King

by R. J. Larson

  Recognizing his would-be assailant—Akabe’s fightmaster—Kien tightened his grip on his sword. “Lorteus!”

  The royal fightmaster gloated and tapped Kien’s decorated Azurnite blade with his own plain sword. His voice low and gritty as ever, he laughed. “Good reaction! And what a pretty toy. Come, Lord Aeyrievale! You are summoned, and I intend to accompany you.”

  “Why?”

  “Danger, m’lord. I’m like your destroyer, smelling trouble before it happens. The beast’s waiting in the courtyard, you know, and your little prophet now stands in the council chamber. If there’s to be a battle, I’m in!”

  “Ela!” With Scythe waiting? What was wrong? Kien scooped up the astonished page boy, holding him in his left arm, still clenching the Azurnite sword in his right fist. Plagues, but this wing of the palace was a labyrinth! “Young sir, which way to the council chamber from here?”

  Clearly speechless, the child pointed and Kien ran, with Lorteus at his heels.

  Not bothering to sit in his chair at the head of the table, Akabe faced Ela, who stood before him like a delicate guard. In her hands the slender prophet’s branch glimmered, its mysterious light reflecting in her eyes—a silvery gleam, so alive that Akabe shivered inwardly. “Prophet, what was your vision?”

  “The temple site will be—”

  Clattering echoed at the chamber’s tall carved door. A servant dashed inside as if chased, and Lord Aeyrievale entered the chamber, sword readied, with Barth under his arm. As the servant departed, hastily closing the door, Kien offered the barest of bows and set the little boy on his feet, then sheathed the Azurnite sword. “Majesty. Prophet, what’s wrong?”

  “The temple site is about to be attacked.” Ela stepped toward Kien, but looked up at Akabe, tensed, her words abrupt. “Majesty, I’ve warned my father, but there isn’t time to warn away all the workers and send them to safety as they arrive—you must bring more soldiers to the site at once. Your enemies plan to use arrows and bolt throwers to besiege the temple.”

  Akabe motioned to Trillcliff and Piton. “Call out my garrisons and order men stationed at every street corner. Send for my horses, and have my guards bring weaponry and battle gear, then command that the palace gates be locked and guarded the instant we leave—and I want my council alert against trouble!” Trillcliff and Piton hurried from the chamber, their mantles billowing with their haste. Akabe studied Ela’s somber face. “What are your plans, Prophet?”

  She hesitated and shook her head, clearly baffled. “The Infinite commands me to stay away. I’ll wait with my mother. Majesty, this conflict is yours.”

  Kien stared at her. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. Why did the Infinite command you to stay away?”

  “I asked. He waits . . . silent. I’m praying for you, Majesty, and”—Ela touched Kien’s arm in a clear, silent plea for his safety—“I’m praying for the men who accompany you.”

  Akabe paused. Why did her words and manner disturb his spirit so? But he had no time to fret over inert details now. As she’d said, this conflict was his. All his warrior instincts keen for a fight, he nodded to Kien. “Let’s go.”

  Barth piped up now, his lisp young and eager. “Me too, Majesty?”

  A pity to disappoint such an enthusiastic future soldier. Kien opened the door—revealing Fightmaster Lorteus pacing outside. Akabe nudged his page through. “No, Barth. You’ll remain here. Go find Master Croleut for lessons.”

  His page frowned and kicked at the floor. “Aw!”

  Clad in armor, Akabe guided his warhorse along Munra’s main thoroughfare as heralds rode ahead, trump-calls blaring around them. His guards bellowed, “All citizens to the safety of your homes! By official orders, clear the streets!”

  As Akabe had commanded, archers now manned the rooftops of the main thoroughfare’s public buildings, while soldiers from the royal garrison waited at each street corner. Silent and grim, the men’s crimson military cloaks, polished plate armor, and gleaming weapons warned enemies that Siphra’s Holy House would be protected.

  Infinite, I beg you, let this be enough. Protect us this morning. . . .

  They rode toward the temple, horses huffing, armor and swords clattering. Kien led the way on his giant black monster-horse, which was haphazardly buckled into a cobbling of chain mail created for smaller horses. Akabe grinned at the sight. If nothing else inspired his people to hide from the coming fray, the destroyer’s resonant huffs and his giant hooves thundering against the pavings convinced them. All along the main street, doors and shutters were slamming shut, muffling panicked shrieks within the buildings.

  “Now,” Akabe called to his men as they crested the final approach to the temple, “with our people hidden—we smash this siege before it takes hold! Look around!”

  Even as he spoke, something slashed past Akabe’s cheek, embedding itself in a nearby wall. An iron bolt, undoubtedly barbed and meant for him. Kien’s giant destroyer, Scythe, rumbled a low, merciless threat and turned, breaking file to charge a slender tower to Akabe’s right—one of several overlooking the future temple. Obviously attuned to his monster-steed, Kien raised his shield to cover himself. Akabe bellowed, “Shields!”

  Akabe lifted his gaze to the tower’s crest. There, a graceful white cupola sheltered a bolt-thrower and three archers, all taking aim at Akabe and his men. “Break ranks—move!”

  He turned his horse aside, and his men scattered just as arrows and another bolt flew past, gouging the paving stones. “Take that tower!”

  Scythe reared and slammed his hooves against the tower’s stone walls, then against the iron-bound door, which broke from its hinges. Akabe froze. Was Kien planning to invade that tower alone? “Aeyrievale—no! Check the other towers!” To his foot-soldiers, Akabe called, “Surround and capture everyone inside! Let no one escape!”

  Distant screams from workmen now arose from the temple site and smoke billowed into the morning air, signaling an attack on the foundations. Followed by his guards and Fightmaster Lorteus, Akabe urged his warhorse toward the screams. As they crossed the paved open court, an onslaught of flaming arrows sliced downward from another tower to his left, igniting oiled tarps and supplies—undoubtedly terrorizing the workmen trapped within the foundations below. Had some of the men been killed?

  Akabe’s own archers were now answering their enemies, and Akabe glimpsed an arrow-pierced body slumping onto an embrasure in the nearest tower. He called to Lorteus. “Secure that tower! Take some men with you!”

  Akabe waved half his guard to follow Lorteus. The fightmaster departed, roaring his eagerness to raid the tower. “You firebrands are coming down after those arrows!”

  Shielded by Lorteus’s attack and his archers’ reprisals upon the towers, Akabe motioned for his remaining guards to follow him. His pulse quickening with their pace, he urged his horse around the burning cedar logs, using the flames and waves of heat as his screen to approach the temple’s foundations. Infinite, let the workmen be alive!

  There, sheltered in the shadows of the sacred ancient stonework, Dan Roeh waited with his men, safe. All praying aloud as they watched for their enemies. Relieved, Akabe withdrew, circled the burning mounds of supplies, and rode to help Kien and Lorteus secure the towers.

  Within the confines of Akabe’s antechamber, Faine mourned, “Majesty, why must these Ateans kill themselves whenever they fail? Without the chance to interrogate them, we have no way to counteract their plots. Moreover, their deaths only feed their comrades’ fury.”

  “Provoking them to conspire anew,” Akabe agreed. The deaths made him look like a bloodthirsty tyrant—the same as his predecessors. Was he? He couldn’t help but question his actions as he recalled seeing those Ateans’ bodies after they’d been removed from the tower. How might he neutralize their future schemes and prevent more deaths? “Faine, order all the workmen and the priests removed to protected residences.”

  “All? And . . . the priests, Majesty?”

  “Y
es. They’ll be targeted, as in the previous regime. Best to protect them now.”

  Akabe’s bedchamber door opened and a whispering of trailing fabrics alerted him to turn. Elegant and pale in gold-embroidered red, Caitria hesitated, clearly wary of Faine. Undoubtedly sensing and reciprocating his queen’s mistrust, Faine bowed. “Majesty, as soon as you’ve rested, we will attend you in the council chamber.”

  The instant he departed, Caitria approached, studying Akabe as if perplexed. “Forgive me, sir, but you left with no explanation.” Her frown deepened as she stared. “How did you receive that grazing on your cheek?”

  Grazing? Akabe touched his face. A sting reminded him. “Oh. A bolt flew too close.”

  “A bolt?” Confusion played over Caitria’s fine features.

  Had she led such a sheltered life that she’d never seen a bolt? To explain, he removed a dagger from his belt. “A bolt, lady. An iron projectile about as large as this blade, flung by an apparatus manned by my enemies. It missed.”

  “Almost not, by the mark on your face.” She dropped into a gilded chair, pressing her hands to her own face. “You were in a battle this morning?”

  “A skirmish. Some . . . rebels . . . attacked the temple site and threatened the workers. We defeated them and all’s well—the Infinite protected us.”

  “No, all’s not well!” Caitria shook her head. “Is this temple worth dying for—losing your kingdom for? Why should your Infinite demand such sacrifices? Such risk? I don’t see that He’s done much for either of us, sir, except to cause misery!”

  Akabe controlled his tone, deliberately gentle. Calming, he hoped. “I’m alive, lady. My kingdom stands, and my people are safe.”

  “But you’re not safe!”

  “I am this instant.” Unless his angry wife decided to attack. “And, by the way, yes. Some things are worth dying for, lady, because we love them. I love my Creator and His temple!” Though He seemed to not notice Akabe of Siphra now.

  As Akabe processed the pain of that thought, Caitria stood, inclined her head, then swept from the antechamber in a flaring tempest of crimson and gold.

  He didn’t follow. An armed skirmish seemed safer.

  Inside her husband’s bedchamber, Caitria sagged against the wall, trembling, trying to recover enough strength to return to her apartments. The dim chamber seemed even darker now, and she’d turned giddy. Stars and sunsets, was she about to faint?

  She sat heavily beside the door, dazed, holding her head. Akabe had faced another attack. Likely from more Ateans. Would the next attack succeed? Had her family been involved? Now, for the first time in ages, she appealed to the goddess in silent prayer.

  Atea . . . save me . . . save us!

  But since when had the goddess considered her worth anything—least of all worth loving? Akabe’s voice rang again in her thoughts, impassioned, his face alight with fervor.

  Some things are worth dying for, lady, because we love them. I love my Creator, and His temple!

  He hadn’t mentioned his wife.

  Couldn’t he care for her despite their differences?

  For a long time, she sat huddled against the door, shivering. Trying not to weep.

  Nudged toward the stone-framed gate by the fretful Scythe, Kien nodded to the guards, crossed a fine stonework courtyard, and rapped on the Roehs’ door. Ela answered instantly, studying his face. No doubt checking for wounds. Evidently satisfied, she flung her arms around him. “I prayed for you—for everyone! Is my father safe? And the king?”

  “The Infinite honored your prayers, dear prophet. Not counting a few bruises, scrapes and sprains, plus a mark on the king’s face from a passing bolt, everyone’s well. And I spoke to your father.” Kien nodded to Kalme Roeh, who approached, listening. “He’s safe.”

  Kalme sighed, tension fading from her lovely face. “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” Kien kissed Ela’s forehead, then stared into her big, dark, beautiful eyes. “Now, prophet of Parne, what are you not telling me?”

  Sucking in a pained breath as if the vision still lingered, she whispered, “The Infinite’s enemies want Him to fail! After our wedding . . . others will be waiting, conspiring to kill the king . . . and us.”

  Kien tightened his arms around her slender, shivering shoulders, praying even as he whispered, “Whatever happens, we know the Infinite will never fail!”

  Infinite? Spare Ela, I beg You! Even if I must die, save her. . . .

  13

  Ela kissed her baby brother until he laughed and grabbed small fistfuls of her hair. “Don’t you grow up too much while I’m gone. Oh, Jess,” she crooned, “I’ll miss you!”

  From behind her, Kalme Roeh said, “Perhaps by this time next year, you’ll have a baby of your own.”

  A baby. Ela’s breath seemed to halt in her lungs. Kien’s baby . . . Despite her longing, she argued, “Mother, how could I endure having a baby, knowing I might not live to—”

  “Stop,” Kalme ordered. “You’re tormenting yourself, and it’s useless.” She gave Ela a stern nudge. “Rejoice in the blessings the Infinite gives you!”

  “Mother, you should have been the prophet.”

  “I’m telling you what I’ve learned since you became His prophet.” Kalme lifted Jess from Ela’s arms, pausing just long enough to unwind Ela’s curls from the baby’s pudgy hand. “When you first left Parne, I nearly killed myself with worry. But, being pregnant with Jess, I had to stop fretting over things I couldn’t control. Instead, I treasure my current circumstances.”

  “Well, at least one of us is learning something.”

  Laughter and a clatter at the door announced visitors. Tamri Het and Matron Prill let themselves in. Seeing Ela, Tamri scolded, “Prophet-girl, why are you not dressed? Your husband and guests will arrive soon!”

  Determined to torment her dear chaperones to the end, Ela affected a mock frown. “He’s not my husband yet.”

  Prill brushed past them both, murmuring to Tamri, “I’ll set out her clothes. We’d best drag her inside to prepare. Kalme Roeh, how did you—the sweetest of souls—end up with such a dissident daughter?”

  “It’s Dan’s fault.” Mother shifted Jess in her arms, then pointed Ela toward her room. “Follow Prill.”

  Hiding a smile, Ela marched after the matron. Hmm. Prill’s tunic was obviously new—a festive violet-red, embroidered with tiny flowers. Her boots, however, clunked against the Roehs’ tiled floor. Heavy boots. As if Prill expected to hike or ride. “Matron, do you think I’ll have you digging trenches or fleeing for your life on my wedding day?”

  “I’ve found it’s best to be prepared for anything if I’m around you.” Prill stepped aside to let Ela into her room. “But, no, I don’t expect to dig trenches. Bryce has enlisted me to help you in Aeyrievale.”

  “You’re remaining with me? Wonderful! But . . .” Ela hesitated. Bryce had invited Prill? She turned and frowned at the matron. “You’re calling Kien’s steward by his first name? When did you two become friends?”

  Prill met her gaze, seeming perfectly serene. “Over the past month. He’s consulted me often while making arrangements for your wedding. He noticed us at the temple site, then remembered me from Parne as your chaperone, and didn’t want to disturb you or your mother.”

  “Oh?” Ela donned a pretend look of disapproval. “Sounds more like a flirtation to me.”

  Prill blushed. Prettily. Bright as the embroidered flowers on her gown. Bryce and Prill? Oh my. Kien would love this. Ela dropped all pretenses as Tamri and Mother entered her room. “You just wait! When I’m married, I’m chaperoning you!”

  “Really, Ela—”

  “What’s happened?” Tamri asked, chaperone-stern, alert as always to mischief.

  “Nothing!” Prill snapped. She hurriedly dug into Ela’s clothing chest, then coerced Ela into the delicate gold-embroidered layered white tunic. Proper and bossy as ever, the matron grabbed several tiny pearl-edged combs and nodded toward Ela’s only chai
r. “Sit.”

  They’d just finished combing out Ela’s hair when a musical, feminine voice called from the front door, “Ela dear?”

  “Kien’s mother!” Ela started from her seat.

  Prill pushed Ela down again, and Tamri leaned out of the room, clearly delighted. “Ara! She’s in here. We’re trying to keep her settled long enough to hand her off to your son.”

  “Oh, well let me help you!” Ara swept into the room, so ladylike and flawless in a silvery tunic and gauzy shawls that Ela felt like a frump. The instant she saw Ela, Ara’s bright gray eyes lit with joy. “Darling, you’re not even put together yet and you look charming! And what perfect timing—Beka insisted I bring this to you.” She opened a wooden box and offered Ela an elaborate, fragile half-circlet of silver and gold leaves, centered with a dangling dark blue gem. “Do you like it? Will you wear it?”

  Speechless, Ela nodded at the dazzling headpiece. Mother snatched the pearl combs from Prill and said, “Yes, it’s wonderful!”

  “Oh, good,” Ara sighed. “We must humor Beka during her last few months of waiting. Darling, she’s a delightful tyrant, isn’t she? Anyway, I wore this tiara on my wedding day, and Beka wore it when she married Jon, and oh is she furious because she can’t travel!” Chattering, Ara extricated the comb from Prill’s hand and began to arrange Ela’s hair. “The gemstone centers over your forehead, with your hair half-up, half-down—Ela, I’m so glad you have such lovely curls! Where are those pearl combs? And pins! Heaps of pins!”

  From that point on, Ara did all the talking and no one minded, Ela was sure. She could listen to Kien’s mother all day. Ara described her enchanting visit with Kien, the king, and the queen—who was so shy she said not five words, poor dear—and her own exciting journey with General Rol and his sweet daughter, Nia. Not to mention Rol’s destroyer, who was in the same interesting condition as Beka, but even more irritable.