by R. J. Larson
“So you’ve won an impossible victory. Yet you were outnumbered,” Ela reminded the general. “What chance did you actually have, sir, unless the Infinite gave you the battle?”
The general remained silent, his lips pressed tight as if restraining several hundred responses to her question. Ela sighed. “One more thing, sir. These destroyers each need their own master to care for them. Masters they can protect in return. In three days, the Infinite will chose their new owners from among the Tracelanders.”
Skepticism etched the general’s features. “Your Infinite will select new masters for these destroyers?”
“Yes. He will choose.” The branch gleamed in Ela’s hands, a bright warning. “I won’t be bribed or threatened.”
“Of course not.” He wasn’t smiling. “Three days. You are our honored guest until then, Ela of Parne.”
He would rather she left this instant, Ela knew.
But, like Kien and every other Tracelander, he must learn of the Infinite. And be tested.
Under the general’s stern gaze, with the Tracelandic army looking on, Kien faced Istgard’s commanders. Why was Ela standing off to the side like a mere spectator? She’d been at the center of this conflict since the day she’d set foot in Riyan.
Of course, being trailed by forty-one destroyers wasn’t helpful in conducting orderly meetings. Scythe alone—looming jealously over Ela’s shoulder—was a huge distraction.
Moreover, Ela had that half dreaming, pondering expression. A sign that she was, most likely, conversing with the Infinite yet again.
The highest-ranking survivor stepped forward. Tsir Aun. Shadowed by his mournful destroyer, he looked older. Exhausted and clearly conscious of his defeated status. He bowed to Kien. “Ambassador.”
“Tsir Aun.” Kien offered him a smile. “I am pleased to see you.”
“Thank you, sir.” The crown commander’s tone was dust-dry. “Likewise, I’m pleased you see me.”
Subdued chuckles rippled through the nearest onlookers. Even the general smiled. Kien appreciated Tsir Aun’s spirit. Bitterness would have been perfectly understandable from the proud Istgardian. Even expected. However, the crown commander obviously chose to face humiliation in a civilized manner.
Wholly dignified, Tsir Aun lifted an ornate baldric and sword in his hands. “Istgard has surrendered. We acknowledge defeat. In addition, we acknowledge that you and your servants suffered at our hands. Please, accept the king’s sword with our sincere apologies.”
Kien stared at the sword. Its richly embellished goldwork was sadly familiar. “But this was General Tek Juay’s weapon.”
“Yes, sir. The king appropriated it for his own use before battle. Therefore, because you represent the victors as much as those our king victimized, we agreed to offer this to you.”
“Thank you.” Kien accepted the weapon with a bow. “I’m honored. I respected General Tek Juay above all men in Istgard.”
“He would have been delighted.” Tsir Aun’s answer was polite. But he hesitated. Shifted his stance. Took a deep breath.
Kien frowned. Why was the crown commander suddenly so nervous? Hadn’t he just successfully faced what must be the most demeaning military experience of his life?
“Sir,” the Istgardian began abruptly, “you are a Lan Tek. A direct descendant of the dynasty which produced the Teks.”
“Yes,” Kien agreed. He squelched the instinct to step back. Every gaze, particularly the general’s, suddenly sharpened. Hardened. Fixed on him. “But that was seven generations past. It’s unimportant.”
“No,” Tsir Aun argued, unnervingly deferential. “The Lan Tek clan is vital to us now. Our king is dead. His son is dead. His brother is dead. This morning, we buried Tek An’s cousins. Every male directly descended from Istgard’s royal line is dead. Except you. And your father.”
Kien fought lightheadedness. And won. “What are you saying, sir?”
“You are our logical choice. We ask you to reinstate the Lan Tek dynasty.”
No. Kien shut his eyes. Infinite, won’t You advise me? His silent plea for divine counsel was met with a waiting silence. An awful sense of heaviness pressed into Kien’s being. Obviously, this choice was his alone. And he did not want to make this decision. Infinite!
Kien restrained himself. Opened his eyes. Shook his head. “I cannot and will not be your king. After everything I’ve suffered in Istgard, I would be unable to rule impartially.” As the crown commander started to protest, Kien cut him off with an uplifted hand. “I have neither love nor loyalty for your country, Tsir Aun. Please, accept my decision.”
“Then, sir,” one of Istgard’s lesser commanders objected, “What shall we do? We have no king!”
“Therefore you have no kingdom!” Kien snapped. “Start from that perspective, sir, and make the best of it! Because I refuse to become your king. I refuse your offer in my father’s name as well—the Lantecs want nothing to do with Istgard.”
Ela’s clear, low voice cut through the shocked silence following Kien’s outburst. “This morning, Riyan woke to find the king’s tarnished statue shattered, fallen beneath the waters in his palace’s courtyard. They know he is dead. All Riyan seeks white mourning robes.”
The surviving Istgardians shuffled and whispered among themselves. Ela raised her voice further. “With respect, Commander, Istgard’s leaders will form an assembly similar to the Tracelands’ government. Already, judges and councilmen have spoken to General Tek Juay’s daughter, offering her their support to avoid anarchy.”
Kien seized this opportunity. “Tek Lara is no fool. And she is a Tek—descended from your kings. Trust her.” To emphasize his support for Lara, Kien offered Tek Juay’s sword to Tsir Aun. “Please, give this to Tek Lara with my sincere regards and blessings.”
Blessings? Not a word he’d used before. He counted it toward fatigue. No, to the Infinite.
Tsir Aun’s wearied face eased with something close to a smile. “Thank you. After we’ve buried our dead, I’ll convey your message.”
Although Tsir Aun was placated, Kien realized the Tracelanders were whispering among themselves. He, Kien Lantec, had refused Istgard’s crown. Not only for himself, but for the Tracelands, and for his father—a man known for his love of power.
He’d made a mistake. No, not simply a mistake. A colossal blunder.
Father was going to disown him. Before beating him to death.
24
Kien blinked his eyes hard in an attempt to clear his vision and shake off his fatigue. But it was a waste of time. Dejected, he stared up at the tent’s expertly stitched leather canopy. The few snatches of sleep he’d caught last night were consistently halted by variations of one nightmare.
Father tossing him from the top of the Lantec lookout tower.
Father holding him beneath the ocean’s incoming tide.
Father, quite self-certain, running Kien through with a sword.
Jon strode into the tent, his dark eyebrows raised. “Any sleep?”
“Not enough.” Kien forced himself to sit upright on his pallet. “They’ll arrive today. I never thought I’d dread being reunited with my family.”
Digging through his gear, Jon said, “Well, from what I’ve been hearing, half the army thinks you’re a hero for rejecting Istgard’s crown. The other half thinks you’re a fool for rejecting it. And everyone is certain your father will try to kill you.”
“What do you think, Jon?”
“You’re dead. Unless you talk your way out of it—and run faster than your father.” Jon shook out a clean tunic, then grinned at Kien. “By the way, thank you.”
“For . . . ?”
“Denying your father absolute power over an entire country. By comparison, you’ve made me the favorite son.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
Jon shrugged into his tunic. “Get up. If you’re going to die, you ought to find some clean clothes and make yourself presentable.”
“Not until I’ve he
lped Ela with the destroyers.”
“Huh. Grooming those monsters and keeping them out of mischief is taking most of your time.”
“Working keeps me from thinking too hard about the confrontation with my father.”
“What argument can you—ah!” Jon stumbled and fell onto his cot as if he’d been shoved. A dark form pressed into the tent, almost lifting the leather and wood structure from its pegs.
Pet. Scythe—whoever he was—suddenly took up half the tent’s interior. Kien glared at him. “Out!”
The destroyer sniffed at Jon, as if deaf to Kien’s command.
“Haven’t you taught this monster obedience?” Jon demanded. Scythe grazed dangerously close to his ear. Jon covered his head. “He’s a menace—a thug on hooves!”
“He understands name-calling,” Kien warned.
Too late. Scythe bent, clamped his big teeth on the corner of Jon’s cot, lifted it straight up in the air, and dumped Jon onto the dirt floor. “Hey!” Jon yelled.
Kien bolted from his pallet toward the destroyer. “Out! Now! Do you hear me? Obey!”
Huffing, Scythe retreated, Jon’s cot still clenched between those huge equine teeth. Kien grabbed the cot’s frame. “Drop it! Are you arguing with me? You can’t eat this—drop it!”
Scythe released the cot, sending Kien to the floor, with the cot landing on his chest. Before Kien caught his breath to yell, the destroyer backed out of the tent. But his huge shadow blocked the morning light from the entry.
Kien wanted to throw something at him.
However, the horse might throw something in return. Like Jon.
The unwitting potential missile stood, dusted off his tunic, and shook his head at Kien. “Are all destroyers like this in the morning? Invading tents, tasting people, and stealing furniture?”
“Not just in the morning.” Kien straightened Jon’s cot and surveyed Scythe’s impressive teeth marks. “Think carefully before taking on one of the beasts.”
Scythe’s grumble echoed through the tent’s entry flaps, which then rippled with the whoosh of an offended destroyer sigh. Jon laughed. “That settles it! I’m bidding for one. Hopefully your prophet-friend has forgiven me.”
“If she said she forgave you, then she has.” Kien grabbed his boots and began to dress. “But that’s no guarantee you’ll be chosen.” He dug through his reclaimed clothing chest for a cloak and his sword. Scythe’s persistent presence bothered him. Why was the brute lurking around him instead of guarding Ela? “I’m going to see if any other destroyers are loose in the camp.”
“Alt is cooking rations. Take your share now, or you’ll miss them altogether.”
“Inspiration to hurry,” Kien muttered. Ela’s prison cooking was better by far. He flung on his cloak, marched outside, and stared the glum destroyer in the eye. “Why are you here?”
Scythe whisked his tail and grunted as if Kien’s question was ridiculous. He shoved Kien toward the field where Ela’s herd usually passed the night.
“Worried about her, eh? Though if she’s in genuine danger, you’d be defending her, not nagging me.” Kien smoothed the monster’s black neck. “You have my attention. We’ll go—but let me bring her some food.”
If rations could be called food. Jon’s servant, Alt—scrawnier than a cook should be—was hunkered by a fire, stirring a small kettle of mush. To be served with dry bread and dry meat. Surprise.
Alt grinned at him. “You takin’ food to those girls?”
No. Not food. Rations. “Thank you, Alt.”
The man whistled a cheerful tune through his teeth as he plopped a generous double ration into a metal bowl. He tossed bread and dried meat into a bag, then handed Kien a metal spoon. “You’ll return the spoon, right? Destroyers’re eatin’ the wooden ’uns.”
“Sorry. I’ll see that you receive new spoons.” Followed by Scythe, Kien crossed the encampment and strode to the destroyers’ field. The herd was moving in numerous, roughly elliptical rings arranged like a flower’s petals. At the rings’ outer edges—along the field’s perimeter, the destroyers grazed, tussled quietly with each other, relieved themselves, munched on luckless shrubs, then returned to their unseen focal point at the rings’ center. Ela?
“Why am I not seeing her?”
Scythe huffed in clear aggravation. He bullied his way through the herd, leading Kien to Ela.
A zing of fear jolted Kien. Why was she on the ground? Was she ill? Aware of the destroyers eyeing him suspiciously, Kien approached Ela. She was curled up on a pallet beneath a quilt and an oilskin tarp. With Tzana and the branch tucked beneath her limp arm.
Both girls were sound asleep, oblivious to the morning light and the unhappy herd.
Kien smiled at the sight. He longed to wake Ela, but no doubt the destroyers would attack him if he touched her while she was clearly so defenseless. She was certainly the most well-chaperoned girl in the Tracelands. A pity. He could only imagine waking her with a kiss. Several kisses. Or more . . .
Scythe bumped Kien from his enticing reverie. The orphaned destroyers drew nearer, some eyeing Kien, most watching Ela. Did they want him to wake her? That was it. They were fretting because she wasn’t alert and tending them. Kien shook his head and whispered, “Let her sleep! You’ve worn her out—all of you.”
One rude young upstart nosed his dark muzzle toward the metal bowl in Kien’s hands. Kien shoved the rations beneath his cloak. “Ssst! Back!”
Scythe added silent threats of his own, charging the beasts nearest Kien.
Heaving rumbles of low complaints, the destroyers retreated, allowing Kien space to sit near Ela and Tzana. He envied the girls their sleep. Ela looked so small and sweet beneath the quilt. Kien admired the delicate lines of her face and throat. Her dark hair frayed in beckoning tendrils across her smooth cheek. Her breath stirred Tzana’s dark wispy curls. The child shifted slightly, rested her swollen knuckles on the branch, then stilled again.
Kien fixated on the child’s gesture. Was Tzana the only other person allowed to touch the branch? Interesting.
Even now, Kien felt the shock of his bare fingers passing through the branch as he and Ela stood in King Tek An’s glittering audience chamber, its light and warmth evading his grasp.
Was that the instant he’d begun to wonder? To silently consider the Infinite?
His mouth only forming the words, he asked, “Will You ever speak to me?”
He listened. And heard only destroyers shuffling about, moving further afield to graze on the tender grasses and shrubs. A breeze sifted through the new-leafed trees. Beyond these few sounds . . . nothing.
Quiet. Calm.
Silence.
Ela drew in a long breath, reluctantly allowing wakefulness to intrude upon the first deep sleep she’d had for weeks. Tzana’s head, pillowed on Ela’s arm, had slowed the blood enough that Ela’s arm felt like a dead weight. An axe could fall, and she wouldn’t feel it sever her limb.
Alarming idea. Like a glimpse from a vision. What had she been dreaming? Images nagged at the edge of her thoughts but refused to reveal themselves fully. Unsettling situations. Vague recollections of pain and fear. Her own pain and fear. For the hundredth time, surely, she wondered why she’d survived the battle at Ytar. What would happen now? Another duty for the Infinite, no doubt. Perhaps fatal. What would it be? “Infinite?”
Look around.
Ela braced herself and gently tugged her dead arm from beneath Tzana’s sleeping form. She sat up and rubbed her shoulder as she looked around. A body! She recoiled. Wait. Not a body. Kien, sleeping in the grass, more than an arm’s length from her pallet. A metal bowl, half concealed, showed beneath the edge of his dark cloak.
Had he brought food for her and Tzana?
Dear man. What a thoughtful gesture. She smiled at his rumpled hair, his whisker-stubbled face, his slight frown. Was he concentrating on a dream? His mouth twitched. Adorable. Until he gasped and flinched in his sleep. His eyes flashed open, wide and gray. Shocked.
<
br /> He’d caught her staring. Hoping to distract him from her mortified blush, she said, “Thank you for the food.”
Kien blinked, then rubbed his face. “You haven’t eaten it yet.”
Despite his joke, the young man looked dazed. Ela studied him, cherishing his sleep-tousled look. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“Yes. Asleep for one instant and my father pulverizes me with a hammer for denying him Istgard.”
“He won’t kill you.”
“But he’s going to be furious.”
“You’ll survive. And so will he.”
“So you say.”
Ela chuckled. “The Infinite said so. Not me.”
She saw Kien’s interest sharpen. “What else did He tell you?”
“That you must be honest with your father about everything. Respect him. But don’t give in to his demands or the Infinite will make you regret your cowardice.”
“That’s not terribly soothing.” Kien sat up and straightened his cloak.
“I’m not here to soothe you.”
“I wish you were.” He responded with a sudden gleam in his eyes and that warm grin—positively dangerous.
Prophets must not be enticed. Seduced. Ela gave the Tracelander her most severe look. “Do not be charming.”
“Can you be charmed?” He leaned toward her.
“Stop!” Ela lifted a warning hand. She’d rather not test his question. She’d fail. But what was she thinking? She’d already failed! Why, oh why, had she fallen for him? They couldn’t possibly have a future together. Or could they? Might she be a prophet and . . . Kien’s wife?
Blushing at the thought, Ela nudged Tzana awake. She needed an ally as she chased off Kien. “Ambassador, give me the food, then leave before there’s talk that you’ve been lingering here. Your family will arrive soon.”
“Killjoy.” His gloom returned, but he smiled and handed her the bowl and a small bag.
Tzana sat up. “What did you bring us?”
“Rations, little one. Forgive me.” He stood and bowed, then strode away.