by R. J. Larson
Kien nodded.
Say it.
Obliterate Kien Lantec of the Tracelands.
The magistrate hesitated.
Clenching his hands on the table for support, Kien stood. “Sir, I await your verdict.”
At last, the magistrate’s voice boomed throughout the circular chamber. “Kien Lantec, all charges, save one, are dismissed. Regrettably, by your own admission, the question of loyalty is substantiated. No Tracelander can hold a position of power in another country, with the potential to create laws in that country and yet remain a Tracelander. Before I pronounce your sentence, which will become effective immediately, do you have anything to say?”
This was really happening. Throat tightening, Kien nodded and leaned on the table. Infinite! He needed to be composed now. No grieving and weeping like a child.
The silence lengthened as he summoned enough self-possession to speak.
Cherne finally yelled, “Lantec, if you’ve nothing to say—!”
Gouged by the taunt from his father’s foe—from the man who’d undoubtedly forced this entire legal proceeding into the Tracelands’ Grand Assembly to avenge some small political slight—Kien scowled at Cherne and his supporters. “Whatever you might think, sirs, this entire proceeding upholds my father’s reputation, because you had to attack me to wound him! The Lantecs are not bought! Ever!”
Sneering, Cherne started to his feet. Kien pounded the table, leaning forward, yelling, “Sit down, sir! You’ve had your say, and you’ve achieved your goal! Be a magnanimous victor—if you can! I am speaking now!”
Cherne’s face reddened. He sat. Perfect silence reigned in the Grand Assembly.
Willing his frantic heart rate to ease, Kien drew in a pained breath and continued. “Unlike most speeches given in this chamber, I’ll make mine brief. Because you could find no charge to bring against my father, you’ve attacked me. And you succeeded in bringing me down for my so-called crimes.” Would his heartbeat slow itself? He hoped so. He was trembling.
“To summarize . . . as a private citizen, I rescued the woman I love from a well in Parne. Yes, after the siege. Also, I saved a friend—who happens to be a king—from an assassin, and I was too well-honored by that friend despite my repeated attempts to reject his tribute. Most vital of all, I listened to my conscience and forced myself to be honest in evaluating my Creator’s existence.” Kien paused, deliberate. “The Infinite lives! I’ve witnessed His power. I’ve seen the words of His prophet fulfilled in the overthrows of kings, kingdoms, and His own beloved Parne. I will praise Him to my death! Those who sneer have not sincerely evaluated themselves or Him. Therefore, they mock in ignorance.”
Remarkably, Cherne and his cohorts remained quiet. Staring. “As for your contempt toward the king of Siphra, sirs . . . ” Kien straightened. “You are not in his place! You will never understand what Akabe of Siphra must endure. He is an honorable man, yet you scorn him, not knowing what he’s facing for the sake of his people.”
Cherne twitched, and one of the men beside him smirked. “So you say, my lord.”
The magistrate hammered on the sound box. “Silence, or I’ll have you thrown out!”
Kien eyed the man who’d smirked. “You called me ‘my lord’ as an insult. But you and your cronies are the ones who’ve made that word my reality! I did not ask for a Siphran title or wealth and lands for saving my friend’s life. I rejected the title—as I rejected Istgard’s crown last year! My father and mother raised me to love my country and to serve the Tracelands, and so I have. To serve has been my life! I’ve never sought power for myself.” He wouldn’t mention Father. Rade Lantec’s ambition was too well known.
“But you, sirs, by trying to wreak havoc on my father to repay him for your political quarrels, have forced me to become a Siphran lord!” The thought choked him. Fighting the invisible cord burning and tightening around his throat, he rasped, “In conclusion . . . I have loved the Tracelands. I’ve been imprisoned and risked my life for the Tracelands. Now the Tracelands is about to repay me, thanks to you!”
Tears slid down his face now and dripped onto the table. Oh, perfect. Fine. He wouldn’t wipe them away. He turned to the magistrate and stood at attention. “Sir, I am finished.”
The man rubbed his face and coughed. Finally, he said, “Kien Lantec. For your guilt in the question of loyalty, you are stripped of all rights and status as a Tracelander. You will resign all offices and leave our country within five days. Dismissed.” He hammered the sound box one last time, then stood and departed from the circular chamber.
Our country. Kien pondered the words from an emotional distance. Our country, no longer Kien Lantec’s country. Numbed, he looked around. Father was slouched deep in his chair, hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. As everyone watched, Kien crossed the marble floor, climbed the steps, and leaned down, hugging Rade tight. Knowing that hope was probably wasted, he said, “We’ll find some way to overcome this sentence!”
Rade gripped Kien, trembling. After gasping for air, he choked out, “Yes! Cherne will have a fight such as he’s never seen!”
“Choose your battles carefully,” Kien warned. “You must restore our good names first.” That battle would take years. Beginning now.
Determined to fulfill his sentence publicly, Kien released Father and went to stand in front of General Rol. The general stood slowly, his thin face working in a clear battle against his emotions. “My boy . . .” he began.
“Sir,” Kien interrupted quietly, “forgive me.” He unbuckled his sword-belt, lifted the military baldric from his shoulder, then folded the black leather against his cherished, nearly invulnerable Azurnite sword—the hilt gleaming in its scabbard, the glistening blue blade hidden like a treasured gem.
He’d loved carrying this sword. Best to never think of it again.
At attention now, he held the sword across both palms and offered it to General Rol. And waited. Rol finally accepted the sword, moisture edging his eyelids. After giving his military mentor an encouraging nod, Kien removed his own mantle with its Tracelandic military insignias and folded it with all the ceremony he could muster. Finished, he placed the gold-embellished fabric over the sword in Rol’s hands, then stepped back.
As he suspected, everyone in the marble chamber was watching, their expressions and postures frozen in something resembling shock. Even Cherne looked startled, as if he hadn’t reckoned on the sentence becoming an immediate reality he’d have to witness.
In the style of a nobleman, Kien bowed to them all and stalked from the Tracelands’ Grand Assembly.
A Siphran.
A night of prayer and a morning of meetings hadn’t settled Akabe’s thoughts concerning the marriage. Now he walked through the sunlit palace garden with his chief advisor, Faine, who sighed before confessing, “Majesty, last night we sent Thaenfall another offer—to add half again as much gold if he will release you from the marriage but sell Siphra the temple property.”
Relieved, Akabe halted, his riding boots grinding on the paving stones as he turned to his advisor. “And?”
Faine tugged a parchment from his money purse. No, not a parchment, but scraps. “Thaenfall tore it up. Have our prophets imparted any wisdom?”
“No.” And the Infinite remained silent. “It seems I’m to decide this for myself.”
“Majesty,” Faine murmured, sounding almost desperate, “do not marry this girl—this Atean! This whole marriage scheme must be a conspiracy, and not the Infinite’s will for you! Surely we can find another way to reclaim those lands!”
“Rest your fears, my lord. I have considered the risks. Even now, I am considering them. Legally, we’ve no other choice. The lawyers have . . .” A flash of movement crossed the tree-edged path ahead, drawing Akabe’s gaze. A slender, elegant gray dog with a silver collar frisked toward a distant stone balustrade fronting the ocean beyond. A young noblewoman with long light brown hair trailed after the dog, seeming absentminded, hugging a dark mantle about he
rself as she moved. Her halfhearted responses to the lively dog suggested melancholy, prompting Akabe’s curiosity, even as her flowing walk drew his admiration.
Beside him, Faine sniffed. “There’s the lady—Caitria Thaenfall.”
Admiration vanished, doused by the Thaenfall name. Yet his curiosity lingered. Akabe made up his mind. “I’ll speak with her.”
“Sir!”
Akabe waved off Faine’s protest and marched through the garden in pursuit of Thaenfall’s daughter.
6
As Akabe deduced, the insistent hiss and rush of the ocean’s waves covered his approach to the ornate balustrade. Caitria Thaenfall didn’t notice him until he stepped up beside her at the railing. She jumped, and her brown eyes widened with alarm, but she didn’t shriek or run. Praiseworthy composure. Extraordinary eyes. Tall for a woman and gracefully beautiful, she’d clearly dressed for a brisk walk in plain robes and short, scuffed boots. Yet her elegant face conveyed refinement—truly a highborn young lady.
Trying to not frighten her further, Akabe smiled. “Forgive me, lady, but I wished to introduce myself as the cause of your current misery. I am Akabe Garric.”
She blinked, then offered a polished obeisance. Her voice light and pleasing, she said, “Majesty. I . . . am sorry. I’ll leave.”
“You haven’t interrupted me, if that’s your fear. Rather, I’ve interrupted you.”
“Not at all, sir.” She nodded toward the dog that sniffed about. “Issa needed a walk, and Naynee is napping.”
“Naynee?”
“My attendant. She’s recovering from our journey.”
“Kind of you to allow her a nap.” The compliment escaped him, but he didn’t regret it. Some of the young woman’s melancholy faded, and she shrugged. If she weren’t an Atean, and if their circumstances weren’t so awkward, he’d find her very attractive. Ha. Enough self-deception; he found her appealing despite their circumstances. Not good for clear-eyed bargaining. Best to keep their conversation short. “Tell me, lady, what’s your opinion of this agreement your lord-father has . . . offered?”
Caitria seemed surprised he would ask her opinion. Evidently taking courage, she looked around and then said, “You should not marry me.”
Gently, Akabe asked, “Do I have a choice?” As she stared, Akabe explained, “My council has recommended that I marry for the sake of Siphra. Furthermore, rebuilding the Infinite’s Holy House for Siphra is one of my primary goals as king, but legally, your lord-father holds the temple’s sacred land. Our marriage would resolve both matters—yet I need to weigh the risks. I hoped you could help me to decide.”
“I’ve given you my opinion, sir. Trust me. My . . . family . . . is wrong. They’re overestimating their power and not seeing the situation clearly. This plan would bring disaster upon us all. Please, build on other land!”
“There is no other land for the Infinite’s temple. The property was consecrated at Siphra’s beginning.” The fact that she’d asked him to build on other land proved beyond doubt that she didn’t comprehend the Infinite’s faithful ones in the least. Yet was she Atean? She seemed so vulnerable, wary as startled prey. “Perhaps, as you say, your family is wrong. But my true question ought to be, are you the wrong lady?”
“I am. Wrong for you . . . and Siphra, I mean.” But she blushed, and the effect was so entrancing that Akabe caught his breath. “Sir,” she persisted, “believe me! You mustn’t—”
A young man’s sharp voice called out, “Caitria!”
She turned, the glorious color fading from her cheeks. “Cyril?”
Tall and slim, with the same brown hair and eyes as Caitria, Cyril stalked toward them. Unmistakably one of her older brothers. But without her fascination.
Caitria stepped away from Akabe. “Cyril, you needn’t worry. I—”
He cut off her explanation with a chopping wave of his hand. “Need I not?” The young man scoffed. His brown eyes cold, he grabbed his sister’s arm and yanked her to his side. Caitria glared as if she’d like to stomp her brother’s toes. But she remained quiet. He spoke to Akabe. “By your leave, sir, she went missing from her chamber without permission. My lord-father is worried.”
Caitria’s eyebrows lifted as if surprised. Then she puckered her lips in the most mesmerizing grimace Akabe had ever seen. “I couldn’t allow Issa to wet the floor, now, could I?”
Cyril made a rude noise. “You should have shaken Naynee awake and sent her! Now, move. You’ve been away too long.”
Keeping his voice low to soothe the young man, Akabe said, “My fault entirely. I greeted your sister and delayed her.” He inclined his head to Cyril in farewell. “Sir.”
“Sir.” The young man insolently copied Akabe’s formal nod, then all but dragged his sister away through the garden, with the elegant dog, Issa, following quietly. Cyril Thaenfall’s sharp voice echoed back to Akabe in harsh, chopped syllables—obviously rebuking his sister.
Listening, Akabe tensed, reining in his defensive instincts. The young woman was clearly as trapped by this situation as he was. Yet she’d revealed spirit.
He could see her as a queen. But his queen?
How could he trust an Atean? Was she Atean?
Faine approached, seeming irked. “Shall I offer double the gold to halt the marriage?”
“Do we have double the gold to spare?”
“Not without Siphra taking on a sizable debt, sir.”
“I doubt Thaenfall would accept it anyway.” What was the man’s motive? Power? Regardless, Akabe must outwit Thaenfall on his own battlefield. “My lord, I’m forced to accept this contract as is. Siphra must have that land.”
Faine looked as if Akabe had punched him in the stomach. Recovering, he gasped, “Majesty, you cannot marry a Thaenfall—they’re Ateans!”
“Then suggest another option for acquiring that land. Anything, my lord, and I’ll consider it!”
Faine hesitated, silent.
“That’s what I thought.” Akabe exhaled. Wasn’t this somehow the Infinite’s will? It must be so—otherwise another option would surely present itself. Anyway, by all that was holy and dedicated to the Infinite, it was a disgrace that Ateans controlled what belonged to the Infinite. The situation must be settled.
By Siphra’s king.
Caitria stumbled and winced as Cyril wrenched her toward the marble steps. “Tria, what did you say to him?”
“The truth—that I don’t want this marriage.” Her brother’s fingers dug hard into her arm, making her gasp. “Cyril, let go! You’re hurting me!”
“You are hurting us! Furies burn your tongue! What were you thinking? You know what this agreement means to our lord-father—to our entire family!”
Family! Caitria stifled her disgust. What family? When, since Mother’s death, had they ever concerned themselves with her? Naynee was now her parent, playmate, nurse, and friend. Of all her relatives, Cyril was one of the few who ever spoke to her. Cyril and her horrible “cousin,” Lord Ruestock. Ugh! “The agreement was finished and perfect until dear Ruestock came creeping in, suggesting new terms to our lord-father!”
“You need to appreciate those terms—they’ve supplied you with a dowry and a future!”
“Oh!” She twisted her arm from Cyril’s grasp as they entered the marble corridor leading from the garden. Behind her, Issa’s toenails clicked and scrambled over the slick floor in skittish confusion as Caitria halted and glared at her brother. “Let’s discuss how much I appreciate being ignored and sold to rebuild that temple despite my fears for the Thaenfalls, and for me! Let’s discuss everything that could go wrong for us all!”
“There’s nothing to discuss!” Cyril snagged her arm and rushed her through the corridor, muttering, “Lower your voice. In fact, just keep your mouth shut!”
She wanted to kick him and throw rocks at him—in her thoughts at least. Couldn’t he ever speak to her nicely? She was his sister, not a mere interference to his drinking and gambling and rioting about Siphra.
Truly, the king had spoken to her with more kindness in a few sentences than had her whole family for years. The king . . . !
Oh, but why did that big, attractive man with those lovely warm eyes and perfect dimples have to be the king? Why couldn’t he be some highborn nobleman whom her lord-father praised instead of cursed? If so, she would have approached this marriage joyously.
Instead, she’d become a pawn in some secretive power-game connived by that wretched Ruestock and her lord-father, who . . . who was waiting at the very entry of her chamber.
Seeing her father’s jaw tense and his fingers curl into fists, Caitria faltered and reached blindly for Issa, who nudged at her, signaling fear. The poor darling’s instincts were undoubtedly correct. They’d earned thrashings for their little jaunt this morning.
But it might be worth some pain if the king heeded her plea. In silence, she begged Akabe of Siphra, Please, build on other land! Don’t drag me into your schemes—your religion!
Don’t bring this disaster upon us! Please . . .
Caitria gasped as her lord-father shoved her inside the chamber and then swore softly and dug his fingers hard into the back of her neck. “Wretched, rebellious creature! If you have ruined my plans, I will throttle you!”
Pain-dazed, unable to speak, Caitria stared up at her father, her senses fading beneath his agonizing grip.
7
Akabe stared at Parne’s chief priest, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “You refuse my request?”
Though Ishvah Nesac paled, he shook his head. “Majesty, she’s an Atean! You, as one of the Infinite’s faithful, cannot—must not!—marry an Atean!”
“Do you not wish to see the Infinite’s Holy House rebuilt?”
“It is my dream, Majesty. Yet if this dream cannot be, I will mourn its loss, as I mourn Parne—until I draw my last breath in this fallen world.” Nesac lifted his thin, scholarly hands, an imploring gesture. “Majesty, consider—I beg you!—an Atean wife could very well lead your heart away from the Infinite.”
