by R. J. Larson
To set the example, she swallowed her dread and began the torturous descent to the rocky beach below the cliffs.
As she set foot on the beach, Ela saw the next bit of her vision unfurl. For an instant, she wished Kien could face this vision with her. Surely he would find a reason to laugh. To offer encouragement. Comprehending the distinct possibility of death, she turned and followed the coastline south.
To Kien’s irritation, the destroyers rumbled and whinnied at each other through the woods, as if sharing opinions of their meals—leaves and saplings they crunched along the way. Good to know at least three members of their wearied band weren’t hungry.
Kien halted Scythe and studied the fern-swathed woods. Did the gaps between those trees ahead look brighter?
Two tree spaces to Kien’s left, Beka thumped a mossy trunk with her elegant boot and left a deliberate mark. “We’re lost, aren’t we? I’m sure I’ve seen this tree before. Next time we pass it, you’ll know I’m right.”
Kien frowned at his sister. “Are you finished complaining?”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was stating my opinion and yours, though you’re not about to admit it.”
“I don’t feel lost,” Tzana announced from Beka’s steed. Her tiny old-woman face crinkled with concentration as she looked up at the treetops. “Anyway we need to stop soon.”
“You’re hungry again, Tzana?” Jon called teasingly from Beka’s left. “You eat more than I do! She has a point, Kien. It’s near evening.”
“Be patient, everyone,” Kien said. “I’m sure that’s a clearing ahead.”
“I didn’t say I was hungry,” Tzana explained, her tone measured as if speaking to someone much younger. “But those men in the trees might want us to stop.”
Men in the trees? Wary, Kien looked up.
A dark-bearded man armed with a bow and arrow glared down from the nearest tree. He met Kien’s gaze and bellowed a warning toward the trees around him. “They’ve seen us—and you’re right! They’ve destroyers!”
“Do we kill them?” another voice called.
Kien’s heartbeat skipped. “I’d rather you not! Unless you’d prefer to start a war. We’re Tracelanders.”
Never mind what Father claimed, Kien was certain chaos would result if he and Jon were killed trying to rescue Ela. Not to mention Beka, Tzana, and the three destroyers.
A third man ordered from a distance, “Spare them for now. Actually, I’d prefer not to eat destroyer roasts. Too gamy.”
Beka’s destroyer squealed. Jon’s snorted. Scythe turned abruptly. Kien ducked to avoid a limb scrape. “Scythe!” Had the beasts understood what the man said? Or did they simply hate hearing unseen potential enemies making threats?
Scythe tore through the underbrush, charging straight to the leader’s tree. He circled the trunk, snorting in his finest bullying manner. The unseen leader yelled down, “Call off your destroyer, and we’ll share this evening’s meal—venison and lentils!”
“Not enough! I want your word that you mean us no harm, just as we mean you none.”
Scythe reared and hammered the tree trunk with his massive front hooves, forcing Kien to clutch the war harness. The tree trembled and swayed.
Kien expected to see a body fall, but the leader hung on with commendable tenacity. And he spoke to Scythe in a shaken, pleasantly accented voice. “Destroyer, rest assured I do not kill Tracelanders!” As Scythe settled a bit, the wily man pitched a grain cake to the ground. “See, I am telling the truth—I’ll feed you.”
The destroyer snatched up the grain cake, but didn’t leave the tree.
Though unconvinced of the leader’s sincerity, Kien decided to end the stalemate before the treed men became desperate enough to use their arrows. “Scythe, back away!”
“Will your destroyer attack me if I descend?” the leader demanded.
“No.” As Scythe backed away grudgingly, Kien patted his shoulder and whispered, “Good job! Here . . .” He pitched a grain cake from his stash. Scythe seized it, midair.
The leader, when he finally dropped to the ground, proved as agreeable as his voice—though badly groomed. Kien guessed him to be as old as Jon. The man called up to his comrades, “Look! I’m still alive, and the destroyers are calm! Get down here!” He grinned at Kien. “I gave you my word that we would share this evening’s meal, therefore we shall. And we intend to be friends unless you try to deceive us.”
His good-natured expression and easy stance settled Kien’s nerves. “I won’t place my family in danger by trying to deceive you, Sir . . . ?”
“Akabe, of no other name.” The leader offered his hand.
Obviously one of the Siphran rebels, loathed by Ambassador Ruestock. Kien chuckled. “Akabe of no other name, thank you for your hospitality, despite the startling reception.”
“Forgive us, but we are cautious men. We heard you approaching our camp like an unruly pack and decided to hide ourselves in the trees. Take no offense at the truth, I beg you. Had the little one not noticed us, we would have abandoned this place immediately.” Akabe winked at Tzana. “Now, however, we know it will be safe for us to remain here tonight. A man traveling with his family usually desires peace.”
By now, the other men had clambered down from the trees, shouldering their weapons. Silent. Less friendly than their leader. Kien decided to reinforce the peaceable image he’d offered the rebels. He introduced himself, Jon, Beka, and Tzana, then explained, “We’re seeking Tzana’s older sister, who was stolen from Jon and Beka’s home several days ago. As soon as we find her we’ll return to the Tracelands.”
He had their attention, Kien realized. He dismounted, as did Jon and Beka. To a man, the rebels stared at him. Kien cleared his throat. “Her name is Ela of Parne. Have you heard of her?”
Akabe nodded his men toward their camp. They began to walk. “We saw her. Two days past, we buried her captors. They were slain by a lindorm.”
“A lindorm!” Beka gasped and reached for Jon’s hand.
“Don’t be frightened,” Akabe said. “We killed it more than a day’s walk from here. Would you enjoy seeing the lindorm’s skin? Not pretty—but it proves our victory.”
Kien found he’d been holding his breath. “Did Ela survive?”
The rebel leader was silent just long enough to worry Kien. But, with a glance at Tzana still riding Beka’s destroyer, he chose his words carefully. “Indeed she survived. Tell me . . . this Ela of Parne, is she somehow exceptional?”
“She is Parne’s prophet, serving the Infinite,” Kien said. “Why?”
“A prophet!” Akabe halted, raising both fists. “And I doubted my sanity!”
“What happened?” Kien demanded. They waited at the edge of the clearing.
Akabe all but danced in jubilation. “We saw what we saw! My friends,” he called to his men, “we imagined nothing—we saw the truth!”
“Who will believe us,” the dark-bearded one complained, “if we say she lit and ran off like sunlight in the air, huh?”
“Did Ela’s hair turn light?” Tzana asked, interested. “Did the branch become a tree?”
Akabe bowed before Tzana. “Child, sister of a prophet, I beg the honor of carrying you to the seat of tribute. This will be a story to tell my children—if I survive long enough to have children.”
To prevent the destroyers from fretting, Kien hastily coaxed Tzana from the destroyer and allowed her to accept Akabe’s praise. The rebels rekindled their fire, listening avidly while they finished cooking their meal. In the midst of their stories, Akabe covered his face with his hands. When he looked at them again, he said, “Forgive me. I have not heard the Infinite named since I was a boy. Now we hope that if He, whose name we dared not speak, has sent His prophet to Siphra . . .” He shook his head, undeniably overwhelmed.
Kien laughed. “Believe me. If the Infinite has sent Ela of Parne to Siphra, your king and queen ought to tremble.”
Quietly amid the noisy celebration that followed, Beka ask
ed Kien, “Ela has been in East Guard. Should Father and the Tracelands tremble?”
Her question stilled Kien. “I don’t know.”
Ela halted in the pale sand, chilled by recognition. Munra, Siphra’s capital, shone before her in the morning light, its pristine white buildings sharply lined against the edge of the ocean’s deep blue on one side and lush trees and vegetation on the other. Open terraces supporting elaborate white altars punctuated the highest portions of the city and the palace, as did ornate white towers and arcades of lacy stonework, entwined with luxuriant flowering vines. Fragrant vines used in rituals honoring false gods.
The queen’s gods. Or so the queen believed. Ela shuddered, longing for her vision to fade. To never reemerge in her thoughts, or in life.
She wanted to become plain Ela again. In Parne. Fetching water and wood for Mother, while fending off Amar’s questing hands.
Amar? Bah! What was she thinking? Ela shut her eyes and willed her thoughts into the barren borderlands between Parne and Istgard. To the agonizing, soul-shredding fragment of existence without her Creator. Surrounded by fire. Unable to breathe, unable to die.
As the memory beaded her skin with sweat, Ela bowed her head. “Infinite, let Your will be done. And if I must die to accomplish Your purpose here . . .” She nodded mute agreement. All she lacked was courage to march toward the vision’s beginning.
“Go!” she commanded herself.
Weighted with dread, Ela walked. And watched. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a stealthy form emerge from a thicket of shrubs and tall grasses bordering the beach. A wild man now followed Ela, his skin leathery from the sun, his garments badly weathered, his expression as grim as death. One callused hand gripped his sword—prepared to kill.
Ela continued walking.
30
Listen!
The voice woke Kien from a sound sleep. He peered through the early morning light at the still-slumbering forms of Jon and Beka. Beyond them, Scythe brooded over Tzana, who lay snug within her blankets. Akabe’s men snored opposite the banked fire, while the man himself kept watch, a silhouette against the dawn.
Too distant a silhouette to provide that commanding voice.
Kien frowned. He’d been dreaming. As he turned over to settle himself for a bit more sleep, the voice cut into his thoughts again, stern—beyond doubt not to be ignored.
You will remain here.
Kien froze. Could this be . . . ?
I am your Creator. You will remain here.
Catching his breath, Kien stared up at the stars. “Certainly.” What was he saying? He wanted to find Ela. And yet . . . the Infinite was speaking. To him. He waited, heart thudding.
I am bringing about what I have planned.
Meaning he, Kien Lantec, a mere mortal, would accomplish nothing by leaving this place? Fine. But if he was hearing the Infinite, would he also have visions? Would he become a prophet like Ela? “I’m listening.”
The disreputable-looking swordsman followed Ela along the beach, then up the stone steps into Munra. Really, he was making her nervous. Why couldn’t her vision reveal the man’s intent? Beneath her breath, she begged, “Infinite, I know this man is supposed to be here, but why is he following me?”
Child of dust, I commanded him and he obeyed.
“Oh!” The swordsman was also a servant of the Infinite. Did she look as disreputable as this man? Most likely, with her tangled hair, sandy, salt-sprayed garments, and missing sandal. “How did he know where to wait for me?”
I showed him this place in a vision.
Ela’s heart skipped. As she wound through Munra’s outer streets toward the palace at its crest, she whispered, “He’s to be a Siphran prophet?!”
Yes. Say nothing yet. To him or the others.
Others. Of course she’d seen others. Exactly as she was seeing them now.
More men, some rich, some poor, all silent and armed with swords, stepped from doorways and behind pillars. Eyeing each other suspiciously, they fell into step behind her. Ela forced herself to continue walking. Turning to stare would be most unprophet-like. Were all these men to become prophets? “Why does Parne have only me?”
Parne needs only one.
Yet she wasn’t in Parne. Ela shivered, setting aside the thought as the next portion of her vision unfolded. The sounds of footsteps behind her increased. A multitude of sandals and boots echoed against Munra’s beautiful, smooth white-blocked streets. Each child’s wondering face, the buildings, the vendors—all matched her vision.
Following the route she’d seen, Ela turned left onto Munra’s broad main thoroughfare. Dazzling white pavings shone beneath her feet. The walkways were adorned with sculptures of haughty, scantily clad gods and sinuous creatures resembling lindorms, scalns, and web-crested leviathans—all with ferocious expressions, many with exposed fangs and claws. Altars stood before these grotesque statues, each heaped with smoking ashes or still-burning offerings from Munra’s brightly robed citizens.
Open worship, ensuring open compliance and adoration of the queen’s policies and her gods. To offer these hopeless demonstrations of spiritual enslavement, the woman had outlawed all worship of the Infinite and killed all of Siphra’s faithful prophets and most of their priests.
Ela seethed. Good. Wrath was better than fear.
The palace stood on a hill at the top of the street, and Ela strode toward it, ignoring the stares. Now, judging by the echoes of their footsteps, a small army of Siphrans followed her. Would they accompany her into the palace? Hadn’t she been alone during the confrontation in her vision?
As she proceeded through the vast public square—decorated with fountains, flowers, and sitting areas—Ela heard the soon-to-be prophets’ footsteps cease behind her. Obviously halted by their Creator-General.
Precisely as she’d seen and sensed, Ela approached the palace’s huge arched stone entry alone. The branch flared brilliant white-silver in her grip. A guard called through the ornately woven metal gate, “Who are you? Why have you come?”
Ela lifted her chin. “I am Ela of Parne. Your queen and the king are eager to speak with me! Haven’t your prophets warned you?” Was she supposed to sound so sarcastic?
After a squint at the branch’s extraordinary metallic glow, the guard lowered the rim of his gilded helmet and retreated. “Wait.”
His commander soon appeared at a narrow side gate and slammed a broad L-shaped key into the heavy lock. “Enter. They are at their morning meal, so you’ll have to wait. Where are your guards?”
Guards? He was asking about her abductors. “I have no guard but the Infinite.”
The commander didn’t bother to hide his sneer.
Ela charged past him.
“See here!” the man protested. “You will not enter the royal presences unguarded!”
“Hurry, then. Perhaps you can protect your royal ones from the Truth.”
Precious stones—inlaid everywhere within the palace’s white marble as trees, vines, and flowers—glistened at Ela. The floor, polished and level, made the difference between Ela’s sandal and her rough bandage noticeable. Compared to the palace’s jeweled perfection, her lovely gold-embroidered gown seemed quite simple. At least the branch was glorious and inspiring.
Limping, she entered a large banquet room and fixed her gaze upon the two occupants of the dais, King Segere and Queen Raenna.
Both elegant, seated in vine-and-flower patterned marble chairs, their clothes glittering, the royal couple picked at their morning meal as if too good for their food.
Their courtiers, seated below the dais at long tables, were also stylish in elaborately embroidered robes and tunics. Almost as one, they threw bored, delicately disapproving looks at Ela and the guard, then returned to their meals. Amid the courtiers, Ela glimpsed shadows seething and whispering—the hostile spiritual forces dominating the palace. If only the courtiers and their king and queen could see and recognize these rebellious deceivers’ shadows. Minions of the
ir Adversary, not—as they believed—aspects of Siphra’s gods.
The deceivers hovered most thickly around certain dark-robed courtiers who flaunted gold chains and were attended by servants holding imposing gold and ebony staffs. Raenna’s prophets. Every bit as pompous as she’d envisioned them.
The king studied Ela as if bemused, his vague expression betraying a meandering, undisciplined mind. “This is the Parnian?”
He didn’t seem terribly interested. Ela hoped to change his condition. “I am the Parnian. But surely you know this. Your prophets told you, didn’t they?”
Segere shrugged his narrow shoulders and rested his thin, well-manicured fingertips at his platter’s golden edge. “We are interested only for the sake of our dear queen.” His words drifted into a yawn.
The dear queen Raenna frowned, forming creases between her painted, gem-dusted eyebrows. By the look of her skin, gold-dusted and bejeweled like a statue, Ela suspected her of imitating, perhaps aspiring to be, the goddess Atea. In cool, polished tones, the queen said, “Ela of Parne. How agreeable. Where are your guards?”
“My guards, as you call them, are dead. The Infinite sent a lindorm to attack them when they threatened my life.”
Raenna’s red-edged gilded lips curled. Amused. “Is this a warning?”
“It is the truth.”
“The truth! We are most interested in your variations of the truth. Please, continue. Tell us our future.”
“The Infinite is the Truth. Any variations are your own. As for your future, O Queen, if your prophets were true prophets, they would have told you what is about to happen.”
The queen stood and descended from the dais in graceful whisperings of rich fabrics and flowing movements. She faced Ela. Looked down at her, actually. Ela had never seen anyone so lovely, with such soulless amber eyes. Her voice dropped further, devoid of emotion. “What is about to happen?”
“Ask your unprophets.”
One of the queen’s prophets swept forward, his face suffused with rage. “You—a child—dare to imply we are false prophets?”