by R. J. Larson
28
Scuffing sounded at Kien’s chamber door, waking him. A muffled call beckoned. “Sir?”
Was it morning? Grayish light rimming the tower window shutters affirmed his suspicion. Kien willed himself to think. Why was he fully clothed, sprawled atop his bed instead of beneath the covers? Oh. Yes . . . Ela. Better not to think about her.
The scuffing repeated, irritating him.
“Enter!”
One of the stablehands leaned around the door. “Sir? Your destroyer’s gone wild. He’s been carryin’ on, tryin’ to escape the old stable half the night. If the walls weren’t solid stone, he’d be long gone, I’d say.”
Scythe? Kien sat up. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Why, sir, wakin’ the family fer one crazed beast ain’t needful.”
Kien bolted from his bed. Scythe turning crazed could only mean his pledged master was in danger. And obviously, Kien wasn’t in danger. Frantic, he checked his boots, grabbed his sword, and charged for the door. Ela . . . What had happened?
From a distance, Jon’s voice bellowed, “Kien! Where are you?”
“I’m on my way!”
He donned his baldric, then buckled his sword belt and clattered down the spiraling stone steps from his tower room. Jon waited at the bottom of the stairs with Father and Mother, both bleary and morning-rumpled in their robes. As Kien reached the last step, Jon dangled a small torn sandal for inspection. A bloodied sandal.
Before Jon could say a word, Kien asked, “Ela?”
“Yes. We’re certain she was stolen. Shrubs and vines were broken, and our stablemen told us our destroyers were in fits long before dawn. This was hanging on a trellis hook.”
Kien took the sandal. Blood on the inner sole didn’t mean Ela was dead. But what if . . . He clenched the thin sandal in his fist. He would kill whoever had hurt her. Be calm. Think. “Where’s Tzana?”
“She’s with Beka,” Jon said. “Perfectly safe—and a brave little thing.”
Kien snapped, “She’s a girl, not a thing!”
Mother gave him a reproving look. “Kien.”
“I meant no insult,” Jon interposed. “And Kien’s upset. As are Beka and I. Ela was stolen from our home, and it’s a point of honor that we find her. Who were her enemies?”
“Prophets always have enemies.” Though Kien couldn’t recall a single Tracelander who hated Ela. Vengeful Istgardians, perhaps?
Rade Lantec rubbed his dark-whiskered chin. “Poor girl. Has a ransom been demanded?”
“No. We found no trace of a note. Nothing was touched in her chamber, and Tzana wasn’t wakened by any noise during the night.”
Kien couldn’t bear to stand still. “Excuse me. I need to think. I’m going to check Scythe.”
Long before he reached the barred metal door he heard Scythe raging within the stout, ancient stone walls. “Easy, Scythe!” The commotion inside lessened to a barrage of rumbling destroyer complaints. “Be still!”
Except for the destroyer’s labored breathing, silence reigned. Kien slid back the metal bars, prepared to leap out of the monster’s way if he charged. But Scythe kept still, as commanded. He was lathered in sweat, his big eyes rolling.
Kien glanced around the stable and winced. The destroyer had demolished every stall in the old stable. Thankfully none of Father’s horses were there. Kien wasn’t sure they’d have survived. “You’ve had enough of a tantrum for us both. Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
The destroyer nudged his big head toward Kien’s hand. Specifically to the bloodied sandal. Scenting it, the beast groaned.
“Who would do this?” Kien asked, thinking aloud. “Who hated her? Who did she fear?”
A memory surfaced. Ela at Beka’s reception. Pale and reluctant to meet Ambassador Ruestock. Suffering a vision as the man spoke to her.
“Scythe, let’s prepare for a visit to the Siphran ambassador.”
Dark cloak flaring, Ruestock strutted into his ornately paved ambassadorial courtyard. Smug, Kien decided.
The nobleman lifted his chin. “What is so important that you’re unable to call upon me in my own residence like a civilized person?”
“The matter is urgent and my destroyer’s upset.” Kien refused to mince words. “Ela of Parne is missing. Has your network of spies revealed any useful information, sir?”
“I know nothing of the delightful Parnian.” Ruestock cast an uneasy glance at Scythe, who nosed toward him.
The destroyer huffed, scenting the ambassador’s cloak. An ominous rumble sounded in Scythe’s throat, just before he clamped the nobleman’s arm and flung him to the ground.
Kien raised a hand. “Scythe, stop!”
The black horse obeyed, but trembled and snorted threats—unmistakably convinced the ambassador had somehow harmed Ela.
Ruestock cried, “You deliberately attacked me! I am an ambassador! Protected by—”
Kien knelt on Ruestock’s chest, grabbed the man’s cloak, and twisted it hard against his throat, longing to beat the man to death. “You are squealing ‘ambassadorial protection’ to the wrong man! Talk! Now, or I allow this destroyer to crush you!”
“Darling,” Mother protested, “Siphra’s border is overrun by thieves and marauders who could cut you to pieces!”
“They’ll have to deal with Scythe first.” Kien bent to kiss his mother.
Standing beside Ara, Rade Lantec fumed. “Ruestock will be expelled from the country. But, Kien, if you create an international incident, there’s nothing I can do to help you. We sent our army after Istgard for you and Ytar. Victory or not, I can’t convince the Grand Assembly to repeat a similar vote in the same year. Is it worth your career to chase after this girl?”
“Imagine the uproar if we didn’t try to find her, sir,” Kien countered. “Jon and Beka would be accused of covering up her death or some other conspiracy. Besides”—he aimed a defiant look at his father—“if mother were stolen, you’d go after her.”
Father spluttered, “No! I mean, yes, but that’s entirely different! Your mother’s my wife!”
“I’m glad she is, sir,” Kien said. He shouldered his knapsack.
“Rade dear,” Mother complained, “for a politician, you’re not being very tactful.”
“Ara, my love, you know I would come to your rescue.”
“You’d negotiate me out of danger, you know you would!”
“See the trouble you’ve caused?” Father growled at Kien. “I’ll be all day digging myself out of this one. Then I’ll have to decide what to tell the authorities about your Parnian’s disappearance!”
Ela, his Parnian? Hardly. Kien hugged his father good-bye.
Rade gripped his arm. “You’re planning to marry her, aren’t you?”
“She won’t marry me, or anyone, sir. Don’t worry.”
A commotion outside caught their attention. Kien reached for the door. “That will be Jon and his beast. And Scythe.” He hoped Scythe wasn’t eating the front garden.
“Be safe!” Mother pleaded.
His parents followed him outside. Kien halted on the steps. Jon was indeed waiting. With Scythe. And Beka—looking self-satisfied—on her destroyer, Tzana perched before her.
Tzana caught sight of Kien and beamed. “We’re going to find Ela!”
Rade bellowed, “No, you are not! Beka, we’ve just brought Kien home—we won’t lose you both!”
All three destroyers took offense at his tone. Scythe started up the stairs.
Father dragged Mother inside and slammed the door.
“Thank you,” Jon called after them. To Kien, he groused, “I notice he doesn’t care if he loses me. So much for being the favorite son-in-law.”
“They do love you, dearest,” Beka soothed.
Kien gathered Scythe’s reins. “Off the stairs. You cannot eat Father.”
The destroyer curled his lips.
Unbound now, Ela hobbled, using the branch as Hex led her to the campfire.
Her hands
and feet were swollen. As was her face—puffy from being slung over that little horse like a bag of grain. She dropped onto the damp, rough grass, set aside the branch, and looked around. Nausea twisted her stomach.
This was the clearing. Not quite as she’d seen it yet—the shadows were too short, and the sun not low enough. She had time. But did she dare speak or move?
Both men watched her slightest twitch, mistrust etching their features. Desperate to warn them, she said, “Don’t be—”
Before she could say the words afraid of me, Hex gripped her hair and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Hush, or I’ll loosen yer teeth!”
Ela cringed and hushed. She’d almost instigated the scene she feared. Hex released her with a shove. To quell her nerves—and possibly reassure the men—Ela probed her foot’s bloodied inflamed wound. Ugly gash . . .
Claw thunked the evening meal at her feet. Dried meat, steaming water, and a preserved grain cake. She chewed the meat and half the cake while soaking her foot in the salty water. When her foot was clean, Ela worked the remaining cake and water to a rough paste and pressed the stuff into her wound. The disgusting gag had to serve as a bandage. Ela feared it would rot her foot. If she lived.
As she tied the final knot, images repeated within her mind. Queasy with horror, she concentrated on breathing. Shutting her eyes was useless, of course. How couldn’t she see visions unfolded within her thoughts?
Infinite, is this unavoidable?
Child of dust, can you change their evil hearts for them?
“Infinite . . .” Instinctively, she reached for the branch.
“No ya don’t!” Claw struck Ela’s wrist, breaking her hold on the branch. “No spells!”
“I’m not casting a—”
Hex shoved Ela away from the branch as Claw yelled, “Beat ’er senseless!”
“You mustn’t strike me!”
Hex flogged Ela, cursing, threatening with each vicious blow, “I’ll kill you!”
An immense serpent, a lindorm, slashed into the clearing. Hissing, fanged mouth gaping, scales gleaming in shades of grass and dirt, it whipped at the now-screaming Claw and sank its fangs into his neck. Ela heard a crack. The horses, tethered nearby, squealed their fear.
Hex released Ela and made a frantic dash for his sword, which rested beyond Claw. The huge viper lashed out and struck his shoulder. He howled the anguished cry of a doomed man.
Ela struggled for the branch, though she knew it was useless. By the time she’d grabbed the cold vinewood, Hex was convulsing. Claw lay unmoving, in a death stare. The monstrous reptile seemed exultant, engrossed in savaging its victims. Ela sobbed and looked away, shuddering, remembering the quenchless fire. The agony of separation from the Infinite’s care.
Within Ela’s line of sight, an unkempt warrior crept into the clearing, shield and axe readied, his gaze fixed on the feasting lindorm. He lifted the axe, warning Ela to silence. A pack of motley fighters followed him stealthily, axes also readied, each intent on the lindorm.
The lead warrior gauged his target and hurled the axe. Its blade sank deep into the base of the lindorm’s head. The huge land serpent thrashed wildly, each subsequent axe blow drawing a more feeble response until the venomous creature went limp in death—its gleaming scales fading to dull gray. The men whooped and cuffed each other in congratulations. Their leader’s exultation vanished as he checked Claw and Hex.
Useless, Ela knew. She knelt and shut her eyes. If their deaths—the torment of their souls—weren’t her fault, then why did she feel such an appalling burden of failure? How could she continue from the end of this vision to the beginning of the next? She didn’t have the strength. Resting her head on the branch, she cried beneath her breath, “Infinite, help me!”
“Akabe?” One of the men called.
Ela looked up. The man repeated his call, sounding much too cheerful for Ela’s taste. “Hey, Akabe!”
The leader motioned the man to wait. He approached Ela instead, his scruffy-bearded face and light brown eyes the image of regret. In a low, pleasantly lilting voice, he asked, “Were these your relatives?”
“No. I was their captive.”
He smiled, a dimple hinting beneath his beard. “Well, now you are free. What is your name? We must return you to your family.”
Truly a man of honor. If she weren’t soul-sick and thoroughly beaten, Ela might have smiled. “I’m the Infinite’s servant—Ela of Parne. And you can’t return me to my family. My work’s unfinished.”
The branch glowed. Spirals of light expanded, encompassing Ela, settling comfort over her like a mantle. For an instant, one breath, she rested in the light. The instant was enough. Strength poured through her. Ela stood and faced the scruffy warrior, who stared openmouthed.
Run!
What did it matter if these woods were full of vicious lindorms and vagabond warriors?
Let them try to stop her!
Sped by her Creator, she turned and ran.
29
Ela stood at the edge of the cliff on Siphra’s coast, admiring the ocean’s shimmering waves and the deep violet-blue of its far horizon. So much water! Siphra’s shorelines—like the Tracelands’—were so soothing. The Infinite knew she’d needed this brief respite, His calming gift of beauty. Dry, landlocked Parne boasted nothing this mesmerizing.
Remembering Parne buoyed a sunken ache to the surface of Ela’s thoughts. Would she see Parne again? Or her parents and her soon-to-be-born baby brother? Even Matron Prill’s sour face would be a joy now. “Infinite, will I survive Siphra? Will I see Parne again?”
Her Creator’s voice prompted gently. They are waiting.
“Yes.” They. Siphra’s faithful. But the Infinite hadn’t answered concerning Parne. Did He judge—rightly, of course—that she would be unable to endure the answer?
Unnerved, Ela followed the cliff’s knife-thin trail. She kept close to the weathered rock wall towering above to her right, while clutching the branch in her left hand—as if it could save her from falling into the cliff’s jagged rocks below.
A particularly convoluted twist in the narrow cliff trail made her look up. If she hadn’t seen this precipitous stone staircase in her wisp of a vision, she wouldn’t have known it existed. She tucked her tunic higher in her belt to prevent it from snagging on the rocks, then pressed her toes into the first foothold. “How many of Your servants have died trying to climb these steps?” Ela demanded.
Mirth infused His response. If I direct my servants to this place, won’t I guard their every step—as I guard yours now?
She’d deserved that little scolding. “I know You do. Forgive me.”
His mercy reassured Ela even as the words left her mouth. She took a deep breath, lifted the branch, set it into the next stone foothold above her, then crushed down her too-mortal imaginings of rockslides. Rogue winds. Fear. Any of these might send her tumbling off this cliff.
Amazing that her foot didn’t hurt. Was it healed? She hadn’t stopped to check during her journey. Her pace, of course, had been too swift and the wound was nothing compared to this mission. She nudged her bandaged foot into the next barely discernible niche. Then made the mistake of looking down. Rocks . . . the sheer drop . . . she could almost feel the impact of her body striking the stones. Sweating, she shut her eyes. Breathe. Look up. Know that the Infinite guarded each step. “Onward!”
The sun had shifted by the time she reached her goal: a widening in the path. There stood an opening in the cliff, obscured by wind-bent trees. She rested until the branch glowed, lustrous in the midday sun, reminding her of her duty.
Ela smoothed her borrowed gown and approached the opening of the hidden cave. “Priests of Siphra’s Infinite, you are summoned! Come out!”
One by one, twelve men stumbled from the cave, squinting in the daylight, their priestly robes ragged and gray, their hair and beards long and matted with knots, their faces hollowed by hunger and fear. The eldest, adorned with the gold chain and diadem of Siphra
’s deposed high priest, blinked at Ela. “You are the Parnian Prophet? The Infinite told us you would be sent, but He never . . .”
“Never warned you I’m a girl?” By their sidelong glances Ela knew her guess was correct. Failing to hide her amusement, she said, “Hmm. Well, I’m proof that the Infinite looks at the heart, not outward appearances. Do you have the vial of oil?”
The eldest crooked an arthritic finger toward one of his gaunt subordinates. Shakily, the man untied a packet from his belt, unrolled it, and offered a small gold-embossed case to Ela. She breathed a wordless, fearful prayer, set aside the branch, and secured the case to her tunic’s decorative belt. Its modest weight made her shiver. Such a sacred, dangerous burden.
The high priest exhaled, relief easing the fretful lines on his old face. He lifted his hands above Ela’s head and murmured, “Infinite, bless Your servant. May You be glorified as she fulfills Your commands!” He looked Ela in the eyes. “Our Creator said you would advise us. What is His plan?”
“Leave this place,” she told the priests. “The first citizens you greet will provide you with food. When you’ve rested, travel north until you find the rebels. Ask for their leader, Akabe. He will protect you all.”
One of the minor priests groaned and protested, “But before we reach his camp, we’ll surely be sighted and killed by the queen’s men!”
“The queen and her adherents will be too busy protecting themselves from the Infinite to hunt you. They’ll be after me instead. Don’t be afraid. Hasn’t the Infinite saved you, His faithful priests?”
The high priest nodded. But his hunger-carved face turned wistful. “She killed all our true prophets.”
A jab of fear made Ela pause. Would the queen add Ela’s name to her list of slaughtered prophets? As usual, the Infinite was silent concerning Ela’s death. Regarding Siphran prophets, however . . . Ela reassured the unhappy high priest, “Our Creator has appointed new prophets to stir Siphra toward Him. Meanwhile, obey the Infinite and leave this place.”
