Prophet (Books of the Infinite Book #1)

by R. J. Larson

  “My lord,” the queen protested, chasing after the king, her white veils fluttering. “You’re unwell. I beg you to rest before speaking with these frightful people.”

  “You will not argue! Go tend our son.”

  The queen stopped. Ela saw her shoulders lift then droop, as if the woman surrendered the battle. But she turned and gave Ela such a malicious glare that Ela nearly stepped back. Any courtier would have fled in terror, targeted by that look.

  A soldier approached Ela now, obviously intimidated by Pet looming behind her. Beneath his breath, the soldier begged, “Have pity. I don’t want to lose a hand to your destroyer.”

  “I’ll go with you quietly,” she promised. Ela gave Pet a brief hug. “Wait here and don’t fret. Oh, and don’t eat anything or anyone, please!”

  As Ela walked away, the destroyer whickered so low in his throat that the noise sounded like a growl.

  Several guards urged Kien to move away from the destroyer’s vicinity. Kien obeyed, but slowly. Was he still plotting to flee? The instant he stepped up beside her, Ela warned in a whisper, “It’s not time for you to escape.”

  Kien offered her his arm and a glint of exasperation. “I suppose you’ll eventually tell me the proper time.”

  “Yes.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I thought you were in a good mood.”

  “I was.”

  “The time for escape will arrive when you’ve the best chance to survive it.”

  Kien’s dark eyebrows lifted high. “And when might—”

  A guard cut off his question. “Shut your mouths!”

  Flanked by the palace guards, Ela and Kien proceeded up the steps and through the magnificent golden corridors. Tek An was pacing through the small, gilded antechamber, a gem-studded cup in his hand. “Leave us!” he ordered the guards.

  “Sire—” one of the guards squawked, obviously horrified.

  “Stand outside the door. If they kill us here, you must hack them to death at once, and butcher the destroyer. Now depart!”

  The guard quietly shut the huge gilded door. Tek An stopped before Ela, so close she could feel his breath. “Why do you continue to torment us? Even from prison you control our subjects until they talk of nothing but you! You afflict our son’s chief guardsman and command him to taint our fountain, then you shame us before our most eminent subjects! When will you die?”

  “When my death serves the Infinite’s purpose.” Ela despaired, studying the king’s blunt, hard-eyed face. He refused to see the truth. Nevertheless, she had to persevere. To persuade him to be accountable for his actions. “Why have you pardoned your son?”

  Tek An scoffed. “What shall we do? Execute our heir?”

  “No! Restrain him. He plans murders, and you excuse him. King, he no longer has a conscience. Your conscience is severely weakened, but even you realize he is unfit to rule.”

  “He is a Tek, and that is enough.”

  “You’re going to see him die in battle!”

  “We ordered him to remain in Istgard,” the king retorted, clearly proud of his cleverness.

  As if the heir would obey. Ela thunked her head against the branch, wanting to scream. To cry. Failure taunted her until the Infinite whispered, Why are you grieving? The heir has made his choice, as has Tek An. Therefore, I have chosen others to replace them.

  A rebuke, but an almost consoling one. She listened, and looked up at Tek An. “As you prefer, O King. The Infinite gives you and your son over to your own wishes. I won’t speak of this again.” She must not think of their eternities.

  “Good.” The king smiled as if he’d gained a victory. He drained his cup, then cast a sneering, sidelong look at Kien. “Now that we are agreed upon this, tell us why you tolerate a man whose nation conspires against us, returning our ambassador in disgrace.”

  “Excuse me.” Kien’s voice was ice-edged, his gray eyes equally cold. “At least Istgard’s ambassador returned safely home. And there was never a conspiracy. Your attack on Ytar, the enslavement of innocent Tracelanders, the slaughter of my servants, and my imprisonment are all due to your . . . misperception.”

  “We were not speaking to you,” Tek An scolded. “You, who appear before us continually wearing the stinking Traceland color of aggression and rebellion!”

  “If my black attire offends you, cousin, then perhaps you should return everything you’ve confiscated from me. I have nothing else to wear.”

  The king turned away, as if he hadn’t heard. Instead, he spoke to Ela. “Answer. Why do you assist this man, our enemy-kindred, in his plots against us?”

  Why was she wasting her breath? “I do not assist the former ambassador, and he is not plotting against you. I speak the Infinite’s will. He is angered by your dealings.”

  “Why should your Infinite care what we say and do?”

  “For honor, righteousness, and—as I’ve told you—for the sake of your soul. He is your Creator. Don’t you think He should be concerned about you?”

  Tek An slammed his empty cup on a polished stone table. “We will not betray our gods for your Infinite, who insulted us by leaving our statue tarnished.”

  Ela marveled at the king’s sudden resemblance to his spoiled sister. “You are willing to forsake your kingdom because you perceive your Creator’s warnings as insults?”

  “They are insults! And we will discuss nothing until your Infinite removes this evidence of His slur against us.”

  “Your pride will be your death.” Fear chilled Ela as a premonition took hold. “From tonight onward, nightmares will shatter your sleep. The palace will wake to your screams. I can do nothing for you.”

  Tek An’s dark eyes widened, flickered with uncertainty. But then he puffed out his chest in a show of bravado. “You can do nothing? Then why should we believe anything you say if you are so easily defeated? Indeed, every question we have asked tonight, you have evaded.”

  She wouldn’t bother to respond. As Ela looked away, Kien said, “Forgive me, but how can you believe the Parnian is easily defeated? She survived a scaln’s attack.”

  “A lie! The gods made scalns invincible. Our strongest soldiers cannot survive an attack despite all our physicians’ remedies. Prove your claim. Show us your scars.”

  “Nothing will convince him,” Ela muttered to Kien. “Not even my scars.” Nevertheless, she lifted the hem of her tunic just enough to reveal the peculiar, curving violet-red disfigurements incised along her shins and calves.

  Tek An circled Ela, staring in silence. At last, he stood before her again, but refused to meet her gaze. “We congratulate you on such meticulous fakery.” He swept from the antechamber, his robes flaring.

  Kien laughed. “I knew it! He’s so upset that you’ve obviously survived a conflict with Istgard’s symbol that he’s forgotten to punish me for authoring my imaginary peace treaty.”

  “You used my wounds to distract him from your offense?” Ela pretended to wallop the Tracelander’s shoulder with the branch. He laughed and grabbed at the shimmering vinewood, but his fingers passed through the wood as if through air. Kien’s grin faded.

  The guards waved them from the antechamber. Looking perplexed, Kien offered Ela his arm. “There’s an explanation for everything.”

  “Yes, there is,” she told him sweetly. “But you don’t want to hear it.”

  In the courtyard, Pet greeted Ela with a wet muzzle and an air of pride. The water level in the king’s fountain was reduced considerably. And the pavings were marked with calculated yellow puddles.

  Ela shut her eyes and prayed for rain.

  Ela patted soft thin rounds of dough onto griddles above the kitchen’s hearth, glad to comfort herself with work. She’d already made dried-fruit pudding and toast. Tzana’s favorite breakfast—as ordered by Syb. Yet she hadn’t seen her little sister even once that morning. Was Tzana forgetting her completely?

  A girlish giggle echoed from the prison’s passageway, lifting Ela’s hopes. Tzana—

  Instead
of Tzana, however, a young white-and-gold-clad noblewoman flitted into the kitchen, followed by her servants. Seeing Ela, she squealed and rushed to hug her. “Ooo . . . I cannot tell you how thrilled we were when Tek Sia ran out of the courtyard yesterday, covered with slime! It was marvelous retribution. Thank you!” The young noblewoman hugged Ela again, as if they were dear friends.

  Confounded, Ela blinked at the girl, a delicate teen with wide brown eyes, rosy brown skin, and dimples. Who was this?

  Infinite?

  He didn’t reply. And He hadn’t offered even a hint of warning or advice on how to cope with this pretty, fluttering little aristocrat. She perched on Ela’s closed bag of flour, chattering. “Royal or not, Tek Sia’s earned every bit of humiliation you can serve her! She’s snubbed my family for years. What’s next? Can you tell me? Everyone’s dying to know.”

  Was this a test? Ela smiled, but continued to pat out her rounds of dough. She had meals to prepare and no time to waste with a gloating, silly noblewoman. “What is your name?”

  “Oh! How rude of me. Everyone knows who I am. Except you, of course.” She swiped back her long dark curls with a dainty, well-tended hand. “I’m Lan Isa. And you’re Ela of Parne.”

  Hmm. Ela supposed it was good to be reminded of her own name. Despite her frustration, she chuckled. “Lan Isa, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I know.” Isa wriggled on the huge bag, as if trying to settle its lumps. The remaining flour would have to be sifted twice before Ela could use it. Oblivious, Isa beamed at her. “So, tell me! What else will happen to Tek Sia?”

  “Pray for her.” Ela slapped another soft, grain-flecked round onto a griddle. “And pray for yourself. Tek Sia, the royal family, and everyone in Istgard is about to suffer immeasurable losses. Today you wear white, mourning for one nobleman. Within three months, there will be so many noblemen to mourn for that white fabric will be impossible to obtain.”

  “What?” Lan Isa hesitated. But then her eyes brightened, and to Ela’s dismay, she tittered. “Oh! You’re teasing! Never mind, then. I can see you don’t want to discuss Tek Sia, and I can’t blame you. She’s vicious. Tell me, instead—because I know you’ve talked to him—what do you think of Ambassador Lantec?”

  Startled by the question, Ela almost seared her fingers on the griddle as she turned a flat circle of bread. Thankfully, Lan Isa didn’t require an answer. She babbled on as if she were related to Kien. And, distantly, she probably was.

  “Have you ever seen anyone so handsome?” The girl fanned herself with the edge of her cloak as her hovering maidservants exchanged knowing glances. “He’s had all the ladies swooning over him for the past year, though he ignored us for his duties—it’s insulting! However, my friends and I forgave him. We couldn’t help ourselves. Can you think of anything more romantic, seeing him dragged from prison wearing black . . .”

  Romantic? Ela recalled the smell of Kien’s black attire now. That cloak. Ugh.

  “. . . we were certain he’d be killed. Oh, but he was so brave!”

  This poor young woman was seriously infatuated. Ela listened and tried to be patient as her visitor chattered. But after a while, even Kien Lantec’s admittedly excellent traits seemed tedious, being detailed in an endless rush of girlish adoration.

  Ela continued to pat out fresh rounds, while silently begging the Infinite to be merciful and send her a vision—a massacre-of-Ytar-sized vision that would hammer her senseless.

  Jubilant, Kien rummaged through his clothing chest. With the exception of his razors and his weapons—and, naturally, his money—everything was here. Boots, baldrics, leggings, tunics, mantles, light cloaks, formal cloaks, hoods, belts . . .

  He stared at a particularly long sword belt, his euphoria fading.

  Only a few weeks ago, he’d longed to have this exact belt to create a noose for himself.

  He could use it now, if he wished.

  A tap sounded on the door and the food slot dropped open. Ela’s voice called, “Ambassador, hand out your bowl.”

  Was she taunting him? Grinning, Kien snatched his bowl and went to the door. “The king ordered my gear returned. You must have scared him witless last night.”

  “I’m so glad, Ambassador.” Her voice was dust-dry, edged with mirth. He heard the clang of the ladle against the emptying kettle. The slosh of liquid as she filled his bowl. “I’ve just spent half the morning with your most ardent admirer.”

  She was indeed taunting him. Kien laughed. “Really . . . Who?”

  “Lan Isa.”

  Who? Kien picked through his memories and finally recalled a blushing little girl without a voice. “She spoke to you? She’s never said a word to me.”

  “How heartbreaking.” Ela passed the bowl through the slot. “She must have been too overcome by your amazing eyes to speak. Or was it your marvelous eyelashes? She talks of almost nothing but you.”

  “I’m ‘nothing’?” He looked into the bowl and forgot to complain about Ela’s choice of words. Meat nearly overwhelmed the rich sauce. And vegetables, perfectly cooked. With barley. Kien set down the savory stew. If a mouse headed for this, he’d stomp the creature.

  Ela handed him two thick folds of flatbread. “Actually, I don’t want to discuss you any further. I’m sick of you.”

  Kien stared at the soft flatbread, reverent. “Ela, I love you.”

  “No you don’t. It’s just the food. Eat, then practice with your sword.”

  Practice. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Amazing idea, except—“They didn’t return my swords.”

  “Pretend, please. You need to practice.”

  “Why? Did you see me dueling in a vision?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Her voice went serious. “Just practice. Every day.” She closed the food slot and locked it.

  Kien settled in the straw to eat. He kicked away the sword belt, glad to be alive.

  Ela emerged from the stairwell, planning her afternoon’s work, hoping she would see Tzana. A guard stalked toward her. Without a word, he gripped Ela’s braid at the nape of her neck, swung her around, and rushed her along the passageway.

  “Let go—you’re pulling my hair!” Ela wished she had the branch. She’d strike him with it. “At least tell me what I’ve done! Where are you taking me?” Infinite? What’s happening?

  Silent, the guard opened a door and shoved her inside a cell ominously fitted with chains, spikes, ropes, and a gargantuan wheel. Were they going to interrogate her?

  Ela stared at the cell’s occupant and prayed.

  15

  Shrouded in white, Judge Ket Behl advanced on Ela, his dark eyes intent, though they glistened with sudden tears. “You should suffer the misery you’ve caused my family!”

  Keeping her voice gentle, Ela said, “I did not cause your misery.” She sent up a silent prayer and a plea. How could she best counsel this proud man, so plainly broken with grief for his nephew? “Yet I grieve whenever I think of your loss, sir. I warned Ket. I begged him to change his ways—to live.”

  All dignity gone, the judge sagged against the massive wooden wheel and cried, shielding his face with one smooth hand. Between gasps, he apologized. “That was not what I meant to say. Forgive me. My nephew wasn’t perfect . . . by any means! However, he was my heir. . . .”

  “Your future isn’t lost,” Ela murmured. “The Infinite wishes you to prepare an inheritance for new heirs. Not only wealth and status, but a worthy reputation and a righteous soul.”

  She waited as the judge calmed himself and wiped his eyes. At last, he exhaled. “The night Ket demanded I bring you to my court . . . after you were taken away, I went outside and saw my garden . . . ruined.”

  Pet. Ela winced, remembering the gnawed, uprooted, mulched shrubs and miniature trees. Before she could express regret, Ket Behl said, “I knew, then, that I’d been wrong. Not for pardoning you, but for my motives in doing so. I should not have dismissed the Infinite.”

  He’d considered her words. Qu
estioned himself. Someone had finally listened! Ela gripped a nearby iron stand for support.

  The judge continued. “You warned me that my choices would condemn my family. I am a man of the law. The last thing I desire is to see my loved ones destroyed by my failure to act as I know I ought. What must I do?”

  Why couldn’t she hear the king say these words? Ela swallowed. “Excuse me, but I have to ask. As a judge, you realize that the law merely points to your own wrongdoings. Knowing this, can you say you’ve been perfect throughout your life?”

  The judge shook his head. “I feel the weight of everything I’ve ever done—every bribe I’ve accepted, every threat I’ve bowed to, every miscreant I’ve pardoned . . . every innocent . . . wrongly sentenced . . .”

  “Make whatever restitutions you can,” Ela urged. “It won’t absolve your wrongs, but the Infinite will bless you.”

  Ket Behl’s mouth twisted. “Yet He judges me. How I regret my failures!”

  “The Infinite judges us all,” Ela agreed. “He compares us to Himself, and we all fail.”

  “Then what can I possibly do to redeem myself?”

  “Nothing.” As the judge sagged again, Ela continued. “Only your Creator can redeem you. And He will. He longs to. He’s simply waiting for you to trust Him. Call to Him.”

  “I’m not fit to speak to Him.”

  “Neither am I. Yet He loves us. May I pray for you?”

  Her offer seemed to hearten the miserable man. “You would pray for me?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, a bit nauseated by her question, but needing the truth. “Tell me: Have you worshiped Istgard’s gods, and sacrificed to them?”

  Ket Behl reddened. “No. I fear I have been my own god.”

  Ela held out a hand. “Will your self-worship end now?”

  Placing his hand on hers as if making a legal pledge, the judge nodded.

  Ela bowed her head.