by R. J. Larson
Ela’s entire being stilled. “You would not speak of eternal torment so lightly if you’d experienced it, sir.”
A quirk of humor broke his composed facade. “Are you about to tell me that you have experienced eternal torment?”
“Yes!” Shuddering, Ela recalled that brief fragment of time, the absolute soul-searing torment. She gazed at the darkness, forcing words past her lips. “I was trapped inside everlasting fire. I could not die, though I begged for death! The agony of being wholly separated from the Infinite was so intense—I wish it on no one! Ever!”
When Ela drew her thoughts into the present, she found Bel-Tygeon studying her. He smiled and whispered, “Excellent! I almost believed you. Now . . .” He grabbed Ela’s arm and pulled her close, as if preparing to embrace her, but without tenderness. “You will do as I command. If you possess the means to ruin my palace, then you possess the means to restore it. Don’t defy me, or I will destroy Siphra’s queen. Do you understand?”
A bluff. This had to be a bluff. He wouldn’t dare risk a full-blown war with Siphra by destroying the queen, she was almost certain. Almost. Surely his demand that she declare his future victories meant that this proud god-king feared another humiliating defeat such as the one he’d suffered in Parne.
Gathering her courage, Ela said, “You needn’t threaten me or Siphra’s queen. The Infinite has declared He will restore Belaal’s throne room tomorrow. His word is always true. Fear Him, sir! Seek His heart before you suffer calamity.”
“The calamity will be your own if you defy me.” Bel-Tygeon released Ela and strode from the room as if he could endure her no longer. Soft rustling alerted Ela to the Lady Dasarai’s presence. Ela cast the woman a pleading look. “Lady Rethae, beg your brother to consider the Infinite’s warnings! I’ve no wish to see him or Belaal suffer for his pride.”
The noblewoman lifted her chin. “With pride, he honors his birthright. One hopes you will eventually see the aptness of his ways. Now—” she waved a bejeweled hand toward the door—“you may return to your chamber.”
Feeling every bit the unwelcomed guest, Ela departed. As she prayed and followed the still-agitated Mari back to her chamber, a feminine voice beckoned, “Prophet!” Ela halted.
Followed by blue-clad slaves, a lovely, bright-eyed young woman approached, her dark hair and bare arms glittering with jeweled ornaments. Breathless, she snatched at Ela’s sheer mantle. “I hoped to speak with you. We’ve all heard what happened to the throne room—no doubt you’re a true prophet. Please, may I ask you a question?”
Listen. The Infinite’s words permeated Ela’s thoughts so swiftly that she shut her eyes and clung to the branch to withstand the impact of His voice. As for His news . . . no. Not what this young woman wanted to hear. “The Infinite has told me your question as well as its answer. You are Zaria, the king’s current favorite, and you wish to know if you are pregnant with his first child. You are not.”
The young woman flinched, then blinked away tears. Ela felt the depths of her disappointment and the Infinite’s compassion for her soul. Aware of the listening slaves, she said, “I’m sorry. The Infinite declares this palace is barren. Furthermore, it will always be so unless Bel-Tygeon acknowledges who he truly is—and is not. Pray to the Infinite for him.”
The young woman stiffened and dashed at the tears streaking her face. “Then I’ll never become his official wife? Belaal’s queen? That’s been my only goal while being enslaved. And now you tell me I’ll fail . . . I cannot accept it!”
“You haven’t failed. Only the king is able to change this circumstance. But until he relents, for however long he lives, Bel-Tygeon will have no child and no queen.”
“I won’t endure this! You’re wrong!” Zaria fled, pursued by her slaves. Ela drooped, praying the young woman would ultimately accept the news with grace. If anyone was the failure here, it was the Infinite’s own prophet. How had she missed such a critical detail? Infinite, this is why Bel-Tygeon and Lady Dasarai were so offended by my pregnancy—because he has no heir.
Yes. Unless he acknowledges his faults and conquers his pride, Bel-Tygeon will be the last of this royal house. He will obliterate his father’s name with his self-destruction.
Yet You—his Creator—reach to him. You love him despite his rebellion. Infinite, help me to set aside my anger and see this overbearing god-king as You see him!
Heartened by His unspoken affirmation, she began to walk again, sending a soothing smile to Mari. The slave stared back, as if Ela might bite her. Ela sighed and gave her attention to other concerns. How long would it take to bring Bel-Tygeon to reason? Months? Years? Would Kien’s child be born and raised a slave? Dear Kien . . . Would she see him again? A veiled fear lurked at the edge of her thoughts, making her tremble. No. No, if she expected to accomplish her work as the Infinite’s servant, she must set aside her fears and trust Him for Kien’s well-being.
Ela returned to her chamber and found Caitria in the garden throwing rocks at the tree, striking the trunk’s center with such ferocious accuracy that Akabe and Kien would have cheered. “You’re in a royal rage, Majesty. What’s happened?”
Caitria nodded toward a tray set on a nearby table. “The doctor chose our evening meal.”
“And . . . ?” Ela lifted the shining cover from the tray. A dish of steamed grain. “Oh. That’s all they’re serving us?”
“Physician’s orders.” Caitria stormed over to Ela, whispering, “Until my rash fades, this is our menu! My skin will be clear within two days! Ela, what can I do?”
“Remain calm.” Ela’s heart thudded. Bel-Tygeon had already threatened Caitria. What were his true intentions toward the queen? “Just remember the Infinite’s warning. Don’t try to escape. You’ll fail, and you’ll mourn the consequences for the rest of your life.”
“Which means I’ll survive!” Caitria argued. “Ela, I’m sick of this! It’s been five days! Five! I want to return to my husband—and somehow I will, whether you help me or not!”
Her delicate jaw set with fury, she marched inside.
Ela suppressed a groan. Infinite . . . protect her, please.
Crowds of richly clad courtiers lined the walls of Belaal’s throne room, their condemning looks following Ela as she picked her way across the throne room’s broken golden floor. In every direction, huge chunks of marble jutted upward at threatening angles. Far worse than she’d realized. Hmm. No wonder the king was so upset. Praying for composure, Ela stopped at the majestic room’s divinely shattered epicenter and glanced up at Bel-Tygeon.
Seated on the throne above her in glittering blue-and-gold-patterned robes, Bel-Tygeon met her gaze with icy calm. He’d threatened to destroy Caitria. A bluff? Ela had no wish to find out. She studied the ruined floor, praying. Infinite? This appears irreparable.
Who am I?
My Creator . . . Who formed these stones. And I am Your servant—with all my heart.
He sent her a whisper and a flick of imagery. Smiling, Ela planted the branch in the gaping epicenter, then stepped back. Her soul lifting in exultation, she called to Him. “Infinite—Creator of all, including these stones! Who is like You in the heavens above, or here below? For the glory of Your Holy Name, restore this place!”
The branch took fire, spreading in dazzling treelike spirals above her head, its brilliant light permeating the soil and shattered stones below her feet. The floor rasped, grated, and then drew together, sealing to gleaming perfection—its golden marble now altered, set with a glowing starburst of iridescent crystal rays shot throughout the throne room’s floor. A permanent reminder to Belaal of the Infinite’s work in this palace. Within a breath, the branch inverted upon itself, vinewood again, balanced upon an exquisite crystal leveled at the very center of the starburst.
She’d felt nothing. But Bel-Tygeon and his courtiers had fallen to their knees, all of them covering their eyes as if they’d been blinded. Infinite? Thank You!
Go.
Obedient, Ela lifte
d the branch, turned, and strode through the silent throne room, her layered garments whispering as she moved across the floor’s breathtaking gemstone rays.
Seated beside the hearth in his parents’ former chamber, Akabe kept watch over Kien as he slept. Infinite, bless his recovery! Spare his life. Spare all their lives. . . .
Lives that he had risked and perhaps lost. Had any other Siphran king been brought down so soon after being crowned? Not if Akabe remembered his history lessons correctly. According to future histories, he’d be an abysmal failure.
Even so, if his wife and friends could survive and escape—
Riddig charged through the open doorway, a wild man, his sword readied for a fight. In a harsh whisper, he warned, “Majesty! Horses!”
Akabe shot a worried glance at the still-slumbering Kien, then hurried outside, checking his sword.
32
In the lowering sunlight, Akabe stared down from the fortress wall walk at their approaching visitor. A solitary, stocky royal soldier rode up to the wall, leading a second horse. The man appeared bruised and exhausted, his official tunic torn and stained. Akabe winced. “Who sent you?”
Apparently recognizing his voice, the soldier bowed, then called up, “Lord Faine, Majesty.” He displayed a red-corded leather tube slung over his shoulder. “I’ve his message!”
A true message or a trap? Akabe nodded to Riddig. “We’ll allow him in, but be prepared for treachery.”
While they worked open the sturdier side of the gate—with Scythe brooding nearby—Akabe listened for sounds from the pit. Nothing. Not even ragged breathing. Evidently the insurgents were dead. A pang hit Akabe. Rebels or not, these men were his subjects. Infinite? Was there no other way? Could I have done more to save them? Wasn’t a king supposed to strive to protect his people—even to save them from their self-wrought disasters?
Dejected by fresh thoughts of failure, Akabe pried up the final sword and helped Riddig open the gate. Akabe gripped his own sword, prepared to fight. “Enter slowly!”
The servant led his two horses inside the yard, openmouthed, staring into the pit. Relief crossed the man’s bruised face. “Majesty . . . you’ve killed all the survivors!”
Bracing the gate with his back so Riddig could secure it with the swords, Akabe frowned. “Survivors?”
“The Ateans who attacked us on the road. I’m sure these men are those who survived our skirmish.”
A sickened realization turned Akabe’s stomach. Was this one of his reinforcements? “Tell me you’re not the only one of your company to survive!”
Gloom stole over the man’s swollen features. “Three others also lived. But they were too badly wounded to continue with me.”
“And what is your name?”
The servant straightened, suddenly appearing self-conscious. “Ilar Flint, Majesty. Subordinate Commander of the Inaren Royal Regiment.”
“Thank you, Ilar Flint. You’re one of four survivors. Of how many? What happened?”
As if remembering his task, Flint half knelt before Akabe and offered the sealed leather tube. “Here is Lord Faine’s report. My company—twenty of us—were settling for the night when the Ateans ambushed us south of the Inaren River.” Quietly, Flint said, “They killed sixteen, including our commander. We killed fifteen before I escaped with my comrades. I sent a courier bird to Munra, telling Lord Faine of the ambush. I requested that forty men replace us. May the Infinite send them swiftly!”
“May He indeed.” Akabe relaxed as the commander spoke. No Atean would pronounce the Infinite’s Name so reverently. “We’re grateful you survived. Did you bring supplies or weapons?”
“Several days’ worth of grains, bread, and dried meat, for one man.”
Reasonable. Glancing at the sealed tube, which appeared intact, though scraped, Akabe said, “Tomorrow I’ll give you directions and silver to go buy more food and supplies. Until then, rest. And if you can trade guard duty with Riddig and me, we’d appreciate some sleep.”
Flint bowed. “Yes. Thank you, Majesty.”
Akabe re-entered the tower, checked Kien—still sleeping—and opened Faine’s message. Faine’s usually tidy script sprawled over the parchment as if written at frantic speed.
Tilting toward the hearth’s flames, Akabe read.
Majesty,
I pray this message finds you safe and well. To our consternation, only four of the suspected rebels and their men attacked the intended estate. Doubtless the remainder were somehow warned of the ruse. Furthermore, we have reason to fear that your current location has been revealed to the enemy. We beg you, sir—for mercy’s sake—to send us word with all speed if your return is delayed, for we are, even now, hearing and refuting rumors of your death. For the well-being of all Siphra and the future of the Infinite’s temple, your subjects’ worries must be set at ease.
The men bearing this script are all tested fighters and faithful to Siphra’s temple, as well as to the Infinite. You may trust them to ensure your safe return to Munra. Your Council prays to see you soon—may our Creator bless you!
Ever your subject and the Infinite’s,
Faine
Akabe rerolled the message and gripped it hard in his fist. So Faine feared anarchy if Akabe didn’t return to Munra immediately and prove he was alive?
No. Unless he proved the rumors true with his death, he would not leave here without Caitria and Ela. As soon as possible, he must take steps to find them and bring Caitria home—if that unlivable palace in Munra could be called home.
Infinite? Let Caitria and Ela return soon!
Kien stirred, drawing a deep breath. His pallor unnerved Akabe. Though Kien’s vital organs had not been punctured—there’d been no hint of that vile Bannulk cheese—Riddig had quietly warned Akabe that Kien could die of a fever from his wounds.
Akabe sat down heavily beside his slumbering friend. If Kien died and Caitria never returned to him . . . Unbearable thoughts.
Covering his face with his hands, pouring all his strength into his plea, Akabe prayed.
Caitria shivered as Mari worked a clasp into her new surprisingly heavy ceremonial robes. If only the shiver could indicate an illness. But, no. At dawn, that overbearing twig of a lady-physician had pronounced Caitria healthy. Worse, the physician was right. Already, news of Caitria’s recovery was being noised throughout the Women’s Palace as if her well-being carried momentous importance.
All morning slaves had tapped at the door, bringing notes and gifts from the other ladies. Flowers. Poems of blessings. Fragile gilded silver bracelets. An invitation to walk in one of the palace gardens. And, ominously, these robes from Lady Dasarai, with a cryptic message: You are invited to honor our lord-king’s naming day in the formal procession to his temple.
Invited? No. Commanded.
Ela, still tired but lovely in her own new blue-and-gold robes, returned from the door with another scrolled note and a tiny bejeweled box. Caitria balked. “That’s not from the king, is it? If he’s sent me another summons, I’ll—!”
“No, Majesty,” Ela interrupted, warning Caitria with a sharp glance at Mari, who was fastening Caitria’s sandals. “It’s not from the king, I’m sure.” She offered Caitria the delicate scroll. “The servant who delivered this message noticed the box sitting beside the door.”
Mari straightened, alarm evident in her paling face and wide eyes. “Lady, if the box was left beside your door instead of presented to you personally, then it conceals an ill wish—or worse—from a rival.”
Oh? Her gilded bracelets ringing thinly, Caitria dropped the scroll and snatched the box from Ela. Perhaps the ill wish would prompt more hives. Mari protested, “Lady, don’t open it!”
“Too late.” Caitria flicked open the exquisite gold-and-black lid. Inside, a long, cruelly sharp black thorn rested on a pale fold of cloth. “Oh. Do you suppose it’s poisoned?”
Mari snatched the box from Caitria. “Forgive me, lady—I’m supposed to watch out for you. Usually poison is
sent in sweetmeats or beverages to hide its bitter taste, or it’s sewn into clothes to scar the receiver’s skin, so I doubt it’s more than a token threat. However, I’m taking this to Lady Dasarai at once—with your permission.”
Before Caitria could deny her permission, Mari scurried out, her robes rustling. As the door closed, Caitria threw Ela a disgusted look. “Oh, delightful. I have a rival for a suitor I detest, and these ‘palace-sisters’ poison each other! Ela, we must find a way to escape.”
Her expression turning bleak, Ela shook her head. “I cannot leave until the Infinite declares my work here is finished.”
“And how long will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ela, I’ve been separated from Akabe for seven days. Seven! I can’t bear it any longer—I need to know that he’s well! Aren’t you the least bit worried about your husband?”
The prophet flinched visibly. “Yes. I’m deeply concerned for Kien. And Akabe. But I must trust the Infinite to protect them.”
Ela’s obvious hurt was painful to see. “Ela, forgive me—I’m desperate.”
“Majesty, please, do nothing in haste. Remember . . .” Ela turned as Mari dashed inside the chamber again.
The young woman halted, breathless. “We’re summoned immediately—they’re forming the procession early.” Hands trembling, she adjusted Caitria’s robes, then stepped back. After surveying Caitria and Ela, Mari relaxed and nodded. “Why am I afraid? You’re both as beautiful as Zaria. She’s probably the one who sent the thorn.”
Ela sighed. “I’m sure the thorn was meant for me.”
A smile played over Mari’s childlike face. “Of course! Because you told Zaria she would never become pregnant nor become Belaal’s queen. I must say, we’re all glad! Zaria would be a terrible queen.” Beaming, she urged them both forward. “Please, we must hurry.”
