by R. J. Larson
“So say you, fool!” the man taunted. “Yes, we suffered losses! But so did you! Others are coming. You’re dead—all three of you!” He laughed and refused to elaborate.
Enough. Akabe stuffed a dirty cloth into the Atean’s mouth, then nodded to Kien. “Grab him by the heels. We’ll toss him into the root cellar and let him rot.”
The instant the man was stashed away, writhing and howling muffled protests from beneath the cellar’s door, Akabe muttered, “Let’s make our plans. We can’t depend upon my men returning.” Were they all dead? Akabe nearly wept at the thought. Instead, he swallowed. “No doubt we’ve more assassins on the way and only the three of us to meet them. Four—including Scythe. The gate’s left side won’t take more than a few solid strikes to break it open. How are you with snares?”
“Not proficient. You’ll have to teach me.”
“Of course.” Though his thoughts spun plans for myriad traps, Akabe almost heard his own death dirge. Three men and one destroyer against a throng of attackers who were certainly on their way. . . . Hopeless! He and Kien weren’t prophets, able to call upon fire from the Infinite. They couldn’t possibly overcome a horde of Ateans. Yet he must be grateful.
Infinite? Thank You for removing Caitria and Ela from the coming attack. Help us—
Kien chuckled darkly, interrupting Akabe’s prayer. “Wait. If we’re outnumbered, then we’re going about this all wrong. Forget the snares for now. Lorteus won’t approve, but . . .”
He outlined his plan and Akabe laughed. “I could almost kiss you.”
“Don’t.”
26
The capital of Belaal, the city of Sulaanc, stunned Caitria with its opulence. Dazzling gilded domes crowned pristine white towers. Blue-tiled walls surrounded private residences, which remained unseen except for their elegant soaring spires and ornately carved stone rooftop balustrades. Broad, low-walled white bridges spanned extraordinary canals brimming with pale green water. Intensely blue flowers framed perfect gardens of lush, perfumed red blooms. And everywhere, palm trees—living images from Caitria’s childhood tomes—curved gracefully against the most vivid blue sky she’d ever seen.
Fragrances wafted toward her from the crowded marketplace, making her inhale deeply as they rode by. Roasting meats, the tang of pounded spices, and enticing floral scents offered a feast of aromas. Wherever she looked, Caitria saw flowers. If only she could be an ordinary visitor to this city. With Akabe. Her breath caught in longing for her husband—his captivating gaze, the warmth of his voice, his radiant smile, and most of all, his embrace. Yet another night she’d spend away from him—the third! Why couldn’t Akabe be a merchant? A craftsman? Even an ordinary hunter? They’d be safe. Able to live and perhaps love each other without fear.
However, she was no ordinary visitor to Sulaanc. By now, all the soldiers knew they’d captured Siphra’s queen. How could she escape? Infinite? I’ve no right to ask, but . . . help me!
They approached an immense gatehouse patterned with deep blue tiles, depicting menacing water-dreki—spiky, sinuous amphibian-dragons that made her shudder. Did these creatures exist in Belaal? Infinite, spare me from meeting them! The scalns had been enough.
“Majesty.” Commander Vioc drew his horse alongside hers. Dismounting, he assisted Caitria and Ela from their horses, then bowed. “This is where I bid you farewell. May your Infinite bless you.”
Caitria nodded, her thoughts—her soul—clinging to the blessing. “Thank you, commander.” Would her Creator, yet so new to her, deign to bless her with an escape? She glanced at Ela, who rested her head against the vinewood branch and closed her eyes. Ever since the scalns’ ambush, Ela had been ill. Too tired to say more than a few words at a time. Unable to eat or sleep. All worrisome in the extreme.
As much as Ela intimidated her, the prophet had proven herself a friend. A maddening friend who dragged Caitria into horrifying adventures and chilled her to the heart by knowing her thoughts. But a friend nonetheless.
If Ela’s illness progressed and she died . . . Caitria’s throat tightened at the thought.
Commander Vioc saluted her and started to turn away his horse. With her wedding band! Caitria stopped him. “Sir, where are the armbands? Mine and Lady Aeyrievale’s?”
The commander’s squared face gentled, revealing a bit of sympathy. “They’ve been sent onward to the king. He will summon you from the Women’s Palace when he has time to speak with you and the prophet.”
“The Women’s Palace?” She followed Commander Vioc’s gaze toward the huge dreki-adorned gatehouse. “This is the Women’s Palace?”
Looking surprised that Siphra’s queen didn’t know what everyone in the world must know, Vioc shook his head. “No, Majesty. This is the king’s residence. The Women’s Palace is within his own—for the safety of all his women.”
All his women? Now including her and Ela? Caitria clutched at her horse’s mane, longing to fling herself onto the beast and make a wild dash for Siphra. Before she could manage another word, Commander Vioc and his men departed and were instantly replaced by a contingent of formidable armor-clad guards, who swiftly surrounded Caitria and Ela.
Two of the new guards led the horses away, while the new commander bowed to Caitria. “Majesty. Enter in peace.”
Peace? No! She must resist. Caitria looked from the impassive new commander to the huge gatehouse, which resembled a flamboyant blue-tiled prison. A cold, gentle hand touched Caitria’s, making her turn. Ela.
Her movements wearied, her face bloodless, Ela whispered, “Remember my warning, Majesty. If you try to escape, you will fail. And you’ll mourn the consequences.”
Caitria patted Ela’s hand, then gripped her arm, supporting her. “I was just thinking what an exasperating friend you are, and now you’ve reminded me that I’m right.”
Ela’s mouth turned upward in a smile. “Thank you, Majesty.”
“Of course.” Caitria frowned at the guards who rudely herded them toward the ominous palace gate. “Boors!” Bad of her, yes, but she was in no mood to be polite.
Inside the magnificent paved entry yard, they were met by an imperious little woman swathed in flowing crimson robes and crowned with a pert crimson turban. Her dark, unsparing gaze swept Caitria and Ela from head to toe, and her full mouth went prim as if she wasn’t the least pleased with what she saw.
Commander Vioc’s replacement bowed to the proud woman, whispering to Caitria and Ela, “This is Lady Dasarai. She rules the Women’s Palace. Wisdom itself trusts her opinion.”
Oh? Who did Lady Dasarai bribe to spread that grand rumor? Caitria tightened her grip on Ela’s arm and smiled. “Lady. We will follow you.” Only because they must.
The superior Dasarai inclined her head, the movement graceful as if she’d practiced all her life—and she probably had. In a snobbishly cultured accent that made Caitria feel uncouth, she intoned, “Lady. One is most grateful for your kindness.”
Really? Well, this one wanted to swat that pert little turban off the impeccably groomed Dasarai and run for the gate. But the guards would snatch her instantly. Caitria sighed and tugged Ela along. She supposed she ought to behave until she was freed from Bel-Tygeon’s control.
Would Siphra consider its queen worthy of rescue? Perhaps not. But Akabe might.
No, he mustn’t place himself in danger!
Perhaps, for her husband’s sake, Caitria was worth more to Siphra as a captive in Belaal.
Mourning the thought, she bit down tears.
Following the Lady Dasarai, Ela forced herself to walk down a grandiose palace corridor, though her muscles burned, as if she’d tangled with another aeryon. Infinite, strengthen me. I . . .
Ela gasped, nearly halting as murky translucent flickers swayed to her left and right. Silhouetted forms writhed upward like smoke from jewel-edged golden niches framed within the walls. Deceivers! Shadow spirits! Infinite . . . Ela quickened her prayers and her pace in the corridor. The dark spirits each turned as she ap
proached, revealing their phantom faces, all twisted by revulsion at her presence.
More accurately, by the Infinite’s presence with her.
Clearly, the Adversary, the self-aggrandizing spirit foe of the Infinite, had established this palace as a deceivers’ stronghold among mortals. Infinite? I know You’ve revealed these deceivers to me as a warning. How must I deal with them?
Those renegades are a mere symptom of this kingdom’s illness. Your concern is with the disease itself.
Flashes of imagery filled her thoughts, provoking a headache that made Ela press the branch to her forehead. How could she deal with this now? All her strength seemed consumed just by the effort to walk. And, obviously, she wasn’t even walking properly—Caitria clasped Ela’s arm now, supporting her across an inner courtyard, leading her toward a pavilion shielded by elaborate gold-fretted screens.
Caitria’s grip locked down on Ela’s forearm. “Ela! Why are you lagging? Look . . . just a few more steps and you’ll be carried to wherever we’re going. Not that we want to go where they’re taking us.”
Ela blinked, noticing three chairs, each set on a pair of golden poles and each attended by two pudgy, soft-jowled men. They regarded her, Caitria, and Lady Dasarai blandly, as if studying three pieces of rather boring sculpture.
Lady Dasarai glided past the six men as if they didn’t exist. She settled herself delicately in the lead chair and motioned languidly for Ela and Caitria to seat themselves in the two remaining chairs. Ela sat and anchored the branch against the chair’s built-in footrest. Grateful. Until the two smooth-skinned men waiting nearest her each took hold of her chair’s poles and lifted them up to their shoulders, causing Ela to sway aloft and clutch the branch and an armrest. Queasy, she took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the long, glittering blue-and-gold corridor ahead. Better. And revealing.
Unseen by other mortals, still more deceivers fled in advance of her arrival, departing like plumes of smoke exhaled from extinguished lamps. Obviously, by the fragrance of incense around her, the deceivers—under the guise of Bel-Tygeon and dead god-kings—had been receiving devotions from the palace’s inhabitants.
Symptoms of the disease, the Infinite said. Well, the current god-king, Bel-Tygeon, would soon learn the cure. Provided the Infinite’s prophet could summon enough coherence to tell the king what he needed to hear.
Praying for strength, Ela stared ahead through the endless corridor. Why had Bel-Tygeon demanded her presence? He hadn’t a clue as to the chaos he’d instigated.
She gripped the armrest as her two porters threaded their way through a maze of tunnels and gates, all protected by stocky, cold-eyed armored female guards who glowered at Ela as she was carried through the gateways. Her two porters finally set her down near Caitria and Lady Dasarai within a large indoor courtyard garden, enclosed by two tiers of apartments. Ela stood, watching servants dash along the apartment walkways, tapping on doors and calling out, “Ladies! Ladies!”
Multitudes of women in gauzy jewel-bright robes and sheer mantles—which failed to conceal their embroidered foundation garments—fluttered from the lower apartments, while on the balconies above, more women peeked around the edges of ornately fashioned metal screens.
Caitria sidled up to Ela and whispered, “We’re a sensation! Listen to them chattering.”
“They sound like a flock of birds,” Ela murmured. Seeing Lady Dasarai approach, she straightened, bringing the branch closer to herself.
The elegant woman inclined her head, allowing Ela and Caitria a stiff little smile. “Ladies, if you please, baths first, then food and rest as we await the king’s decisions.”
Caitria folded her slender arms, her lovely face hardening. “What sort of decisions?”
Dasarai’s brown eyes widened as if shocked that Caitria had asked any sort of question. “The king’s decisions concerning the two of you, Majesty. Until then, one waits.”
And one slept, Ela hoped. “A bath sounds wonderful, thank you, Lady Dasarai.”
“Certainly.” Dasarai’s smile thinned as if she didn’t have much hope for making Ela presentable. “Prophet, do you use some ordinary name?”
Straightening, Caitria spoke with authority. “She is Lady Aeyrievale—one of my own ladies and my friend.”
Dasarai smiled again, her voice liquid and sweet as she nodded toward Ela. “Lady Air-ee-veil. You are a prophet and a noblewoman? Belaal has never known such a rarity. Baths. Now.” She sent away the porters, then led Ela and Caitria through the courtyard, shooing servants ahead of her and directing the other women. How many lived in these apartments?
Ela stopped counting at one hundred forty. No doubt she could safely double that number, then add twice as many to account for the maids attending these fluttering, gossiping ladies.
They entered a large room equipped with several sparkling blue-tiled bathing pools. There, the Lady Dasarai halted and eyed the slaves with the bored expression of one who’d repeated her duties too often. “Be sure they are scrubbed, then checked by the physician.”
The slaves stepped forward, but Caitria glared at the girls who prepared to take off her boots. “I will remove my own clothes, and no one will touch them—I command it!”
Ela jumped, remembering Caitria had concealed Akabe’s daggers in her boots. Would the queen be punished? She hurried to Caitria’s side. “Majesty, let me help you. I’ll guard your clothes while you bathe.”
Dasarai’s mouth tightened with disapproval, but she nodded at the slaves. “The task will take twice as long, Majesty, if you and Lady Aeyrievale insist upon following Siphran bathing etiquette.”
“We insist.” Ela kept her voice pleasant—and the daggers hidden—as she unlaced Caitria’s boots. Even so, she wanted to hurry. Her body ached with fatigue, and she desperately needed rest.
The haughty ruler of the Women’s Palace sniffed and swept away in a stylish sulk, no doubt brooding over the injustice of being burdened with Siphra’s fussy queen and its vexing prophet.
The slaves scrubbed Caitria and Ela, swathed them in light robes and delicate sandals, then notified the physician, a wiry, efficient woman who examined them both from scalp to heels. To Caitria, she said, “You’re a bit too thin, Majesty, yet otherwise healthy.”
But she surveyed Ela in silence, frowning at the scaln scars on Ela’s legs before she checked Ela’s pulse. As the examination continued, the physician’s gray-brown eyes narrowed with obvious outrage. Ela tried to maintain her composure. Why did the physician glare as if Ela had slapped her? To her relief, the woman stalked from the bathing area, though she snapped over her shoulder at one of the maids, “Send a eunuch to wait outside my door for a message. The rest of you, continue your duties!”
Eunuch? Ela winced, remembering the castrated slaves in Parne’s marketplaces—trusted men who traded gems and gold for their foreign masters. Yes, undoubtedly those porters who’d carried her chair were eunuchs. Slaves. If only she could help free Belaal’s slaves. . . .
The instant the physician departed, the slaves again took charge of Ela and Caitria, drying, combing and perfuming their hair. As they worked, numerous women took turns staring at Ela and Caitria from the corridor, some chattering, others giggling, all beautiful—though many darted malicious looks toward Siphra’s queen and the prophet, clearly regarding them as enemies.
Infinite? Shelter us from their schemes! Let me do Your will. Let Kien . . . Feeling herself weaken, she closed her eyes. She must not think of Kien.
Seated beside Ela in the enclosed courtyard, Caitria tugged her sandaled foot away from the stout female metalsmith who’d clamped a smooth gold band around her left ankle. “No! You won’t tag me like an expensive pet!”
Her lips tight, the metalsmith nodded to the pudgy guards who surrounded Caitria and Ela. Visibly irritated, the guards locked their soft hands around Caitria’s arms and her feet, anchoring her to the ground despite her kicks and struggling. Ugh! Akabe would have beaten those men bloody!
&n
bsp; Biting down humiliated tears, Caitria watched the metalsmith lift a bit of heated metal from the nearby firepit, drop it onto her gold ankle band, then swiftly stamp it in place with a seal and a hammer. Each hammer blow struck Caitria to the heart.
Finished, the metalsmith nodded at the pudgy guards, who released Caitria and immediately grabbed Ela.
Though Ela looked as disgusted as Caitria felt, she didn’t resist while the metalsmith fastened a similar gold band around her bare left ankle.
Marking them both, Caitria realized, as slaves.
“Lady.” A young woman’s gentle voice roused Ela from her evening nap. “Forgive me, but you and the queen are summoned. Please hurry. Our lord-god-king waits.”
The king? Ela pushed aside the light coverlet and dragged herself from the cushioned pallet. She shook out her thin tunic and headed to the corner where she’d piled her clothes and the queen’s. “I require my mantle.”
The girl faltered, “B-but . . . that is the traditional attire of the king’s women. He might be offended if you reject our ways.”
Truly? Hmm. This mantle was lovely, but inappropriate for a royal audience. “I’m cold, and I’m not one of the king’s women.” Best to make herself understood now, whether Bel-Tygeon liked it or not. She swept a mantle over her shoulders and then snatched Caitria’s, checking for Akabe’s contraband daggers. Gone. Had one of the slaves removed them?
The slave—now hovering near the queen’s sleeping pallet—held no daggers, only a comb. “Majesty, I beg you, wake.”
Soft-voiced, but obviously alert, Caitria asked, “What is your name?”
The slave twitched and stammered, “M-Mari, Majesty.”
“Well, Mari, as far as I’m concerned, your lord-god-king can wait for his entire mortal life. But for your sake, we’ll hurry.” She flung back the coverlets and stood.
Mari smoothed the queen’s hair and adjusted the thin tunic. Ela waited, pointedly dangling Caitria’s mantle. Just as pointedly, Mari ignored her. “Thank you, Majesty. You’re ready. Please, follow me.” She crossed to the door and waited.
