by R. J. Larson
Recovering, Ela charged toward the tower, her bright robes and blue mantle fluttering as she ran. Behind Caitria, Vioc sucked in a breath. “Has the monster vanquished all your enemies?”
“I hope so!” Praying in frantic silence, Caitria dashed after Ela. Infinite? Where was Akabe? Inside they hesitated.
Vioc hissed, “Majesty, allow us to help you! Identify your husband and his men, that we may strike only your enemies and fulfill our task!”
“My husband’s men wear crimson and gold—usually. . . .” Distant voices echoed from the stairwell, making Caitria turn. Akabe’s shout and a man’s cry. Dagger in hand, Caitria rushed past Ela and scurried into the stairwell. Clambering up the winding stone stairs, she followed the voices toward Kien and Ela’s chamber and froze in the open doorway.
Rough-bearded and wielding the blood-streaked blue Azurnite sword, Akabe stood at the far wall, guarding Lord Aeyrievale, who held a sword, but was obviously weakened and supporting himself against the wall’s stones. Another man’s body—a stranger to her—sprawled at their feet in a pool of spreading blood, evidently just cut down by Akabe. Caitria gasped.
Akabe saw her and his eyes widened, clearly horrified. She backed toward Commander Vioc in the stairwell, but a man reached from inside the chamber doorway and snatched Caitria’s hand. He crushed her fingers around the dagger’s hilt, then wrenched her against his chest. Stumbling, shocked by the pain in her hand, she looked up and recognized the man at once. Lord Siymont, father of Barth, her favorite little palace page. “My lord, what are you doing?”
His grip cruel, he twisted Caitria’s hand, pointing Akabe’s dagger upward beneath her chin, while blocking her further with his sword. In throaty, roughened tones, Siymont muttered, “I’m setting Siphra aright, lady, and you’re the very instrument I require for the task.” To Akabe he said, “I’ll skewer her like meat on a spit if you take a single step!”
Caitria grimaced. He would surely break her hand, then kill her. Infinite! Save the king!
Ela edged into the room now, her dark eyes wary and huge. “My lord, I beg you—it’s not too late! Release her or you will die instead.”
“Not before I rid Siphra of you, Prophet! You, your puppet-king, and his temple!”
“He’s the Infinite’s king, and you’ll fail,” Ela pleaded, her tone making Caitria shiver. “The Infinite offers you—”
Lord Siymont snarled, “Hang your Infinite and yourself!”
Caitria could smell Siymont now, reeking of horse and his own traitor’s sweat. Speaking carefully through her pain-clenched teeth, she added her plea to Ela’s. “My lord, think of your son!”
“I’m saving my son from a future of being controlled by your Infinite and those superstitious temple priests! How did you think I’d react, Majesty, upon hearing that you’d sent my son and heir to the Prophet for lessons? You all should have died then!”
Akabe’s voice cut through the chamber, low and furious. “Siymont, release my wife and—”
“And what?” Siymont wrenched Caitria hard, making her yelp. “Shall we bargain, Akabe Garric, lord of nothing? I’ll spare her in exchange for your life. Turn your sword on yourself. Now.”
“No!” Caitria struggled. Feeling the blade’s edge stinging beneath her chin, she tilted her head just enough to speak. “Akabe, don’t! They’ll kill me anyway! Don’t—”
A jolt interrupted Caitria. Siymont grunted. “Ungh!” His grip went slack, and he released the dagger. As Caitria staggered, shocked, Siymont dropped his sword, then fell, taken down by Commander Vioc. Without looking up, Vioc asked, “Lady, are you well?”
Caitria wobbled. “Yes. Rather.”
Akabe lowered the Azurnite sword, stepped over the man he’d slain, then gathered Caitria in an embrace. “You’re alive! Cait . . .” He kissed her fiercely, his whiskers scraping her face. “Oh, Cait—my dear, brave wife—bless the Infinite! I feared I’d led you here to die!”
“Bless Him indeed! I’m well.” She hugged him with all her might. “And you’re safe!”
Across the room, Ela—in tears—hurried to kneel beside Kien, who’d eased himself to the floor, his face waxen and drawn in pain. Unnerved, Caitria looked up at her husband. “Was Lord Aeyrievale wounded?”
“And stitched, yes. I’ll tell you everything later.” He kissed Caitria’s lips so gently that she melted. But then he shook her, becoming stern. “Never charge into a clash! I was about to attack Siymont when you appeared.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.” She hugged him, fighting fresh tears. “I had to find you! But you’re safe and nothing else matters. Except . . . he was Barth’s father! How will we tell him?”
Akabe didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Commander Vioc. “Thank you, sir. Should I ask who you are?”
“I am a servant of my king, who decreed I must be sure your wife reaches you safely.” Vioc slid his dagger into its scabbard and bowed his head. “To be certain of that—with your forgiveness, Majesty—I ordered my men to search this place and subdue your foes, if any have survived. When we are certain Siphra’s queen is protected, we will depart in peace.”
Akabe sighed. Caitria felt the tension fade from his body as he spoke. “Thank you, sir. I’ll ask no other questions. However, you and your men may shelter here for the night.”
“Our thanks, with gladness, Majesty.” Commander Vioc bowed again and retreated.
Now Akabe answered Caitria’s question about Siymont. “How can I possibly tell that little boy his father is a traitor?” He shook his head. “I’ll pray over that as I take care of these men—after I find Riddig and Flint. Infinite—have they survived the attack?”
Dismayed, Caitria remembered the first death she’d seen as she and Ela approached the fortress—one of Akabe’s men falling from the gatehouse. Had her husband lost all his men? Bracing herself, she tucked her unbruised hand in his. “I’ll go with you to find them.”
Followed by the battered and miserable Riddig Tyne, Akabe knelt with Caitria beside Flint’s body and stared, heartsick. “A good man. Dead, because of me.”
Her touch featherlight, Caitria smoothed his beard. “My lord, you cannot blame yourself for Siymont’s rebellion. Flint died serving Siphra.”
“Even so, I’m responsible.” Akabe embraced his wife and kissed her soft cheek, marveling again at her presence and praising the Infinite for the transformation he saw in her. Later, he would ask Cait for details and rejoice in their newfound intimacy. But not now. Not while gazing upon the stilled faces of dead Siphrans. Caressing the graceful line of her throat—and checking the small bloodied nick left by Siymont’s attack—he murmured, “Beloved, go inside. Riddig and I must bury our dead.”
She kissed him, smoothing his beard again. “I’ll have bathing water warmed for you.”
Akabe watched her reenter the fortress, then sighed and nodded at Riddig. “We bury Flint first. Then Siymont.” He prayed aloud, sickened. “Infinite! How will I tell young Barth?”
They’d just finished wrapping and tying Flint’s body when the sounds of horses alerted them to visitors. No . . . Akabe listened hard, hearing orders and responses given by the unseen men’s respectful, well-trained voices. Accompanied by the customary trump-call of his personal guards, alerting all to their approach.
“Majesty!” Riddig breathed, some of his misery vanishing, “Your men are here!”
Akabe stood and lifted his dirtied hands in praise. “Bless You, Infinite!”
As he watched, five of his personal guards emerged from the woods, emaciated and obviously worried. When they knelt before him, Akabe recognized the five as the guards he’d left with Caitria the morning she was stolen. One of the five moistened his cracked lips and said, “Majesty. Forgive us, but we were ordered to flee. But . . . we became lost in the hills. Until our reinforcements appeared . . .”
“Stand,” Akabe commanded. “There’s nothing to forgive. Bless the Infinite that we’ve survived!”
Kien opened his eye
s, blinked hard, and saw Ela enter the now-clean chamber, carrying a tray set with a bowl, a towel, and a spoon. Definitely not a dream, though she was more than beautiful enough to be a dream. Infinite, thank You!
He smiled, loving the curve of her mouth, the line of her cheek, and the way she raised those dark eyebrows at him, looking—Kien was sure—for any sign that he required some vile herbal remedy. Ugh! Inspiration for a swift recovery.
Caitria followed Ela, bearing a pitcher and clearly continuing a conversation, which sounded more like a debate. “ . . . then, just like that—upon an instant—the Infinite would forgive the worst reprobate? Or a Siymont-sort who has hated Him for a lifetime?”
“Or an Ela, a Kien, or an Akabe,” Ela agreed, placing her tray beside Kien’s pallet. “Not to mention a Caitria. We’re all guilty. But He loves us as the best of fathers and seeks a way to bring us home. Think of it as a spiritual adoption.”
A spiritual adoption. Kien almost grinned at the comparison, then paused. Adoption?
While Ela and Caitria talked, Kien turned over the idea in his thoughts, picking at it. Trying to find any flaw while viewing adoption according to the Tracelands’ legal codes. And . . .
Infinite? Of course! You’re brilliant!
At last Caitria departed, and Ela fussed over Kien and coerced him to eat. Finished with his meal but too tired to ask for parchment and ink, Kien closed his eyes and mentally composed his letter. Dear Father and Mother, I pray this letter finds you well. I am recovering from a skirmish. . . . No. Don’t mention the skirmish or the wounds. Not until he’d healed.
Kien frowned, feeling exhaustion take hold, blanketing his thoughts in a haze. Sleep threatened. Best to keep the letter short. Dear parents, if you love me still, and if you persist in the notion of permanently and irrevocably restoring my legal status as your son, then adopt me!
Softly, Ela kissed him awake. “You cannot sleep yet, sir. I must tell you our news.”
For her sake, Kien opened his eyes and tried to look interested. “More good news, I hope.” There’d been too much evil news lately.
“Yes, we pray you think so.”
“We?”
Grateful for the promise of a solid night’s sleep, Akabe donned a comparatively fresh robe, then ran a hand over his now-shaven jaw. Being clean for the first time in weeks eased his gloom. As did the beguiling sight of his wife, who sat on her pallet, combing her hair to gleaming smoothness. She smiled up at him. “You look much better, sir.”
He returned her smile. “But you need no improvement, lady. Indeed, you look remarkably well for everything you’ve been through.”
She shrugged, seeming rueful. “I’d have been far better off if I’d listened to Ela. She was right about everything!” Caitria shivered visibly. “The way Bel-Tygeon’s temple disintegrated around us . . . and what happened afterward . . .”
Suspecting she was close to tears again, Akabe sat beside Caitria and pulled her into his arms. “You didn’t know Bel-Tygeon would order that girl’s death.”
“Yet she’d still be alive if I’d listened to Ela—to the Infinite.” Caitria sniffled moistly and leaned against Akabe’s shoulder. “I’ll never forgive myself, nor will I forget Mari.”
Rocking her slightly, he murmured, “Believe me, I understand.”
Caitria straightened. Not looking at him, she said, “I still say you should set me aside.”
Her words jabbed him like verbal darts. After everything they’d been through, why was she bringing up this matter again? Frustrated, he held her shoulders. “Cait, look at me.” She looked him steadily in the eyes, but he felt her tremble. “As you live, tell me the truth. Do you want to be rid of me?”
“No.” Her words firm and controlled, she continued. “I love you. But setting me aside might be best for you, and for Siphra. I’m too—”
“You’re my wife! Our marriage was blessed by the Infinite, and I won’t release you from our vows. I refuse!” Her eyes brimmed in the lamplight, and her composed expression crumpled. Sensing victory, Akabe swept her into his embrace, kissing her. “Never bring up this notion again—I don’t want to hear it. Ever. If it’s the Infinite’s will, when Siphra’s temple is dedicated, I want you there standing beside me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly!” She returned his kiss fervently and snuggled against him.
Akabe glimpsed a flash of gold on her slender ankle. “Where did you acquire that? I’m certain I would have remembered it.” Though he admired her feet more than the ornament.
She grimaced. “It’s from the Women’s Palace in Sulaanc. Ela and I were forced to wear these. All of Bel-Tygeon’s women wear these anklets.”
“What!”
By the time Caitria finished answering all his questions and showing him her gold anklet—which he intended to break at once—Akabe’s heart was thudding as if prepared for battle. Though he’d seen enough death for a lifetime, he wanted to kill a certain god-king.
In the kitchen’s morning light, Akabe faced Siphra’s most fearsome prophet as she lifted a flat round of bread from a griddle. “What of the temple? Is it against the Infinite’s will for Siphra to rebuild?”
Ela slid the hot, brown-flecked round onto a dish. “I’ve been praying, asking that very question.” She paused and looked up at him. “No house built by mortals can contain the Infinite. Yet He will bless Siphra’s work.” Tears filled her eyes, though she smiled. “Parne’s sacred Books of the Infinite will be sheltered there.”
Akabe listened, her words rending his spirit, even as they offered joy. “What your Creator truly requires of you, Majesty, is that those sacred verses be found engraved in your heart and soul, as you ever seek Him in love. As you restore peace to Siphra.”
Incapable of speech, his soul crying praises to his Creator, he nodded agreement.
Forgiven.
Determined to set his Royal Council aright, Akabe flung the document onto the Munra palace’s meeting table. “What do you mean you’ve confiscated Siymont’s properties?”
“Sir,” Faine began soothingly, “Siymont was the ringleader. Barth was his informant.”
“He is six years old! Six!” Akabe stood, glaring at each of his lords. “I thank you for everything you’ve done, my lords, and I’ll reward you for your loyalty, but this is wrong! Evil may walk this world, sirs, through the actions and inspirations of mortals, but I’ll never follow it or commit it willingly. Instead . . .” He caught his breath, remembering his parents, his brothers, and Deeaynna’s innocent little face. “I prefer to forgive and show grace, as our Creator wishes.”
Certain they were all listening, Akabe said, “I command that document destroyed and Barth’s inheritance restored. When you’ve done so, then order Master Croleut to bring the boy to court again—I want to speak with Barth. Find Thaenfall as well, and Ruestock. I intend to settle matters now, so we can rebuild our temple in peace.”
Trillcliff, Piton, and the others shifted. Faine coughed. “Yes, Majesty.”
36
Though all his stitches burned and pulled enough to make him grit his teeth, Kien managed to keep his seat on Scythe while he rode into Aeyrievale with Ela and their guards. It helped that the black monster-horse moved cautiously, as if realizing Kien might truly unravel.
Riding before them in the cushioned chariot Kien had just abandoned, Ela called over her shoulder, “Will riding beneath the gates be too much for you?”
“No.” Kien hoped it was the truth. It wouldn’t do to enter his fief yelling in pain. Controlling himself, he looked around. Aeyrievale in summer’s glory proved a good distraction. As did the celebratory greetings from his tenants. Doubtless they were grateful he’d lived—the mining operations would continue uninterrupted, providing sapphires to adorn the Infinite’s temple. The realization made Kien grin.
Waving at Naor, who bellowed a pledge to visit, Kien turned Scythe onto the broad stone track cut into the gray cliff. Inwardly, he cringed each time he ducked to allow Scyt
he through this series of gated arches. By the time they reached the manor that crowned the cliff above, he was sweating. Inside the main courtyard, Kien ordered Scythe to kneel, then edged gingerly off his back. “Home!”
Kien exhaled his relief. Until he saw the welcoming committee.
Bryce and Prill rushed toward Ela and Kien, exultant. Followed by Lorteus, the royal fightmaster. An unpleasant grin widened in Lorteus’ battered face, and his voice grated harsh in Kien’s ears. “Welcome, sir! I’ve been sent ahead by order of our king to direct your recovery—seeing’s how you nearly died by failing to heed my lessons. Good of his majesty, isn’t it?”
Oh yes. Killing good. Kien rested a hand on the Azurnite sword—just in case—and he managed to look stern. “Fine. But not now, Lorteus!”
“Of course not, sir,” Lorteus agreed flatly. “Tonight, I clean the weapons. At dawn, I’ll fetch you for work—to overcome your failure. Be ready.”
As Ela linked her arm in his, Kien hissed, “He’s going to kill me!”
“Hmm.” Ela smiled and hugged him while they crossed the courtyard. “We think he’s already done some good, sir. You’re walking faster now.”
Kien bit down a smile—which Ela undoubtedly saw—and he grumbled, “It’s a sad thing when my own family sides with my tormentor!” Before he’d limped into the manor’s doorway, Kien had fully composed a letter of protest to Akabe, with mock-promises of revenge.
“Majesty.” Master Croleut’s mannerly tone permeated Akabe’s private study. “Lord Siymont has arrived, with his mother.”
Akabe nodded at the portly tutor. “Thank you, Master Croleut. Show them in.” Akabe exhaled quietly, covered his ink jar and returned his pen to its gilded tray. His formal complaint to Bel-Tygeon could wait. Akabe turned his chair but remained seated, determined not to intimidate Siphra’s youngest lord, or his mother.
Barth sidled into the study, neatly clothed and combed, but sadly downcast as if he’d been asked to carry the entire world on his small shoulders. A sensation Akabe remembered all too well after his family’s deaths. A dark-clad noblewoman followed Barth, her face haggard with obvious melancholy and muted resentment. Had Lady Siymont known of her husband’s plans? No proof had been found, yet Akabe wouldn’t be surprised. He cleared his throat. “Sir. Come here.”
