by R. J. Larson
Amid much jostling, one of the official’s green-clad subordinates emerged from the crowd, lugging a wide trough. Within the trough were large, glittering blue crystals—similar to ones Kien had seen near a Traceland swordsmith’s forge.
Tek An jerked his bearded chin toward the trough. “Where did they acquire these ores?”
Kien noticed the Istgardians were missing subtle but important details. Like small children, they focused on dazzling crystals when they should pay equal attention to what surrounded those crystals. Dark blue stone striations. Sand, leaves, and vinewood. “Ask the swordsmith in Ytar!”
When the king pursed his lips hard as if tasting something sour, Kien guessed, “Your marauders killed him. Didn’t they? And your guards killed my faithful servants—one of whom might have had the information you seek!” Wal. Wal had served several of the Traceland’s most prominent Assemblymen. Wal might have known about the ores’ locations. Kien clenched his bound fists as he pushed away the image of his servant’s pale, worried face. Yet the memory, brief as it was, calmed him. “I have nothing more to say. Why don’t you just kill me now?”
“Is death what you seek?” the king asked, eyes narrowed.
Lara gasped, causing Kien to look at her. Golden robes flaring, she rushed to the steps and knelt before the king. “Sire, please, remember—”
Tek An waved her back impatiently. “Do not fear, Cousin Lara. We have forgotten nothing, including our ancestors’ writings.” Fixing a baleful look on Kien, he said, “Kien Lan Tek, of the rebel son of King Lan Tek, our blood is the same.” Murmurs and exclamations rippled within the crowd of courtiers like a small, disquieting current. Tek An lifted a hand, silencing them. “Yet, Lan Tek, you ask us to kill you. By this, you prove you have indeed conspired against us. You are trying to bring the curses of all gods upon us.”
“No, I am not. My family renounced their titles when they signed the Charter forming the Tracelands,” Kien argued, hiding his frustration. His remote Istgardian heritage was nothing to him. An irritating obstacle to be overcome. “We were disinherited by the rebellion.”
“You do not use your titles, but you carry our blood. And we will not be cursed by killing you.”
“Likewise, curse or no curse, I never plotted against you,” Kien said. “Nor will I. Your accusations against my good name are unjust, and I ask you to dismiss them. I’m no assassin.”
“You’ve proven nothing, yet admit you hid knowledge of these new weapons from us!” Tek An sat back, studying him coldly. “You are indeed guilty and must be punished.”
He’d be punished for his country’s advancements in metalwork? Preposterous! “How could you punish me for such a . . . a non-crime? It’s insane! Nevertheless, you refuse to kill me. So now what? Do you intend to let me rot in prison for the remainder of my life?” The very thought twisted Kien’s stomach. He pulled in a deep breath and was rewarded by stabs from his ribs. Kien bit his lip hard to distract himself from the hurt. Even so, he winced.
Tek An smiled, evidently pleased by Kien’s pain. “Perhaps rotting to death is your fate. Rebel son of Lan Tek, pray to your gods for strength.”
Controlling himself, Kien straightened proudly. “Tracelanders need no gods.”
He’d managed to offend everyone in the royal audience chamber. Even Tek Lara looked hurt, her gentle face paled. Kien hated seeing her misery. Of all the Istgardians he’d met, Lara and her father, Tek Juay, were the most principled and admirable. Even now Kien didn’t want to destroy Lara’s good opinion of him. He bowed his head, honoring her, before turning to scowl at his guard. “Remove me from this place!”
The guard’s complexion resembled clay. He glanced at the king, who waved a furious dismissal, then he faced Kien. “Sir . . . my lord,” he began, flustered.
Kien lost patience with the man’s fear of his renounced royal blood. “ ‘Tracelander’ is fine! Please, just call your men and return me to my cell—my arms are killing me.” He wished the words were true. Death would end his misery.
“Yes, sir.”
Kien shook his head as they left the audience chamber. Would Tek An really keep him imprisoned for the rest of his life?
No.
He must escape. And if he died trying . . . “Good.”
“What, my lord?” the guard asked, his anxiety evident as he peered at Kien.
My lord? Ugh. Such absolute servility was enough to make a good Tracelander puke. Unless that Tracelander suffered broken ribs.
“Nothing,” Kien told his agitated guard.
His thoughts sped onward, pondering his escape.
Or at least, his death.
5
The young woman tugged Ela above the pool’s sparkling surface and cried, “Ela! I’m so glad to see you! Though I almost forgot you were gone.”
Ela found her footing, rubbed the water from her eyes, and studied the girl’s sweet face. Her vivid brown eyes. “Tzana?”
“What?” the young woman asked in Tzana’s voice, with her usual happy impatience.
Ela stared at her sister, unable to comprehend this transformation. “Infinite?”
She is safe in My presence.
And perfected, Ela realized, still staring at her sister, who smiled, radiant. Almost normal height, with delicate, beautiful features, thick dark curls, and slender, straight fingers. This was Tzana, set beyond the world’s destructive forces of disease and pain. Amazing.
Clearly oblivious to Ela’s shock, Tzana hugged her. “I’m sorry I forgot you! But I’ve been busy.”
Busy? Just guarding the prophet’s branch? Ela looked around, incredulous. The barren rock-edged desert was now lush—a grass-carpeted garden hedged with countless varieties of plants and watered by a stream, which fed the pool where Ela stood. The stream’s source emerged from the base of a sparkling tree—the most glorious tree Ela had ever seen.
Numerous varieties of fruits, flowers, and leaves flourished amid the tree’s branches, all shimmering as if subtly lit from within. And its broad, wonderfully sculpted trunk twisted upward in a sturdy spiral that tempted Ela to climb it and reach for those appealing fruits and flowers. The trunk resembled . . . vinewood.
“That’s the branch!” Ela waded from the pool, enthralled by the sight. How could one slender staff become such an enormous tree? And so quickly? “Infinite, You’re wonderful! How beautiful!”
She approached the tree. Movement shivered the sparkling leaves above. Small animals and jewel-bright birds flitted within the branches—each creature perfect and lively, seeming to invite her to play.
“They love having me feed them,” Tzana explained, clasping Ela’s arm as they both looked upward. “Really, they can feed themselves, but they prefer the food from my hands. The messengers said it was also my job to tend the tree and the land around—”
“Messengers?”
“Yes. Every morning they bring me instructions from the Infinite. Have some fruit, Ela. It’s delicious!”
Obviously Tzana had been utterly pampered while Ela was falling to pieces and being mauled by scalns in the desert. “How is this fair?” she cried to the Infinite as Tzana stared.
Did I keep My promise?
She couldn’t mistake the amusement in His question. “Yes, but . . .”
Rest here. Enjoy the tree and its fruits. When you leave, everything will be as it has been.
Would Tzana’s restored body remain? Ela asked inwardly, not wanting to distress Tzana.
No. His tone requested patience. When this place is removed, the world’s effects will take hold of her again.
Ela’s pang of grief was halted by another hug from her sister. How could she be miserable, seeing Tzana so healthy? Even Ela’s fever and wounds were healed in this place—though the scars remained. It was impossible to cling to sorrow here. She returned her little sister’s hug and added a hearty kiss to Tzana’s thick, gleaming curls. “It’s good to know you’ve been happy!”
“Yes, and I’m happier now that you�
�re here—even if you’re yelling and talking to yourself. Come up the tree, Ela, it’s amazing!”
Watching her little sister, limber and graceful as she clambered up the tree, Ela rejoiced. Instead of climbing, however, she knelt and covered her face with her hands.
Worshiping the Infinite.
Ela sighed, clasped Tzana’s hand, then touched the magnificent tree’s trunk. Like a gently inverted whirlwind, the branch drew in its fruit, flowers, and limbs in a spiral, while the birds flew away and the smaller animals scampered into holes and shelters, hidden in the sand and nearby cliffs. The branch conformed to Ela’s hand now, slender, the wood’s grain gleaming delicately. Itself again. Only a small hoard of precious fruit remained, tucked within Ela’s folded mantle, secured by her tunic’s belt. No other evidence lingered as testimony to the branch’s previous glory.
Tzana too was as she’d been. Fragile, tiny, wispy-haired, and slightly wrinkled, her fingers once again gnarled like an old woman’s. But her eyes still glowed as she grinned up at Ela. “We’ll see it again, won’t we?”
“Yes,” Ela sighed. “I’m sure we will. Or one like it.” She smiled, cherishing Tzana’s inward radiance. No wonder the Infinite pampered and indulged her. Tzana’s spirit was so lovely. Not perfect, but trusting and accepting. As Ela ought to be. “Come on. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Across the border to Istgard.” To proclaim the Infinite’s will.
Mindful of Tzana, Ela allowed her to rest occasionally. At midday they shared some of the nourishing fruits and drank from Father’s now-scuffed waterskin. Toward evening, Ela noticed more vegetation and lower rock formations. Surely this was Istgard.
Ela was carrying Tzana on her back when they noticed something dark curved against the base of a boulder.
“What’s that?” Tzana demanded.
A body, Ela realized, sickened. “Tzana, cover your eyes.”
When Tzana obeyed, Ela approached the corpse. A soldier. Obviously wealthy. His weapons and armor were superbly sculpted and embellished with gold. But the armor hadn’t protected him. Lacerations marred his desiccated face, and a gash was cruelly visible across his throat. Oddly, his belongings—rich as they were—hadn’t been stolen. “Infinite? Who was this?”
The one righteous leader of Istgard. My servant, betrayed and murdered for refusing to countenance evil.
A vision seeped through Ela’s thoughts and expanded. Overwhelmed, she knelt shakily, lowered Tzana to the ground, then clutched the branch, trying to endure the vision’s pain. When she returned to herself, Ela wept into the parched soil, heartbroken. Beside her, Tzana cried, seeing the soldier’s wounds. Ela covered her sister’s eyes, then closed her own. She shuddered, seeing this Istgardian’s death again. His murderer attacking—
Take his sword.
Ela couldn’t bear the thought of disturbing the valiant man’s body. And she most definitely didn’t want to carry his sword—or any sword. Even so . . . She nodded.
Mourning the ravages of death, she unbuckled the dead soldier’s sword.
“I need to find a comfortable place,” Tzana announced, shifting on Ela’s back.
Ela paused. “So soon?”
“Yes, and it’s not so soon.”
“It is. Look. The sun’s not overhead—it can’t be midday.”
“Then it’s too early to eat?” Tzana sounded disappointed. “I want more fruit.”
“I don’t blame you. I love it too. But after our meals last night and this morning, we have only three pieces left. We need to save them for our midday rest.”
“Only three?” Tzana sagged against Ela’s shoulders. “I thought there were more.” After a brief silence, she tweaked Ela’s long braid and asked, “What will we eat when the fruit is gone?”
“The Infinite will provide food.” Through the Istgardians. Ela shied away from thoughts of Istgard. However, each step took her closer to a confrontation with one of its most violent citizens.
She didn’t relish demanding justice from a vicious wrongdoer who’d convinced himself he was blameless despite his evildoings. A man utterly oblivious to the sorrow he’d caused his victims and the Infinite.
A man unwilling to understand how vital the Infinite was to his existence.
Really, she didn’t want to meet, much less say anything, to this reprobate.
And yet . . . Ela’s throat tightened, parched by the memory of searing torment, of existence without the Infinite. Did she wish such agony—eternal agony—on anyone?
“Let’s continue.” She tried to sound enthusiastic, encouraging herself as much as her sister. “Watch the shadows and tell me when they’re almost too small to see. That’ll mean it’s midday, and we can stop to eat.”
“All right,” Tzana agreed. In about twenty breaths, she fell asleep.
Ela felt her sister’s small body go limp. Her head lolled against Ela’s shoulder. Good. If Tzana slept, then she wouldn’t recognize Ela’s fear. Balancing her precious load and miserably aware of the sword slung at her side—a perpetual reminder of death—Ela trekked on, watching the landscape.
At last, with the sun nearly overhead, she halted. A wall of boulders and shrubs loomed to her left. The ravine she saw in her vision was now to her right, full of trees, briars, and vinewood. And that narrow dirt path between both formations was exactly as the Infinite depicted. How eerie to see familiar landmarks in a place she’d never been. Worse to know that these landmarks fit a most unnerving scene in her vision. She studied the now-minuscule shadows beneath the rocks and shrubs. Yes. This was the place, and almost the time. She knelt, set down the branch, and gently nudged Tzana awake.
“Climb down, silly! You were supposed to tell me when the shadows became almost too small to be seen.”
“Like me?” Tzana mumbled drowsily. “Amar said I was almost too short to be seen.”
“Well, Amar was wrong!” How dare he! If she hadn’t already called off their future wedding, she would have called it off now.
Tzana tugged at Ela’s sleeve. “I need a drink.”
“Of course you do.” Relieved to push aside thoughts of the traitorous Amar, Ela offered her sister the waterskin. But the waterskin’s knot proved too much for Tzana’s painfully bent fingers. If only poor Tzana could have retained even part of her temporary healing in that miraculous oasis! Ela untied the skin, then unpacked the last of the fruit as Tzana drank.
The fruit glistened in the sunlight, almost too beautiful to eat. Ela chose a plump, iridescent violet globe crowned with a bright green-stemmed cap. Pressing it between the heels of her hands, she split the fruit’s vivid skin. Five perfectly white segments nestled within deep violet-red pulp. Ela tied up the waterskin, offered three segments to Tzana, then ate the remaining two.
She wished she could enjoy the sweet fruit, but thinking of the encroaching clash drained her appetite. However, her next meal would be long in coming, and not much to look forward to. Best to eat more now. She peeled the faceted green skin from the second fruit, ate half of its creamy center, then gave the rest to Tzana. Distant laughter from within the ravine stopped her as they were eating the third piece of fruit.
Men laughing and shouting raucously. Soldiers. If Ela closed her eyes, she would see them again, from her vision.
“Who’s that?” Tzana asked, through a mouthful of the creamy fruit.
Sweat started over Ela’s skin. Her raw, puckered scars, tokens from the scaln’s attack, began to itch. “They’re soldiers. You mustn’t say a word to them, Tzana. Promise me.”
“I promise.” Tzana shoved the last bite of fruit into her mouth and nodded, asking with her mouth full, “Are you going to talk to them?”
“Yes. But they won’t want to hear what I’m about to say. Whatever happens, just be quiet and stay close to me.” Infinite? Ela pleaded, shaking inside, sickened. As she stood and gripped the branch, a consoling hand seemed to rest on her shoulder.
I am with you
.
His voice strengthened Ela’s wavering resolve. She wished it would banish the itching of her wounds. Was the itching a reminder of her previous failure?
Sounds neared. Metal clinked. Horses whickered, their hooves thudding against hard-packed dirt. The first horse—a formidable, massive black beast—emerged from the ravine and charged upward onto the path.
If this horse could breathe fire, it would now. Thankfully, Ela didn’t recall the creature breathing fire in her vision. Even so, this monstrous beast, with hooves the size of platters and a foul disposition, snorted and glared as if it wanted to stomp Ela flat. Its rider, Ela knew, was equally horrendous.
Sunlight glinted fiercely off the soldier’s crested metal helmet, his chest and leg armor, his weapons, and his shield, which was adorned with Istgard’s symbol, a scaln’s snarling face. No surprise, but still repulsive. Ela shuddered.
Spying Ela, the lead rider coerced his awful warhorse toward her. Tzana gasped and huddled into the folds of Ela’s mantle, her small body shaking. Her obvious fear inspired no hint of compassion in the soldier’s dark eyes. He called out, “Who are you, and where are you from?” His authoritative demeanor required an answer. “Are you refugees?”
“No!” Ela lifted her chin. “I am Ela Roeh of Parne, and this is my sister, Tzana.”
“Huh! Parne’s a dustbin, full of nothing but future slaves for Istgard.”
His contempt infuriated Ela, but she fought to control her temper. The Infinite must not be represented by a prophet indulging in a tantrum. She exhaled a prayer. Let this man and his compatriots hear the truth. “You’ve taken enough slaves, Taun—pillager of Ytar.”
The soldier stared, then scowled, his already-severe tone turning hostile. “Beggar! How do you know my name?”
“Your Creator told me your name, Taun.” She shifted the branch cautiously, feeling its hidden light working toward the vinewood’s surface. “I’ve been sent to warn you that He has seen your wickedness. He knows everything you’ve done. You must repent before you are condemned.”
