by R. J. Larson
Finally, as Ela hiked into a dusty hollow rimmed by gray stone spires, He spoke. Stop here.
Relieved, she halted.
Do you understand what My Presence truly means?
He had perceived Ela’s lingering doubts, she knew. “I cannot begin to understand—please tell me.”
It will be best for you to understand by experiencing Its loss.
Loss? Was He leaving?
I am leaving you completely alone now. But as I Am, I will return.
She felt His presence sucked from her body like air—saw it leave in a whirlwind rising above her. He was gone. No! Ela staggered, fighting to breathe. The mimicry of breath she finally managed was a searing torrent of agony. She tried to raise her hands to her throat, then comprehended that even the dust the Creator had used to sculpt her kind was incapable of holding form without His Presence.
She crumbled into the ground itself. Bereft of a body, her soul collapsed in fiery torment, screaming for death and for Him.
3
The world around Ela vanished amid flames, leaving her writhing in agony. Without His sustaining Spirit, she could not endure this measureless cauldron of fire. Where was its end? Where was He? Why couldn’t she die? “Infinite! Let me die!”
A touch drew her soul from the fire, and her body from the dust. Alive, she lay helpless, her face resting against ash-tainted desert sand. Clawing the parched ground, which was cold in comparison to what she had just felt, she whimpered, “Please, let me die.”
What purpose would your death serve now? He seemed so near that Ela imagined she felt His breath restoring her senses. Her sanity.
She was trembling, unable to even lift her head. How was it possible she still lived? Who could exist without Him?
Not even those who deny Me can live on this world if I withdraw My Spirit, the Creator murmured into her thoughts.
“I’ve never been without You,” she realized aloud, her voice breaking.
Never.
“Never leave me again!” she begged.
Never, He agreed. The word was a promise.
Ela inhaled another cooling breath, sighed, and shut her eyes. Seeing flames, she opened her eyes hurriedly. Wide.
Rest. You are safe. She sensed the Infinite waiting, keeping watch. Guarding her . . .
She woke before sunset, recovered enough to move again. She’d stopped shaking. Her limbs, her whole body, seemed to be wrapped in an invisible blanket. As Ela sat up, her Creator sent her a thought.
Drink your water.
He was right, of course. She guzzled water from the leather bag, which remained full long after the water should have been gone. Particularly after she clumsily splashed herself. Fascinating. At last, feeling restored, she closed the plump waterskin with a firm knot. “Infinite? Was that like death?”
No. That was life without Me. Death without My Presence is immeasurably worse, for it brings eternity in torment, without hope of release.
“What gives us hope? What gives us eternity with You?”
Faith in Me.
If she’d had no faith in her Creator before, Ela was certain she had it now. And she intended to cling to the Infinite and pester Him like a persistent toddler for the rest of her short life. Perhaps He would become wearied by all her questions.
No. He responded to her notion before she formed the words. This is why I brought you here. To listen and learn. Learning begins with questions. Now, ask.
“I’m sorry, but what did You do to my water bag?”
Death deserved unrelenting black.
Ambassador Kien Lantec eyed himself in the polished metal mirror and knew he was making the correct choice. Tunic, belt, leggings, boots, all black. His people, Tracelanders, the victims of the massacre of Ytar, deserved no less than his country’s formal mourning attire.
Sorting and packing gear on the other side of the room, Kien’s servant Wal grumbled aloud. “I still say we ought to leave immediately. Without a word. We should have left last night! Who knows what the Istgardians might do. They have almost no sense of honor and even less self-control.” Wal approached now, sounding almost desperate. “Sir, please reconsider the black. If you appear in the king’s formal audience chamber and insult him while wearing that, you will incite war on the spot. The king’s guards will surely kill you.”
Kien turned and thumped his nervous attendant on the shoulder. Though Kien was younger, Wal was the one behaving like a frightened child. “Control yourself. I will not insult the king. I give you my word. I’m going to walk into the audience chamber, protest the massacre, return my insignia, and leave. We will reach the border by nightfall. Are the horses and carts ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Wal’s voice was hushed.
“Will you follow me into the audience chamber?” Kien knew what Wal would say, but he couldn’t resist asking. Just to see the expression on Wal’s face.
The thin man’s gray eyes bugged, and his mouth gaped. His pale skin went ashen. “Ah. No, sir. I’ll stay with the horses. You won’t actually say the word massacre to the king, will you?”
“Yes, I will. The ‘skirmish’ at Ytar was a massacre, no matter what the Istgardian commanders claim.” If Kien thought of the massacre too deeply, he would be in a killing mood when he walked into the royal audience chamber, and he needed to be calm. His father would counsel coolness. But how could any loyal Tracelander remain cool, thinking of the slaughter, the enslavement, and the burning of a peaceful city?
The instant Kien reached the border, the Tracelands would declare war on Istgard. He would be sure of it. Those enslaved citizens had to be freed. Ytar must be avenged. “Where is my sword?”
“Sir!” Wal squawked. “Do not wear your sword!”
“Istgardian protocol demands a ceremonial sword,” Kien reminded his servant. “Where is it?”
Wal sat on Kien’s clothing chest. Blinking.
Kien grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder and wrist and dumped him to the floor. “You can ignore protocol if you think it will guarantee your own safety, Wal, but—excuse me—I will not.”
Wal jumped to his feet. Agile. Kien had to allow him that much of a compliment. The man was also determined—admirably so, when he wasn’t being annoying. As he was now. “Sir! I promised your father I would advise you. . . .” Wal hesitated, like one who has said too much.
“Advise me? Concerning what? My youthful foolishness? My failures in etiquette?”
Wal turned away, not denying Kien’s words.
Kien glared. So Wal finally admitted he’d been hired to be a nursemaid. Or an etiquette master. Both options were insulting. Kien knew his conduct had been almost irreproachable throughout his service in Istgard, despite multiple opportunities that tempted him to indulge in less-than-exemplary behavior. Seething, he flung open his clothing chest and rummaged through it for his ceremonial sword. Wal—the maggot!—had hidden it in the bottom of the chest. Well, scheme as he might, Wal couldn’t part Kien from his weapons. Not his sword. Not his boot knives, nor his buckle knife. Wal would screech like a seared fowl if he ever learned of Kien’s hidden cache.
Kien slung the leather baldric over his shoulder and buckled the sword at his side. Wal, not quite remorseful, offered Kien his black cloak. “I pinned your insignia to the shoulder.”
“Because I can’t be trusted to pin it on correctly?”
Wal huffed in obvious disgust.
“If anyone has the right to be offended here, Wal, it’s me.” Kien stepped past his servant and rechecked his image in the mirror. Excellent. The triangular gold insignia gleamed impressively at his left shoulder. A pity he had to return it today. He should keep the gold and have it hammered into coins for the widows and orphans of Ytar. No, the Istgardians would deem such charity to be theft, and Kien’s left arm would be shortened one hand-length.
He stalked to the door, calling orders on the way out. “You’ll have enough time to send a cipher to my father and the Assembly. They’ll want to know what’s hap
pening. Be ready to depart the instant I return.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Kien strode outside and marched along the smooth block-paved street toward the palace. Ruddy dawnlight sculpted countless graceful temple spires and the stodgier walls and massive towers of Istgard’s capital, Riyan. How could he ever have admired this view? Built by savages to honor their kings and their nonexistent gods.
All things Istgardian turned Kien’s stomach now. He’d been too trusting. Too eager to be the perfect ambassador. If someone had told him yesterday that King Tek An sanctioned the destruction of a peaceful Traceland border town, Kien would have scoffed like the Tracelander dupe they’d deemed him to be. “Stupid!” he told himself.
He should have seen the truth the instant he arrived in Riyan. Wasn’t his ambassadorial residence—arranged by Tek An—the most cramped and unimpressive in the capital? Even the fact that it was within walking distance of the palace was an insult. No doubt Tek An had been spying on Kien from that first day. He’d been a fool.
Looking around, Kien realized he was still a fool. Palace guards were loitering along the broad street, in doorways and various arched stone gateways. Not ordinary red-cloaked military guards, but palace guards. Watching him. A chill slid over Kien. Should he advance or retreat?
Ahead, he heard horsehooves and a sharp whistle. A light single-horse chariot emerged from the palace gates and turned toward Kien. An elderly charioteer, in a plain brown servant’s tunic, managed the reins. Beside him stood a young noblewoman, her golden ribbons and veils fluttering over her dark hair and blue mantle in frivolous contrast to her somber face.
Tek Lara, a cousin to the king.
As Kien moved aside, Lara’s gaze met his, and he saw her serious eyes widen, alarmed. While her charioteer guided the vehicle past, Lara leaned toward Kien and cried, “Leave! Hurry!”
Evidently perceiving this as a command, Lara’s servant snapped the reins and chirruped to the horse. As the chariot sped away, Tek Lara looked back at Kien, her distress still visible.
Was he walking into danger? Unlike most Istgardian noblewomen, Lara was neither silly nor a flirt. Best to heed her warning. Kien turned, intending to rejoin his servants and leave Riyan immediately. But five massive green-cloaked royal guards converged in the street before him, blocking his way. Gloating.
Extensively trained, the king’s guards were armed with short swords, helmets, plate-armor vests, greaves, and spears. In tribute to his rank, their burly leader sported a vertical crest of black hair on his helm, sculpted to trail down his back. Hair, no doubt, sheared off the lead guard’s hapless victims.
There would be no hair-shearing today if Kien could help it. He fought down nervousness and faced the guards proudly, a hand on his sword. “I am returning to my residence. Why are you stopping me?”
The leader’s smirk darkened. Hardened. “Kien Lantec of the Tracelands, I arrest you by order of the people of Istgard, according to their high laws, on suspicion of conspiracy to murder their beloved king, Tek An. You are now stripped of your rank and privileges as ambassador. You will lay down your sword and come with us.”
Conspiracy to murder Tek An? Ludicrous! “Why are you arresting me on false charges?”
Without warning, the lead guard drove his fist into Kien’s stomach.
Doubled over, fighting to breathe, Kien felt another blow to the back of his head. He crashed to the pavings. Stunned, Kien tried to focus. How could this be happening?
As Kien gasped, the lead guard bellowed, “You call the people of Istgard liars?”
Yes.
His movement hidden by his cloak, Kien slid his hand to the knife concealed within his buckle. The lead guard gut-kicked him.
“Ah!” Kien curled, clutching his stomach, sick with pain. If he’d eaten breakfast, he would have lost it with the force of that kick. Was the man wearing metal boots?
The lead guard carved Kien’s gold ambassadorial insignia from his cloak with a dagger. “Take his sword. Search for any other weapons. Be sure he cannot so much as lift a hand against you.”
The other guards seized Kien’s sword, then took turns kicking his back, belly, and ribs until Kien could do nothing but welcome the darkness that followed.
Pain brought him to consciousness again. Curled up on his side, Kien checked his wounds. Right eye swollen shut. Left temple pulsing with an open wound. Ribs stabbing miserably. At least his hands and legs moved. Kien summoned the strength to look around. He was lying in blood. And musty straw. On a stone floor. Prison? Was he actually in a prison?
Behind him, a door squeaked open on its pivot. A man laughed none too kindly. “I see you’re awake. Good! Get up. I am your warden. Some friends are patiently waiting for you.”
Who? His servants? Or perhaps interrogators . . .
“Hurry, Tracelander.” The man kicked at Kien’s shins.
More wounds might incapacitate him altogether. He had to stand before this beast kicked him again. Fighting agony, Kien forced himself to his feet. Balance would be easier if the walls would remain still. Hit by dizziness, Kien wavered.
His warden laughed. “For a pile of bloody bones, you’ve done well. Here, now. Look out the window.”
He shoved Kien toward a narrow stone window, gripped Kien’s hair, and pushed his face into the opening, which was only one hand width wide. “See ’em? I’m told you have to see ’em.”
See what? Who? Kien turned his face until he could see through the slit stone window with his left eye. He finally managed to focus on several long bundles. Bodies, neatly placed side by side in the dirt below his window. One was . . . Wal. The others, his groomsmen.
All dead. So many wounds. Even Wal. The battle must have been horrific. His fault.
“No,” Kien rasped, barely recognizing his own voice. Sword. Where was his sword?
We should have left last night! Wal accused Kien in his thoughts. I promised your father I would advise you. . . .
Blinded by grief, Kien slid down the wall to his knees. He hadn’t listened. He’d failed Wal. His servants. Father. Himself. Everyone. He deserved to die. “Sword . . .”
Dazed, Kien patted his sides, his leggings, his boots, seeking his missing belt, his weapons. Becoming desperate as the warden laughed.
Sword. He needed to fall on his sword.
Ela watched the dawn, the last stars fading from the roseate sky. Had she ever felt such calm in her soul? Never. She could stay here forever, questioning, listening, learning. Parne—indeed, the whole world—had faded from her thoughts. Nothing compared to His Presence. “Infinite? I don’t want to go.”
Return to your sister.
Naturally, He had the perfect reply. Now she wanted to go. Tzana needed her, and she missed Tzana. How many days had she been here? Seven? Ten? She prayed Tzana wasn’t frightened, believing Ela had forgotten her. Was she in desperate straits by now? No, the Infinite promised Tzana would be protected while Ela was gone. But what had Tzana been eating all this time? Perhaps nothing. Only an endless source of water, somehow provided by their Creator’s will.
Ela’s water bag was finally a bit slack this morning, no longer replenishing itself. Another signal that she must leave. As she tied the bag, Ela’s stomach growled loudly. Painfully. She’d been fasting for days. “What will we eat?”
Why are you worried about food? Return to your sister.
Ela scrambled to her feet and slung the water bag over her shoulder. She climbed the side of the dusty hollow, seeking the path she’d taken before. There. Her bare feet slipped a bit over the dirt, causing her to flail her arms as she made her way along the sloping path. Ugh, she was graceless! How could the Infinite wish to be represented by someone so clumsy?
She hesitated at the unspoken question, expecting a reply.
Silence.
Her stomach growled again, urging Ela onward. Already the sunlight was heating the air. Soon the ground would be searing hot. She had to hike quickly.
Half the m
orning passed, though swiftly, hastened by Ela’s eagerness to return to Tzana. In the center of a small canyon, she paused to take another drink. Such peculiar rock formations in this canyon—red rocks streaked with yellow-green minerals and blue shadows, their lines and colors interrupted here and there by snags of dead trees, some fallen, some hollowed, all leafless. Lifeless.
Ela retied the water bag and slung it over her shoulder again while she studied the snags. What had happened to the trees here? A blight, perhaps. Or a particularly severe storm. At one time, these had been large trees, probably beautiful. And shady. Ela peered through the canyon, hoping to find another shade tree.
A low gurgling broke the canyon’s hush. Was that her stomach? If so, she hadn’t felt the rumble. The gurgle sounded again, echoing off the canyon’s red walls. Definitely not her stomach. Baffled, Ela looked around. Was there a waterfall nearby, playing tricks on her thoughts and sending sounds ricocheting off the rocks?
Again the gurgle resounded, ending with a hiss this time. A distinctly snakelike hiss. But snakes didn’t gurgle, did they? And water wouldn’t hiss like snakes. Or would it?
Now an odor reached Ela, thick and heavy, wrapping around her like a cloak of rotting meat. A shudder traced its way down Ela’s back. She was being watched. She felt it. Not just watched, but stalked.
Prey. She was being stalked by a . . . The gurgle echoed more deeply now, its reverberations thrumming through her entire body. Warm, putrid air seemed to slither about her ankles. The gurgle, the hiss, the rotten stench . . . it could not be.
Ela forced herself to swallow. To look over her shoulder. The hideous creature approached her, soft-footed. The size of a ram. But this was no ram. Bloodshot yellow eyes, flat as stones, watched her from a broad skeletal face, plastered with a thick red skin that coated its powerful body like coagulated blood. “Scaln!”
