by R. J. Larson
His broken toes felt better today. It helped that the army’s determined march toward Parne had consumed most of the past two days, preventing Fightmaster Lorteus from commanding him to practice.
Prime Minister Aun of Istgard rode up beside Kien now, matching his destroyer’s pace to Scythe’s. Kien nodded a greeting, marveling that this honorable man had, only last year, been his captor-guard—repeatedly dragging him to and from one of Istgard’s prisons to face his accuser, Istgard’s deceased king, Tek An.
His severe face outlined in the lowering sun, the prime minister nodded, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Lord Aeyrievale.”
Kien grimaced. “Sir, no offense intended, but I believe you’re secretly laughing at me.”
Tsir Aun smiled. Just a bit. “Yes, I admit I’m amused. You, the most patriotic of Tracelanders, have had a second noble title forced upon you in less than a year. And this time the title’s proponents were successful. One way or another, you’ll have men bowing to you.”
“Please, let’s not even joke about it.”
“Nevertheless, whatever the Tracelands might think, you are a Siphran lord.” Tsir Aun eyed their destroyers, who were huffing low threats at each other. “I’ve heard your new lands and your tenants are beleaguered by Aeryons.”
“So I’ve been told.” Kien growled at Scythe, who was snapping at Tsir Aun’s steed. “Aeryon hunting is the only appealing aspect of this whole disaster.”
“What about protecting those who depend upon you?”
“What are you trying to say, Prime Minister?”
“You will be compelled to accept responsibility for your people.”
A certain bleakness in Tsir Aun’s tone made Kien stare. “You didn’t want to become Istgard’s prime minister, did you?”
“No. Yet I am. And I’ll remain so for as long as I’m needed.” He spoke sternly to his destroyer, who’d fitfully flattened his equine ears. “Wrath! Straighten those ears! Now.”
Wrath obeyed, but both destroyers grumbled as if the prime minister had ruined their game. Tsir Aun eyed Kien again, still severe. “Your people could suffer the rule of a far worse lord.”
They are not my people. Kien almost said the words aloud, but stopped himself. According to the Siphrans, he was wrong. Officially. The inhabitants of Aeyrievale were his people, and Akabe couldn’t rescind the order.
Infinite, I don’t want people!
And to think that less than two months ago, he’d had the effrontery to lecture Akabe on a king’s responsibilities and obligations. He had less to whine about than Akabe. “The inhabitants of Aeyrievale might have to live without me. I’m a military judge-advocate. The Tracelands will inflict penalties upon me if I officially accept this honor.”
“It would be a terrible loss for Aeyrievale.” The prime minister surveyed Kien now, clearly undeceived. “You are reluctant to accept responsibility for leading others. Not in a military setting, but in a personal realm. May I ask why?”
Kien hid a scowl. Tsir Aun was entirely too perceptive. “I know what it is to have others depend upon my decisions. And to fail them.”
The prime minister’s expression became faraway. And self-blaming. “You’re thinking of the massacre at Ytar. And the attack in Riyan, the day you were arrested.”
“The day I was ambushed and my servants were slaughtered? Yes.” He’d never be able to speak of that day without self-loathing. And hatred for the tyrant who’d ordered the attacks. “I failed my men. They begged me to leave the night before, but no! I thought I knew better. I believed I should tell that butcher king, Tek An, what I thought of him for attacking Ytar.”
His tone harsh, the words of a soldier who knew the truth, Tsir Aun said, “Undeserved as the charge was, you’d been condemned as a conspirator. Had you heeded your servants, you would have been caught and attacked anyway. In the wilderness, no doubt. And if I know you, sir, you would have died with them.”
Yes. That was true. The massacre at Ytar had been too fresh and raw in Kien’s thoughts. He would have fought any Istgardians to the death. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I know I am.” Tsir Aun didn’t smile. Nor did his mood lighten. But he shifted the subject as if trying to distract Kien. “My wife and I visited Ytar recently. We were nearly ambushed, though it was clear we were visiting as a private household.”
Hit with surprise, Kien stared. “The Ytarians are still thirsting for revenge?”
“I cannot blame them. However, thankfully, the Infinite sent a certain prophet to Ytar in advance of our visit, and she interceded.”
“Ela.” Kien almost sighed over her name. “How was she?”
“Well enough.” Tsir Aun grunted. “She and the Thels were beset by robbers the day before. I’ve heard you’ve had dealings with the robbers’ leader.”
What? “I have nothing to do with robbers, sir!”
“An exiled Siphran lord. Ruestock.”
The thin, arrogant Siphran lord’s face smirked within Kien’s thoughts, making him seethe. “Well, he’s no longer exiled—though I wish he were! I should have allowed Scythe to kill the man last year. He’s partially to blame for this Aeyrievale debacle.”
“Perhaps it’s not a disaster, but the Infinite’s plan for you and for Aeyrievale. Do not be hasty in abandoning them, Lord Aeyrievale.”
A chill slid over Kien’s scalp and down his neck and arms. How could he escape this burden? Infinite?
Tsir Aun spoke again. “I take it you’ve no regrets in refusing the Istgardian crown.”
“None. Particularly knowing it was the Infinite’s will that I refuse.” Kien wished his Creator would answer as decisively regarding Aeyrievale.
Tsir Aun didn’t reply. Instead, he studied the horizon.
Kien followed his stare and saw a haze of smoke rising over what appeared to be a distant, pale hill. “Parne! Finally! And, it seems, the campfires of an army.” Ela . . .
“Belaal,” Tsir Aun observed. “Our timing is perfect. We’ll approach Parne under the cover of darkness. By the way . . .” The prime minister of Istgard nodded toward Scythe. “Your destroyer ate half of a former palace garden.”
“Only half?”
“It was a large garden. We are waiting to see if any life returns.”
Kien scowled at his destroyer’s twitching, listening black ears. “Have you no sense of restraint?”
Scythe grunted an unconvincing noise of disregard.
Tsir Aun said, “He was improperly leashed by government servants while Lara and I were meeting with the Thels. We accepted the blame.”
“Thank you. But I still feel responsible.”
“No need.” The prime minister half smiled. “Actually, it was quite impressive. Your destroyer deserves his name.”
Scythe tossed his head, betraying definite pride with the gesture.
Moving softly to avoid waking anyone, Ela tucked the strap of Father’s old waterskin beneath her mantle. Its podgy water-filled outlines sloshed against the small hoard of fruit she’d hidden within the belted, layered folds of her tunics.
Ready, she allowed herself to glance at her parents, who slept beneath a quilt with Jess snug in a nest under Kalme’s hand. If only she could kiss them good-bye. But she didn’t dare. Forcing herself to turn away, she smiled toward Prill instead. Even in sleep, her redoubtable chaperone was on guard. She’d evidently bundled three of the busiest little girls together and whispered them to sleep with stories. Then she’d fallen asleep herself, her thin hands turned toward the children even in slumber, as if—at the slightest stir—to prevent them from wandering.
Ela didn’t know the little girls’ names. She’d been too busy warning Parne at night and sleeping during the day to visit with many of the refugees. Well, though she’d had no time to play and teach the little ones, at least Prill did. Infinite, bless her.
Prill, don’t forget! Tell my parents I’ve been called away by the Infinite.
Her heart hammered at the thought, so hard
that she shook with its violence. If she stayed any longer, she’d weaken. She’d collapse. Infinite? Ela looked up at the tree, trying to calm herself in its gentle light, worshiping its Creator despite her panic. Help me!
A spiral of air steadied Ela, then swept her from the hushed cavern.
For an instant she blinked, disoriented by darkness until she looked up at the nighttime sky. Stars glittered amid sapphire and violet heavens, so lovely that she could almost forget she was standing in a dying city. Then she took a breath, and her nostrils filled with the thick, foul-sweet odor of disease and rotting flesh.
She hugged herself, fighting the need to retch. How many had died? The overpowering stench of decay testified that the living had given up on entombing the dead. Yet some still lived. In a darkened house to her left, someone was sobbing, low and harsh. Giving voice to a despair so profound that Ela couldn’t escape its depths. Another soul lost!
Tears welled, almost choking her with grief. She clawed at her braid and unraveled it, then arranged it as a tangled cloak of mourning. Dust from the street offered the only adornment she needed. As she sifted a handful of grit over her hair, sobs shook her, refusing to be contained.
She drew in a tormented breath, then wailed, “Paaarne! Will you die in your faithlessness? Why won’t you call to your Creator, Who has always loved you? Why did you reject Him? Now you must drink from the cup you poisoned for yourselves!”
Infinite? Why was I so blind to their transgressions? Why won’t they hear You?
Driven by desperation, she ran up a public stairway. At the top, she looked over the city and wept. Through her tears she cried, “Listen to the Infinite and live!” A vision overtook her then, and she reeled against its impact, falling to her knees.
Though she huddled beneath a nighttime sky, she saw the coming day’s terror. Parne’s secret would be revealed. Sickened, she scrambled to her feet and ran along the rooftops, toward the temple. “Chacen! You’ve weakened Parne’s walls! Tomorrow your enemies will laugh, believing you’ve given them a way into the city!” Ela paused, listening. A scuffling sounded below, punctuated by harsh whispers that prickled the fine hairs along her arms. Who was coming for her?
Robes fluttering, she ran up flight after flight of steps until she couldn’t breathe. At last, she sagged against a wall and listened, muffling her harsh, hurting gasps within the folds of her mantle. No footsteps sounded from the stairs below.
Safe. For now.
Regaining her breath, she cried, “Parne, you must surrender to the conquerors who will enter your streets! Listen! The Infinite commands you, ‘Surrender and live!’ If you fight, you will die by the sword!”
A man’s voice bellowed, “Traitor!”
Footsteps again. Clattering up stairs. Coming toward her.
No! Not yet. Infinite, please, give me one last night to warn them! Praying, she ran.
A tug wrenched Kien from his cot. “Hey!” He tumbled to the rough carpet, trying to see in the darkness as he sought his sword. Destroyer breath whooshed into his face, reassuring him instantly, but not calming him. How had the monster unleashed himself? Fearing Scythe would bring down his tent, Kien slung his sword over his back, then grabbed his boots and eased them on, wary of his toes. “I’m awake. And you’d best have an excellent reason for dragging me from a sound sleep!”
Scythe grunted and eased his head and front hooves out of the tent.
“My lord?” a sleep-roughened voice called out, accompanied by the unmistakable ring of metal—a blade drawn from its scabbard. “Are you well?”
“Yes . . .” Kien hesitated. What was the man’s name? He’d followed the army to deliver that pestilent petition from Aeyrievale. And he was now so politely determined to serve Kien that chasing him off was impossible. Bryce. Yes. That was his name. Kien flung on a cloak. “Go back to sleep, Bryce. There’s nothing to fear. My destroyer is being annoying.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scythe’s breath gusted against the tent, shivering its thick fabric. A deep, indignant thud sent vibrations into the soles of Kien’s boots. Kien hissed. “Stop that, you wretch! I’m coming!”
He ducked through the tent’s entry and glared at the destroyer’s huge form. “What?”
Scythe hunkered down and exhaled an imploring huff.
Kien growled. “I’m not running you in the middle of the night!” He studied the stars to the west and the faint glow in the east. Fine. It was nearly dawn. “Still, it’s too early.”
The monster opened his big mouth and stretched, as if to snap up Kien. “Stop. No kidnapping your master.” Scythe groaned, pathetic as any destroyer could ever be.
“There’s no escaping you, is there?” Kien flung himself over the warhorse’s bare back and grabbed handfuls of thick black mane. “Well then, go. This had better be worth lost sleep!”
“Surrender and live!” Ela’s feet ached. Her throat hurt. And lack of sleep muzzied her thoughts. To the east, the sky was brightening. Almost time. If she had any tears left, she would have cried in despair. Soon she would die, taunted by memories of tonight’s failure. Infinite?
Silence answered.
Broken by an unmistakably articulated destroyer-call. A rumble she’d thought to never hear again. “Pet?” A delusion, surely. Ela ran along the nearest path to Parne’s wall walk.
30
Scythe halted and faced Parne’s wall, releasing another throaty destroyer-call that rippled through Kien as if his body were water. The eagerness in the warhorse’s tone made Kien straighten and stare upward. Did he dare to hope? He refused to even think her name lest disappointment shred his most heartfelt desire. Was she there? Infinite?
A woman appeared on the wall above, outlined in the first hints of dawn. Pale robes, long, dark, wild hair . . . delicately sculpted form. Ela! Kien stifled a shout of celebration.
Obviously in agreement, Scythe curveted, his unexpected leap nearly tossing Kien to the ground.
Kien grabbed another fistful of mane, secured his seat, then hissed in the destroyer’s ear, “Shh! Everyone’ll come running.” He intended to be selfish, not sharing this encounter with anyone—except a capering, joy-maddened warhorse. “Hush. Not a sound!”
Sides heaving in an unmistakable and valiant effort to obey, the monster-horse settled. But he kept tilting his dark head to and fro, staring up at Ela.
Understandable. Kien stared up at her, longing to climb that huge wall. He’d steal Ela, and then he and Scythe would run away with her—never mind if she argued. Actually, she appeared to harbor the same thought. She was climbing higher on the wall, tucking herself into a stone embrasure, never once looking away from him. Adorable prophet! Kien craved a chance to hold her, to console her for Tzana’s sake, and to breathe in the scent of her unbound hair. Her hair . . .
A sudden memory unnerved him. Ela, her black hair unbound and wild the night before battle. Before Istgard’s final defeat in the bloody fields beyond Ytar.
Had she spent the entire night trying to warn Parne, as she’d warned Istgard? And he noticed one more oddity, too unusual to be ignored. Why wasn’t Ela carrying the branch?
Infinite? What’s happening?
Pet! Dear monster. And Kien . . . safe! Oh, thank You, Infinite!
Kien’s smile enticed her, warm as sunlight. If only she could descend from this wall and run away with him. Or, at least, if she could hold Kien one last time. She’d take refuge in his embrace. It was impossible, of course. And for the best, because once she was in Kien’s arms, she’d be unable to leave him and fulfill her work as prophet. For her family and friends’ sake, Chacen must have no doubt where she was, living or dead. Dead. Her empty stomach constricted.
Enough. Deliberately, Ela set aside thoughts of death and Chacen. She’d been granted one last glimpse of Kien and Pet. Wasn’t this exactly what she’d begged from her Creator? A dream answered.
But how could she see Kien or Pet if she was crying? Foolish tears! Ela swiped at her eyes. She needed to c
elebrate this last fragment of their time together. First, Pet deserved a treat.
She dug her booted toes into a mortared line of the wall and climbed into an embrasure crowning the wall. Settling as best she could within the snug space, Ela reached into a fold of her mantle and retrieved a piece of the fruit she’d picked from the tree. What was the use of keeping it? A few bites of fruit wouldn’t save her.
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.
