Judge (2 page)

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S
cythe groused in deep-throated rumbles as Kien halted him before General Rol’s sprawling low-walled home. Ignoring his steed’s complaints, Kien descended and chained the twitching beast to the legally required destroyer restraint—a massive half-buried block of stone with two huge metal rings. Though he understood a chaining stone’s intended purpose, Kien was aggravated whenever he saw one.

How kind of the Tracelands’ Grand Assembly, and Father, to legislate such expensive measures for the country’s newly acquired destroyers. Bound as they were by so many civil regulations, destroyers were now guaranteed to cost more than an ordinary landowner could afford. Worse, the chaining blocks did nothing to soothe the belligerent temperaments of the powerful beasts.

Ironically, if a destroyer’s owner commanded his beast to wait, the creature would wait through eternity. Food or no food. No chaining block needed.

Kien reached up and patted Scythe’s glossy black neck. “Wait. I won’t be long—the general needs to know why I’ll be gone. Don’t eat anything or anyone while I’m inside.”

The destroyer’s eyes glinted, and he huffed. Suppressed rage? Thwarted appetite? Kien didn’t want to know. He entered the general’s residence, was recognized by a servant, welcomed, and shown to General Rol’s meeting chamber.

“Lantec!” The general looked up from his seat behind a broad, cluttered table. His silver hair and his heavy tunic were rumpled, but his thin, stern face was death-serious. “I was about to send for you.” He cleared his throat and narrowed his piercing brown eyes. “Turn in your sword.”

Involuntarily, Kien gripped his military sword’s hilt. “With respect, sir, what have I done to deserve . . . ?”

The general cut off his question with an upraised hand. “You have failed to meet current regulations.” Rol motioned impatiently. “Your sword!”

Kien complied, unbuckling his sword-belt and lifting the baldric off his shoulder. He was being thrown out of the military after his first tour of official service. How would he explain this to his parents? But even as he placed his sword and its matched scabbard on the table, Kien’s thoughts sped toward possible explanations and additional career options for his future. If the military had dropped him so swiftly and unfairly, then—

General Rol opened a long wooden case, lifted a sword from it, and walked around the table to stare Kien in the eyes. “
Now
you meet current regulations.”

Kien looked down at the newly issued sword and laughed. Apparently only his sword was being removed from service. This new Azurnite weapon, with its magnificent blue water-patterned blade, was well worth enduring the general’s prank. Only the wealthiest citizens in East Guard possessed these extraordinary weapons. Until now. “I’m not dishonorably cast out?”

“No.” Rol grinned like a boy. “The first shipment of swords was delivered this morning. Had you duped, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir, you did.” Good thing he hadn’t unleashed a tirade upon the general.

“Well, arm yourself, soldier! If I had the time, I’d challenge you to a bout.”

“I regret your lack of time, sir.” Kien hid a smile as he angled the new black baldric over his shoulder, then swiftly doubled the
long belt around his waist. Fortunately, Rol was too engrossed with the new weapons to notice Kien’s grin.

“These swords, combined with our nearly exclusive possession of destroyers, makes the Tracelands
the
dominant force. No other country can match us! Not Istgard, not Siphra, nor Belaal.”

“Undoubtedly, you’re right,” Kien agreed. But possessing the strongest military would guarantee problems, such as envy and conspiracies hatched by other countries. Kien shook away his concerns. “With respect, sir, please give me your word that you intend to ‘fail’ your other staff members as well.”

“I intend to ‘fail’ my entire staff and all my commanders. One by one.” The general rubbed his hands together, scheming. “I forbid you to say anything to the others.”

“I’ll be silent as the dead,” Kien promised. He suppressed a sudden chill as he fastened his new black-bound scabbard onto the belt. What if he
was
a prophet and had just foretold his own demise? “Actually, sir, I won’t be here to ruin the fun or to enjoy it. I’m leaving for ToronSea this afternoon.”

“ToronSea—that barnacle on a rock? Whatever for?”

“At the Infinite’s command. I’m supposed to seek the Infinite’s followers there and correct them. And I’m told I’ll need to warn some Ateans in the vicinity to seek the Infinite.”

Rol frowned. “The Infinite, eh?” While the general had never professed belief in his Creator, he didn’t deny the Infinite’s existence. “Not that I’m questioning matters, but isn’t this Ela of Parne’s role? She’s the prophet and messenger, my boy—the little kingdom-shaker. Or have you turned prophet as well?”

“I hope not.”

“Good. I hope not either. I commissioned you for military duty. Your job is to negotiate treaties with our foes and our allies! And to represent the legal interests of our enlisted men.
Not
to dabble in soothsaying. Is that understood?”

Soothsaying? Kien wasn’t entirely sure he liked that designation. “Understood, sir.”

Rol lifted a silver eyebrow and stared at Kien’s jaw. “Did you cut yourself with a razor?”

A tinge of heat swept Kien’s face. He focused on sliding the new sword into its scabbard. “Yes, General. I was interrupted while shaving.”

“You worry me, Lantec. I ought to confiscate that sword until I’m certain you can handle it. How long will you be gone?”

“About five days.” Kien hoped the estimate was realistic. Six weeks was the extent of his military leave. If he spent almost two days’ travel each way and one day in ToronSea itself, he could look forward to almost five weeks of courting Ela. With enough time to practice bow-hunting and racing destroyers with his brother-in-law, Jon.

The general’s voice quieted. “This won’t involve a local revolt or other such commotion, will it?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Kien admitted. “I haven’t received much information beyond orders to depart today.”

“A need-to-know basis, eh?”

“Not even that much, sir.”

“Not good.” The general puffed out a breath. “I’ve heard reports of trouble around ToronSea. Robberies and such. Are you certain there’s no chance of military involvement? Do I need to cancel your leave?”

“Yes, sir. And no, sir!”

“Hmph. I’m denying all knowledge of this if the worst happens, Lantec. Fair warning.”

“Fairly warned, General.”

“And don’t lose your sword. Otherwise, you’ll be in chains when we catch you.”

Chains? Memories resurfaced of his months as a political prisoner in Istgard, the Tracelands’ neighboring country to the west. Kien shuddered. Before suffering imprisonment again, he would run—or fight. “Agreed, sir.” Did this mean the general had granted unofficial permission for Kien to take the Azurnite sword with him to ToronSea? Well, he hadn’t explicitly forbidden
Kien to take the sword. Another unarticulated command from a superior. Splendid.

Rol’s suddenly dour expression reflected Kien’s own dissatisfaction. “Keep me informed of events in ToronSea. Discreetly. We can’t have our own citizens taking offense, eh?”

“No, sir.” Kien bowed and took leave.

Outside, Scythe was clomping in agitated circles around the huge chaining block. He halted and stomped as if urging haste. Kien released Scythe’s chain and latched it to the beast’s huge leather war collar. “Easy. We’ll visit Ela now.”

Climbing the war collar’s narrow rungs, Kien seated himself on Scythe’s quilt-padded back. The instant Kien shoved his booted feet into the collar’s footholds and gathered the reins, his destroyer charged ahead like an arrow shot from a bow.

“Hey!” Kien gripped a handhold on the war collar and caught his breath. At this speed, the beast would trample someone in East Guard’s streets. He tightened the reins. “Scythe, what’s your problem? Slow down!”

The destroyer didn’t respond. His hoofbeats thundered through the streets and echoed off the stately pillared public buildings with such force that Kien’s ears rang. On the stone-paved street ahead, citizens shrieked and scattered in justifiable fear for their lives. A black-robed scholar tripped, but managed to scramble out of Scythe’s path.

Seeing civil lawsuits and fines in the making, Kien bellowed,
“Walk!”

Scythe walked, but he trembled and groaned. Clearly his agitation indicated more than simple fury at being chained during Kien’s visit with the general. Only one thing could throw a destroyer into such emotional turmoil—a master in danger. As current master, Kien was certainly shaken but not in much physical danger. Therefore, Scythe’s other master must be suffering. Perhaps dying. Sweat lifted on Kien’s skin. “Ela!”

Gritting his teeth, Kien held the destroyer to a reasonable pace through the city of East Guard. But as they approached
Temple Hill’s broad wood-shaded slopes—beyond the city’s jurisdiction—he leaned forward, braced himself, and gave the huge horse free rein along the dirt road. “No trampling anyone. Go!”

Trees shivered and swayed into a blur as Scythe bolted up the hillside road. Breathing in massive gusts, the warhorse crested Temple Hill and dashed into its broad clearing, slowing only when he rounded the temple’s ruins. A cluster of girls screeched and scattered from a mat in the sunlit grass, leaving four figures in Scythe’s path. Kien called to the destroyer, “Walk!”

Scythe growled, but obeyed.

Studying the four ladies ahead, Kien immediately recognized his sister, Beka, with Ela’s diminutive sister, Tzana, and Ela’s spry self-appointed chaperone, Tamri Het. All three were kneeling beside Ela, who lay curled up on the mat.

Ela . . . As Kien dismounted, Scythe cautiously nuzzled Ela’s ashen face.

Crouching next to his sister, Kien asked, “What happened?”

Beka’s eyes brimmed with tears. “She lost all color, then whispered to herself and fainted. But before fainting, she screamed. Oh, Kien, I’ve never heard such a scream!”

Tzana rubbed a gnarled little hand over her sister’s arm as if trying to coax Ela awake. “She’ll wake up soon, I think.”

Kien pressed his fingertips against Ela’s cold wrist. The slightest pulse imaginable threaded beneath his touch. Ela’s eyes flickered beneath her eyelids. Kien unpinned his cloak and—as Scythe grunted approval—he draped the warm fabric over Ela. He didn’t like her deathly pallor, or the chill of her skin. But at least he knew what had knocked her unconscious. “She’s inside a vision. Though I’ve never seen one hit her with such force.”

The other girls were returning now, casting wary, tearful glances at Scythe. “He won’t hurt you,” Kien promised. “He’s worried about Ela.”

“As if we’re not?” one of the girls sniffed, just a hint of indignation edging her voice.

Alarmed by the girl’s tone, Kien eyed her. Recognized her.
Lovely and spoiled Xiana Iscove. With Nia Rol—the general’s daughter. Kien suppressed a wince. Wonderful. If Ela wasn’t in such torment, he would run. A battlefield was more enticing. His parents wanted him to marry one of these girls.

Never. Wouldn’t happen. Not even if Ela’s lessons and exemplary character improved her students tenfold.

He kept his gaze on Ela and waited, praying aloud. “Infinite, restore her, please.”

One of Ela’s hands rested just outside the cloak’s dark edge. As Kien started to tuck his cloak around those limp fingers, a blue-white light flashed within her bloodless palm and took the shape of a thin, iridescent, weathered vinewood staff.

Kien stared. The prophet’s branch—Ela’s insignia. He’d seen the branch transform itself before, but he didn’t know the sacred object could simply materialize from nothing. Amazing . . .

The branch’s glow intensified, exuding warmth. To Kien’s relief, Ela clenched the branch fiercely, gasped, and opened her eyes. One of her younger students burst into tears.

Ignoring the commotion, Kien leaned forward. “Ela?”