by R. J. Larson
Kalme lifted a plump little bundle from a basket near the low, whitewashed softly glowing hearth. Wide, dark eyes studied Ela from beneath a fluff of glossy black curls.
“Jess!” Ela seized her baby brother, stared at his perfect brown skin and his pudgy cheeks, and fell irretrievably in love.
Beside her, Beka breathed, “He’s gorgeous! Oh, may I hold him?”
“Me next!” Tzana screeched.
“Not yet,” Ela protested, “I’m holding him!”
Caught in the middle of his first sibling squabble, Jess sneezed.
Ela knelt on the Roehs’ small rooftop terrace and stared up at the stars. Tonight’s joy faded beneath her fears. She tucked down her chin and shut her eyes, praising her Creator, then praying for Parne. For the least chance that her vision’s terrors might be changed.
The Infinite’s Spirit waited in perfect serenity, allowing her to finish despite the probable futility of her requests. Ela sighed. Infinite, won’t You answer me?
She longed to hear His voice. Thirsted for His reassurance. How had she endured life without Him? She hadn’t. Couldn’t.
Deliberately, Ela allowed an excruciating memory to resurface. Her first test as a prophet. A fragment of total separation from the Infinite. The remembered instant gripped her. Breath-sucking agony seared Ela’s throat. Fire burned downward into her lungs as her soul fell to pieces, screaming in torment. Needing death. Obliteration. Anything except life without Him.
On the Roeh terrace now, Ela pulled in chilling gasps of air and tried to still her frantic, hammering heartbeat. “Infinite?”
I am here.
Ela summoned her courage. “Wouldn’t Zade Chacen and his sons be changed if they knew the torment of true separation from Your presence? Wouldn’t all of Parne be brought to its senses—back to You?”
No. Infinite’s rejection was firm. Their choices are their own.
“Infinite,” Ela persisted, “losing You for that instant changed me. If Zade and his sons could experience it for themselves . . .” Her plea trailed into despair as she sensed His refusal.
You had already chosen My path, and I know your heart. You needed to understand what the Adversary steals from those he leads astray—for your own sake. Gently, His voice continued. But evildoers respond to sufferings by hardening their hearts all the more.
She crushed the need to cry. “How could they?”
Because they have refused My love. Therefore, they cannot understand their Creator.
Well, that hope was gone. Ela drooped, pressing her face into her hands. Mourning until the Infinite sent an image. Father, climbing toward the roof. Toward her.
To demand painful answers she’d rather not give . . . to the awful questions he must ask.
12
Ela studied her father as he sat on the terrace. Shadows and moonlight carved his face, and his grim silence only added to her dread. Never one to waste words, Dan cast down his first blade-sharp question. “Why have you returned?”
She pared her words to suit his. “Parne has been judged.”
“For the shrines to Atea?”
“Among other things, yes.”
Dan exhaled. “I’ve known about the shrines for years. Some existed in Eshtmoh’s time.”
Eshtmoh. Her legendary prophet predecessor. Remembering Eshtmoh’s account in the Sacred Books, Ela nodded. “He spoke against the rebels and destroyed their shrines until Parne chased him off to Istgard.”
But Eshtmoh died more than seventy years past. Had the secret shrines been immediately rebuilt and used by Parnians for all these years? Infinite?
Yes. I have given them time and prosperity to return to Me. Yet they have broken their pledges to Me, though I have loved them.
As Ela tried to absorb the Infinite’s distress, Dan said, “Your mother and Matron Prill have been invited to join separate shrines for the women. They refused and scolded the rebels.”
“Matron Prill?” Ela saw their most severe neighbor’s stern, keen-eyed face. Matron Prill was more inclined to reprimand wrongdoers than anyone in Parne.
Except Parne’s prophet.
“She’s helped your mother these past few months,” Dan said. “Things have been difficult.” Struggling, as if the words tormented him, he continued. “My business is failing.”
“Because the Chacens’ cohorts have smeared your good name?”
Father snapped a look toward her. Did he expect Ela’s criticism? She waited. He glanced away. “I’m accused of smuggling deadly ores.”
“To Istgard. I’ve heard the rumors.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I know, Father. The rebels are trying to discredit me—and the Infinite—through you.”
He nodded. “After you became the prophet, I spoke out against the shrines. I should have said more. Done more to stop those Atea-worshipers. They’ve been unopposed for so long. . . .”
“They wouldn’t have listened to you. Just as they probably won’t listen to me.”
“But you’ll speak to them.” Father sounded confident that she would correct the situation. “And bring them to right before something worse happens.”
Something worse . . . A sick gnawing tore into Ela’s stomach. “If Parne repents and destroys its shrines and returns to the Infinite, He will forgive them. If not . . .” She was going to cry. “Father, Parne will fall. From the temple downward.”
He swayed slightly, his hands becoming fists on his knees. “You’re saying Parne will be destroyed?”
“Yes. And soon. With many of its citizens—those who refuse to accept the Infinite’s judgment.”
Dan paused, then asked, “What of us? Your mother, Tzana, and Jess—your cousins?”
An ache tightened her throat. A knot of grief for a loss she couldn’t yet name. “I haven’t seen the Roehs escaping the city. I’m not saying you won’t. It’s just that I haven’t seen your escape. I only know that Parne will fall after a siege.”
“A siege!” Father straightened now. “I thought you meant ‘destroyed’ as in a quake. A cavern opening beneath the city—or something like that. But a siege?”
“Belaal, Istgard, and Siphra will send their armies. . . .” Ela began.
“We must warn the city to prepare.”
“No, Father. We must warn the city not to resist, but to surrender.”
“Not to resist? Ela, we must!”
Even in the moonlight, Ela saw her father’s shock. His impulse of defiance. Her heart sank. If it was this difficult to warn Dan Roeh, who was devoted to the Infinite, and who loved Parne’s prophet . . . Ela swallowed. She would be killed.
She looked at the city’s pale soon-to-tumble walls, which gleamed in the moonlight. Unbearable. The skies, the stars were easier to consider. More soothing.
Father stood, drawing her attention. “Why destroy the whole city?”
“What else can the Infinite do? Parne is ruined. Weakened like a rotting tree. Worm-eaten with shrines to the goddess Atea and her companions.” Nauseated, Ela added, “Even the temple has been defiled by Chacen and his sons.”
Father’s footsteps thudded against the roof’s pavings as he paced. “They beat Chacen’s successor, Chief Priest Nesac. He dared to speak against them—he still dares. But most of the priests no longer listen to him.”
“Which is why they no longer deserve the Infinite’s Temple.” She hesitated. “Father, won’t you sit down? I’m sure Mother and Tzana can hear you pacing. Have you finished asking me questions?” She hoped he had.
Dan Roeh sat. For a time he was silent. At last he said, “I’ll obey the Infinite. But it won’t be unreasonable of me to warn our relatives, then prepare against the siege.”
“I’m sure you’ll pray about the matter. This must be between you and the Infinite.”
He was so quiet for so long that Ela wondered if he was indeed praying. Until he shot more questions at her. “Why are you so vague about our escape? What aren’t you saying?”
“
I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Father,” Ela said, a bit sharper than she meant. “I’m sorry.” Was her fear of the coming days affecting her temper? Not that it took much to affect her temper. “I haven’t seen everything that’s about to happen. Only what’s most critical to Parne.”
“We’ll make it through,” Dan said. More to himself than to her. He held out a hand.
Ela scooted over to sit beside him and study the stars. If only she could confess her mortal heart’s weakness. If only she could say, Father, I love a Tracelander. His name is Kien Lantec—he’s Beka’s brother.
It would be so easy to tell him now, if her life had been normal.
If she weren’t going to die soon.
Father spoke into the darkness. “Short as it’s been, your time as a prophet has changed you. When I saw you this afternoon, I almost didn’t recognize you as my daughter.” His voice softening, Dan said, “Your face is the same. But your eyes . . . your eyes are old.”
She blinked hard at the stars, which glistened through her tears. Old eyes. “Well . . . that’s something.”
He hugged Ela and kissed her hair. “My girl. Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
Ela concentrated on controlling her voice. On not crying like a child. “Father, whatever happens, I’m proud of you too.”
Dan cleared his throat. “So. What’s given you these old eyes? We’ve heard a few stories from traders, but they can’t be true.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard a bunch of exaggerations.”
“Then, you didn’t lead a revolution in Siphra?”
“Um . . . I didn’t want to.”
“But the Infinite sent you there.”
“Yes. However, first I was in the borderlands. Then Istgard . . .”
She began to talk of other lands. Other adventures. Anything to forget that she was now in Parne.
Huddled beneath his cloak in a rubbish-strewn alley, Kien opened his eyes to see murky dawnlight. And boots. Occupied boots. Standing directly in front of his face. Was he about to be stomped to death? Infinite!
Swiftly, he sat up. His head spun and his thoughts protested. Don’t kick me! I’m civilized!
Though being civilized seemed to be an offense in Adar-iyr. At least the man hadn’t robbed him.
You may speak to him.
Truly? Exulting at the chance to say more than the Infinite’s twelve ordained words, Kien eyed the boot-owner’s formal cloak, helmet, and sword. “Are you a soldier or a guard?”
“Chief guardsman. And you’ve at least half a wit.” He snapped his fingers. “Stand. Now.”
Kien dragged himself upright. “Are you throwing me out of Adar-iyr?” He almost hoped.
“No. If you’re the vagabond we’ve been seeking, then you’ve been summoned by the king.”
“Oh.” Kings. Useless, all of them. Except Akabe of Siphra, who hadn’t been raised a king. Kien yawned. Then remembered his duty. “I’m supposed to tell you that the Infinite will destroy Adar-iyr in seventeen days. Repent and be saved.”
“We’ve heard. Obviously you’re the vagabond we’re seeking. Move.”
Move? Easy for him to say. The chief guard wasn’t half-starved or unsteady. Following the guard, his stomach growling, Kien asked, “Do you feed your prisoners?”
“You’re not a prisoner. Yet.”
Fine. Good. But that didn’t resolve his concern for a morning meal.
The chief guard paused until Kien caught up to him. “How’s your Infinite planning to destroy our city?”
“I don’t know. Fire from heaven, maybe.” His imagination taking hold, Kien added, “Or perhaps an earthquake with a tidal wave and a storm for good measure.”
“Surprised you didn’t throw in a plague,” the man complained.
“Plagues are too slow.”
Motioning aside a beggar, the guardsman asked, “Where are you from?”
“The Tracelands.”
“Should’ve known.” Kicking a cracked, abandoned jar out of his way, the chief guardsman elaborated. “You Tracelanders are all alike. Picky and judgmental. But your people aren’t usually given to calling on the Infinite, are they?”
“I suppose I’m a peculiar Tracelander.” A wave of depression descended on Kien. He almost wished Ela could be there, walking with him through this cloud-obscured city, ready to confound a potentially despotic king who might condemn them both to death. Almost.
The chief guardsman nudged Kien from the walking daydream, then motioned at a fetid open ditch in the next cross street. “Jump. And try to avoid splashing us. It won’t do to stand before ol’ royal Ninus while stinking like dog droppings.”
“Kings usually need a whiff of reality,” Kien argued. But he vaulted across the ditch. He’d already inhaled a lifetime’s worth of reality in this putrid city—he didn’t need additional pungency. At least the guard had expressed some concern, unlike the other inhabitants of Adar-iyr. Kien straightened himself, looked the man in the eyes, and nodded. “By the way, my name is Kien Lantec. And yours is . . .”
“Teos,” the man said. “We’ve heard the gods are protecting you.”
“You mean the Infinite.”
“No, I mean the gods. We’ve got a witness who saw you spewed onto the beach by the ocean lord, Nereus himself, who took the form of a sea beast. He’s told half the island.”
Wonderful. Kien had prayed the living-vomit part of his journey would remain unknown. “The beast wasn’t your god Nereus. It was a monster created and sent by the Infinite to convey me here, against my will.” Abduction on a celestial level, guaranteed to humble and terrify reluctant messengers. Kien forced the unruly thought aside. Quashed it.
So someone had seen him spewed onto the beach. “A witness. Was his name Old Hal?”
“Pshhh . . . ! Not that sneaking wretch. His grandson—a smart boy. He saw you heaved up and ran for help. But all he had was Old Hal.”
“And you’re certain I’m the one the boy saw?”
“I don’t see anyone else appearing cooked and peeled as the boy described. Not even the sailors in our harbor.” Teos grimaced at Kien. “Now, why’d you deny being favored by the gods?”
“There are no gods, only the Infinite. As for favor—ha! You try surviving a beast’s gullet, then walking into this accursed city. There’s not one civilized soul here.”
“Tracelander for sure,” the soldier grunted, looking upward, as if addressing his complaint to the blackened sky. “Picky, judgmental, and foolhardy!”
“I’ll amend that,” Kien said. “You have behaved in a civilized manner. But you’re the only person in this whole stinking city who’s shown me the least courtesy.”
“Well, I’ll turn rude, Tracelander, if you keep blathering on about our stinking ways.”
“Forgive me. Sleeping in alleys and eating rubbish has turned me testy.”
“Just guard your words when you answer ol’ royal Ninus.”
Not reassuring. Kien tromped on through the filthy streets, tallying the citizens’ legal infractions as he walked. A thief cutting a purse from an unwary man’s belt, then fleeing down the street. Numerous people drunk in public. Prostitutes in residential doorways and shrine entrances, clamoring for his attentions. Not to mention assault. Two rough-clad men struggled in the street until one ended their brawl with a knife to the other’s belly. Kien started toward the assailant. But Teos wrenched him back. Kien protested, “We must intercede! That man could be dying!”
“That’s not my duty,” the guard said. “Anyway, why stop one murder? There’re thirty others equal to this today. And no one cares.”
“They should! This is part of the reason your city’s been condemned.”
“Move!” Teos shoved him onward. “Don’t make me bind you, Tracelander!”
The royal palace was grand. If garish red and black columns could be called grand. The gatehouse, a massive edifice of tasteless red stonework, manned by crimson-clad guardsmen, seemed more theatrical than royal. But Ki
en supposed it was best to not announce his opinion.
“Here.” Teos led Kien through the gatehouse tunnel, following the lead of two gangly youths, who were evidently royal servants waiting for the chief guardsman’s arrival. They straightened, bowed their heads, then led the way, remaining some ten paces ahead.
Kien noticed the curious, wary looks the young servants threw him over their shoulders as they walked through the palace’s labyrinthine torch-lit corridors. Were they afraid of him? It seemed so. He tested them, meeting their stares with a frown. One servant stumbled, the other gasped, and they both looked straight ahead—not glancing at him again.
They were afraid of him. Kien suppressed a smile. Bad Tracelander. Ela would be more compassionate, he was sure. But he was glad she hadn’t been forced to sleep in the trash-strewn, rat-infested alleys of Adar-iyr. And grateful she hadn’t been subjected to such displays of moral degradation as he’d witnessed. Her heart would be broken, fearing for their souls.
Definitely an attitude he ought to cultivate more attentively. Dear Ela . . .
Voices in the palace corridors drew Kien’s attention from daydreams of Ela. Polished voices, different from the raucous cries of the rabble. Cultured, but no less brutal.
A woman’s languishing drawl asked, “Is that the doomsayer?”
“It would seem so,” a man answered.
A third sniffed. “Burn him. Now.”
Kien gritted his teeth. Burn? He’d rather not.
Infinite?
13
Teos hauled Kien forward while placing one huge hand on the hilt of his own sword. Kien pondered the man’s gesture. Why would a plain guard fend off surly courtiers for the sake of a mere doomsayer?
And what doomsayer had ever been popular? Certainly not Kien Lantec of the Tracelands. Indeed, the pack of courtiers seemed eager to attack him—if they’d been physically able. Thankfully, the nobility of Adar-iyr were swaying or leaning on each other, bleary-eyed: the men in their gold-belted tunics, with gold diadems and peacock feathers; the women with pearls cascading from their elaborate hairstyles down onto their stunningly emphasized bosoms.
