King (Books of the Infinite Book #3)

by R. J. Larson

  The joy faded from his eyes. “You didn’t receive my letter?”

  “No. Only a tiny cipher yesterday, noting that you’d arrive soon. Were you acquitted?”

  Seeming pained, he spoke so quietly that she barely heard, “I was exiled.”

  “From the Tracelands? For how long?”

  “Life.”

  He’d been permanently exiled from his home? “Kien, why?”

  “When my letter arrives, as it should have several days ago, you can read the whole miserable account.” His voice flattened to bleakness. “Never mind. I’m here to visit you.” Glancing around the site, Kien’s beautiful, pale eyes brightened. “This is where the Infinite’s temple will stand?”

  “Yes, and I’m so grateful!” Ela’s heart lifted, her soul soaring with the thought. “I’ve mourned over Parne’s temple. I never knew how much I loved the Infinite’s Holy House . . . how much all the survivors loved the temple until we watched our own fall—and rightfully so.” Smiling, watching Kien survey the site, she added, “Parne’s refugees have been rejoicing ever since the king issued his decree that the temple must be rebuilt. Though the Ateans are threatening the work. Father—”

  “Ateans!” His elation fading, Kien turned, his cloak swirling with the movement. “Of course they’d try to destroy anything that the Infinite’s faithful cherish.” He sighed. “Let’s discuss a slightly different matter.”

  “All right.” She’d tell him of Father’s near-death later. Determined to be patient, she clicked the end of the branch on the pavings beneath her sandaled feet. “What are we discussing?” Because if he offered marriage a third time she’d say no. She would. And hopefully she’d be convincing to Kien and herself.

  Still somber, he lifted a dark eyebrow, looked around at others working on the site, then whispered, “Ela, before I’d even unpacked my gear this afternoon, three of the king’s advisors called on me. Accusing me of hiding my relationship with you, thereby causing the king severe emotional distress. And—not to bring up such a hateful subject again—he’s married an Atean.”

  “I’ve heard the queen’s an Atean, and I hope to speak with her. But . . .” Ela felt herself blush, remembering the king’s proposal. “Are his advisors blaming me because I refused to marry Akabe?”

  “Me. They’re blaming me, Ela.” He grimaced, captivating her with that wry twist of his lips. “But I’m worried about your reputation.”

  “Wait.” Ela lifted a hand. This conversation had just shifted to something worse than simple blame. “My reputation?”

  “Yes.” Kien leaned closer and murmured, “Once this story becomes known, if the queen’s a rabid Atean like her predecessor, you might be condemned for rejecting the king. Do you think Siphra will ever forgive you?”

  If Akabe’s new wife was truly Atean like the former Queen Raenna . . . Ela shivered. In the end, after Siphra’s revolution, Queen Raenna had succumbed to madness. Possessed by ghastly soul-shadowing deceivers—servants of the immortal Adversary—she’d dashed herself to death on the rocks below the royal terrace. Within that same evening, King Segere hanged himself in his beloved Raenna’s apartments. Would the Siphrans forgive her if Ela had inadvertently brought another queen like Raenna into power? “I suppose not.”

  Kien clasped Ela’s hand, startling her with the warmth of his touch. “Once malicious gossip starts, it’s nearly impossible to stop. Believe me. We must work together to mitigate this Atean situation. Meanwhile,” Kien’s tone softened, “the most sensible thing you can do to stave off gossip—and the fairest compensation for my sacrifice in accepting the blame—is to marry me.”

  Oh? She stared at him. Kien smiled. And his gray eyes lit with mischief. Was he enjoying her embarrassment? He was. Actor! Schemer! “You’re hoaxing me!”

  “Not at all.” He grinned. “It’s the truth. Though you’re not helping matters by yelling—”

  “I’ll yell if I want to! You’re bullying me!” She swung the branch at him.

  Kien snatched it from her hand. “I’m not bullying you! I . . . Hey . . .”

  Ela followed his gaze and stared at the branch. In his hand. He’d never managed to touch the miraculous vinewood before, much less take it from her. Infinite! She lunged for her treasured insignia. “Give that back!”

  “Ha!” Kien whipped the branch out of her reach and wrapped his free arm around Ela’s waist, restraining her. “I win!”

  Pet trotted around them in a nervous circle now, obviously agitated by their squabble, his big hooves drumming the ground. Beyond him, Tamri, Prill, and a growing crowd all stared.

  Really, despite Kien’s fine words about fearing for her reputation, he certainly wasn’t helping matters. “Kien!” Ela yanked at his long mantle, then his sleeve. “Give. Me. My. Branch!”

  “No!” He whooped and swung her in a half-circle, definitely celebrating. “This means something, doesn’t it? I have the Infinite’s approval to marry you!”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “And you do?” he taunted, setting her down, but still holding her tight. “Do you? Did you ask the Infinite about our marriage, Ela? Ever?”

  Well, no, because she’d presumed . . . Horrified, Ela shut her eyes. Infinite? Is it true? Must I marry him?

  Unperturbed silence answered her question. A waiting calm that told her nothing. Infinite—not helpful! However, couldn’t this silence mean that the Infinite was impartial about the situation? Then the decision was actually hers. Reassured, and—if she must admit it—smug, Ela poked Kien’s ribs. “Let me go. I don’t have to marry you if I don’t want to!”

  Dan Roeh’s deep, stern voice interrupted, “I disagree.”

  Father! Ela gasped and shoved at Kien. He removed his arm from her waist, but held her hand. To protect her? Or to protect himself?

  Pet loomed behind them now, calmer despite Dan’s threatening stance.

  Dan glared. “I’ve had enough! Ela, I’m tired of chasing off your suitors. You’ll marry this man, or I’ll give you to the next one who asks—no matter who he is.”

  “Father!”

  Ignoring her, Father nodded at Kien. “Lantec. Send word to your parents, then let me know when they’ll arrive in Munra. We’ll celebrate your wedding the following day.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kien murmured, looking suitably meek.

  “Meanwhile . . .” Father grabbed Ela’s wrist and pulled her away from Kien. “No more public scenes. If you want to visit my daughter, you’ll have to request my permission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And”—Dan scowled at Pet—“you keep this destroyer off the temple grounds until the building is completed. Those vibrations he throws off are shaking the foundations!”

  “Sorry, sir.” However, Kien looked anything but sorry. He offered the branch to Ela with a courteous nod—so polite that he might have been returning a dropped scarf. But his eyes glittered, and he bit his lip.

  Obviously laughing inside like a wild man.

  “Huh!” Ela snatched the branch and turned away, huffy as Pet in a foul mood.

  Wearing his finest dark blue clothes, which were creased from the journey, Kien strode into Siphra’s throne room. No surprise that he’d been ordered here. Before so much as speaking to the king, Kien must do the one thing he’d never in his Tracelander’s life expected he’d do.

  He marched up the length of the throne room, aware of Siphra’s courtiers all staring, eager to see him accomplish this first ceremony as a Siphran. Fine. Let them stare. Throughout his childhood, he’d been thoroughly trained by every etiquette master that Rade and Ara Lantec could gather. And his training had been cruelly polished in the royal courts of Istgard facing the despotic King Tek An. He, Kien Lantec, could surely survive Siphra’s royal court.

  Kien halted before Akabe, who watched from his throne on the dais, somber as one about to pronounce a death sentence. And, in a way, this was a death.

  Resolute, Kien unbuckled his Azurnite sword and placed it at
the king’s feet. Then he knelt and offered Akabe his bare hands. Looking the king straight in the eyes, he said, “Majesty, I pledge before all and the Infinite that I will faithfully serve you, Akabe of Siphra, as my king. I will never cause you or your heirs harm and will defend you completely, in good faith and without deceit before all living.”

  Akabe leaned forward and gripped Kien’s hands. His voice formal and carrying throughout the throne room, the king said, “I accept your pledge and will honor your place as you ever deserve.” Now Akabe grinned. “Stand, Lord Aeyrievale!” Beneath his breath, he muttered, “Welcome, my friend!”

  Unable to speak, Kien nodded and stood.

  His voice still low, Akabe said, “My lord, this is my wife and queen, the Lady Caitria.”

  A solemn young woman, who’d been sitting on a low cushioned bench near the throne, stood and held out an elegant hand to Kien.

  With long-lashed eyes, light brown hair, and a cautious welcoming smile, this lovely queen was surely too young, too vulnerable, to be an entrenched Atean. At most, Caitria was Ela’s age. Nothing like the hard-eyed, conniving schemer Kien had feared.

  Mindful of his manners, Kien kissed the young queen’s hand and smiled. Inwardly, he frowned, puzzled by her demeanor. She stepped nearer to Akabe, watching Kien as if expecting him to bite her. Interesting. Though he hadn’t said a word to the Lady Caitria, she didn’t trust him. Should he trust her? Infinite?

  Finished with Kien’s letter, Ela sat on her sleeping pallet in her parents’ new fortress-like home and stared through glistening tears at his signature on the parchment. No wonder he’d been unable to speak of his trial. This, written in sprawling script, was the letter of a man in utter despair, grieving over the loss of his home and family.

  Ela, legally, I have no parents. I am no one!

  So the hurt she’d glimpsed this afternoon wasn’t feigned. Kien still mourned.

  If she’d read this letter earlier, before seeing him again, she would have hugged and comforted him the instant they met—never mind the gossiping onlookers. But perhaps it was best for all concerned that the letter arrived today.

  Come to think of it, however, the result would have been the same: She must marry Kien.

  A complication unsuited for her short-lived future as a prophet.

  And yet, hadn’t she longed to marry him for more than a year?

  Ela folded Kien’s letter, tucked it away like treasure inside her painted storage chest, then kneeled beside her bed and hid her face in her folded arms, praying fiercely. Infinite? I love You! Remember Your servant, and remind me always of You! Thank You. But won’t I become too distracted by my marriage? Will I continue to serve You as I should?

  Praying, she waited for a time, then curled up beneath the coverlets on her thick pallet and fell asleep.

  Terror woke her. She was sitting up, and dawn’s light sent luminous slivers through her shuttered windows. “Infinite?”

  Are you My servant?

  “Yes.”

  Listen!

  Images slid into Ela’s thoughts, sending shivers of fear over her skin. Tormented screams of dying men shrieked from within her mind. Ashes dimmed her sight. “Wait! Please!” She clutched her head and huddled on the tiled floor, rocked by agony. “Infinite!”

  The vision opened, drawing her inside. Gasping, Ela looked around, her heart hammering with her soul’s terror. Stone walls, a window, and a girl Ela identified as the queen—a thin, beautiful young lady, who screamed, her huge eyes pleading for safety that Ela couldn’t provide.

  And as Ela wept, soldiers died. Horribly.

  Kien! Where was Kien? Her thoughts warned him away. Begged him to survive.

  The image widened, becoming many. Biting down screams, Ela curled into a ball and fought the torment. Enemies whispered their hatred. Their plans. Decisions had been made in the Tracelands. Were being made in Siphra, and in the nearby country of a vengeful god-king.

  All merged and flowed toward her. Toward Siphra’s king. Toward the Infinite’s Holy House, in a tidal wave of malice. Darkness threatened consciousness. “Infinite . . . help . . .”

  Released from the stream of images and emotions, Ela muffled sobs, pressing her face against the cooling tiles as she fought to recover her senses. Clearly, this marriage to Kien—the love she’d resisted so fiercely—would be her only brief mortal sanctuary amid the coming chaos.

  “Father?” Ela scrambled to her feet, praying as she ran.

  For Father. For Kien. For Akabe and the temple.

  And for the young queen she could not protect.

  12

  The instant the servant departed, Akabe set aside his half-eaten morning meal, opened a gilded silver box, and removed Caitria’s official bridal armband—exquisitely cast in gold with two aeryons in flight supporting a crown. Akabe studied the piece for flaws. None. If the goldsmith held any resentment against his king or queen, or the Infinite’s Holy House, he hadn’t allowed them to show in his work. Satisfied, Akabe carried the armband into his bedchamber.

  Stepping inside, he smiled, admiring Caitria, who’d—as usual—remained in bed, her slight form lit by a glowing cluster of gilt bronze lamps. How she loathed their early mornings. “Lady.”

  Caitria sat up, suddenly alert. “Majesty?”

  Akabe lifted the armband. “Siphra’s gift to its queen.”

  She allowed Akabe to fasten the gold around her arm without protest. But by her pitiable expression, the gold ought to have been an iron shackle on her left ankle instead, denoting imprisonment. Caitria fingered the band and sighed. “Thank you. It’s heavy.”

  “Not unbearably so, I hope,” Akabe murmured. “However, if it becomes intolerable, tell me. We don’t agree on everything, but we’ve each been brought here as captives to our situations and, therefore, I’ll understand. Unless . . .” He looked around at the dimly lit, windowless, trinket-cluttered royal chamber. Safe, yet suffocating. “Unless you actually like this place.”

  A smile lit her drowsy features. “No, sir. I hate this place! I hate feeling so trapped, so watched! I hate . . .”

  Akabe could almost hear the words she’d just stifled.

  I hate the circumstances that brought me here!

  And he was the instigator of her misery, yet he couldn’t free her. Guilt descended upon him like a sodden cloak. As he bent and kissed her hair, frantic tapping sounded at the antechamber door. Faine’s muffled voice beckoned, “Majesty—a message from the prophet! She waits in the council chamber!”

  The prophet! With a message? Heart thudding, Akabe spun on his booted heel and charged from his bedchamber, dread chasing his steps.

  In his temporary rooms within the palace, Kien finished his morning meal and studied the documents just offered by his steward, who was already attending to legalities on the opposite side of the decorative table. “What are these, Bryce?”

  Thin, brown, and businesslike, Bryce continued to prepare blue wax and cords for sealing the documents. “My lord, the first is your declaration of intent to reopen Aeyrievale’s sapphire mines, which we closed during the rebellion, and this is your formal request for the release of Aeyrievale’s funds.”

  “Hmm.” He supposed he needed funds. As for sapphire mines—well, if Aeyrievale possessed them and wanted to use them, it meant jobs. Kien scanned the documents, found them in order, and accepted the reed pen and ink, politely offered by Bryce. Still disliking the look of his name, he signed twice. Kien Lantec of Aeyrievale.

  Would he always cringe inside whenever he wrote Aeyrievale?

  Bryce slid the parchments away from Kien and applied Aeyrievale’s official seal within a puddle of bright blue wax. “That was the last of the legal concerns for this morning, my lord. I’m told the king’s revenue clerks will release the funds to your control today. You can decide how best to use the money later.”

  With a sigh, as if relieved of a long-carried burden, Bryce placed the sealed parchment inside a box, then offered a sketch on a smal
l square of parchment. “For your signature of approval. The future Lady Aeyrievale’s gold—her wedding band.”

  Ela’s wedding band! Kien studied the sketch. It appeared to be a cuff, fashioned to resemble a stylish, curling plume-like feather. “Why a feather?”

  “Aeryons, my lord. In Siphra, they live only in Aeyrievale, and they are our unofficial symbol. All the former ladies of Aeyrievale, in succession, wore an armband similar to this one. The original was confiscated by Queen Raenna—may she rot forever—after the last Lady Aeyrievale’s murder, more than ten years ago.”

  Tracing the sketched outline, Kien asked, “Were there no heirs?”

  “No, sir. Lady Aeyrievale’s only child died of a fever at age five. But even if the girl had survived a few months more, she would have died with her parents at the queen’s command.”

  May Raenna rot forever, Kien added silently. “I wish your previous lord and his family had survived.” He signed approval to the sketch, then sat back. “What now?”

  “We wait, sir. I’ve sent out a few invitations to various people who might be interested in joining your household. And you’ll make additional wedding plans. Unless you’d rather follow Aeyrievale’s ancient custom.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Steal the future Lady Aeyrievale from her family.”

  Kien laughed and shook his head. “No! You’re a wild lot in Aeyrievale.”

  “We’re trying to improve, my lord, but this custom continues. The former Lady Aeyrievale paid bribes to discourage weapons—your wife might consider resuming the practice. It was becoming rather popular.”

  “You’ll have to speak with Ela about the bribes. She—” A light tapping sounded at the door. Bryce hurried to answer it, admitting a young, crimson-clad page with rumpled hair, who looked as if he’d just been dragged from sleep.