by R. J. Larson
The general greeted Ela with a smile and an air of concern. “You frightened my daughter this morning, Prophet. Are you well enough now to talk?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry Nia was upset.”
“It doesn’t take much to alarm her,” Rol muttered.
Protective of her student, Ela said, “Nia is a tenderhearted girl with a lovely soul. I’m grateful I’ve had the chance to study with her.” She led the general to the mat where she’d conducted the morning’s class. “You wish to discuss Parne.”
“You are blessed with perfect insight as usual.” The general nodded at Tamri Het, who marched over to Ela.
Her normally pleasant face set in stern lines, Tamri warned, “General, do not upset my girl.”
“Doing your duty, eh, Het?”
Ela frowned at the pair. Why did they dislike each other? Was it because Tamri was Siphran and General Rol didn’t trust her? “General, please sit down.”
He sat, but rested one hand on his sword’s hilt. As if certain Tamri was half monster and wholly venomous. “Now, Ela.” Rol’s tone turned fatherly. “Tell me about Parne. What’s all this fuss?”
“The Parnians have chosen disaster.” Ela tried to convey facts without allowing emotions to overwhelm her. Without allowing the vision to reemerge. “After I left home, the Infinite’s enemies within Parne shunned Him and began to openly worship Siphra’s goddess Atea, enticing others to do the same—as they’ve secretly done for generations.” Infinite! How had she been so blind? Ela struggled to quell her frustrations and fears. “Parne also initiated trade with Belaal and foolishly gave them samples of new ores they found while repairing Parne’s walls.”
“Ores for new weapons,” Rol observed. “Yes. Nia told me. Do you know anything about these new ores?”
“They aren’t Azurnite,” Ela said, nodding at the general’s new sword. “One of the ores is yellow and has poisonous characteristics. Merely handling the ore without gloves can cause ulcerations. Weapons forged with an alloy of this ore are softer than Azurnite, but they inflict wounds that won’t heal.”
“Causing a slow kill after the initial wound?” The Tracelands’ general fumed. “We can only hope the fools cut themselves with their own weapons.”
Ela waited. When Rol looked her in the eyes, she said, “The second ore is silvery. Powdered and mixed with wax, it can be ignited with oiled tapers, resulting in an uncontrollable fireburst. One ignited ‘brick’ can burn a small building.” She allowed the general to ponder this horror, then added, “Also, Belaal has recently learned that Parne’s temple is filled with gold.”
“Huh. Gold alone is enough to tempt Belaal and its allies.”
“Perhaps. But the thought of Belaal controlling those ores will be enough to alarm Istgard and Siphra. And, unless Parne repents of its self-destructive ways, the Infinite will allow the city to fall. Otherwise, countless future souls will be lost—souls He loves even now.”
Somber, the general said, “Naturally, you feel you must travel to Parne. Sounds like a thankless task.” He sighed. “I am so sorry. Do you need weapons? Unofficially, of course.”
Ela allowed herself a humorless chuckle and settled the branch in the crook of an elbow. “No, sir. But thank you. The Infinite provides my weapons.”
“As you wish.” Rol’s expression eased a bit. “Commander Thel and his wife have asked to see you safely to Parne. If the situation becomes critical, I will ask the Grand Assembly to appoint him as our envoy and oversee matters.”
He paused, as if expecting Ela to be surprised. She smiled. “Thank you, General.”
“Hmph. Of course. In addition, I am sending several crates of courier birds with Commander Thel. I ordered him, and I am asking you, to use them wisely. Keep us informed.”
“Again, thank you, sir.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced over the Temple Hill site. The ruins. The orchard. And the stone bluff beyond, which sheltered Ela’s temporary residence—an entry tunnel leading to a stone chamber carved within the high bluff. “Who will watch this place while you’re gone?”
“I will, sir.” Tamri plainly dared him to disagree.
Rol made a face. “Aha. I’ll see that the locals do not interfere with you.” Before Ela could decide whether his statement required thanks or a gentle rebuke, he gazed at the ruins. “My daughter and I hope to see the Infinite’s Temple restored to East Guard within a few years. It will be a sight to behold!”
A fragment of a vision emerged in Ela’s thoughts: the temple rebuilt. Pristine, majestic, and honored on this hill. “That will be a joy, indeed!” Sadly, she would probably see it only in her vision.
“Do the writings go or stay?” Tamri asked.
Ela glanced across the stone chamber at its trove of precious writings. Neatly categorized, gem-studded ivory plaques shimmered at Ela from their stone niches carved within the chamber’s walls. An ancient collection of the Sacred Book of the Infinite. “They’ll stay. They belong to the Tracelands. Just be certain the researchers return them to the shelves—the grown scholars are worse than the children.” She would miss studying the Sacred Books.
And she would miss this quiet chamber. She’d felt safe here.
But safety would vanish the instant she started her journey.
As if to fill in the long silence, Tamri said, “My daughter will arrive from Munra within the week. We’ll tend the place and keep watch over your scholars until you return.”
“If I return,” she reminded her elder. Crossing the chamber, Ela bent to hug Tamri’s wiry shoulders. “If something happens to me, the Thels and Lantecs will return you safely to Munra. Until then, you’ll continue to receive my weekly caretaker’s stipend from the Tracelands.” Ela paused to swallow the catch in her throat. “Tamri—you have been such a dear friend to me, and to Tzana. I pray the Infinite repays you with blessings a hundred times over.”
Stubborn as any destroyer, Tamri refused to look at her. “I’ll expect your return, prophet-girl.”
“I pray you won’t be disappointed.”
Scuffing her small booted feet, Tzana entered the stone chamber and sighed. Lower lip out, she gave Ela a pathetic look. “Can’t we bring my friends?”
Glad to be distracted from her fears for Parne and Kien, Ela tied the last bundle of their gear and smiled at her little sister’s dramatics. “I wish we could—I know it would make you happy. But Commander Thel and Beka cannot feed all the children from East Guard. And I’m sure your friends will miss their parents.”
“I have missed Father and Mother,” Tzana admitted.
“Well, you’ve been very good about not complaining.” Ela slung a plump, slightly damp waterskin over her shoulder, then picked up her bundle and the branch, which gleamed at her subtly. “Come now. We’re late. Let’s bid everyone farewell.”
“All right.” Tzana trudged ahead of Ela, through the chamber door, and into the long entry tunnel leading outside.
A chorus of voices greeted them in the morning sunlight. Most were children calling to Tzana. Ela’s heart squeezed with a small pang. Was she being cruel, taking Tzana from East Guard? How had her little sister made so many friends in six short months? Tzana’s popularity was a marvel, considering East Guard’s reputation for shunning people they called Unfortunates—children born with deformities or incurable afflictions like Tzana’s aging disease.
Had the Infinite used Tzana to motivate the Tracelanders to reconsider their attitudes? Ela hoped so. As Tzana chattered with her friends, Ela traded farewells with her students.
Red-eyed, Nia Rol hugged Ela. “Father said you’ll be in danger—I-I’m praying!”
“Thank you. I need your prayers.” She returned the trembling girl’s hug. “Study hard, pray, and be strong. The Infinite will bless you!”
Mute, Nia nodded and turned away to dry her eyes.
Several black-robed scholars greeted Ela more formally. The eldest scholar scanned Ela critically, head to toe, then relaxed. Hints of h
is thoughts, conveyed by the Infinite, made Ela smile. “Don’t worry,” she told the man. “The Infinite’s Sacred Books are in the stone chamber, with copies of all my notes. Just warn everyone not to invite disaster upon themselves by removing the tablets. They belong to the Tracelands. And to the Infinite.”
“As you say.” The eldest scholar harrumphed and brushed nonexistent dust from his black sleeve. “Er . . . What sort of disaster?”
Ela shrugged and studied the branch. Mesmerizing tendrils of light and heat seeped from the aged vinewood. “That’s the Infinite’s decision, isn’t it? Hand rot. Blindness. Insanity—or all three, perhaps. But why should it matter? You won’t take the writings.”
“Oh. Certainly not!” His gaze fixed on the branch, the eldest scholar twitched. His subordinates agreed, mute, shaking their heads.
“I hope to see you again,” Ela said, surprised to realize she meant the words. “However, if I don’t return, I pray you’ll continue to translate and distribute the Infinite’s Sacred Word.”
“I will,” the youngest scholar promised. His brown eyes shining, he said, “This work has been the greatest honor of my life!”
“Short life,” the eldest muttered.
The youngest grimaced.
Tamri Het tugged Ela’s sleeve. “Commander Thel and his wife are waiting.”
“Thank you, Tamri.” She kissed her chaperone’s cheek and fought down tears. “Dear friend, I pray the Infinite blesses you. Tzana! Climb onto Pet.”
The glossy destroyer stomped a massive hoof and rumbled a warm, beckoning call. Tzana’s little-girl laughter rose above her friends’ chatter. “Oh, Pet, you’re so bossy! I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Ela boosted her sister high onto the warhorse’s back, then tied their gear and the branch to Pet’s freshly cleaned and polished war collar. “You look wonderful,” she told the destroyer. “Aren’t you glad I brushed you?”
Pet huffed, but flicked his shining black tail.
“Show-off.” Ela smiled. Grasping the war collar’s ladderlike rungs, she climbed onto the destroyer and settled herself sideways on the rider’s quilt, then gathered the reins.
Sitting astride in front of Ela, Tzana kicked her small booted feet against the collar. “You can go now!”
“Walk,” Ela commanded beneath her breath.
The destroyer walked, but grumbled as Tzana leaned back to wave and blow kisses at her friends. Ela looped an arm around her sister and reassured Pet, “Don’t worry. I have her.”
He snorted.
Ela hoped the destroyer wouldn’t fuss throughout the journey.
“Infinite,” Ela whispered for perhaps the thousandth time, “What’s happening to Kien?”
She didn’t like the brooding feel of His silence.
When Ela reached the clearing’s edge, Jon and Beka Thel, astride their destroyers, greeted her with smiles. Beka added a cheery, “Good morning!”
“Good morning.” Tensed, Ela returned their smiles. Should she tell Beka of her fears for Kien? Looking up at the sky, she begged for wisdom. Infinite?
Child of dust, do you give Me the care of those you love?
Her Creator’s challenge caught her off guard. Afraid to talk, lest Beka hear, she nodded. Yes. I do. At least . . . I’m trying. I know I must, but . . . Infinite? Is Kien safe?
When the silence continued, Ela bowed her head. “As You will.”
Rain pelted Kien’s heavy hooded cloak, and gusts of wind spit the drops into his face. His poor horse was drenched, plodding through the puddles with a melancholic walk depressing to see. Almost two days with this animal hadn’t raised Kien’s opinion of it. “Do you have any fight at all?” Kien asked the beast.
An equine snuffle answered. The wearied steed splatted through another puddle. Pathetic.
“You’d probably die if I had to ride you through the night.” Kien sighed and peered ahead. Surely they were approaching ToronSea.
Lights flickered in the evening’s gloom, then vanished.
An instant later, something hammered Kien’s shoulder, pitching him sideways. Before he could right himself and draw his sword, the stupid horse tossed him into the mud, and then fled.
Deep-throated yells filled Kien’s ears. “You’ve done it! Catch ’im!”
Robbers! Kien scrambled to his feet, flung aside his cloak, and whipped out his sword.
5
Staring hard into the rainy dusk, Kien shifted his sword and called out, “I am Kien Lantec—Tracelands’ judge-advocate to General Rol! Identify yourselves!”
This pack of miscreants didn’t have to know he was in training. Let them think the entire army would be after them if he died.
Kien’s challenge prompted less coherent sounds. Scuffling. And a splash. Followed by a boyish whine. “Ya don’t havta take off m’ ear!”
“We should!” a man’s deep voice snarled. “Get up! Stop whimpering and catch that horse.”
Three shadowed men emerged from the evening’s gloom, every bit as rain-bedraggled as Kien. The smallest shadow emitted a beckoning whistle and scurried off in the direction of Kien’s horse, while the taller forms lifted their hands. One man called, “Sir, no offense was intended. Let us explain, and we’ll make whatever reparations you demand.”
Kien approached them warily, leveling his sword to their throats. “Talk!”
The man obliged, hands still upraised, his voice low and sensible. “In the past few months we’ve been fighting off robbers. We’ve never had trouble with such until recently. The town’s council agreed to form a night watch. Otris—that brainless louse!—was overeager and took aim at you.”
“More than took aim,” Kien snapped. “He struck me! What would have become of your town if I’d been trampled and killed for this Otris’s stupidity? Crippling fines at the very least, with Otris slapped into chains!”
“Sorry, sir,” the other shadowed form offered. “Might we step out of the rain and properly introduce ourselves?”
Tempted by the idea, Kien asked, “Can you manage introductions while keeping your hands lifted?”
“Suppose so,” the first man agreed, his tone gloomy as the weather. “I’m Chully, he’s Giff. Not the best welcome to ToronSea, sir. Our apologies. Follow us, please.”
They slogged along the road in silence, until Otris’s voice lifted in the distance, cheerful for a youth who’d nearly committed manslaughter. “I’ve the horse! What now?”
The second man yelled, “Put it in the stable and be sure it’s rubbed down and covered. Then drag your worthless hide to the inn.”
A public inn? Kien grimaced against the easing raindrops, hoping the place was clean. More lights came into view, framed by small windows in stone houses and stout, short towers. ToronSea would have looked cozy and welcoming if he hadn’t been assaulted at the town’s limits. Anyway, best to not enter a building with his sword drawn. No sense in provoking ill will before explanations had been made.
Keeping his movements slow and hushed, Kien slid his sword into its scabbard as the first man kicked at the door and called out, “Hey, lift the latch!”
Following a brief delay, the door creaked open. A low light shone from within, accompanied by convivial voices and the doorman’s uproarious greeting, “Chully! Giff!” He slugged each man on the back. “What’s wrong? The latch wasn’t down. What’re ya doin’ with yer hands all upraised? A new dance, eh?” The doorman waggled his fingers and turned, shaking his rump.
“We’ll dance all over you if you don’t move,” Chully snarled. “Your son is acting like his father again!”
“Otris?” The doorman blinked at Kien as he followed Chully and Giff into the warm firelit room. “Well, I don’t see blood anywhere. Guess he’s still alive.”
“You might wish he weren’t.” Giff turned to face Kien, revealing ordinary features and a remorseful expression. “May we be seated, sir?”
“I believe so.” Kien hung his dripping cloak on a peg near the door. An ache worked through
his shoulder, tempting him to rub the bruised area and test his arm’s range of motion. But not in front of the inn’s half dozen other patrons. Normal-seeming people, it appeared. However, the most normal-seeming people could become animals, given certain provocations.
Evidently noticing that Kien had replaced his sword, Chully and Giff lowered their hands.
Chully motioned to tables and benches along one of the stone walls. “Anywhere here, sir. Please yourself. The place is quiet tonight.”
Kien chose a table and sat facing the other tables. Chully and Giff settled on the benches opposite him. With cooperation from all parties concerned, Kien hoped to fulfill the Infinite’s orders this evening and leave for Munra in the morning—he must speak with Akabe of Siphra as soon as possible. Before he could say a word, the doorman leaned on the table. “What’s my Otris got to do with anything? Is he in trouble?”
“Probably not,” Kien said. The two men opposite him visibly exhaled in unison, their expressions relaxing a bit. “However, I have a few questions for you all.”
Giff wrinkled his nose. “I suppose we could answer them.”
“I’m certain you can.” The scent of food reached Kien now—aromatic enough to make his mouth water. “Does this inn serve meals to travelers?”
“One sixteen-noble or a Trace-bit buys a good meal,” Chully said. “But it’s fish stew and bread most evenings.” He motioned to the nosy doorman. “Rit, you’re buying this man’s evening meal. Otris sling-stoned him off his horse. It’s the least you can do.”
Sling-stoned? Kien lifted his eyebrows, then hurriedly covered his surprise. A sling-throw, properly executed, should have broken his shoulder or stopped his heart. It seemed young Otris needed more practice with the weapon. Thank You, Infinite!
“The least I can do?” Rit let his mouth sag open, then protested, “The boy should pay, not me!”
Exasperation crossed both Chully and Giff’s faces. Chully unlaced his coin pouch from his belt and upended the leather bag on the table. An assortment of Tracelandic and Siphran coins clinked onto the polished tabletop. “There! Take enough for three and order us each a bowl and a cup. Then leave us alone.”
