Prophet (Books of the Infinite Book #1)

by R. J. Larson

  Ela braced herself, lifting her chin. “I imply nothing. I’m telling everyone openly that you and your fellow soothsayers have abandoned the truth and worship deceivers—servants of the Adversary. Therefore, the Infinite plans to remove you all from power.”

  As she expected, the false prophet struck her hard enough to send her reeling. The impact stung her cheek and mouth, but she smiled. “Have you left a mark?”

  Before the pretender answered, Raenna lifted a staying hand. She grimaced, fragile lines framing her mouth, weblike creases etching the corners of her eyes. “You claim to know your Infinite’s plans. But what are my plans, little prophet of Parne?”

  “You consider me to be a living talisman, which is untrue. And you intend to render me useless by persuasion or death, because you are planning to order an invasion of the Tracelands.”

  Ela’s announcement of this hitherto undisclosed information sent hisses and gasps of apprehension throughout the court.

  Raenna laughed—for effect, Ela knew. Her gilded lips stiff with a fraud’s smile, she raised her voice. “I am planning? Oh, Prophet, you are so wrong! My beloved king, my own husband, declares Siphra’s plans. And he’s said nothing of an invasion.” She bowed her head toward the king.

  “True . . . true . . .” Segere bestowed a doting look upon his wife—which she returned with marked fondness.

  Ela continued. “You also fear the Infinite will remove you from your soul’s throne. You hate Him because He requires obedience—though it’s for your own sake—like a perfect and loving Father. He cannot be controlled as you control your little gods and your husband.”

  The queen’s eyes widened. She sucked in a breath and laughed again. Heartily. As the courtiers tittered, Raenna muttered to Ela. “You’ve signed your death warrant.”

  “You’ve already sealed it.” Ela forced off the fear prickling over her skin. No doubt Raenna’s planned execution involved lingering agony and humiliation, personally witnessed by her royal self. Ela met the woman’s conceited, paint-veiled gaze. “It may be that you’ll kill me. But the Infinite will repay you. By the way, He intends to measure your devotion to your gods.”

  The Siphran queen’s smugness hardened. “My devotion to my gods is immeasurable.”

  “Not if the Infinite does the measuring. Do you love your gods beyond your life?”

  “With all my being.” Raenna’s voice rang through the chamber, rebellious. And genuinely fervent. “My soul is devoted to my gods—I will never give them up.”

  Ela winced. Any torment she experienced at the queen’s command, Raenna would suffer eternally, a thousandfold, because of her devotion to immortal deceivers. “You’ve chosen. But even now, the Infinite will have mercy on you, if you repent.”

  “Patronizing child! I’ve nothing to repent. You may keep your arrogant, self-righteous, egotistical Infinite!”

  Each hate-filled word of insult stabbed Ela’s heart. “How has the Infinite deserved such abuse? He has loved you. He’s given you everything to be desired in this life, but you ignore those blessings. You grieve Him continually! You create your own troubles, then blame Him. You long to be Him!”

  The queen’s tawny eyes gleamed. “He deserves to be replaced.”

  “You—and anyone but the Infinite—would destroy all Creation within two breaths of becoming god. But that’s unimportant now. The Infinite has judged your corruption and chosen your successors.”

  “Our successors?” She looked Ela up and down, plainly incredulous. Her gaze fixed at Ela’s waist. Upon the golden case holding the sacred vial of anointing oil, traditionally carried only by Siphra’s high priest. The queen sucked in a sharp breath. “How did you acquire that?”

  “Through the Infinite’s will.” Ela waited, suppressing a shiver. Praying for strength.

  Sweat gleamed on the royal face, oozing between the gilding and paint. “Kill her!”

  The vision ended.

  Ela closed her eyes.

  31

  Leave this place now.

  The Infinite’s words rested, tranquil within Ela’s thoughts. She opened her eyes and saw her guard’s startled expression—his paralyzing fear.

  Numbed, Ela turned away from the outraged queen and left the chamber. The branch glowed softly, lighting her way. Was she supposed to survive? Why? “Infinite, I was ready.”

  A current seemed to propel her from the palace. No one stopped her as she marched past the exquisite gem-traced white columns. It was as if she couldn’t be touched. Or seen. Incredible.

  “Why are You saving me? Was that a test?”

  Your work is not finished.

  Despite His words—or because of them—Ela wobbled. As if recovering from a terrible shock. She reached the palace’s small side gate, found it open, and stepped through.

  Close the gate.

  She obeyed. The lock clicked loudly, seeming to promise her enemies were barred inside until she escaped. Ela stared at the solid-looking lock, dazed. This was like waking up from a dream. Disorienting. Ela gave herself a stern inward shake and hurried from the gate.

  Sunlight bathed the huge whitewashed public square, dazzling her. Amid this splendor, numerous brightly clad citizens of Munra promenaded or visited each other, laughing and talking, some eyeing her, but most oblivious to her presence. Siphra’s newly appointed prophets emerged from the crowds, approaching her from all directions, their expressions eager, anticipating adventure. Obviously, they’d been watching for her, certain she would return.

  “Infinite? They knew I would live, and I didn’t?” She was going to laugh. Or scream. Ela scolded herself in a fierce whisper. “Be still!” Hysteria was not prophet-like, and no doubt she was still in danger, as were His Siphran prophets. “Infinite? What now?”

  A vision unfurled with such force that Ela had to halt and clutch the branch to prevent herself from falling. The vision encompassed Ela. Absorbed her into itself, then released her within a breath, leaving her gasping.

  Ela steadied herself, opened her eyes, and addressed Siphra’s new prophets. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  On a broad sea cliff adjacent to the palace, they prayed and prepared for Siphra’s sacrifice to the Infinite—the first in almost twenty years.

  “This is a death offense,” one of the soon-to-be prophets warned Ela, his roughened hand already on his sword as if anticipating an attack. “No one is permitted to acknowledge the Infinite. The king and queen executed our priests for leading worship.”

  “I, for one, am willing to die,” Ela said. “That’s why I was sent here. However, your high priest and a handful of other priests remain.”

  The Siphran’s eyes brightened, and his weathered face creased in a grin. “They’re alive? Alive! How can this be? We thought they were all dead—we’ve been mourning for years!”

  Ela laughed, though a shiver ran up her arms. Too often, priests and prophets were rivals. Hadn’t Eshtmoh been forced out of Parne after his war on faithless believers? She too had been politely encouraged to leave Parne. “Yes, your priests are alive, though frail. The Infinite has protected them through their ordeals.”

  “But they aren’t here to lead the sacrifice. Will you . . . ?”

  Was he asking her to officiate over the sacrifice? Ela shook her head.

  Several others, who had been listening, now nodded. The wild man, the first Siphran to follow her up into Munra, said, “You must.”

  You will lead.

  “Infinite?” Ela knelt and covered her face with her mantle. How could she, the youngest person on this cliff, lead the sacrifice? “I’m no priest!” Ela pleaded with the Infinite in a frantic whisper. “How can I be worthy to officiate?”

  The branch gleamed in her hands and the Infinite’s presence seemed to encircle her.

  Your Creator has made you worthy because you have been found faithful.

  Determined to obey Him, Ela shifted her prayers from fears of her own inadequacies to pleas for these men and their safety, thei
r futures as His prophets. At last, she stood and looked around.

  Nearby, on the palace’s magnificent terrace, courtiers leaned against the ornate balustrades and watched. Some were entering and leaving the palace repeatedly. Most likely bearing messages to the queen and the doubtless bored king.

  Segere would not be so bored if he could stir himself to hear the truth.

  In the late afternoon, as the Siphran prophets placed the offerings of a lamb and a calf on the wood, Ela approached the edge of the cliff. Facing the palace, she called to the courtiers and all Siphrans within earshot. “I am Parne’s prophet of the Infinite, with Siphra’s faithful ones—ready for today’s sacrifices. Come worship the one true God, the Infinite!”

  More courtiers assembled on the royal terrace. On the open hillsides around the palace and the cliff, citizens of Munra watched, prompted by curiosity.

  Queen Raenna and her prophet-pretenders now paraded onto the royal terrace, most seeming indifferent. The queen, however, looked as if she longed to personally kill Ela.

  To goad them, Ela shouted, “Listen, you proud, foolish people! How long will you believe the lies of deceivers? The Infinite is your Creator! He is the reason for your existence, yet you’ve rejected Him to follow your own desires. Now He will drive out your false gods, your false leaders, and your delusions!”

  On the hillsides below, Munra’s citizens listened, buzzing over the slopes like a hive anticipating conflict. Several from the crowds approached Ela. One older than the rest said, “We’ve prayed for this day!”

  “Your Creator hears,” Ela murmured. Her dread increased.

  The false prophet who had struck Ela cried out from the royal terrace in ringing tones, “Our ruler of light, Atea, condemns you! May you rot in darkness! May the gods Seibo, Nemane, and Dagar forever torment you in the Nightlands!”

  “Who are these little gods?” Ela demanded. “The Infinite has never seen them in His Presence!” To herself, she whispered, “Infinite, open their eyes!”

  The queen leaned forward on the balustrade, her hands clenched in fists. “Parnian! If you offer this sacrifice, you will not survive past sunset!”

  “Come stop me!” Ela taunted. “Come face the Infinite!”

  The queen and her prophets stepped back from the balustrade, visibly squabbling, though they’d lowered their voices.

  Ela studied the waning sun. At this hour in Parne, the priests always offered sacrifices to the Infinite. She approached the stone altar and its unlit pyre. Lifting the branch, she prayed loudly, “Infinite, show that You are the One True God, and that I am Your servant—and that we, your faithful ones, have prepared this sacrifice at Your command. Answer us, Infinite, so these people will know that You alone are their God, calling their hearts to Yours!”

  Like a massive lightning strike, fire fell from the clear blue sky and shook the cliff. Screams echoed from every direction as the Infinite’s sacrifice flared and vanished beneath the heaven-sent flames. The sacrificial wood, the stones of the temporary altar, and the dust around it crumbled, consumed by the roaring fire.

  Everyone on the terrace fell to their knees, including the outraged King Segere and Queen Raenna. The citizens of Munra collapsed along the slopes below. Unlike the king and queen, they screamed, “The Infinite is God! He is God!”

  When the flames vanished, Ela turned toward the palace. On the royal terrace, attended by her advisors and the silent king, Raenna pulled herself to her feet. “Ela of Parne, may my gods kill me if I do not kill you!”

  Ela stood and lifted the branch. “You will die. The Infinite now gives you to your deceivers—the ‘gods’ you’ve chosen over Him.”

  Before Ela finished speaking, darkness lifted like smoke from all the windows and doors of the palace, fused together in a writhing column, then twisted downward to envelop the queen.

  King Segere shrieked and ran to the far side of the balcony. Raenna’s advisors scattered as she screeched and lifted her hands in a futile attempt to ward off the “gods” she believed she loved. The dark seething cloud merged with Siphra’s queen. She tore at her elaborately coiled, gilded hair—and knocked her crown to the balcony’s pavings. Ela heard the metal ring as it settled against the stones. Queen Raenna fled, raving hoarse curses.

  Segere rushed to the edge of the balcony and pointed at Ela while calling to his servants, “K-kill her! C-cut her limb from limb!”

  Limb from limb? No! “Infinite!” Spurred by terror, Ela skittered downhill, into the valley below.

  Kien watched Akabe conduct a meeting, issuing orders, boasting of the lindorm’s death—and of Ela’s amazing transformation and disappearance—before sending his band of ragtag messengers to his deliberately scattered cohorts. While his methods of leadership were far less structured than Tsir Aun’s had been in Istgard, Akabe was obviously confident of his followers’ loyalty. And why shouldn’t he be? Kien had never seen any leader so cheerful, so willing to share hardships with his followers. He was also used to giving orders and being obeyed. Was Akabe a rebel nobleman? Kien was convinced of it, listening to Akabe speak.

  “Tell the others to cheer up. We are convinced that the Infinite—bless His Most Holy Name—is moving to free Siphra of its tyrants! I am waiting with you, praying you may return to your families.” He clapped a hand on a lanky young messenger’s shoulder, and added, “Each of you, take a piece of the lindorm’s skin and tell the others about our latest kill and our news.”

  The messengers each accepted a square of pale gray skin and reverently rolled it in protective leather before tucking away the tokens. The youngest messenger grinned, his teeth surprisingly white against his patchy beard. “A lindorm kill means good luck!”

  “A blessing,” Akabe corrected. “A sign of blessing from the Infinite. Tell the others so.”

  The messengers dashed into the woods, not one of them questioning Akabe’s authority. Satisfaction played across the young man’s affable features. He landed a fist on Kien’s shoulder. “We need more meat. Will your destroyer cooperate with a hunt?”

  “Leading the chase, you mean?” Kien shrugged. “As long as he’s fed.”

  Akabe pulled a whetstone from his gear and began to sharpen his sword with quick ringing swipes. “We’ve heard of new metalwork from the Tracelands. Your most elite citizens carry invincible swords with blades patterned like the ocean’s bluest waves. Tell me about these.”

  Kien grinned. “No.”

  “Huh. I’ll wear you down, Tracelander. You know I will.”

  Tzana tottered up, with Scythe grazing his way after her. The little girl leaned against Kien’s arm. “We’re bored. What are we doing today?”

  “The same as yesterday. Gather food for everyone and watch for the enemy.” Kien tucked the child playfully beneath his arm, jostling her lightly, making her giggle and squeal. Distressing Scythe. From the corner of his eye, Kien watched the huge beast pace in agitation, obviously longing to protect Tzana, but reluctant to injure Kien.

  Jon and Beka rode up, their destroyers huffing. As he helped Beka to dismount, Jon called over his shoulder, “We’ve company approaching. It seems they’re carrying a body.”

  A body? Kien’s throat constricted with a sudden strangling fear. “Ela . . .”

  32

  Stones gouged Ela’s feet, bruising her wound as she scrambled downward into the valley. Her breath stabbed with every gasp. This morning she’d been prepared to die if she must to fulfill the Infinite’s will. But being hacked apart limb by limb? Well, certain circumstances demanded resistance.

  Half the population of Munra seemed to be milling through this small, open valley, laughing and calling to each other as if celebrating a victory. The other half of Munra clogged all the pathways from the city. Men. Women. Beautiful wide-eyed children. All in simple tunics of crimson, blue, green . . . Ela halted amid the throng. What was she doing?

  If she stayed here, the king’s guards might butcher innocent Siphrans.

  A man to Ela�
�s right called, “Here’s the prophet! She’s rescued us from the tyrants.”

  Someone—a white-robed old woman—clasped Ela in an embrace and wept. Ela tried to extricate herself. “Please, let me go! The king’s guards might kill you trying to get to me.”

  “So be it!” the old woman yelled. “I’m sick to death of those fiends and their lies. They killed my husband and son for refusing to sacrifice to the goddess Atea. I want revenge!”

  “It won’t be revenge if you don’t live to see it,” Ela warned. She stared the woman in the face. “I don’t want you to die with me.”

  The aged woman’s eyes brightened with mischievous inspiration. “Why should either of us die?” She screamed louder, hurting Ela’s ears, “Save the prophet! Citizens of Munra, use your weapons. Protect our prophet and His servants!”

  Her cry was repeated by others until it became an uproar. A short distance away, Ela saw one of the Infinite’s new Siphran prophets leap onto a rock and raise his sword in triumph. As Ela shuddered at the sight, he bellowed, “Now is the time to resist! Show your weapons! Defeat the tyrants who’ve held us in fear. For the Infinite!”

  The king’s guards were descending from the palace, swords and shields readied. Until they saw the countless numbers of swords and daggers lifted overhead by the mob. Several retreated and ran for the palace again.

  The remaining soldiers turned, joined the mob, and added a battle cry of their own. As if they’d been planning for this day. “Take the palace!”

  Ela clutched the branch, stunned, watching a revolution unfold. “Oh, Infinite . . .”

  The old woman laughed and hugged her again—frolicsome as a child. “We’ve waited for you!”

  Kien joined Akabe and lifted a barrel of flour from a tradesman’s cart. Jubilant, Akabe said, “Yesterday olive oil and dried fruit. Today flour. What gift will tomorrow bring?”

  “Let’s hope such generosity continues,” Kien agreed.