by R. J. Larson
Waving a plump violet and green fruit that gleamed in the first hints of dawnlight, she whispered to Pet, “Here. Catch!”
The destroyer pranced beneath the wall, like a child in a game. Ela pitched the fruit and laughed silently when Pet caught it. Nimble monster! He took his time munching her gift, obviously savoring it. Happy.
Unlike Kien, who suddenly looked older. And as somber as . . . well . . . a judge.
What was wrong?
Was he concerned about the upcoming battle? Ela scanned the fields of tents behind him—banners of Istgard, the Tracelands, and most numerous of all, Siphra, marking the forces loyal to the Infinite. And surely the Infinite would protect them. Did Kien have doubts?
Before she could try to question him or reassure him, a breeze whisked past her face. Her signal to leave.
Aching, she gazed down at Kien, then blew him a kiss, love mingling with longing and regret. He answered, sending her a kiss in turn. And another smile, radiant with delight. How could one man be so captivating? Some of Ela’s distress eased.
Infinite, thank You!
The invisible whirlwind answered, sweeping her away, stealing her breath as only her Creator could.
Ela collected her spinning senses and tried to focus. A good thing her stomach was empty; otherwise she’d be violently ill with this unexpected shift. Where was she now? Another sea of tents swam before her. Ela blinked. She was on the opposite side of the city, facing Belaal’s army and its allies’ forces.
More numerous than Istgard’s, the Tracelands’, and Siphra’s.
Swallowing her fears, Ela asked silently, Infinite? Why did You bring me here? What is Your will?
The answer came, brief and mostly bearable. Even so, she had to lean against the wall to absorb the vision. Belaal was saddled with the most prideful king alive!
Belaal’s sentries had seen her. Already, foot soldiers were racing toward the royal pavilion to alert their king to her presence.
Bel-Tygeon appeared almost at once. He strode from his yellow pavilion into the early morning shadows, poised, bareheaded and casually robed—an apparent fault his servants were trying to remedy. Even as he walked toward Ela amid his prostrated subjects, one servant flung a glittering cloak over the king’s shoulders while another rushed after him with a gold sword and its matching belts. Others brought torches, lighting their god-king’s path within the gloom. And illuminating his face, which was handsome, cold, and nowhere near as amused by Ela as he’d been before.
Ela drew in a breath. “Bel-Tygeon, this is your Creator’s last warning! You are not a god, yet you persist in requiring your people to worship you. Therefore, in five days, the Infinite will bring His hand against you, a mere mortal. Stop Him if you can!”
“Where is He?” Bel-Tygeon demanded, lifting his own hands, spreading out his arms as if he’d searched the skies and found nothing. “If He is Lord above me, let Him appear! Why does He send a girl to taunt me? Is He so weak? I demand to see Him now!”
“Who are you to command the Infinite? Your pride is too great, O King! Punishment of your own making stalks you like a predator. Before you glimpse a hint of His glory, your Creator will bring you low. Your face will be in the dust! And, yes, I am His prophet—a mere girl, daring to scold you! This is the first indignity you’ve suffered as king. But only the first. He has warned you!”
A clatter of footsteps and weapons sounded from the stairs behind her.
Ela exhaled. Time to surrender to Chacen. She turned from the wall and hurried down the nearest path toward the stairs.
If only her heartbeat would slow. Her hands were shaking, chilled with the sweat of fear. Infinite!
I am here.
Thank You. She clung to His words. The assurance of His presence and strength. He sheltered her within that strength now, so comforting that she wanted to cry. Yet she wouldn’t.
She had every reason to be grateful.
He’d allowed her one last glimpse of Kien and Pet.
He’d saved her family, friends, and His faithful ones.
He walked with her now. Unseen, yet so present she almost felt His hand rest on her shoulder in a gesture of protection. Infinite, who is like You?
Her heart’s frantic racing eased. She stood at the top of the stairs and waited.
Ela watched Chacen lead his men onto the rooftop path, his face hollowed by hunger and hatred. Yet he looked healthier than most of his zealot-followers. No doubt he’d been rationing a secret cache of food, saving himself while more vulnerable citizens starved and died of disease in Parne’s streets.
Even in this high place, on the wall walk above the city, Ela inhaled the heavy sickly sweet odors of decaying flesh. Her stomach clenched in revolt.
You added to their deaths, Ela told Chacen in her thoughts. You wielded such power! Everyone trusted you. Instead, you followed your desires into secret shrines and yielded your soul to deceivers. You’ve killed your people as surely as you intend to kill me.
Zade Chacen stood before her now, breathless with the effort of running up the stairs, and triumphant, yet wary. “I see the Infinite has abandoned you.”
“No. He hasn’t.”
“You say so, but your hands are empty. The branch is gone.”
“By His will.” Ela clasped her hands and extended them. Surrendering. “Here I am.”
Zade didn’t question his sudden victory, or her evident weakness. Gloating, he ripped cordage from his own mantle and bound her hands with savage motions, pulling the cord so fiercely that she gasped and staggered for balance. Chacen wrenched Ela upright and shook her hard. “Tonight we’ll have peace! No footsteps waking the weary. No traitor screaming foolish, weak-minded warnings!”
“You’ve declared the Infinite’s warnings traitorous.”
The deposed chief priest slapped her so sharply that her senses spun.
The taste of blood, thick and metallic, welled within her stinging mouth. Chacen shook her again. “I want to hear nothing from you but curses against your Creator as you die!”
If he thought such a thing would happen, he was truly mad. Ela clenched her hurting jaw.
The former chief priest and his zealots led her across Parne’s open rooftop paths, toward the temple. Past bodies, bloated heaps. So many bodies . . . Unable to restrain herself, Ela snapped at Chacen, “Look at them! If you were the leader you should have been, they’d be alive now!”
Zade’s gaunt face contorted with rage. He threw Ela onto a path, then kicked her back and ribs, provoking her shrieks as he bellowed, “Don’t make me kill you here and now—I could!”
Ela tried to think past the pain in her sides and a myriad of hurts along her arms and face. Did she want to die quickly? No. Despite all her resolutions, an anguished, terrified part of her soul begged to live. If only she could. Infinite . . .
At last Chacen turned away and two of the zealots, with the smooth hands and fine robes of priests, hauled Ela to her feet. Her slapped, scraped face burned with the rawness of its torn flesh. And a shiver-inducing trickle that could only be blood worked down her right cheek. Her eyesight dimmed and her hearing buzzed unpleasantly. Ela lowered her head, trying to concentrate on breathing. On remaining conscious.
She revived in the temple’s outer courtyard, aware, in her first slight breath, of nothing but peace. Bliss. And the overwhelming need for sleep.
Until a slap stung her face and a man’s voice snarled, “Wake up!”
Dazed, Ela remembered what was happening. Particularly as Zade Chacen shoved her with his booted foot, provoking fresh pain. “Stand up.”
Could she? Ela eased to one side, forcing herself upright a bit at a time. Chacen remained composed as she stood and steadied herself. Disturbing, that composure. He clamped a hand on the back of her neck and guided her toward the open well usually reserved for the priests and their families. Zade pointed at a step adjoining the well’s low, encircling stone wall.
Wary, Ela obeyed and mounted the step. By now a
small crowd had gathered. Mostly priests and a few of their wives, all of them emaciated, and none sympathetic to her plight. Indeed several were gloating.
Shifting her gaze from the priests to the well’s darkness, Ela confronted what she’d been trying to ignore. Zade intended to wound her and drop her into the well to die. Useless to beg . . . His expression, when she dared a glance at his face, chilled her with fear. As did the knife he removed from a scabbard at his waist. The blade glistened in the morning’s first light. A crystal knife. Yellow crystals. Caustic ores. Wounds that failed to heal. . . .
Zade smiled. “Your expression, Prophet, is laughable. You know what this blade is carved from.”
“Yes,” she mumbled, her swollen mouth making it difficult to speak. “The poisoned ore you accused my father of selling.”
Don’t touch them, Father cautioned in her thoughts.
Chacen was talking. “When I thought of killing you, I decided you must have time to think while dying. To repent of your guilt. You’ve betrayed us all. My sons died because of you!”
“Parne is dead because of rebels like you!” she retorted, speaking through the pain. “Yet the Infinite will forgive you if—”
Zade shook her. “Be silent!”
He slashed at her left arm, the blade leaving a burning wake in the flesh over her bicep. Even as she gasped at its searing torment, Chacen sliced the skin over her right bicep. Ela clenched her teeth against the fiery cut and watched blood ooze from her wounds. Sweat stung her skin from scalp to toes.
Zade pushed her forward. “Climb up. Hurry, or I’ll carve your pretty little prophet-face!”
She climbed. If only she had the courage to provoke him to stab her through the heart. It would be swifter. More merciful. However, mercy and Chacen obviously weren’t compatible. At least where Ela Roeh was concerned. Praying she could endure the poison without going mad, she sat on the well’s edge, feet dangling. Chacen shoved her in.
She gasped and dropped endlessly into the blackness. At last, her feet struck the well’s muddy bottom. Stabs of pain shot upward through both legs. “Augh!”
Ela fell backward in the well’s dank interior and consciousness vanished.
Kien pivoted away from the impromptu meeting before Akabe’s royal pavilion, watching as Scythe galloped beyond the Siphran army’s encampment. The destroyer’s giant hooves hammered tremors through the ground, unnerving all the encampment’s occupants—himself included. Kien’s heartbeat raced. “Ela . . .”
Infinite? What’s happened to her?
Followed by Jon, Akabe, and Tsir Aun, Kien ran for the destroyer. Scythe flung himself at Parne’s walls, slamming his massive hooves against its stones in a futile attempt to break into the city. “Scythe, stop! Obey!”
Scythe huffed, then stomped, managing to sound offended and distraught in the same gust. But he held still, glaring and seething as Kien and the others approached. “Calm yourself,” Kien urged, trying to take his own advice. “If pounding on those walls would help matters, I’d join you!”
Akabe, Tsir Aun, Jon, and a handful of guards closed ranks around Kien. Jon said, “This is how he behaved when Ela’s enemies attacked her before the siege. No doubt something’s happened to her!”
Tsir Aun exhaled, his stern face tense as he watched Scythe. “Whatever’s happened, it concerns more than Ela, I’m sure. The last time I knew of Parne’s prophet walking throughout the night, as Kien said, Istgard was defeated and our king was cut down in combat.”
“I thought of that same night,” Kien agreed.
Akabe stood to Kien’s left now, wary of the destroyer. “We are at risk for combat today. Belaal’s certain to find us now that the sun’s up.”
Tsir Aun grunted. “Given his reputation, Bel-Tygeon is likely to send negotiators first, without honor, to gather information.”
“Undoubtedly,” Akabe agreed. “Everyone spread the word. We must fully arm ourselves. Now.”
“Thank you, Majesty.” Kien grabbed Scythe’s halter, willing to face anything to free Ela from Parne. Infinite? When?!
31
Inside his tent, busy with his military cloak’s gilded clasps, Kien glanced at Bryce, who stood before him. Infinite? Is this man always so serious? “How may I help you, Bryce?”
Bryce stood even straighter if such a thing was possible. Sharp-eyed, his brown face strictly controlled, his voice cool, he said, “My lord, I offer myself to be a spy for Siphra.”
Bryce was offering himself as a spy? No. Kien scowled at the thought of sending another servant into probable death. “My name is Kien.”
“It is indeed, my lord.”
“May I bribe you to stop calling me my lord?”
“I cannot be bought for any reason, my lord—particularly in failing to honor you.”
Fine! And Siphrans called Tracelanders stubborn. “How will you spy for Siphra?”
“By infiltrating enemy ranks. I’ll walk in quietly by night, observe Belaal’s forces by day, then walk out quietly, again, by night.”
Kien stared. The man was serious. “You intend to just walk into the enemy’s camp?”
“Unarmed, sir,” Bryce added.
Unarmed . . . “Have you done such a thing before?”
“Rather, sir. I’m unrivaled at remaining unnoticed, when I wish to be.”
Scanning Bryce’s subdued apparel, his calm brown eyes, silver-brown hair, and unmoving stance, Kien believed him. Infinite? What sort of servant have You sent me?
Wait. He didn’t actually want an answer. The question was badly worded and presumed the Infinite had indeed sent him a servant. Kien wanted no verification of his suspicion. He didn’t want servants. Already he admired Bryce. Liked him. Not good. Kien ran one hand over his face. “Do you realize you’ll die if you’re caught?”
“Yes, sir. Death would conclude all the details of being caught. Yet I’ll survive.”
Kien heard torture and interrogation unspoken within those words. Despite Bryce’s cryptic acknowledgment, the man seemed confident. And determined to go. Kien exhaled, realizing the decision had been made. “You’d best survive, Bryce—and in one piece. Before you leave, we’ll speak to the king. And Istgard’s prime minister.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ela returned to consciousness, then wished she hadn’t. Trembling in the absolute darkness, her arms burning with the poison, she pressed her back against the curved, slimy wall. Yes, this was her death-scented burial place. Infinite, I don’t want to be here!
Could she stand? “Infinite, please . . .” Ela tensed, willing her legs to support her within the sticky mire. Mud oozed cold into her boots, slathering her nearly numbed feet, causing her to slip, half burying her, and provoking renewed spikes of pain in her legs. She fought sobs and the sludge for an instant, then stopped. Must she fear drowning in this mud? Biting her lip against tormenting pain, she pushed a heel into the gooey depths. There was a base. A nearly solid foundation to the mud.
This well was drying, of course. Useless to Parne. Had all the wells run dry? Was this why so many Parnians were dying so swiftly? For lack of water?
Water. Did she still have her own supply?
Ela fumbled at her mud-slopped garments, seeking the podgy contours of the old water bag she’d appropriated from Father. Gone. Obviously, someone had taken it while she was unconscious. Proof that Parne was dying of thirst.
As she would die. Unless the poison killed her first. Her arms felt swollen, burning as if she’d been set afire from shoulders to fingertips. Could she untie herself?
Moving cautiously, Ela eased her body along the mud’s surface, trying to spread out her weight and rest. Satisfied that she wasn’t sinking too much, she raised her bound wrists to her cheek, testing the cords in the darkness. Where were the knots? If only she could see! There. The small, hard edge of a knot. Ela clamped her teeth over the muddy bond. Sludgy grit coated her tongue and crunched between her teeth. She spat into the darkness and lost track of the knot. All ri
ght . . . be calm. It wasn’t as if she could leave this well. Nothing remained for her except to pray and die. Or might she be wrong? Was there more she ought to do?
Infinite? What now?
Ela found the knot again and tugged at it cautiously, feeling it slip as she listened.
Infinite?
Silence pressed around her, upsetting as the chilling, unseen mud. Ela lowered her hands, trying not to give way to fear. Was He testing her? Allowing her to die alone?
Waiting for her to curse Him?
No! “Infinite!”
In Akabe’s royal pavilion, Kien accepted a leather-wrapped packet from the young messenger, a Tracelander. His censure? So soon? Without a trial? Would he be forced to resign his commission? He would fight the decision!
Aware of Akabe, Jon, and the others watching him, Kien opened the packet and glimpsed a blue wax seal, embossed with a military shield. General Rol. Kien released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A message from the general, not the Grand Assembly. Good. Kien slid the note into his coin pouch. Akabe and a number of the courtiers seemed disappointed. Regrettable, but Kien wasn’t about to read potentially bad news amid a crowd.
Akabe, however, was already addressing his men, Jon, Kien, and Tsir Aun. “No sign of Belaal’s approach?”
“None, sir,” one of his advisors said, distinctly pleased.
Istgard’s prime minister, Tsir Aun, frowned. “They have no reason to miss seeing our fires, as we’ve seen theirs. Have you noticed that almost no smoke rises from within the city? Parne has run out of fuel.”
Kien nodded. True. He’d seen none of a typical city’s household cooking fires this morning. “It seems Belaal is occupied by other matters.”
Akabe said, “What these other matters might be, we hope to learn soon enough.” Akabe had agreed with Bryce’s plan only after Bryce had insisted. Even now, Siphra’s king seemed unhappy. “And until we know Belaal’s plans, we can only guess at our own strategies.”