by R. J. Larson
Father tested the angled wall. “Stone. But workable. We’ll have to carve steps first and be sure they’re safe for the women and children.” He opened his leather knapsack and began removing tools.
Deuel grabbed one of the chisels and a hammer, then hesitated. “Oh. I forgot to tell you, Ela, Nesac’s wife is having pains. Her child is coming.”
“Oh!” Ela breathed a prayer for the young woman, but envy ate at her. Infinite? Is there the least chance I’ll survive? That I might—
She left the thought dangling. The hope must be buried with her in the darkness of an unlived desire. Why allow herself to dream of Kien? Of marrying him, loving him, and bearing his children? She was supposed to die young, somehow entombed beneath Parne. . . .
Parne’s departed sages whispered at her. A silver-haired prophet has failed. All prophets die young. And horribly.
Alone. Entombed. Surrounded by the stench of death. Ela’s throat dried.
As if sensing Ela’s fears, Father gave her a brief hug. “Let’s get busy cutting the steps.”
Properly clothed now, Kien stared down at the failed assassin.
Bound and unwillingly kneeling before Akabe, the wiry, swollen-jawed man darted a look of hatred at Kien through puffy, bruised eyelids. A slice, evidently inflicted by landing on Kien’s sword, created a bloody vertical wound along his left cheekbone.
Akabe spoke to his attacker in low, pondering tones, weighed with reluctance. “Will you say nothing to mitigate your circumstances? To possibly save your life?”
The man refused to meet Akabe’s gaze. Refused to speak. Akabe tried again, actually pleading now. “Will you at least tell us your name? Should your family be left to wonder at your departure from their lives? Do they deserve the agony of endless uncertainty?”
Kien saw the condemned one flinch and suck in a breath as if Akabe had found a weakness. Bracing himself visibly, the failed assassin shook his head, silent.
“Sire,” an advisor murmured to Akabe, “we can gain nothing from him. By his markings only have we learned anything of this man.” The advisor nodded to one of the guards, who pulled up the assailant’s sleeves. “Observe the goddess coils. He is an entrenched Atean who has participated in their deepest rites.”
Kien stared at the permanent etchings curving thick and black around the man’s biceps. These were goddess coils? Infinite? How may I serve You here?
Speak to him.
Stilled, Kien listened to the flow of words through his thoughts. Fighting down his own vengeful impulses, he obeyed and spoke quietly to Akabe’s attacker. “Your Creator calls to you. He bears the scars of your hatred, yet He loves you as His own son. Maseth.”
The condemned one, Maseth, widened his swollen eyes at Kien. “How did you know?”
It was impossible to hate or resent the man now, realizing how desperately the Infinite cared for Maseth. A rush of emotion swept Kien like a wind from the heavens, permeating his soul. Humbling him. And granting the same elation he’d experienced in Adar-iyr. Was this outpouring of the Infinite’s Spirit the source of Ela’s strength? Shaken, Kien said, “I know your name, Maseth, because the Infinite told me when I saw your markings. He asks you to call His name. To trust Him with your whole being. If you do, all will be forgiven.”
Infinite? All?
All.
“All,” Kien repeated. “Your Creator mourns separation from you—He loves you.”
Seeming hit by Kien’s words, Maseth rocked on his knees, back and forth, as if fighting to make a decision. The man’s struggle was visible. Agonizing. Kien coerced himself to watch.
At last, Maseth’s rocking stilled. He gasped, “You must kill me! I must die. To protect my family I can say nothing more, except . . . except what you already know.” He looked Akabe in the eyes. “They want you dead. They will have you dead because of the Infinite!”
Akabe sagged in his chair and covered his face with one large hand. When he didn’t speak, Maseth said, “You must order me killed! You have no choice! I have no choice! I’ve been caught, and I mustn’t survive! Order my death!” Tears rimmed the man’s eyes. “Please. You don’t know them. Please . . .”
Akabe nodded and motioned to his guards. Rough-voiced, he said, “Be swift and merciful.”
Truly condemned now, Maseth wavered in obvious relief. While the bodyguards wrenched him to his feet, Maseth appealed to Kien. “Walk with me?”
Sickened by the thought, Kien started to shake his head.
You are a judge, and he is condemned. Prove My compassion. Walk with him.
Kien stood, motioned one of the guards aside, and gripped Maseth’s arm.
27
Their booted feet trampled the autumn-dried grass beyond the encampment’s edge. For a time, Kien fixated on the brittle rustlings of the faded meadow. On his own broken-toed limp. And on the guards around them who were armed with short spades, picks, and long knives. Implements for digging Maseth’s grave, then executing him. Was the condemned man frightened? To distract him, Kien asked, “Why did you request that I accompany you?”
A pained half smile twisted in Maseth’s gashed face. “Because I have not been called Maseth since my mother died. I was six.”
“I’m sorry.” Kien winced inwardly. By his lowered, reverent tone, Maseth remembered his mother tenderly.
His smile fading, Maseth added, “She would weep to see me now.”
“Tell me about her.”
“You know enough.”
“I respect your sentiment. Did the Ateans threaten your family in order to convince you to assassinate your king?”
Silence. Beneath his breath, Kien said, “I’m taking that as a yes.” Turning the topic slightly, he added, “I glimpsed an Atean rite not long ago. Understandable that such . . . festivals . . . would attract many.” It wouldn’t do to mention that revulsion had overwhelmed his fascination. He didn’t want Maseth to become defensive.
Maseth’s swollen eyes widened slightly. “You, one of the Infinite’s believers, witnessed a hidden gathering?”
“Yes. I’d been tracking a young miscreant and supposed I was following orders. When I realized what was happening, I retreated.”
Dry voiced, Maseth said, “No doubt.” After a pause, he asked “Did the Ateans bear marks? Coils, like these on my arms?”
“Not that I noticed within that brief look.”
“Hatchlings.” Bitterness laced Maseth’s words. “Nothing but foolishness and false freedom.”
“Yes, and I admit I was startled by the, er, revelry. I’d heard rumors of ritual strangulations.”
“In the highest order only. Not among the hatchlings.”
So the ritual strangulations weren’t mere rumor? Kien scarcely heard his own whisper, “Where do they acquire the victims?”
“Stolen from the most vulnerable hatchlings. The Infinite’s followers are blamed for disappearances.”
Infinite?
Pained, brooding stillness met Kien’s question.
They walked until the guards agreed upon a spot where the sunlit field met the shadows of a nearby wood. One of the guards wrenched at Maseth’s bound arms. “Sit. Pray if you’ve a brain.”
Maseth’s answering snort was suspiciously close to a chuckle. But after he’d managed to sit, he bowed his head. And his lips moved silently as if in prayer.
Cautious of his broken toes, Kien sat beside the man and prayed for him. Maseth, beyond doubt, was acutely aware of the guards slamming their picks and spades into the soil before them. He twitched whenever the picks struck the ground near his feet. Surely the man would be honest to his very soul during his final mortal breaths. At long last, Maseth opened his puffed eyes, staring at his dark, deepening grave.
Kien asked, “To whom did you pray?”
Without lifting his gaze from the widening hole, Maseth said, “When you have been told, since age seven, that you are expendable, and that the one being you must love and worship can replace you . . . And you believe it until
the last day of your life . . . Until a stranger, who knows your first, most secret and cherished name, says your Creator is calling you, your Creator loves you despite your evils . . .” He looked at Kien now, wearied, bruised, and bloodied. “Who would receive your prayers?”
Some of Kien’s distress eased. He gave Maseth a celebratory thump on the shoulder and apparently struck an injured place. Maseth flinched and growled. “Ow!”
“Apologies.”
When the grave was nearly finished, one of the guards paused, untied a waterskin, and took a long drink. Kien saw Maseth’s gaze following the guard’s motions and avidly watching excess drops of water falling into the grave’s depths. On impulse, Kien reached toward the guard. “May I request a drink?”
“Certainly, my lord.” Obviously considering himself honored, the guard offered the waterskin to Kien.
“Thank you.” Kien held the skin’s spout toward the startled Maseth. “Here.”
The man drank as if he hadn’t touched water in days. Finished, he licked his lips. “My last wish granted, and by a lord.” He sighed, his tensed posture easing. “Truly, it’s time for me to die.”
Clearly offended, the guard snapped at Maseth, “He’s no plain lord! He’s Istgard’s rightful uncrowned king.”
Maseth stared at Kien, incredulous. “Are you?”
What could the truth hurt? “Yes. However, with the Infinite’s counsel, I refused Istgard.”
While Maseth absorbed this and shook his head, Kien said, “Your King Akabe wishes he’d been given a similar option. He would have refused the Siphran crown.”
“He seems a good man,” Maseth confessed. Sighing heavily, he added, “I’m glad I failed to kill him.”
“My lord,” one of the guards prompted Kien and cast a meaningful look at the grave.
Before Kien could respond, Maseth heaved himself to his knees, scooted toward the grave’s edge, then looked up at the sky. Sweating, he addressed the guards. “I’m ready.”
Kien frowned, watching Akabe as they rode beneath Siphra’s red banners. It had been seven days since the attack. Four days yet until Parne, and the young king was a marvel. Always busy: Praising his commanders and his men. Enforcing order. Overseeing the army’s provisions. Gathering additional troops, horses, and wagons garrisoned along the way through Siphra toward Parne. Moreover, he unfailingly beguiled citizens in every town with his brief good-natured speeches and his remarkable kingly appeal.
But when would he talk of Maseth?
The king waved off his general, who’d described where they’d make camp for the night. Kien glanced about to be sure no one else was within earshot and said, “Akabe.”
Akabe lifted an eyebrow at him. “What?”
“Maseth. He died well.”
Shifting his gaze to the dusty road ahead, the king said, “Our couriers were remarkably efficient in alerting the rural commanders to muster their troops at specific intervals.”
“He was glad he didn’t succeed in killing you.”
Akabe adjusted his horse’s reins, shifted uncomfortably, and then, finally, gusted out a sigh of apparent resignation. “Tell me why I want to think of the first man I condemned to death.”
Good question. With at least one obvious answer. “Because, inevitably, you’ll have to condemn others.”
The king snapped a glance at him now, hurt and anger merging over his features. “Well enough! You wish to know? I see Maseth every day. In my sleep, I hear his voice pleading for death. I wake up and say to myself, ‘Never again! Infinite, I beg You, never again!’ And now you say I’ll condemn others to haunt my dreams? Ones who will be less eager to die? What sort of friend have I found in you?” Almost surly, he added, “When I think of Maseth, I long to be wild, free in the Snake Mountains, hunting with my men.”
“I think of Maseth and I’m grateful.”
Another look. A truly royal scowl. “Why?”
“Because, through Maseth, I experienced the Infinite’s mercy and justice. His mercy in calling to Maseth and comforting him. While showing His justice in protecting you, Maseth’s family, and your kingdom, despite the assassination attempt.”
Akabe grunted, seeming a bit calmer.
Curious, Kien asked, “During your time as an outlaw, you never killed anyone?”
“Yes,” Akabe admitted. “But in self-defense. And that is justifiable, as is war.”
“How was Maseth’s death different? It was justifiable. He was trying to kill you.”
“Perhaps because I was forced to order another to execute him, knowing there were . . .”
“Possible extenuating circumstances that partially absolved the offender’s culpability?” Kien offered.
“Yes, Judge.” Akabe grimaced. “Might we speak of other matters?”
“Such as Parne?” Kien’s whole being tensed, listening.
“We have two days yet to the border. Forces from Istgard and the Tracelands will meet with us, south of the city called Ytar. We must discuss our strategy.”
Yes! Time to pry Parne from Belaal’s claws and save Ela! By now, according to reports, Parne had been under siege for over a month. Was Ela starving? Dead? Infinite, let me see Ela when we reach Parne. Let me know she’s safe!
Do you not trust Me to know what is best for My prophet—including her death?
Kien’s stomach twisted. Here was something he did not want to surrender. His love for Ela. His fears for her life. Yet Ela desired Her Creator’s will, as Kien must.
Infinite? Strengthen me and teach me to trust You. I know I am weak!
“Lord Aeyrievale!” Akabe’s use of that frustrating, unwanted title made Kien turn. Akabe scowled. “I asked, ‘What do you know of Parne?’”
“Not enough, sir.” Only that Parne held Ela in its grasp.
And Kien must trust the Infinite for her life.
Kneeling in the spring-bright grass, Ela combed her clean hair while looking around the cavern. Every contour of this space, warmly lit by the tree’s radiance, reflected peace. A tranquility that soothed Parne’s exiled faithful despite their fears. Only the Infinite could have inspired such calm.
Ela tucked her comb into her knapsack, then crept over to a nest of quilts and kissed her sleeping baby brother’s softly rounded face. Jess didn’t wake, but a blissful smile played over his sweet mouth. The most perfect little boy alive.
Thank You, Infinite!
Seated nearby among the other women, Nesac’s wife, Sara, drew Ela’s attention by rewrapping her newborn daughter, Adania. When she noticed Ela’s glance, Sara beckoned her with raised eyebrows and an I-want-to-tell-you-something tilt of the chin.
Ela crept over to Sara Nesac and sat between her and Prill. Sara had left Adania’s delicate hands free of the swaddling clothes. Captivated, Ela stroked the tiny girl’s fingers, admiring her blooming complexion. She willed herself to set aside her envy of Sara. To repress mournful thoughts of the children she and Kien would never have.
Her gentle brown eyes solemn, Sara said, “We’ve been praying for you.”
“Thank you,” Ela whispered. She would need every prayer. Every possible blessing that might see her through these last few days. To prevent herself from remembering her death, Ela began to braid her hair. “Is there a specific reason you’ve prayed?”
“I can’t be certain,” Sara murmured. “I just need to pray for you, and it’s easier to pray here than it was up in the city.”
To Ela’s left, Prill said, “I agree.” She frowned at Ela’s hair. “You’d best let me rework that braid, Ela Roeh.”
Ela looked down at her handiwork. All right. So the braid was uneven. Ragged, actually. But should a prophet worry about such trivialities? However, if it made her chaperone happy to tidy up the braid . . . “Thank you. I’ll fetch my comb.”
As she returned, Ela glanced around. Most of the women were clustered in groups, chatting and tending children, as placid as brooding hens. Kalme, however, was perched within the tree’s branches, picking
gem-bright fruits and tossing them to the children and matrons who were too frail or timid to climb. Satisfied, Ela settled between Sara and Prill once more.
While Prill unraveled Ela’s braid, Ela murmured. “I’ll tell only you two. I don’t want my parents to be unnecessarily frightened. If I vanish within the next few days and fail to return, please pray for me. Reassure everyone that I’m fulfilling the Infinite’s will.”
Prill’s nimble fingers stilled. “Doing what?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Without me?”
“Yes.”
“I think I don’t approve.” Prill resumed braiding, but tugged at Ela’s hair. Hard.
“Ouch!” Ela rubbed her stinging scalp. “Trust me, you do approve.”
Additional braid tugging accompanied the matron’s scolding tone. “Ela Roeh, what aren’t you telling us?”
“Something you’d rather not know. Augh!” Fussy biddy of a chaperone!
Instantly, Ela regretted her rebellion. She turned and hugged Prill. “Just pray!”
The woman sniffled. Moisture, suspiciously tear-like, brimmed in her stern brown eyes. “I’m sorry for being so short-tempered. It’s because I’m concerned. You just be safe.”
Not likely. “I’ll try.”
A waking vision.
A breath of a breeze. An invisible separation from her fellow refugee-Parnians, who were sleeping in niches throughout the cavern. Ela stood and exhaled, bowing her head as a twist of nausea built in her stomach.
Infinite? As You will.
The silent, invisible whirlwind closed about her, tightening its hold like an indomitable fist. Removing her from the underground sanctuary.
28
Parne was night-haunted. And she, Ela Roeh, was the unseen being who flitted across its refuse-strewn rooftops after dusk, her voice breaking into the city’s tattered stillness. Into the wretched, sleepless weakness of disease and starvation. “Parne, call to your Creator! Pray to Him—allow Him to spare you from the beasts who gather at your gates. Surrender and live!”
