King (28 page)

Bel-Tygeon laughed, and his smile was dazzling despite his contempt. “Let Him try! Parne was a mere windstorm!” Then the radiant grin faded, replaced by sudden severity. “I’ve been threatened by myriad foreign priests and prophets swearing retribution from their gods. Your Infinite is nothing to me!” He lifted his chin. “The only reason I’ll endure you, Prophet, is that you predicted what would happen in Parne. You have the gift of divination that my prophets lack. Therefore, I swear now, for as long as
I
say and until you fail me, you are my prophet,
my
slave! You will prophesy my victories and proclaim the downfall of other lands—as you declared Parne’s.”

“I will not.” Ela looked from the king’s too-attractive face to the glowing branch. Why was he obsessed with her foretelling his victories? Had his resolve or his armies been weakened enough that he needed some spiritual reassurance before planning another war? Perhaps.

Infinite, let Belaal be too weakened to risk a war with Siphra!

Ela frowned at the cold-eyed king. “If you don’t heed Him, then everything you know, all that you possess, will be removed for your own sake. Your Creator is
that
concerned for you!”

For one heartbeat, Bel-Tygeon seemed to reconsider. To heed her warning. But then he raised a hand and turned away from the branch. “We shall see. Until then, you are my slave. As is your child.” He grinned at Caitria now, sweeping her with such
an appraising look that she blushed. “You are Akabe of Siphra’s wife? I see why he resisted his beliefs to marry you.”

Caitria lifted her chin. “He married me to acquire sacred land for the Infinite’s temple. But never mind that. Where is my armband? And Lady Aeyrievale’s?”

“Your wedding trinkets?” The king crossed the room to his desk and picked up the bands. “Take them.” He tossed the marriage symbols at Caitria’s feet. “They mean nothing in Belaal.”

The blush deepened over Caitria’s face. Ela guessed by the tense line of the young queen’s mouth that she was fighting to suppress her temper. As Ela retrieved the bands and cautiously stood again, Caitria said, “Perhaps they mean nothing to you or to Belaal, sir, but Lady Aeyrievale and I treasure them—as we cherish our husbands.”

“I remind you both that you have no husbands. In my palaces, my slaves are not allowed marriage. However . . .” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Belaal has never captured a foreign queen. Interesting. Tell me . . . where is Siphra’s king?”

As Caitria’s beautiful face hardened in unspoken defiance, the Infinite’s warning whisked through Ela’s thoughts, making her jump. When Bel-Tygeon eyed her, she said, “Sir, Siphra’s king is not your concern. What’s more, your Creator declares that if you or your men enter Siphra now, you will die. And your royal dynasty will end.”

For a long instant Belaal’s king stared at her, clearly assessing her warning and possible intent. Quietly, he said, “I will deal with Siphra’s upstart king when I please. For now . . .” He smiled at Caitria. “What should happen to you, Lady of Siphra? Imprisonment? Ransom?”

Paling, Caitria said, “I’m a divisive queen—hardly worth ransoming.”

Bel-Tygeon lifted a lock of her soft brown hair, smoothing it between his fingers before allowing it to fall. “Then I’ll keep you.” His tone insinuated far more than mere keeping.

Ela tilted the still-glowing branch, using it like a sword to
divide the air between the young king and Siphra’s queen. “She is not yours.”

Bel-Tygeon shot her a killing look. “Prophet, you overstep!”

Did she? Ha. Arrogant, spoiled young man! Fury forced her to speak through gritted teeth. “
You
overstep, sir, and the sooner you realize your mortal failings, the better for you and your people!”

He swept one long, powerful hand toward the branch to snatch it. Light flared and a sizzling noise cut through the air as his fingers passed through the vinewood. Caitria gasped and stumbled backward. Sparks hissed past Bel-Tygeon’s shimmering black hair. For an instant he looked as shocked as a boy unexpectedly scolded by his father. Ela softened her tone. “If you test your Creator, O king, you’ll fail. Please abandon your pride and listen. Your Creator calls to you.”

Bel-Tygeon stalked toward the nearest wall and yanked a golden cord. Within three breaths, the big gold-clad eunuch opened the hidden door and bowed. The king snapped, “Return them to the Women’s Palace and tell Lady Dasarai I’m retiring for the night.”

Again the eunuch bowed. Radiating dignified displeasure at Ela and Caitria, he motioned them through the doorway into the golden room beyond. Ela nodded at Caitria. “Majesty.”

Caitria edged toward the doorway, and as she passed Ela, whispered, “You should have toasted him!”

“I think not.” Ela followed her, praying Bel-Tygeon was shaken enough to consider his Creator.

In the tiny walled garden outside her chamber, Caitria snatched up a decorative stone and flung it at the farthest wall with all her might, raging inwardly at Bel-Tygeon. A hit to his pretend nose! A bash to his imaginary left eye—then his right! She sent a volley of rocks at each target, venting her rage and fear.

If only her self-defense could be real. If only she could knock that egotistical god-king senseless and escape! What would she do if he summoned her to his bedchamber again to fulfill his
implied threat? Caitria paused to catch her breath, sickened by the thought. She would
die
.

A whimper lifted in her throat. “Akabe!” If only she could see her husband’s beloved face and cherish the joy of his embrace once more.

Infinite . . . help us escape!

She could almost believe He might indeed help her. The sizzle of Bel-Tygeon’s hand, the shock on his face, those blue-white sparks singeing past his hair as if to set it afire . . .

Nevertheless, why should the Infinite be concerned with her? Surely she was nothing to Him. Therefore, she must think objectively. She must escape. How could Akabe and Siphra be expected to ransom an undeserving queen who’d inspired such conflict? She wasn’t worth ransoming, not even for the temple. She must escape!

A light footstep in the doorway made Caitria turn. Ela. Watching her.

As if reading her thoughts, Ela pleaded, “Majesty, don’t do anything desperate.”

Escape was logical, not desperate. Hoping to distract her intuitive prophet-friend, Caitria smiled, envying her. “Are you truly with child? Congratulations!”

To her shock, Ela’s tensed expression crumpled, giving way to tears.

Pregnant? Infinite, no! Ela leaned against the doorframe, trembling. Sobbing. Thus far she’d seen no escape from Belaal. Would Kien’s baby reside in Belaal as a helpless slave? Unacceptable! How could she endure such grief?

Infinite, please . . .

Arms enfolded her. Caitria sighed. “Poor Ela, I’m sorry! I pray the Infinite protects us.”

Ela blinked away more tears. “It helps just hearing you say those words.”

Caitria offered a wistful smile and a nod. “You thought I wasn’t listening to you or to the Infinite. Well, only a fool would not!” She rubbed the edge of her mantle over Ela’s tear-streaked face. “Now, it’s your turn to listen. As your queen, I command you to stop crying. I’m glad we have a reason to celebrate.”

Reason indeed! Heart-torn, Ela hugged her and sniffled, blessing their Creator.

Unable to sleep after his turn at watch duty, Kien removed some squares of parchment from his small travel desk, unsealed an ink vial, and settled down to write.

Dear Father, Mother, Beka, and Jon,

If you read this, know that I am gone. Remember that I have loved you all beyond measure, and I thank you for every instant of our time together. Believe me, I departed with no regrets, strengthened by every fond remembrance any man might hope for in life. I pray the Infinite blesses you all. . . .

Kien paused and studied the words. It was his duty to remain cheerful and optimistic for his comrades. For his king. But alone with himself, he must face the truth. When the assassins returned, no ploy would deter them a second time. Death waited, and he would be ready.

Resolute, he contemplated his note. This one for his family and friends in the Tracelands and one for Ela. Dear adorable Ela! Who could imagine a zealous little prophet would bring him such happiness? Certainly not the insufferably self-certain Kien Lantec he’d once been.

He’d also ink a note to Bryce and Aeyrievale.

“Infinite? Am I forgetting anyone?”

Your Creator.

Kien almost smiled. True. All things considered, he’d been blessed far more than he deserved. “What, then, should I write to You, my Creator?”

He hardly expected an answer, but it came at once, swathing him in comfort.

Write your love for Me on your heart, where My Spirit finds it always.

Kien pondered the words, then nodded, swallowing hard. Excellent advice, of course. No ink needed. He prayed, then tapped his reed pen in the ink jar again and finished the note to his family.

Preparing to die.

 28 

S
tomach roiling, Ela sat up in her pallet when Lady Dasarai entered the chamber.

Elegant and severe in a flowing crimson gown and bejeweled headdress, the noblewoman studied Ela, then the drowsy Caitria, as if considering how to conquer their doldrums. Evidently deciding her tactics, she smiled. “One must not mope in the Women’s Palace. We are the blessed in Belaal, granted the privilege of delighting our enduring sovereign, who is Prized of the Heavens. We must take joy in each day as we seek to serve him.”

“Why?” Ela couldn’t prevent mortal disgust from edging her words. “He’s no god! And he has stolen us from our husbands and our country. We are not his!”

Smoothly, as if she hadn’t heard, Dasarai said, “Each day is your gift to him and to yourself. You are encouraged to join your palace sisters in seeking to improve yourselves for your king’s sake. You may offer him religious devotions, compose songs, write, play games to gladden your souls, beautify yourselves—”

On the other side of the chamber, Caitria sat up in her pallet. “Oh, this is too much! Offer him religious devotions? Beautify ourselves?” Siphra’s queen glared. “I’ll bathe in manure and wear the stuff if it’ll keep him away!”

Dasarai’s sculpted eyebrows lifted. “Respect for your rank and his, Majesty, ought to prevent you from taking such a dire step.”

“Why should I respect his rank when he has none for mine?”

Ela winced. While Caitria argued and Dasarai frowned, an insight bloomed unpleasantly in Ela’s thoughts. And a sudden pulsing headache compounded her nausea. Did the overseer of the Women’s Palace truly expect her to worship Belaal’s god-king? Well, evidently Dasarai was one of Bel-Tygeon’s few faithful in this sad place. “Lady Dasarai, it seems our ‘palace sisters’ enjoy gambling, fighting, and gossip far more than worshiping their god-king. Why have you left those particular pastimes off your list of recommended activities?”

Still poised, the noblewoman stared, and then shook her head as if denying unpleasant news. “One hopes two ladies of such renown would devote themselves to providing examples of perfect conduct for others to admire and follow.”

Ela flung aside her coverlet. “My Creator does expect me to provide a good example for others. I might not meet His expectations; however I’m always willing to try. But my good conduct involves never worshiping a false god-king, however glorious he appears!”

Dasarai stiffened, rage visible in her tensed, now flushed face. “You will not provoke a rebellion in this palace, nor in this land!”

Staring at the noblewoman’s lustrous, wrathful eyes, Ela recognized a familiar glint. A family resemblance. Infinite? Am I right?

Flickers of new imagery and emotions whisked through Ela’s mind. Betrayals, terrors, and rebellions in this glittering palace. With acts of self-sacrifice that clenched Ela’s heart. She gasped and fought the spinning sensation as her Creator said,
Yes. Speak to Rethae. Warn her.

Some of Ela’s misery faded. She grabbed the branch from its resting place beside her pallet and stood. Humbled by fresh understanding, Ela gentled her approach to the irate Dasarai. “Lady, I will not provoke a rebellion. But the Infinite might, unless your king renounces his pride and ceases to oppress people beneath his rule.” A chill prickled over Ela’s skin, wrought by terrors from her past. “The Infinite has made Bel-Tygeon king,
but that can be undone, as it was in the kingdoms of Istgard and Siphra.” Softening her voice further, Ela added, “Rethae, you are the king’s half sister. You raised Bel-Tygeon as your own, and you love him beyond your life. Please, persuade him to listen to the Infinite—for the sake of his people and for himself.”

Rethae gasped, her sparkling headdress teetering slightly as she jerked backward. “How did you know my name? No one in the Women’s Palace knows it—they’re too young to remember the past.”

“Nothing is hidden from the Infinite. Lady, as you love your brother, speak to him. You
know
he is mortal and—”

The noblewoman lifted her exquisite hands as if to cover her ears. “No! Every king of Belaal is consecrated to godhood! You do not know our ways, and I’ll not listen to you!”

Ela’s spirit sank with disappointment. How could she inspire this one living person whom Bel-Tygeon respected? “Very well, Lady. It’s your decision. Even so, I promise you, the Infinite watches and waits. He loves you, as He loves your brother. I also give you my word that the queen and I will say nothing to anyone of your name or what we’ve discussed this morning.”

“Yes,” Caitria agreed, hugging the coverlet over her knees. “I agree with Lady Aeyrievale. We’ll say nothing. But . . .” She flung Dasarai a pleading glance. “Won’t you at least send us some decent robes? We’re not used to such inadequate tunics!”

The ruler of the Women’s Palace sighed. “I cannot countermand our traditions—and those tunics are appropriate to our climate and the palace. Nevertheless, I’ll send you more gowns. Use them as you deem best. I’ll also send in your meals today, as neither of you are well enough to visit with your palace-sisters.”

A timid scraping at the doorpost made them turn. Ela hurried to the door. Mari, the young slave who’d tended them earlier, shivered visibly in the entry. Fragile and no more than fifteen, her hazel eyes wide, she clutched an ornate box and stared at Ela as if she expected to be cursed.

Ela smiled. “How may I help you?”

The slave showed Ela the box. “For the Lady Caitria. From the king.”

Ela gaped at the small, elaborate box of silver-black metal, patterned with golden flowers and sprinkled with jewels of every imaginable color. Why would Bel-Tygeon send this to Caitria? “Thank you. Please come in and speak to the queen.”

The girl trembled as if Ela had invited her inside to be eaten by a monster. All right. She smiled at the slave again, gently held her arm, and coaxed her inside. “We’re probably more frightened than you are.”

Lady Dasarai looked from the box to the girl. “Mari, whose is this?”

Stepping backward onto Ela’s bare toes, Mari stammered, “Lady C-Caitria.”

The noblewoman rubbed her temples, seeming hit by a sudden headache. She motioned the slave toward Caitria. As Siphra’s queen accepted the exquisite token, Dasarai said, “You are invited to visit the king tomorrow night. Refusal is not permitted.”

Still looking pained, Dasarai signaled to Mari, who followed her through the doorway without a word of farewell. The door thumped shut.

Ela stared at Caitria.

Siphra’s queen threw the bejeweled box squarely at the closed door. The superb trinket cracked against the carved wood, spilling its glittering gemstone contents as it fell to the tiles below. A dent marred the door. “Oh! I’ll give him a refusal! How dare he! I’ll—”

As Caitria ranted, Ela sighed, thinking of the young slave and feeling like a failure. When would she learn to fully trust her Creator? She’d been so fixated on being enslaved herself that she’d nearly missed a vital portion of the Infinite’s purpose: to reach the king, and all the souls in this palace and beyond.

Refusal is not permitted.
“Oh!” Hands clenched, Caitria paced through her small garden.

Only a king who imagined himself to be a god would dare to take another king’s wife. How could she escape this trap? She could just imagine Bel-Tygeon gloating as eunuchs carried her kicking and screaming into the royal chamber tomorrow night. Or gagged and bound hand and foot, because that is what must happen: She would not go peaceably.

Caitria stalked to the corner of the garden and lifted the broad paving stone she’d chosen on the afternoon of her arrival. Cautious of dirtying her hands and creating suspicion, Caitria slid a flattened leather bag from beneath the stone. She opened the bag and removed one of Akabe’s small, plain daggers from its scabbard, contemplating her options.

Bel-Tygeon and his palace were so heavily guarded that if she wounded or killed Belaal’s god-king in self-defense, she’d probably be executed in turn.

Was she ready to die? No. She wanted to see Akabe again. Therefore, daggers were out. But she must concoct a credible escape from Bel-Tygeon’s invitation. Infinite, inspire me. . . .

Ela entered the garden. “Majesty, our morning meal has arrived.”

“Thank you. I think. Truly, I’d almost rather starve than eat his food.” She scowled and eyed Ela. “Do you have any suggestions, Prophet?”

A sweet smile lit Ela’s tired face. “Pray to the Infinite for your safe rescue.”

Caitria hid the daggers again. “I have prayed.”

“Then continue.” Ela’s smile faded and she stepped back, silently insisting upon Caitria’s precedence as queen. “Meanwhile, I’m also praying for you with all my heart. Trust your Creator’s plan. Not your own.”

How did she
know
? Caitria crossed their comfortable room and kneeled beside a low table. Ela joined her, lifting the beautifully patterned domed ceramic lids from various dishes.

Caitria stared at the food. Soft flatbread, of course, surrounded by dishes of fragrant sauces, steamed herbed grains and vegetables, fresh berries, and tender chunks of roasted meat. She
wanted none of it. Furthermore, the berries would give her a blooming, itching rash guaranteed to send Naynee into a panic if dear Naynee were here.

Berries? Even as Caitria considered the delectable, dangerous fruit, Ela spoke, her tone soft. Careful. “Majesty . . . how terrible is your reaction to berries? Is the rash spectacular?”

“Yes.” She hadn’t even touched the berries, but already Caitria’s skin crawled wildly and invisible bands seemed to tighten around her throat and lungs.

This would work without too much trouble, wouldn’t it?

Not allowing herself to fully acknowledge the prayer taking shape in her thoughts, Caitria reached for the glowing red berries. “Eat some, Ela, if you enjoy them. I need only a few.”

Caitria watched the Women’s Palace physician, that lean, grim female swathed in gray robes matching her sparse, tightly coiled gray hair. The doctor opened a polished black box and removed a round stoneware jar. The sludge-green ointment inside the jar looked positively lethal. Caitria winced. “Will it sting?”

Worse, would it heal her?

“Not at all, Majesty.” The doctor glopped some of the ointment on Caitria’s splotchy forearms and rubbed it in, her touch ice-cold. “This should ease some of your misery. Alas, it will not cure you. Have you eaten anything new recently?”