by R. J. Larson
At last Ara sighed and shook her head. “Are you certain you’ll be able to handle that destroyer when Rol returns her to you, Ela-dear? She’s a true monster, make no mistake!”
“What?” Flame? Scythe’s beloved? Ela turned her head, causing Ara to lift her hands. “General Rol is returning Flame to me? But he can’t!”
“Darling, he must. He’s leaving the military and offering himself for service in the Grand Assembly. He’s sure to be elected, if he gets rid of that destroyer. Beka’s at home arranging his campaign as we speak. I’m sorry . . .” Ara busied herself, pinning Ela’s hair again. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“No. The Tracelands has lost its finest general. And Flame is pregnant!” Appalling! What would she and Kien do with three destroyers? Dear though the monsters were, they’d overrun Aeyrievale!
Stunned, Ela sat mute until the ladies sent for Father.
Dan Roeh loomed in the doorway, looking prosperous and handsome in dark green robes. He held a hand out to Ela, but his smile weakened and he turned misty-eyed. “You don’t look like my little girl.”
“Well, I am.” She snatched up the branch and rushed to hug him. “Father, stop! You’re making me cry!” Not good.
Dan exhaled. “Let’s brace ourselves. Everyone’s waiting.”
They wiped their eyes, then paraded outside to the courtyard, which was filled with celebrants and all the trimmings for a wedding feast. Yells, cheers, and whistles from their friends greeted Ela’s appearance. Ela also recognized several noblemen from the royal court. And—She gasped inwardly, almost stopping.
A face from her vision.
Brawny and cold-eyed, the man ought to be clad in soldier’s gear. But he wasn’t. Instead, he wore a nondescript brown tunic, mantle, and boots. Clearly, this apparition come-to-life stood among the crowd not as a celebrant but as a spy, fixated on her.
His dark, calculating gaze lifted chills of fear along Ela’s bare arms. “Infinite?”
Father guided Ela through the crowd. She followed his lead, grasping at composure. Why was that foreign soldier standing amid her family and friends on her wedding day? Surely it wasn’t yet time for . . . Infinite, please!
She looked again, trembling. The soldier hurried away through the courtyard gate, walking quickly as if to put distance between them. Would he not stalk her again for a few months? Or was this the last time she would see her family and friends?
Before she’d gathered her fragmented thoughts, Father kissed Ela’s forehead in farewell and placed her hand in Kien’s. His gray eyes wide and serious, Kien bent toward Ela, whispering, “What’s wrong?”
He mustn’t know. Not yet, at least. She hugged her soon-to-be husband and murmured, “I love you!”
Immediately, his concern vanished, replaced by an appreciative grin. “Not as much as I love you! Ela . . .” He breathed her name as if overcome. “You are amazing! Beautiful!”
She willed herself to smile. And to admire his magnificent gold-edged blue garments and his dazzling smile. “So are you. I mean—” Oh, she could stare at him forever.
Parne’s chief priest, Ishvah Nesac, stepped forward, splendid in his blue-and-white priestly attire. “Now, you two, save your compliments for when you truly need them—after you’re married!”
Everyone laughed, and Ela calmed herself as Nesac prayed, asked the Infinite’s blessing, then witnessed their marriage vows. Kien slid a lavish gold armband up Ela’s left arm and fastened it over the thin scar on her bicep. The instant the priest pronounced them married, Kien swept Ela into a hug and kissed her, his lips so warm and lingering that she gasped for breath when he finally released her. Around them, their guests cheered, ready to celebrate and feast.
Ela glanced around. No sign of the soldier-spy. A reprieve? Infinite, please, let it be so! Guests clustered about her and Kien, offering hugs, kisses, and blessings. Father. Mother. Ara Lantec and the tearfully happy Nia Rol. Prill. Tamri. Survivors from Parne . . .
At last, General Rol, resplendent in red-and-blue robes, greeted Kien with a hearty slap on the shoulder. But he kissed Ela, almost as teary-eyed as Father. “Ela, dear girl, you look beautiful. Have you heard my news? I’m retiring in favor of the Grand Assembly. I need you to take ownership of Flame.”
Ela sighed. “Sir, is this truly what you wish? Flame will be heartbroken.”
The general cleared his throat. “She and her foal will be too much for my few fields, and I doubt it’s good for her to be separated from Scythe. Come along.” He offered Ela a supportive arm, gallant as ever. Masking his sadness, Ela realized. She walked with him and Kien to the gate.
Flame waited outside, huge, shimmering-dark, and moodily chewing through a pile of hay. Rol beckoned her fondly, smoothing her glossy neck. “You’ve been a joy, you beautiful monster, but it’s time you settled with a family. Look at Ela. Remember Ela?” Rol cleared his throat and commanded the destroyer sternly. “Obey her. Do you hear? Obey Ela.”
The impressive monster-warhorse grumbled, an aggrieved noise that echoed through the entire wedding party, temporarily halting all conversation. When Rol tried to pat Flame again, she swung her big head away and moped, as if deeply betrayed. Ela smoothed the destroyer’s gleaming coat. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve loved the general. But you’ll see him again!”
Flame huffed. Ela sighed. “All right. Pout. I understand—he’s a good master, so you’re right to grieve. But wait here. Stay!”
As gloomy as the destroyer, Rol sighed. “Ah, well. Let’s return to the feast, shall we? Ela, Kien, introduce me to all your friends.”
While they returned to the celebration, Ela cast another look around for the spy. Still nowhere to be seen. Thank You! She merged with the crowd, determined to visit.
If this was the last time she would see her family and friends, she must hug everyone.
Kien glanced up at the sun. Still full daylight, but definitely leaning toward evening. Well past the time they should have departed. He’d tried twice to draw Ela away from the feast, to no avail. However, she was lovely to behold, laughing and talking with the guests. . . .
Standing just behind Kien with Prill, Bryce murmured, “My lord, forgive me, but unless we leave now and travel quickly, you won’t spend your wedding night in the lodgings I’ve rented for you. Instead you’ll be camping, most uncomfortably, alongside the road.” Blandly, he added, “There’s something to be said for Aeyrievale’s customs, sir.”
“Fine.” If he was truly Aeyrievale’s lord—and Kien supposed he must be—it was time to act the part. Kien marched over to Ela and caught her by one arm, branch and all, and then bent swiftly, hauling her over his shoulder.
She gasped, “Kien!”
Balancing her trifling weight, he swept his Azurnite sword’s glittering blue blade from its scabbard. Strictly for show, of course. Laughter and cheers erupted around them as he strode from the courtyard. Dan Roeh yelled, “Don’t bring her back!”
Ela swatted Kien’s shoulder, making him laugh. “Kien, this is not funny!”
“Oh, yes it is!” Outside the gate, Kien ordered Scythe, “Kneel.” Grudgingly, the destroyer obeyed. Kien seated the offended Ela sideways on Scythe, slipped the Azurnite blade into its scabbard, settled himself behind his wife, then gathered the reins. “Scythe, stand.”
Grumbling, Scythe stood. Flame glared at Kien. Ela sniffed, unbearably pretty. And annoyed. “Why did you haul me away like a sack of grain? All you had to do was tell me it was time to leave.”
“I did. Twice. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes, but—”
Kien interrupted her with a kiss. “We’re late, and we must hurry. That’s why.” He nodded to Prill, who now waited in a cart, then to Bryce in a nearby chariot. “Ready!”
Ela slipped the branch into its place on Pet’s war harness and looked around, composing herself. How like Kien to create a scene. Stolen from her own wedding! So unprophet-like. Totally without dignity. However . . . She glanced up at Kien. He
grinned at her, infuriatingly irresistible. Ela bit down a smile and looked away. “Hmph!”
Kien laughed and hugged her. “Oh, admit it! You’re amused!”
“I won’t.” For now.
Pet’s gait quickened, seeming jaunty. And Flame kept pace behind them, looking less disagreeable. Bryce, meanwhile, took the lead in his chariot, dignified despite his ordinary little horses. Prill, ensconced on the wicker passenger seat of a two-wheeled baggage cart, also rode ahead of Ela and Kien. Eyeing her former chaperone, Ela leaned into Kien, whispering, “Bryce has been flirting with Prill! Kien, we must keep watch over those two.”
“We will. But for now, I’d rather watch you.” He pulled her closer, sighed into her hair, then gave her an exultant one-armed hug. “We’re married!”
“Yes, we are!” Enjoying his delight, Ela squeezed Kien’s forearm. Um, daunting. He’d gained more muscle since the siege. Curious, she tested one of his biceps. “Have you been fighting much?”
“Nearly every day. With Jon, then the king, and Lorteus, and Bryce.” Kien tipped her back slightly. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” He was prepared to fight. All the better, considering her visions. She hugged him and suppressed a shiver. Infinite? Save him! Let him live. . . .
Kien disrupted her thoughts, kissing her hair as he breathed, “I love you!”
Tears threatened, and Ela hugged her husband tighter. “I love you too!” With no regrets, she snuggled against him, determined to cherish every precious instant of their lives together. Infinite? Thank You!
Feigning sleep, Akabe opened his eyes the merest bit, watching the servant pause after lighting the morning fire. Why was the man simply standing there?
A sudden glint of firelight reflected off a blade, answering his question.
Infinite, be with me! Akabe slid his hand farther beneath his pillow and grasped his hidden dagger, hoping Caitria would stay put while he fought this would-be assassin.
14
Focusing on his attacker, Akabe whipped the scabbard from beneath his pillow and threw it at the man’s face, then charged from the bed, dagger ready. A hollow thwack and his assailant’s pained grunt proclaimed a direct hit.
Seizing his brief advantage, Akabe roared and lunged—a feint. The attacker lunged in turn, aiming for Akabe’s heart. Deflecting the blow with his forearm, Akabe grabbed his assailant’s arm and twisted it. Turning, he locked his right leg behind his foe’s, threw him to the floor, and wielded his dagger to incapacitate the man but not kill him outright. The failed assassin yelled and recoiled.
Behind them, Caitria screamed as if Akabe had wounded her instead of the man at his knees. “Oh no! Guards!” He heard her scramble out of the bed and run from the chamber. “Guards!”
Now, even wounded and weaponless, the assailant fought, snarling curses, clawing at Akabe’s throat for a chance to kill him. Akabe bashed the wretch with his dagger hilt, trying to subdue him. Alive—he needed this fool alive! Pinning him, Akabe bellowed, “Surrender!”
“Phaw!” The man spat toward Akabe, but the sticky globule landed on his own chin, provoking another spate of curses and maddened thrashing.
Gritting his teeth, Akabe held down his assailant. “Enough!” He glared into the man’s face . . . and stared. The eyes, the coldly proud features . . . undeniably variants of . . . “Thaenfall!”
The man sneered, intensifying his resemblance to Caitria’s father.
A clatter of weapons sounded at the door. One of Akabe’s guards cried, “Majesty!”
“Oh, welcome . . . now that I’ve got him down! Grab him! Bind his legs!”
They struggled anew until someone—his field surgeon, Riddig Tyne—dragged Akabe from the skirmish. “Majesty, are you wounded?”
“No.” At least not that he knew. Akabe sucked in a breath, trying to calm himself. But he couldn’t bring himself to release his bloodied dagger . . . not yet. Might there be more attackers? “Where’s the queen?”
“My wife is tending her,” Lord Faine announced from the doorway, barefoot, his hair and robes tousled—clearly a lord scared from his own bedchamber. “She’s in hysterics.”
For his sake or her own? Had Caitria conspired with this relative? Loathing his suspicion, Akabe snapped at the guards. “Have your comrades search the entire palace and post sentries at each doorway. Question everyone! Particularly this man. But don’t take him away yet. Riddig, tend his wounds.” To Faine, Akabe muttered, “Go find some boots and a comb for yourself, my lord. After I’m scrubbed and clothed, I’ll summon the queen.”
Before he departed, Faine quietly asked, “Do you believe she had something to do with this attack, Majesty?”
“No.” Akabe prayed she hadn’t. “But I want to see her face when she recognizes that man. And I want my guards replaced. Question them as well. Separately.” Had they been asleep at his doorway or gambling behind the pillars? He could not excuse their failure. He’d warned them weeks ago of this possibility, yet they’d ignored him! Were they bribed?
Scowling, Akabe waited for water and clothes. Simply scrubbing the blood from beneath his fingernails took an infuriating amount of time. Particularly while the Thaenfall relative cursed guards, fought his ropes, and bellowed threats as Riddig Tyne opened his case of surgeon’s tools. Riddig, however, seemed delighted to pour caustic cleansers over the man’s flesh, then repeatedly stab him with a needle and a drainage tube while suturing his side.
Just as Akabe clasped a mantle over his clean tunic, Lords Trillcliff and Piton edged into the chamber. Their tense expressions eased when they saw Akabe. Trillcliff bowed. “Majesty, bless the Infinite!”
A small, dark-haired figure leaned between the two lords. Barth looked up at Akabe, worry fretting his small, pale face. He bowed and lisped, “Majesty, are you hurt?”
Breath catching in his throat, Akabe rushed across the chamber and swept up the boy, hauling him into the next room. Six years was too young to stomach the sight of a defeated assassin trussed on the bloodied floor like a near-slaughtered beast. “I’m well, little sir. But you wait with the ladies or Master Croleut this morning. I’ll send for you later.”
Barth whooped and kicked the air, reassuringly elated. “Yes, sir! The ladies are prettier and kinder than Master Croleut.”
“Flirt with the ladies then.” Akabe set the boy down. “Just don’t marry anyone without my permission.” Even as he spoke, Akabe realized the ladies and the queen waited in the room, listening. The instant he looked at them, they offered elegant bows.
Properly garbed in layers of embroidered pale green, Caitria straightened, silent and red-eyed, her indecipherable gaze searching his face.
Looking for . . . what? Almost seven weeks of marriage, and he still couldn’t interpret her expressions. Akabe held out a hand. She hurried to him at once, her fingers cold as they touched his own. Akabe guided her into his bedchamber, threading a path between his lords and the guards. Riddig stood, smug, his bound patient neatly stitched and quiet at his feet. “Majesty. Your prisoner will live long enough to face trial.”
Obviously weakened, the failed assassin found enough strength to snap, “Death take you before me!”
Ignoring him, Akabe eyed Caitria, almost daring her. “Do you recognize this man?”
“He—” She faltered and gripped Akabe’s arm. “He resembles . . . my lord-father. Or my brothers.”
Akabe’s foe smiled thinly, all cold charm. “Do I? The last time I saw you, Cousin Caitria, you were singing and playing with your maidservant. Not much has changed, except that you’re taller. And Siphra’s queen.” Sweeping an icy glance at Akabe, Caitria’s relative added, “As for your newest servant—may he die swiftly!”
Eyes wide, Caitria shook her head. “I cannot believe this.”
“Believe it, lady.” Akabe motioned to one of his guards. “Have you checked his arms for the goddess coils?”
A guard bent and slashed his prisoner’s sleeves, tearing them apart, revealing dark, intric
ate etchings over the man’s biceps. A visible pledge of his life and soul to the goddess Atea. Akabe stared at the coils, then at this unknown Thaenfall, suspecting at least part of his motive. “Is this revenge for a relative’s death—Ison of Deerfeld?”
“He failed!”
“And so have you.” Akabe tightened his grip on Caitria, feeling her tremors of fear. Would she try to run? Much as he hated the thought of restraining her, Akabe needed his wife to face this situation. Evidently she’d known nothing of this attack, but Akabe wanted her to confess her devotion to the goddess. She remained maddeningly silent, staring at her cousin’s black-etched arms. Akabe told the man, “Wearing those coils need not determine your soul’s fate.”
“And you think you might?” the man hissed. “Spewing inanities of the Infinite—rebuilding that symbol of His oppression! We’ll be rid of you and that temple soon enough!”
The man’s hatred of the Creator and His temple struck Akabe with an almost physical force. But why not? By all accounts, the Thaenfall clan considered the Infinite absurd. They’d embraced Atean beliefs from birth. Willing Caitria to listen, Akabe asked the man, “Have you ever truly stepped back from your traditions and the lures of the flesh to question the object of your worship?”
Again the cold sneer. “Have you?”
Akabe met his look evenly. “I have. My life would have been far easier if I’d turned Atean. However, despite my unworthiness, the Infinite has proven Himself to me in more ways than I can count.” He stared at this Thaenfall relative. “Has your goddess defended you? Ever?”
Now silent as Caitria, the defeated man turned his head, scorning to answer.
If only Ela or Kien could be here now. They might win him over. Akabe gritted his teeth. “Because of what I represent, and because I wish to restore the Infinite’s Holy House to Siphra, you wish to kill me. But I want you to survive—or at least to be freed of the spiritual coils which ensnare you.”
