robe. Tek Lara’s orders, no doubt. Finished, Ela sank back against the pillow, fighting the impulse to close her eyes. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. The broth, the robe, Tzana—”
Tek Lara placed the cup on a nearby tray. “My thanks will be to see you recover.”
“I will,” Ela assured her. “You said one of my guards died? It was Ket, wasn’t it?” She knew it couldn’t be Tsir Aun, yet the thought twisted her stomach.
“You do remember some of the attack,” Lara murmured. “Yes, my servants said the soldier’s family name was Ket.”
“Actually, I don’t remember much. The Infinite warned me Ket’s death was near.” And she’d failed to reach Ket. Ela pushed away the thought, unable to endure it. “The men who tried to kill me—were they captured?”
“No!” In an offended whisper, Lara continued, “Worse, there’s been no effort made to find them. I cannot believe my royal cousins would condone such an attack, but what other explanation is there? Promise me you’ll say nothing of my suspicions. It won’t help either of us.”
“I’ll say nothing.”
“I’m such a coward.” The young woman sighed. “I’m sorry you were attacked. At least my fears for your safety gave me enough courage to demand the king’s permission to visit you. I told him that I owe you an irreparable debt of gratitude, and that I could not rest until I’d thanked you, so he agreed.”
She gripped Ela’s hand. “You see, I knew my father was dead. I knew! Whenever Father was gone, no matter how far, I received a daily letter or gift from him. And I always replied. But then his letters ceased. When his personal attendants returned to Riyan two weeks ago and said that he’d failed to return after a supposedly short jaunt through the borderlands . . . I was going insane with the uncertainty.” Lara swiped at fresh tears, adding, “Thank you for bringing me his sword. You cannot know how much it means to me!”
“The Infinite knew.” Ela shut her eyes, fearing Lara’s inevitable disbelief—so prevalent in Istgard.
“Yes,” Tek Lara agreed. “I’m amazed to think of His consideration in sending you with Father’s sword.” She dug through a small leather pouch slung at her side, retrieved a pristine cloth, and blew her nose. “How foolish of me to be surprised. I should have expected He would provide comfort.”
Ela stared at her, bemused. “How foolish of me to be surprised. You serve the
Infinite.”
Lara tucked away her cloth, looking older, calmer. “Ela, prophet of Parne, you should know this. Where do you think the wise Eshtmoh resided while he lived in Riyan?”
“With your father’s family?”
“For three years.” Wistful, Tek Lara said, “When I first realized you were a prophet, I hoped to continue my family’s tradition and offer you shelter for as long as you stayed in Istgard. But you’ve seriously offended the king. Now I must either gain a pardon for you—which could be impossible—or break the law and steal you and your sister from this place.”
“Don’t break the law,” Ela pleaded. “Anyway, perhaps the Infinite intends for me to serve Him here.”
“I’ll visit you often,” her benefactress promised. “But first I’ll send my physician to confirm you and your sister are recovering. I also intend to see that you’re fattened up a bit. You are as thin as that twig you carry.”
“The branch!” Ela sat up and wished she hadn’t. She clutched her aching head. “Where is it?”
“It’s on the floor with your water bag. There.” Lara nodded toward the opposite side of Ela’s makeshift bed. “My grandfather once said that the prophet’s branch simply couldn’t be lost. Which was useful because Eshtmoh was such a daydreamer—hopelessly forgetful.”
The branch couldn’t be lost? Why hadn’t she been told? What other useful little being-a-prophet facts didn’t she know?
Ela clutched the light, fragile-looking staff and immediately felt better. Soul-wise, at least. Her body seemed to be one large bruise. And her head ached mercilessly, while dizziness and nausea threatened like twin scoundrels battling for control of her senses.
“You haven’t been a prophet for very long, have you?” Lara asked.
Ela sank back into the bed and shut her eyes. “Not very long. Weeks. I think. Or perhaps more than a month.” She’d lost track of time. Eshtmoh must have felt the same way. No wonder the Infinite had created the branch to be permanently unlost—if Tek Lara’s story pertained to this same branch.
“I wish I had your courage,” Lara said.
Ela opened one eyelid and almost smiled. “Yesterday, I wished I had only half of yours.”
“I’ll need all of our courage in two days. Pray for me, Ela, when I see my father’s body.” Before Ela could reply, Tek Lara made a wry face and changed the subject. “You look awful. Are you sure you don’t want me to sneak you and your sister out of this place?”
“You, of all people, cannot break the law,” Ela scolded with all the force she could muster. “Besides, I’m certain our Creator has some duty for me here, as His servant.”
“If you change your mind, send me word.” She gave Ela a brief hug and left the cell.
Her head aching, Ela used one hand to balance herself against a wall in the prison’s narrow access corridor while she wielded a large wooden ladle with the other. It would have been helpful to lean upon the branch as she walked, but she needed both hands free to accomplish her current task.
Really, when she’d told Tek Lara of serving the Infinite in prison, Ela had no idea it actually meant serving the prisoners. Well, at least she was out of her cell this morning. Most important, she believed the Infinite’s will was somehow accomplished by her work.
Slung over one aching shoulder like a canvas bag of rocks, Ela carried the hard rolls that were served at the noon meal. A none-too-pleased guard trudged behind her, pushing a half-filled kettle of lukewarm broth on a creaking trolley.
Stopping at each narrow door, she unbolted its horizontal food slot, lowered its small shelf door, and called to the prisoner inside, “Bring your bowl!”
Every prisoner unfailingly scurried to the door and handed his bowl through the slot—usually licking dry lips and urging her to be generous with the broth. The prisoners seemed to know better than to say more than a few words to her. None of them thanked her. Not that she needed thanks. She returned each filled bowl with an apologetic smile, a tooth-breakingly hard roll, and a kindly parting, then bolted the food slot again.
“Hurry,” the guard grumbled. “No need to be all tidy with the broth and bread. And don’t worry about the manners. Not for these dregs.”
“They are men with souls, not dregs,” Ela corrected. “Besides spilled food is a waste, and it attracts vermin.”
“Just hurry!”
“As best I can.” She supposed that years of working in this prison would make anyone short-tempered—if they didn’t have a sense of humor. “Smile,” she urged the guard.
He bared his moldy teeth at her. Ela cringed. He was right to keep his mouth closed.
At the end of the last corridor—and after numerous refills of the kettle and rolls—she sighed. “Finished.”
“No, we’ve one more above in the tower.” His voice turned exaggeratedly sweet. “The coddled one.”
How could anyone be coddled here? Although Ela had to admit that the warden’s wife was certainly spoiling Tzana while Ela worked. “So we have to climb the stairs?”
“You’re a bright one, aren’t you?” The guard snorted. “Of course we have to climb the stairs. You keep hold of the bread bag, an’ I’ll haul what’s left in the kettle.”
The very thought of climbing those circular stairs in the corner tower dizzied Ela. When would she heal? Of course it had only been three days since the attack. Three. Tonight the king’s men would return with General Tek Juay’s body. Ela’s heart skittered in agitation. She knew what King Tek An’s reaction would be. But what about Lara?
Ela distracted herself from the dizzying stairs by praying for Lara. And the king. At the top of the stairs, she steadied herself, then approached the only cell that was closed and occupied. The one difference in this prisoner’s treatment, as far as Ela could see, was that these few tower cells were larger and airier. And perhaps quieter, being separated from the occasional shrieks and groans of the prisoners below. Otherwise, they were just as stark and uncomfortable.
The guard gestured with his head to the last cell. Ela rapped on the door, unbolted the slot, and lowered its narrow shelf door. “Bring your bowl!”
A young man studied her through the slot. His eyes were remarkably bright gray—not brown like Parnian or Istgardian eyes. “It’s you!” He sounded surprised, and pleased, as if greeting a much-missed friend.
She couldn’t help but smile. “Who else would I be? Where is your bowl?”
“Oh. Yes.” He grinned, his teeth very white amid dark whiskers. Charming enough to make her blink. Worrisome, that charm. He handed Ela his bowl, still talking as if they were enjoying a sociable visit. “If I may be so bold, but I fear I’ve forgotten . . . What is your name?”
“I am Ela. Of Parne.” She ladled the broth into the bowl, ignoring the guard’s glare.
The genial young prisoner accepted the bowl, but paused. “Parne? So we’re both strangers to Istgard. Did you also offend the king?”
She almost laughed. “Sir—”
“I am Kien Lantec, former ambassador of the Tracelands. Please call me Kien—it’s not as if we’re obligated to stand on ceremony here, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Ela agreed. Ceremony or no ceremony, she shied away from using his name. “But please don’t think I’m going to criticize the king to you.”
“Of course not. And I wasn’t about to disparage him either. Forgive me.” He grinned again, peeking through the slot. Much too fascinating for his own good, or for hers.
To hide her face, Ela rummaged through the slack folds of her canvas bag and snatched the last roll, while she prayed for strength of will from the Infinite.
Still bent on conversation, Kien Lantec said, “You intrigued me when I saw you in the courtyard several days ago. Have you and the little Unfortunate been well?”
“Unfortunate?” Ela froze, the hard roll clasped in her fingers.
“Yes, the child with you. I’ve—”
Unfortunate. He’d called Tzana Unfortunate as if she were regrettable!
Ela slammed the roll through the slot and felt its impact against his face.
“Ow!” He staggered backward several steps, a hand to his left eye, in obvious pain.
“How dare you!” She banged the slot’s door shut and bolted it with a resounding thump—ferociously glad to lock him inside. Why did everyone seem to regard Tzana as lamentable? They were the unfortunates! Fools!
Beside her, the guard cackled, delighted. “That’s a sight to pay for! Wait’ll the others hear!”
Maddeningly dizzied, Ela sat at the top of the spiral stairs. “Infinite, forgive me.”
This was not how His prophet should have reacted. Where was her kindness? Her spirit of forgiveness?
Unfortunate.
“Augh!” If she’d had another roll, she would have hammered him with that one too!
She clutched her head, in serious need of rest. And self-reproach, remorse, and prayer. But not just yet.
She was much too pleased she’d hit him.
Kien dipped an edge of his cloak into the last cold drops of water-broth, leaned back against his cell’s stone wall, and rested the makeshift compress against his eye.
“Ugh!” His cloak stank.
But what did it matter? Let it rot as he was rotting. He probably reeked worse than his cloak. As for his beard, what he wouldn’t give for a razor. To cut his whiskers, his hair, his veins . . .
Offensive as he looked and smelled, this Ela of Parne should have thrown the food at him and run away shrieking before he’d even said a word. Instead, she’d bashed his eye with a prison roll simply because he called an Unfortunate an Unfortunate. The last time he’d seen a girl so furious at him—or anyone—was when he’d used his sister’s dolls for target practice. Beka’s screech echoed in Kien’s ears to this day. He chuckled at the fond memory, but his mirth faded as he considered Ela of Parne’s wrath.
Were customs different in Parne? Or was the girl overly sensitive regarding her little sister? He, an ambassador, should have suspected that the casual Traceland idiom might offend this Parnian. Foolish of him.