by R. J. Larson
In despair, Ela shut her eyes and prayed. Caitria planned to escape. But she would fail.
Infinite? Don’t tell me the details, please. I know I’ll mourn with her.
From prison.
Already, within her thoughts, Ela felt the weight of iron chains and fear. The weeping of fellow-prisoners wrung her heart enough that she prayed for them even now.
Whispers resounded from among the ranks of waiting women. “The king—there’s the king!” Ela turned, looking with the others. Bel-Tygeon entered the huge gathering area, clad in gold from his booted heels to his robes and intricate towerlike crown. In the sunlight, he resembled a stunning living, moving statue. The image made Ela’s spirit recoil.
Around her, the women were sighing their admiration for Belaal’s god-king. Understandable. Add gold and god-king power to Bel-Tygeon’s spectacular looks and most women would all but kill for him.
With the exception of the Infinite’s prophet and Siphra’s queen.
Beside Ela, Caitria sniffed and looked away from the king, her beautiful brown eyes narrowed. “Hmph!”
Seeming unaware of them all, Bel-Tygeon stepped up into a gold ceremonial chariot and accepted the reins from his handler. Four perfectly matched white horses waited until their king and the handler urged them forward into the glittering ranks of Belaal’s royal guards. Ela took a deep breath as the women around her stirred, smoothing their garments and faces into order. Multitudes of slaves lifted innumerable glittering banners above them all.
Beyond them, the massive palace gates opened, and the pageant began.
They walked beneath the gate’s colossal arch, into a broad square beyond. The plaza led to a wide main road clearly constructed for processions such as this. The citizens of Sulaanc knelt and bowed their heads, worshiping their god as Bel-Tygeon rode past.
Fear coiled in Ela’s stomach, for Caitria, herself, and Kien’s baby. Infinite? Give me strength!
I am here.
Taking a deep breath, Ela continued to walk among the palace women, their footsteps sounding in unison against the wide avenue’s pristine stones. At the end of the street, she climbed a graceful stone ramp, which opened into a vast plaza crowded with row after orderly row of citizens and officials. Ela blinked, trying to absorb the sight. Multiple thousands of citizens and officials knelt, then bowed their heads to the stones in worship, creating an exquisitely timed wavelike ripple from one side of the plaza to the other.
Nerves and summertime warmth sent rivulets of sweat trickling down Ela’s back. She took a deep breath and prayed. Infinite? Help me to remain calm!
From the plaza they approached stairs, where Bel-Tygeon descended from his chariot, strikingly godlike. Lady Dasarai, equally regal, left her golden chair and followed him up the steps.
The stairs led to a high terrace. The terrace gave way to a great temple with wide, stately marble columns.
Ela shivered as she walked inside and breathed the scent of burning spices. The walls gleamed, gilded and gem-laden. Surely she’d walked into a giant’s jewelry box. And at the head of this glittering opulence, on a marble dais, stood a magnificent larger-than-life statue of Bel-Tygeon. The perfect depiction of a mortal naming himself a god.
Ela stiffened. She would never bow to this gloriously handsome monstrosity!
In her hand, the branch took fire.
As the other women halted, knelt, and bowed—with Caitria hesitating among them—Ela marched forward. Praying. She moved past the guards and ignored Bel-Tygeon’s groveling priests. The instant she passed Bel-Tygeon, Ela turned and stood before him, defiant.
His complexion stark in the vinewood’s burning light, Bel-Tygeon stared at Ela, his dark eyes huge.
Ela placed the blazing white branch between them.
Bel-Tygeon stepped back. Not in alarm, but in tight-lipped fury. Beneath his breath, through clenched teeth, Belaal’s king muttered a three-word threat.
“Don’t. You. Dare!”
33
Dare? Oh yes, she dared! Before anyone could stop her, Ela cried out, “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite declares that you are no god! He reveals this place for what it is in His sight—nothing!”
On the dais above them, the brilliant statue creaked, then folded to the floor as if bowing, its forehead ringing against the marble. Within the next instant, a tempest swept through the false temple, which sifted away in a glittering sandstorm, becoming nothingness as all the worshipers screamed.
As their Creator’s blessed sunlight washed over them, Ela called out, “The Infinite alone is God! There is no other ruling with Him! Belaal, turn to your eternal Father and worship Him!”
Still standing face-to-face with Ela, Bel-Tygeon shook his head as if dazed. He studied the air where gem-studded walls had stood only a few breaths before. His fear reached Ela—tangible as a touch. He stared at her again, and his lips parted. Taking a deep breath, he yelled to his guards, “Bind her! Remove her to the palace prison, now!”
Bel-Tygeon’s women and slaves screeched and scattered as the guards swarmed through their ranks, armor clattering while they raced toward Ela.
Infinite! Within a heartbeat, she felt callused hands grasping her wrists so tight that she feared they’d break her bones. Amid the scuffle, Ela lost her grip on the branch. The soldiers wrenched Ela’s hands behind her back and tied them together before they carried her away.
Infinite! Panicked, Ela strained to see beyond the guards. Where was Caitria?
No, no, no! Infinite!
Her thoughts chaotic as the glistening dust whirlwind of Bel-Tygeon’s once-glorious temple, Caitria fled from the site. No one stopped her.
What had she just seen? An entire building disintegrated around her without injuring a single person inside! How? And they’d taken Ela. Oh, Infinite! But she couldn’t contemplate that now. Not until she was safe again in Siphra with Akabe. He would know how to rescue Ela.
Ela! Oh mercy! She’d survive, wouldn’t she?
Caitria quickened her pace. The plans she’d made this morning, which had seemed to be nothing but one of her hopeless dreams, now seemed possible. She’d trade her jewelry for supplies and a horse, or transport to Siphra’s border. Surely she could reach Siphra within two days!
She ran, her delicate sandals clicking wildly against the steps and street pavings. At the base of the plaza, Caitria hesitated. The white, blue, and gold city of Sulaanc seemed to open before her—to swallow her, she prayed, into anonymity.
To the east lay Bel-Tygeon’s palace. To the west, the canal and the marketplace beyond. The marketplace offered her best hope. But she must barter for a plain mantle, then blend into the crowds, if possible. She would become a lady perusing wares. A lady requiring transport to her distant home.
But the marketplace seethed with turmoil as Sulaanc’s citizens scurried about, craning for a glimpse of the temple as they called to each other, “It’s gone! Impossible! We’re going mad!”
A plain-robed woman stopped directly before Caitria and bowed her head, lifting sturdy work-worn hands in a pleading gesture. “Lady, you must know! What’s happened to the temple? To our king—may his name be praised above all!”
Caitria’s thoughts skittered. “I-I . . . don’t know. It’s a disaster! All I can think of is that I must return home! Do you know of a conveyance with a trustworthy driver?”
The woman blinked, clearly stupefied. “Should we run?”
“Run? Yes!” Caitria snatched at the word. “Who knows what will happen now? Won’t it be safer if we leave Sulaanc? Help me, and I’ll repay you.” Caitria removed one of the fragile silver bracelets from her wrist and offered it to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Amiyra,” the woman breathed. She accepted the ornament, stared at it, then nodded to Caitria. “Lady, it must be as you say. I know who can help.”
By now the marketplace was emptied of all citizens but the merchants and tradesmen who’d begun to pack their wares and herd their animals from the area.
Amiyra—now wearing the bracelet—hurriedly pointed Caitria into her modest stall that sheltered baskets of dried fruits, vegetables, and netted rounds of wax-covered cheese. She motioned Caitria to a fabric-draped shelter at the back of the stall. Inside, a baby slept in a basket, chubby and oblivious to the confusion outside. Amiyra checked the baby, then whispered to Caitria, “If you please, lady, sit here. I’ll speak to my man.”
Hoping she’d made the right choice of rescuers, Caitria sat on a heap of coarse cushions and stared at the baby. Judging by all the work evidenced in those tiny embroidered robes, this child was adored. A fine, healthy baby. Caitria exhaled, trying to control her fears for Ela and her unborn child. Let them be safe!
Before long, Amiyra reentered the shelter and offered Caitria a clay cup brimming with water. “I wish this’d be more, but it’ll refresh you. Rest a bit, lady. My man is seeing to transport. Where is your home?”
Caitria hesitated, then shifted on the cushion and accepted the cup. “North. Near the DaromKhor Hills.”
“I’ll tell him.” Amiyra backed out, flicking the rough brown curtain in place once more.
Sipping the water, Caitria focused on the baby and tried to calm her fears.
Sickened, Akabe tended the fire in the kitchen hearth and listened as Riddig talked. The burly surgeon tossed a fabric-wrapped packet of herbs into a steaming kettle and sighed. “The abdominal incision is healing well. However, the leg wound is festering inside. The tube is draining unhealthy fluids and the skin around it resembles raw meat. In addition, Lord Aeyrievale now has a fever.”
A fever. Akabe shut his eyes. Not good. He’d lost friends to similar wounds. The next step would be darkening, dying flesh, with the fever growing. Beyond that, unconsciousness, Akabe hoped. But more likely, the fever would set Kien to raving. Infinite, spare Kien that much, please! Focusing on the surgeon again, Akabe asked, “Is there any way we might save him?”
“I want to reopen his wound, cut out the decay, and attempt restoratives.” Riddig eyed the steaming kettle. “Heat—as much as he can can endure without blistering. Then sunlight and more of the honey ointment. If only I’d purchased maggots to consume the rotting flesh!” Bleak, the surgeon added, “Majesty, with this second surgery comes the increased chance of permanent crippling. I cannot guarantee the results. We can only pray it saves his life.”
“I’m already praying.” Akabe stood. “Will you need me to hold him still?”
“I’ll need you and Flint, Majesty. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. I’ll tell him what we’re going to do. Come upstairs when you and Flint are ready.”
Fortifying himself with more prayer and the resolution to save his friend, even if that friend temporarily hated him, Akabe headed for the stairwell. He found Kien propped up in the stone window seat, not resting on his pallet like a cooperative patient.
Flushed with the unapproved exertion and fever, Kien nodded at Akabe, grimly satisfied. “Scythe isn’t pacing, so it seems the assassins aren’t yet lurking at the gate. What are you three doing?”
“We’ll finish filling in the pit this evening and plan new defenses. But first, we have another task to perform.” Akabe told Kien of Riddig’s diagnosis and his recommendation.
Kien listened quietly, then nodded. He reached into the window seat, picked up a scabbard-shielded dagger, and removed the weapon.
Was he going to kill himself? His heart racing, Akabe started toward Kien, prepared to disarm him. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Kien set down the dagger and waved the leather scabbard at Akabe. “This will be a perfect biting surface, don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” Akabe exhaled and relaxed.
Kien made a face. “Majesty, did you think I’d try to hold off the three of you with a single dagger? Not likely.” Wincing, he scooted from the window seat. As Akabe hurried to help him back to the pallet, Kien said, “Don’t worry. I’m all for the surgery. It’s better than slowly rotting to death. Just be sure to warn Scythe that I might yell.”
“I’ll warn the monster. Not that it’ll do any good. He’s been mighty testy with me.”
“Don’t worry. He likes you.”
“Thank you.” Akabe steadied his friend.
As he limped, Kien eyed Akabe’s sword belt. “You’re not wearing the Azurnite blade.”
“It’s not mine.”
“It is until we know I’ll survive.” Sweating now, Kien persisted. “That sword was a gift from my father, and I’ll refuse the surgery until you’re wearing it.”
“You’re a rotten patient.” Plagues! Bad choice of words.
Kien almost grinned. “Yes, well, if I weren’t rotten, we’d have no need of this surgery.”
They halted beside Kien’s pallet. Steadying his friend, Akabe said, “When the Infinite’s temple is completed—if it’s His will that the temple be completed—I want you there to see it.”
“I hope for the same. With Ela. But as He wills.” Grayed by the effort, Kien settled down and shut his eyes, clutching the scabbard. “Just warn Scythe.”
Finally! Caitria stood, easing onto her half-asleep legs as the shelter’s rough brown curtain opened. Amiyra scooted inside and picked up the baby. “All’s ready, lady. My man found a way.” Cuddling her child, Amiyra nodded Caitria outside. “We need to hurry.”
The instant Caitria stepped from behind the rough curtain, a man blocked her path. A weapon-bearing soldier. Clad in the blue and gold of a palace guard. “No!” She ducked away, but another guard stepped in her way. Followed by a third . . . with others waiting beyond. Trapped!
Caitria gasped, then bit her lip. She would not scream. Nor would she fight against such odds. Siphra might not have an ideal queen, but at least she could behave with dignity. She lifted her chin and studied the guards, trying to pick out their commander. A particularly stoic soldier, with an extra edging of gold along his belt, handed a small heavy leather bag to a man who now stood with Amiyra.
The bag’s contents clinked—the thin metallic sound of silver coins.
“I hope you were paid enough,” Caitria told Amiyra. The woman seemed a bit shamed, looking down at the baby in her arms.
The lead guard approached Caitria. “Your absence was noted, lady, and your presence is commanded.” He motioned her toward a carrying chair flanked by four soldiers. Voice low, he added, “I am authorized to chain you, if need be.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She settled herself in the chair and folded her hands in her lap, conveying serenity. Inside, her stomach knotted hard and her heart fluttered, frantic as a snared bird’s. She’d failed. Just as Ela said.
Now she must mourn the consequences.
Was she about to be branded? Imprisoned for life? Thoroughly ruined and shamed by Bel-Tygeon? Please, no . . .
She refused to think of Akabe.
Shivering, nauseated, Ela drew her knees up to her chest amid a clatter of chains and then leaned against the cold stone wall, praying for Caitria. What now? As if in answer, the branch appeared beside her in the straw, seeming quite ordinary, though its vinewood gleamed at her subtly, offering strength, making her smile.
Infinite? Thank You! Her chains clinking, Ela retrieved the branch.
A rough, feminine voice snapped Ela from her silent praises. “Are you drunk? You’ve no reason to look so pleased!”
The speaker, a tattered, emaciated woman, crouched before Ela in the filthy straw. She appeared to be Matron Prill’s age, and rather pretty, though nowhere near as clean and proper. Behind her, other women were watching and listening with interest—the ragged speaker apparently ruled them all.
Ela smiled at the women. “My name is Ela, and I’m glad because even here, I’m not alone. What is your name?”
“Jemma, and get used to it, Lady Ela! You’ll be a long time visiting us, with no reason to smile.”
“As the Infinite wills.” Ela studied Jemma’s truculent face. Did she imagine the f
licker of a remembered hurt? Infinite?
Listen! See her heart—as I see. The Creator whispered into Ela’s thoughts, sending her images and understanding. “Jemma, rebellion brought you here. Obedience will release you, if you abandon your pride.”
The woman’s eyes widened, then hardened. “I don’t care if I remain in prison for ten years! I was wrongfully accused, and I’ll not accept blame!”
“In part,” Ela agreed. “Your accuser knows this. But her status demands an apology that you must give. You have two choices. Be stubborn and remain here, or bow and apologize, so you may live.”
“Did she send you here?”
She. The head cook in the Women’s Palace. Ela shook her head. “No. Following my Creator’s will brought me here. And I am content to stay until His purpose for me is fulfilled.”
One of the other women crept nearer, staring at the now-shimmering branch, then at Ela. “Who are you, really? Why were you allowed to carry a weapon into our cell?”
“It’s not a weapon. And I’m the Infinite’s prophet, stolen from Siphra.”
She had their attention now. Recognizing the Infinite’s purpose, Ela settled in to tell her story from the beginning.
To reveal their Creator’s love.
Caitria knelt on the throne room’s gleaming floor as the palace guards commanded. Mari had described the room’s transformation by the Infinite, but even Mari’s enthusiastic report failed to do this place justice. Caitria stared at the floor, astonished by its crystalline beauty—even as she shivered. Infinite? Help me . . .
She felt all the courtiers’ stares. And Bel-Tygeon’s. Obviously he’d commanded her to be brought here so he could punish her publicly. Well. Punish away—he and his gloating subjects would not see her break, she hoped.
On his throne above the dais, Bel-Tygeon spoke, his voice cold and echoing. “By law, when my property is lost through carelessness or neglect, a penalty must be paid—and that penalty is equal to the value of my property.”
