by R. J. Larson
“He must be indeed.” Inspired, Ela asked, “How much will you pay me this instant?”
The rogue rubbed his whiskers, clearly taken aback. Ela knew, despite his assurance, he’d had no intention of paying a poor, duped cook to commit murder. “Ah. One dram now an’ three when it’s clear she’s cured.” He fumbled with a leather bag strapped to the side of his tunic. “Here y’are.”
Ela accepted the coin. That’s all she was worth? Lovely. “Thank you. I’ll put it to good use. One more question?”
He had turned away, but faced her again, offering a being-patient smile.
Ela asked, “Would you, please, pull up your sleeves? I’m terribly concerned about your arms.”
“Not a thing’s wrong with my arms, girl. See?” He pushed up his tunic sleeves. Sores gaped, oozed, and teemed white-crusted over his skin. Worse than a powdered mold covering decomposing fruit. The deliveryman shrieked. “By all gods an’ furies! What’s this?”
Squeamish at the sores, Ela said, “Your nonexistent gods and furies have nothing to do with your arms. The Infinite, your Creator, has decided to allow your body to reflect the state of your soul.”
“What d’you mean? My arms—they’re goin’ numb!”
“Do you want to be cured?”
Eyes wide as they could open, he said, “Mercy! I was just followin’ orders!”
“Forget your orders. The Infinite is disgusted by your behavior and has made you a living sign of corruption to your master, the heir.”
“You’re her.” The man whimpered low in his throat.
“Yes. Now, if you want to be cured, listen carefully.” Certain he was paying strict attention, Ela said, “You will go to the heir and tell him what’s happened. Do not lie or exaggerate to make your behavior seem better to your master. Tell the truth! Show him your sores, then tell him that the Infinite hears all his thoughts and sees all his actions. Warn your heir-prince that his life is at stake if he doesn’t repent and call upon his Creator.”
“Then I’ll be cured?” Real tears coursed down the fraud’s whisker-stubbled face.
“Once you’ve told the heir exactly what I’ve said, go outside to the main fountain in the palace courtyard. Submerge yourself seven times and pray aloud to the Infinite for forgiveness before you step out of the fountain. He will have mercy and cure you.”
“In the king’s fountain? But—”
“Do you want to be cured?”
“I’m beggin’! I can’t feel my arms.”
“Then hurry and obey your Creator. Before the sores spread.”
Arms outstretched, the would-be conspirator fled. Leaving his small hand cart with its load of salt-meat and flour outside the kitchen door.
A blessing for the prisoners, if the food wasn’t spoiled.
Her movements slowed by her stiffened, bruised muscles, Ela dropped the bag of powdered poison into the coals of the kitchen’s giant raised hearth. The bag burst into unnaturally green flames. Ela shuddered and knotted the thin coin inside a fold of her mantle, beneath her belt. “That’s all I’m worth?” she asked the Infinite.
Should you be worth more than I am in their eyes?
An image of the salt-meat and flour popped into her thoughts, and she laughed. “Very well! One measly coin, and some meat and flour—yes, I’m happy!”
Her bruises and aches seemed insignificant now. She nudged the blackened bag of poison to disperse it in the coals. Then she went back to work.
Syb sailed into the kitchen again, looking smug, with Tzana still perched in her arms. “Didn’t I say we ordered no salt-meat and flour? Now—” She became miffed. “Where’s that idiot deliveryman?”
“He had to leave. The salt-meat and flour are outside the door, but he didn’t demand payment. Can I ask one of the guards to bring the bags inside?”
“I suppose.” Syb’s face lit with joy. “He didn’t demand payment? Ha! Foolish of him.”
“He was foolish indeed, poor man.” And clearly the warden’s wife was perfectly willing to take advantage of the situation. Ela smiled at her little sister. “I’ll be taking the broth and rolls out to the other prisoners soon. Would you like to walk with me?”
Tzana wrinkled her tiny nose. “Nuh-uh. Warden promised to play kings and pawns with me before I take a nap.”
“It’s a good game,” Syb explained. “Bores them both right to sleep.”
“I’m sure it does.” Ela’s dejection renewed itself, but she smiled at her sister. “May I have a kiss before you leave?”
“All right.”
Ela received her little sister’s distracted kiss, then Syb scooted toward the door, issuing parting orders. “If you call a guard to haul in those bags, Ela, also ask him to place the largest kettle on the hearth in the central yard, then fill it with water for your vegetables this evening.”
“Yes, thank you.”
The instant Syb departed with Tzana, Ela poured out her complaints and fears to the Infinite. “She’s stealing Tzana! What if Syb and the warden want to keep her? What if Tzana wants to stay in Riyan? How could I ever explain that to Father and Mother?”
Silence answered.
Kien glared at the writing board, scrolls, reeds, ink set, and written “suggestions,” which had been left for him by the king’s scribe.
Did Tek An truly believe that Kien would slavishly copy Istgard’s warped justification of the massacre at Ytar? If so, the royal man was deluded. As a representative of the Tracelands, Kien must write the truth—and what ought to be the results of that truth.
“What else can the king do?” Kien asked himself. “Kill you?”
Ela had said much the same last night. A useful reminder.
He sat cross-legged on his straw pallet and wrote a description of the massacre, followed by—sarcastically—Istgard’s formal apology and pledge to immediately free Ytar’s captives, with restitution for their sufferings. Grinning, he added Istgard’s offer to rebuild Ytar.
Ludicrous to imagine such a marvel would happen, but why not?
Now, to sign his name. Kien rubbed the writing reed’s tip against the stone wall behind him to sharpen it. As he finished signing, the food slot rattled and squeaked open.
Ela’s dispirited voice said, “Bring your bowl.”
Kien set down the reed and stood. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing you can help. Please, bring your bowl.”
“Only because you said please.” He handed his bowl through and she returned it soon after, filled with broth that was actually broth, not water. Shocked, Kien nearly dropped the bowl. The roll, however, was the same as always, fit for nothing but blacking a man’s eye. On impulse, Kien yelled before Ela shut the food slot. “Wait, wait! Do you have any more rolls?”
“No. You’re allowed only one. Anyway, the warden’s wife counts them all.”
“Do you really think I’d want a second one of those rocks? Actually, I wanted to be sure you’re unarmed. Because if I offend you, I don’t want you blacking my other eye.” While she sniffed her resentment, he asked, “Do you read?”
“Of course. Is that your offensive question?” She peeked through the slot, her voice brightened, her eyes interested. “What do you have for me to read?”
“Only this. What do you think?” He resisted the impulse to swat Ela with his scrolled masterpiece. Instead, he offered it to her with such grace, his mother would have been thrilled.
“Here, now!” the guard protested, unseen to Ela’s right. “I’ll not stand here while you waste time reading.”
“Go on and rest,” Ela told him kindly. “I give you my word that I’ll hurry downstairs the instant I’m finished.”
“Be sure you do! If I have to chase you down, you’ll regret it!”
Kien watched as best he could while Ela skimmed the document. By the end, she was actually smiling, showing tiny dimples around her mouth. She rerolled the document and returned it through the slot. “The king will have a fit! You know he will.”
<
br /> “Yes, but he won’t kill me. I have to amuse myself somehow, don’t I?”
“You won’t be amused if you’re bruised,” she quipped.
“When Tek An is ready for honest negotiations, I’ll be serious. Until then—” he brandished the scroll— “I’ll write the most favorable conclusion for my people.”
“Then I’ll pray for you to escape with as few bruises as possible.”
“Thank you.” What could her prayers hurt? Kien smiled. “By the way, you have beautiful eyes.”
She looked skeptical. And, equally surprising, wary. Before she could take offense, Kien said, “I don’t know about Parne, but in the Tracelands, if an honorable man pays a lady a sincere compliment, then it’s correct, even commendable, for a lady to accept.”
For an instant, Ela seemed to be listening to someone else. Her frown faded, and she allowed him a shy smile. “Well . . . thank you. I’d best go before my guard decides he must return. He’s supposed to help me with the food tonight, so I don’t want him to become upset.”
Before Kien could say another word, Ela closed the food slot and departed, her footsteps echoing along the narrow passage outside.
He was just about to sit down again when he realized he’d forgotten to ask her about the destroyer. Did she own the creature? “Dimwit!” He thwacked himself on the head with the scroll and flung it across the room.
Consoling himself with the savory broth, Kien realized Ela hadn’t mentioned the Infinite once. Odd. Was she ill? At the very least, she’d needed cheering up.
All the better, then, that he’d amused her with his scribblings.
She had a lovely smile.
Ela wandered down the stairs, bemused. Kien’s compliment made her nervous. And the Infinite’s prompting—Behave. Be polite—hadn’t helped matters. What was she to think?
“Hmm.” Flatterer. Also, Kien’s defiant imaginary “negotiation” between Istgard and the Tracelands made her long for more to read. Particularly the sacred writings of Parne. Reading them would certainly hearten her and make her forget a certain flattering ambassador. Ela pondered the sacred words and whispered, “Who is like the Infinite . . .”
She turned a corner from the stairwell and nearly collided with a green-clad royal official in the prison’s main passageway.
The man shoved her aside without a glance or apology and stomped up the stairs toward Kien’s cell. Ela exhaled a prayer. “Infinite, please protect Kien!”
Calm slid into her morose thoughts like a ray of sunlight through darkness. Encouraged, Ela returned to the kitchen. While she finished chopping a mountain of salt-meat and vegetables, she questioned the Infinite. “If You’re willing to acknowledge Kien’s situation, then won’t You please answer me concerning Tzana?”
Do you believe I know what is best for Tzana?
“Yes. But—”
Finish your work. You have visitors.
Ela obeyed. While she tossed the massive heap of food by handfuls into a large empty kettle, she glimpsed fragments of the remainder of her afternoon, akin to portions of a vivid fabric woven within her thoughts. She wished the Infinite would stitch the whole pattern together so she could understand everything immediately.
Doubtless, He knew she’d be overwhelmed and drop like a rock beneath such a massive vision.
Just as she finished, a guard thumped at the kitchen’s doorpost. “You’ve visitors on the way, prophet-girl. Might as well talk with ’em here. Better than your cell.”
“I suppose.” Ela started to retrieve the branch from its corner, but remembered her vision. No need of the branch for this visitor, much as Ela wished she might use it.
The guard dragged a small stool to the cleanest part of the kitchen. He looked nervous, as if he wanted to flee, and—considering who was about to enter the kitchen—Ela couldn’t blame him. She offered him a smile with the chance to escape. “The warden’s wife asked that these vegetables and the meat be added to the largest kettle in the central yard, with water. I’m not feeling strong enough to lift it yet. Could you—”
He accepted eagerly. “You want a lid on the mess?”
“Yes, thank you.”
With a grunt, the guard lifted the full kettle. “Heavier ’n usual.”
Footsteps sounded in the passage. The guard shifted the loaded kettle and scuttled through the delivery door like a panicked rabbit. No sooner had he vanished when a haughty female in a graceful rose tunic and sheer mantle glided through the kitchen’s passageway door.
“Tek Sia,” she said, as if Ela ought to be impressed.
The imperious woman stepped aside, making way for an even more self-important and elegant lady, swathed in a pale green tunic and shimmering gossamer draperies. A thin, plain-robed girl—almost eleven years old, Ela knew—slipped into the kitchen after them and hid behind Tek Sia and the superior serving woman.
The exquisite Tek Sia surveyed the kitchen, her full lips pursed in distaste. She noticed the stool and motioned to the young girl. The child hurriedly carried the stool nearer Tek Sia, thunked it down, and brushed its surface with her small hand as if to be sure it was clean. Tek Sia gazed upward and sighed in exaggerated impatience. “Be done, clumsy little dolt! Move!”
The serving girl stepped away, so downcast that Ela ached at her misery.
Tek Sia sat on the stool, shedding various draperies like an exotic bird in molt. At last, she deigned to look up at Ela. “You know why I am here.”
“The Infinite has a purpose for your visit, yes.” Ela watched the noblewoman and her servants. And waited.
Tek Sia fidgeted. “Well?”
Maturity-wise, the woman was a child. Completely spoiled. Ela studied her, sickened. “You could have accomplished so much with everything the Infinite has given you, Tek Sia. You are sister to a powerful king, and you have unlimited wealth. Yet you sit here, bored and idle, wanting your Creator to perform for your amusement and to resolve your petty troubles—which are all your own fault. He refuses.”
“Oh!” The noblewoman stiffened, offended. “I didn’t come here for a scolding!”
“You deserve a scolding.”
Tek Sia stood and arranged the longest of her sheer scarves about her throat, clearly ready to take her offended self out of the kitchen. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Yes. Unless you want to hear the truth.”
The noblewoman paused, eager. “The truth? About my future? Will my life improve?”
“You mean will you be happier than you are today?” Ela shook her head. “Only if you change. Follow Tek Lara’s example and—”
Tek Sia sniffed. “That mealy-mouthed little do-gooder? She’s dull as dirt!”
If Ela had the branch at that instant, she would use it on this woman. “Tek Lara is happier than you will ever be, even now, while she’s in mourning for her father. Everything you ought to be—she is.”
“You cannot possibly compare me to her!”
Tek Sia was great only in her own mind, but no one could tell her so. Ela temporarily surrendered. “Here is the truth: With the exception of your life, you are about to lose everything that you’ve never appreciated. If you want to be happy, think of others instead of yourself. Go home. Be kind to your slaves, befriend your husband, stop quarreling with the queen, and pray for the king and Istgard.”
“You are insolent! If I quarrel with anyone, they deserve it.”
Ela bit down an unworthy response. “Be that as it may, I’ve told you the truth.”
Her tunic and scarf rustling and gleaming, Tek Sia swept from the kitchen, followed by her elegant, now-scared attendant. The youngest servant lingered, her thin face anxious as she shook straw from Tek Sia’s discarded scarves. Ela went to help the child, who jumped with fear.
“My lady will be so a-angry,” the girl stammered as she dropped one of the soft veils. “She wanted to hear good news from you, because everyone plots against her.”
“I can only tell her the truth.” Ela retrieved
a length of fragile material and folded it. “You and your mother were captured in Ytar, then purchased to serve the king’s sister.”
“Yes.” The girl stared at Ela, her soft brown eyes wide. “How did you know?”
“I saw you in a vision.” Realizing the girl had to hurry, Ela gave her the folded scarf, then reached for the coin paid to her by the would-be assassin that morning. “Here. Give this to your mother when you see her. It’ll pay a doctor. And when you meet others from Ytar who are also enslaved, tell them to pray to their Creator, the Infinite. He is working toward their freedom, and yours. Work hard for your owners, but encourage each other and stay strong!”
Teary, the girl sniffled. “How did you know my mother needs money for a doctor?”
“The Infinite told me.” Ela bent and gave the child a swift hug. “Hurry now. Remember what I’ve said. Pray to the Infinite!”
The little servant ran.
“Thank You!” Ela breathed, grateful to help at least one of the captives cope with a burden.
She prayed for their freedom.
Tsir Aun strode into the kitchen and halted, his expression so severe that Ela winced. She tossed aside her scrubbing rag and reached for the branch. Glimpsing Tsir Aun’s stern look in her vision didn’t lessen the impact of his disapproval.
The aggravated soldier took Ela’s arm. “Ela Roeh, I thought locking you in prison would keep you safe and out of trouble. It seems I was wrong.”
13
Ela doubted sarcasm was proper for a servant of the Infinite. Yet she imitated surprise as she faced Tsir Aun. “I’m in trouble because the heir arranged to have me poisoned? Delightful!”
The soldier’s voice lowered, grim as he escorted her from the kitchen to the prison’s dim, musty passages. “That is not your offense, and you know it. Regardless, you cannot accuse the heir publicly—it would be useless. His previous actions have already been excused.”
“Not by the Infinite.”
In an obvious attempt to courteously change the subject, Tsir Aun said, “I pray your Infinite will continue to protect you and your sister.”
