Prophet (Books of the Infinite Book #1)

by R. J. Larson

  Serious, Tsir Aun added, “The captives from Ytar have been freed and compensated. Istgard will rebuild the city within a year.”

  “Thank you!” Ela breathed. Tears sparkled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

  Father glanced at her suspiciously, then straightened and beamed at the general as if he’d negotiated the treaty himself. The general offered Kien a handshake. “On behalf of the Tracelands, we offer you our gratitude.”

  Kien accepted the congratulations, stunned. As the impromptu meeting dissolved into a celebration—for the Tracelanders at least—Rade Lantec pressed a hand hard on Kien’s shoulder. Beneath his breath, he said, “This Parnian prophet. Ela. Get rid of her—and her Unfortunate sister.”

  26

  Freed from the destroyers, and grateful for the calm afternoon, Ela knelt in her small army-rationed tent.

  What would become of her now? And Tzana?

  Istgard was settled. Ytar’s captives were free. The Tracelands was assured of peace for a while at least, she hoped. “Infinite,” she whispered, amid her prayers, “tell me Your will. Should we return to Parne? Are we finished with our duties?”

  No.

  “Then where should Tzana and I go? What will happen?”

  A headache. She should have known. Blinded by pain, Ela groped for her designated cot and fell into it.

  Into a vision.

  Standing outside her tent, Ela grimaced at her headache and at Kien’s words. So she and Tzana would be rejected by Kien’s father? No surprise. Indeed, a prophet must become used to being a social outcast. Hadn’t all of Parne’s prophets suffered rejection? Even so, Kien’s words stung.

  To his credit, Kien was obviously offended. Now, having delivered news of his father’s rejection, he said, “I can’t abide by his wishes, of course.”

  “You must honor him,” Ela said. Perhaps this implied parting was for the best. She hadn’t seen much of Kien’s future. Surely this meant they’d travel separate paths, particularly now that she knew more of what she was facing. “Anyway,” she continued her thoughts aloud, “I have work to do, so you mustn’t be upset.”

  Despite his frustration, he looked interested. “What type of work?”

  “I’m returning the Tracelands to the Infinite. And soon . . . I’m to rescue His faithful ones . . . elsewhere . . . before they’re slaughtered.”

  Kien tensed, his eyes narrowing. “Slaughter? Where? When?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I saw them. They’re waiting.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” For now.

  Gripping Pet’s battered war harness, Ela leaned forward and inhaled the brisk salt-tinged air. They were approaching the Traceland’s capital city, East Guard. “We’re near the ocean,” she told Tzana, doing her best to convey cheer. “We’ll let Pet run in the water before he goes home with Kien.”

  Tetchy from the long journey, Tzana squirmed around to stare up at Ela. “But Pet’s ours! Why is he going home with Kien?”

  “Because we’re going to be busy, and Kien will be able to keep Pet safe and well fed.” Swallowing her misery, Ela said, “Don’t worry. We’ll see Pet again.” True. How often, or for how long, Ela didn’t know.

  Tzana pouted. “All right. But what’ll we be busy doing?”

  Loud enough for the Tracelanders to hear, Ela announced, “We are going on a treasure hunt!”

  Riding ahead on her elegant destroyer, Beka Thel heard and called over her shoulder. “What treasure?”

  “Come see.” Ela turned Pet aside from the main road, up a hill edging the shoreline. Shouts and beckoning whistles lifted in her wake. She’d have witnesses. Perfect. A pity Kien was traveling with his parents and the general at the front of the procession—he wouldn’t be happy when he learned he’d missed their expedition.

  Pet, however, seemed perfectly willing to bypass this adventure in favor of eating. He munched his way up the hill, grumping a bit at Ela’s repeated commands to proceed.

  At last, they rode into an overgrown meadow below the hill’s crest. Ela’s breath caught. The ruins. Haunting stone pillars, weathered to a deep gray, were sheltered by the hill’s highest bluff. Some of the pillars had fallen, and bright green moss thickly draped their broken bases. How sobering, to see this once-beautiful place of worship reduced to near rubble. Would Parne’s temple eventually suffer the same fate? Ela shuddered.

  She guided Pet to a broken pillar base, tested it with the branch, then dismounted. As she reached for Tzana, the little girl asked, “Where’s the treasure?”

  “It’s hidden. But the Infinite sees every secret thing. Hop down.”

  Jon and Beka Thel joined them with their destroyers, following Ela’s example of dismounting on the fallen pillar. Jon frowned. “This old temple has been picked over by every generation for more than a hundred years—there’s nothing left of any value here.”

  “On the contrary. Your people missed the most important treasure of all.” Ela paused, shut her eyes, and recalled what she’d seen. Trees. Generations worth of neglected shrubs . . .

  Excused soldiers and curious Tracelanders were filing into the clearing, eager to join a promised treasure hunt. Carrying Tzana, Ela led them behind the roofless temple to a grove of ancient, gnarled, lichen-crusted fruit trees planted near the bluff.

  Ferns, shrubs, and fragile saplings whispered against her mantle as she entered the grove. Limbs—many leafless and fit only to be pruned and burned—tugged at her hair, forcing her to duck. Oblivious, Pet barged into the orchard to her right, testing every leaf and twig in his way. Behind them, the Tracelanders murmured. Some laughed quietly, doubting her vision.

  Let them.

  There. Behind the small orchard, at the bluff’s vinewood screened base. “Pet! Come here. Bring your friends and your appetites.”

  Tzana tweaked Ela’s braid. “What’ll they eat?”

  “Everything that’s in our way.” Ela touched her silvery branch to the tangled vinewood screen. The destroyers nosed the vine’s leaves, smacked their lips, and crunched through the wood, reducing it to fragrant pulp. Soon they exposed a substantial cairn of moss-covered rocks blocking a door chiseled in the bluff’s stone.

  “How could we have missed this?” Jon approached the cairn as the destroyers finally retreated. “Beka—go tell Kien!”

  “And become snared with him by those long-winded official welcoming committees? Not for anything!” She threw her mantle over a tree limb, grabbed a mossy rock from the cairn, and passed it to the nearest bystander. “Here.”

  Setting down Tzana and the branch, Ela lugged rocks and prayed, her joy building as the cairn diminished. The branch’s light intensified, illuminating the entry into the bluff. When the last stone was removed, Ela grabbed Tzana and the glowing branch and stepped into the passage.

  “We can’t all fit inside,” Jon yelled to the crowd. “Form a line and wait your turn!”

  Stagnant, time-aged air beckoned Ela from the darkness ahead to a metal-bound door. Tzana hugged Ela’s neck and squealed as the door’s aged lock broke, allowing them into a chamber. Gold utensils—reflections of those used in Parne’s own temple—shimmered at her from niches carved into the walls. Ela ignored the gleaming metal.

  Gently, she set Tzana on the chamber’s stone floor, then approached a shadowed niche filled with an orderly series of gem-studded ivory plaques. “Infinite?”

  I am here.

  Overcome, she reached for the first plaque. Her eyes dazzled by gems winking at her in the branch’s light, Ela read aloud the first verses in the ancient traditional temple lettering. “Blessed are you, who hear and obey the Infinite, your Creator. . . .”

  Kien paced through his mother’s chamber. “The historians are quarreling with the lawyers over the artifacts, and the civilians are protesting for access to the hidden writings. And I still cannot believe you didn’t send for me.” He frowned at his sister and mother, who sat in the sunny window seat.

  Beka consulted
her parchment, then leaned toward Mother. “I suppose we must invite the Siphrans.”

  “I suppose.” Ara pressed a slender stylus against her wax note tablet. “Siphrans are added. Just keep them away from your father.”

  Kien flung himself onto an empty cushion and scowled. “You’re ignoring me.”

  “Nonsense, dear,” Ara reproved tenderly, “we’re planning this reception for you.”

  He nudged his boot at Beka. “Have you invited Ela?”

  “My reception’s a failure without her.” Beka showed him the parchment. Ela’s name headed her list. “She’s now the most revered person in East Guard. In all the Tracelands.”

  “Father disagrees.” Kien issued the words as a challenge.

  Mother met his stare, her gray eyes serene. “He’ll come around, darling. Trust me. She’s gathered too many followers to be ignored. A remarkable girl, really.”

  “I’m inviting her to stay the night with me after the reception,” Beka informed Kien. “But you will have to leave at a respectable hour, sir.”

  Ela—invited to stay in Jon and Beka’s residence? Kien grinned. “You have my word, I’ll be an exemplary guest.” When was the last time he’d spoken to Ela alone? Not since their arrival in East Guard. His thoughts sped to the reception. He would—

  “Kien.” Mother’s gentle voice became serious. “Your father hopes you will pay attention to some of the eligible young ladies at the reception. We’d like to see you married within the next year or two. Visit with all of them, please.” Her words were a command.

  “Of course.” Determined to end this conversation, Kien stood. “I’m going to run Scythe.”

  “You’ve just returned from running him,” Ara protested.

  “Well, we’re off again. Boredom makes us cranky.”

  Beka laughed. “We noticed.”

  Surrounded by lamplight and cantankerous scholars in the no-longer-secret chamber, Ela concentrated on her chart. These scholars perched on stools around her makeshift table were maddening. They had no concern for the Books of the Infinite, only for the historical value of the writings. The sooner she finished the chart, the sooner she’d be rid of the scholars for today. She hoped.

  “You are certain?” the eldest interrupted her, his grizzled eyebrows crescents as he clinked a reed pen on a quartz ink vial. “The translations on these tablets are correct?”

  “These tablets are not translations,” Ela said. “This is the traditional script used in our holy writings. The ancient form of your own script. What you’ll write, sir, is the translation, which must be correct. The Infinite’s Word is sacred. Wouldn’t you prefer to learn the ancient characters?”

  One of the youngest scholars spoke quietly. “With permission, I will learn.” He’d been mute, copying the tablets all morning in the ancient form.

  The reed clinker pursed his lips at the youngster. “Do you believe you are better than we?”

  “Not at all, sir. Respectfully, I would like to learn the ancient language to—”

  “To show off,” his elder sniffed, “when you should be concentrating on copying text.”

  “He’s been copying all morning,” another disagreed. “You disparage his gifts.”

  “Gifts?”

  The Tracelands’ finest minds began to squabble like children in a sand pile. Any louder and they’d upset Tzana, who sat in a lamplit corner, pressing patterns into a wax tablet.

  “Infinite,” Ela prayed beneath her breath, “grant me patience! And wisdom.” She took a wooden tablet, her parchment chart, ink, and reed pen, then joined Tzana at the far wall.

  “You’re having more fun.” Ela sat beneath the lamp. “May I work beside you?”

  “All right.” Smiling, Tzana scooted over on her cushioned mat and continued her play.

  While the scholars continued their quarrel, Ela completed her chart. Each ancient character was noted, with its name, meaning, phonetic pronunciation, and corresponding contemporary letter. Finished, she marched over to the young scholar and dangled the parchment before his nose. “May the Infinite bless you with understanding.”

  He’d been poised as if ready to parry the eldest scholar’s jabs. Seeing the chart, he stuck the reed in a corner of his mouth and chewed, elated. “Might I consult with you as I translate?”

  “Not without our permission,” the reed-wielding elder said.

  Their squabbling resumed. Ela pressed both hands to her head, willing the commotion to fade. Her thoughts whirled with petty scholars, finicky lawyers, and invitations to receptions she’d no wish to attend, even if Beka was the generous hostess. Infinite? Is this really why You brought me to the Tracelands?

  Patience.

  “Please, bless me with Your patience. Mine is gone.”

  Kien fought down his exasperation. Two weeks of waiting had led to this? A stuffy crowd of pompous bureaucrats, snobbish society women, and no Ela.

  Could the guest of honor vanish, now that the reception had begun?

  Father gave him a furtive nudge. “There’s General Rol’s daughter. Go talk to her.”

  “We haven’t been introduced.” Kien refused to look at the young lady in question.

  Rade Lantec turned crimson. “You are the guest of honor. You’ve been introduced to everyone. Stop making excuses and be sociable!” He led Kien to a thin young woman who looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. “Nia, you look lovely. Are you enjoying your evening?”

  “Oh,” she murmured, words as vague as her face, “thank you, sir. Really. Rather, I think I’m not agreeing that I’m lovely, but . . .”

  Kien bit down a grin and enjoyed every syllable of Nia Rol’s drizzling monologue, because it was aimed at Father. By the time the girl finished talking, Rade Lantec’s glazed eyes betrayed apathy. General Rol’s daughter had the wit and glow of dry porridge in a clay dish.

  They excused themselves as soon as possible. Kien said, “Father, you’ve made your point. I’ll speak with Beka’s friends at least.”

  “See that you do.”

  Dutiful son, honoring parents. He approached one of Beka’s childhood friends, Xiana Iscove. He hadn’t talked to her in years. She’d become quite pretty . . . glowing skin, lustrous hair.

  “There you are,” she said, as if Kien should have paid attention to her sooner. Lifting an etched eyebrow, she teased, “I’ve heard you’re quite a hero now. That’s wonderful. Just tell me you’ve given up spitting apple seeds at people.”

  “Apple seeds?” Kien stared. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, Kien, for pity’s sake!” She sounded impatient despite her flirtatious smile. “How can you have forgotten? The harvest party in Master Cam Wroth’s apple orchard.”

  Master Cam Wroth? Kien hadn’t thought of his first tutor in—what?—sixteen years.

  Xiana’s eyes hardened just a bit. “You were sitting in a tree, spitting apple seeds down into my hair.”

  “Oh.” He remembered spitting in blissful peace, then hearing horrific screams from below. “I was seven. And I didn’t know you were there. You remember that day?”

  “Of course. I remember everything.”

  “Amazing.” He imagined being married to her. Xiana perpetually reliving all his faults while forgetting her own. She had called him a stupid ugly boy. After he’d apologized twice. No wonder he hadn’t talked to her in years. “And, I must say, you’re as lovely as ever.”

  Xiana simpered.

  Kien visited a bit longer, then smiled and excused himself. He deserved a medal. Or an actor’s mask. Another of Beka’s friends waved to him. And asked him to introduce her to one of Jon’s fellow commanders. Kien hoped the man didn’t eventually marry her—he’d blame Kien.

  “Kien!” Beka’s new friend, Lil, caught his arm in a death grip. He’d never met the girl until tonight. He smiled as Lil paraded him through the gathering as if she’d won a trophy.

  Until Beka pried him away, beaming. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

 
; “Beka,” Kien hissed beneath his breath, “you must find new friends.”

  “Like Ela?” His sister showed a mischievous smile.

  Ela. Finally! “Where is she?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you—she’s settled Tzana in their room and is preparing herself now. My maidservant will play with Tzana and sit with her for the night. I’m leaving to meet Ela. If anyone asks, I’ll return immediately.” She swept away.

  “Lantec.” A sleek-haired, gold-embellished Siphran nobleman bowed to Kien and cleared his throat. “One hears you refused Istgard’s throne. And that you will soon accept a position to train as a military judge. Congratulations.”

  Whoever ‘one’ was, he or she was well informed. Kien hid his uneasiness. “Thank you. How may I help you?”

  “I am Ruestock, Siphra’s ambassador. An unsuccessful one thus far.”

  Unsuccessful. Kien understood his meaning. Siphra’s queen, never mind her useless king-husband, was displeased. The ambassador had evidently received threats. “What’s expected of you, sir?”

  The Siphran sighed. “I appealed to your father and to your Grand Assembly on behalf of my country. Our mutual border through the Snake Mountains is beset by rebels who threaten us all. We ask that you send military aid to help us root out and destroy these evildoers.”

  “And you’re discussing the matter with me because you’ve received no response from my father or the Grand Assembly?”

  “Precisely. You are very perceptive, sir. Istgard has lost a great king.”

  Kien ignored the non-compliment. “You are asking a nation founded by a pack of rebels to crush another pack of rebels who threaten your king.” Better not to mention the despotic queen, who’d provoked rebellion among Siphra’s military.

  “These are difficulties, indeed. Will you speak to your father on my behalf?”

  “You ought to request asylum instead.”

  The Siphran’s answer was a thin smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth. Fortunately, Beka returned with Ela, who had obviously been tended by Beka’s maidservant.