Judge (20 page)

“Useful? Not when you won’t heed the Infinite’s warnings.” Ela gazed out at Parne’s drought-dried western fields. Seeing Belaal’s first contingent of horsemen approach, her own terrified scream—locked deep inside—persuaded her to try once more. She looked up at Chacen. “Tell everyone to put down their weapons, please. It means their lives.”

Though he didn’t seem ready to kill her now, Chacen was clearly none too pleased by her words. “You speak like a traitor, not a true Parnian. Our best tactic now is to gain the enemy’s respect. We must show that we can defend ourselves!”

Why wouldn’t these rebels listen? As Belaal’s preliminary ranks neared, Ela forced her voice to carry, to convey strength. “Parnians! Lower your weapons! Do not resist the will of your Creator, the Infinite!” The branch glowed in her hands now, dazzling, beckoning attention from every direction. “Do not defy Him—you won’t win! Instead, you’ll die!”

Mutters lifted along the wall. Rebellious growls. A man to
Ela’s left cursed her in vicious, hard-clipped syllables. Prill said, “How dare he!”

“I don’t care if he curses me,” Ela murmured, “as long as he doesn’t curse his Creator.”

The commander of Belaal’s lead delegation drew his horse to a standstill. Thickset and older than his men, he waited before speaking, as if wondering whether Ela would say more. When she remained silent, he urged his wearied horse forward and shouted in a deep, accented voice, “Parne! I am General Siyrsun. In the glorious name of King Bel-Tygeon of Belaal, we require your surrender. Open your gates! Clear our path and do not resist us! Thus you will survive!”

Again the man to Ela’s left cursed, this time invoking the Infinite’s name. Before she could rebuke him, he aimed his bow and shot one of the general’s men.

The soldier fell from his horse and writhed in the dust.

Siyrsun and his men rescued their comrade, then turned their horses, swiftly rejoining the main army, which neared.

Triumphant laughter spread along Parne’s wall walk.

Undeceived, Ela reached for Matron Prill, tugging her within the circle of the vinewood’s glow. “Kneel with me and pray.” Prill obeyed.

Trumpets blared from the army below. And a sickeningly familiar sight threatened to shatter Ela’s icy core.

A volley of gold and blue arrows arced upward from Belaal’s army, then sliced down, perfectly aimed at everyone standing on Parne’s wall walk, drawing blood and screams. Chacen bellowed and dropped inside the watchman’s stone shelter to his right.

Prill shrieked and clung to Ela.

Ela held her chaperone within the branch’s light and prayed.

 21 

W
ithin a breath’s span of the first, a second volley of arrows fell. Fresh screams and wails echoed along the wall walk. Prill huddled within Ela’s arms crying, “Oh, Infinite, save us!”

Beside Ela, Sius Chacen slumped on the stones beside Za’af, who howled in agony. Za’af attempted to wrench an arrow from his chest, then fainted.

Behind Ela, Amar clawed at her mantle, his voice rough. “Ela . . .”

She turned and saw what had not been within her first glimpse of this vision. The young man she’d almost married, downed by an arrow just below his left collarbone. His scar showing ink-black against his inflamed cheek, Amar clutched Ela’s wrist, muttering, “Help me . . . stand.”

Quavering, Prill told Ela, “I-I’ll support him to the left, if you’ll t-take the right. But . . . what about the arrow?”

With a glance at the stilled Za’af Chacen, Ela said, “Leave the arrow. It may be that we’ll injure him further by removing it.”

They managed to haul Amar to his feet. But as they picked a path along the wall walk, between the wounded and dead, Amar gasped. “Stop!” He dropped to one knee, a hand fumbling to touch the paving stones for support.

Heartsick, Ela knelt with him. He would never descend this wall. Perhaps now Amar would finally listen. She pressed a hand
to his whiskered cheek, making him look at her. “Amar, I’m going to find your father. Listen, it’s not too late. Speak to your Creator,
please.
He loves you! You need only call His Name and—”

Amar shoved at her weakly, unwilling to listen. Clearly signaling her to go.

He eased himself onto the pavings and shut his eyes.

Opposite Ela, Prill shook her head and pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking, as if suppressing sobs.

Supporting herself with the branch, Ela stood. Amar didn’t stir. He rested on his side, his breaths shallow and rapid. Was he dying? She was afraid to petition their Creator for details. Helping the matron to stand, Ela said, “Prill, if I could cry now, I would. And I’d welcome it. But this is only the beginning.”

Prill sobbed, “For me, this is enough! More than enough.”

“Let’s hurry.” Ela gripped her weeping chaperone’s arm and propelled her toward the nearest public path leading down into the city. Parnians, dead and dying, were scattered in every direction. It seemed that few arrows had missed striking someone.

How could this be real? Infinite? Let it still be a vision—an image not yet lethal.

“Why are we alive?” Prill demanded. “So many others have fallen.”

“Because His plans for us are not yet finished, and you are my witness.” With each sight of fresh blood from a corpse or of a weeping, bereaved citizen, Ela drew more deeply into herself, sheltering behind the terrible, protective coldness. “Go retrieve your supplies from Deuel’s booth, Matron. I’ll come back to help you once I’ve spoken to Amar’s father.”

Surely even the shielding numbness wouldn’t protect her from this next task. Bracing herself, Ela hurried past the marketplace, into the public square beyond, then up a flight of stairs tucked between the structures of several houses. Hadn’t Amar’s parents heard the commotion? She rapped on the door, waited, and rapped again. Amar’s father, Shekar, answered the door, tousled and groggy, as if she’d summoned him from sleep. Fumes,
like the afterwash of heavy drinking, surrounded the man. Ela sighed. “You must go through the marketplace, then up to the wall. Amar was struck by an arrow from Belaal’s army. We tried to bring him down, but he couldn’t continue.”

Shekar squinted, then blinked. “What?”

Pitying him, and Amar, Ela repeated her message. Shekar stumbled inside again, evidently seeking his cloak.

Ela hurried toward the marketplace once more. She would find Prill, lead Shekar to Amar, then alert Father. Perhaps they could assist some of the survivors.

She found the matron just entering the wide public square adjoining the marketplace. Behind the matron was Deuel. The merchant’s rounded face was ashen, and his sturdy legs wavered as he shifted a large basket on his shoulders. The instant he saw Ela, Deuel stopped and stared. As if she were frightful.

He lowered the basket and knelt beside it. Bowing, hiding his face in his hands, the vendor cried, “The Infinite is God, and Parne is cursed!”

His words struck Ela with an almost physical impact. Deuel might have been a prophet. She wished he were.

Hiding behind an intricately carved white column in Siphra’s throne room, Kien read General Rol’s letter.

It seems Prophet Ela’s prediction has come to pass. This morning, a courier bird arrived in East Guard from Parne. Now, after shunning their neighbors for generations, the Parnians are appealing to us all for rescue from Belaal, which is now encamped before their city. Furthermore, Commander Thel’s reports indicate a deeper disaster. Parne’s wells are drying, and their crops have failed this year, due to a severe drought. Thel believes that unless Parne receives substantial rains within the next few
weeks, thirst alone will force Parne’s surrender to Belaal within eight weeks—unless we intercede.

Furthermore, Istgard’s prime minister has sent word to the Grand Assembly that certain ores have been recently confiscated from Parnian traders and Tsir Aun himself has personally witnessed their destructive effects. Because Tsir Aun’s courier-note corroborates Commander Thel’s written testimonies, the Grand Assembly has approved the measures I have recommended. Our army is alerted and the campaign planned. We must ensure Belaal does not gain control of those ores, lest that god-king Bel-Tygeon rule us all!

In light of these concerns, the remainder of your leave is rescinded. You are, by default and preference, the Tracelands’ envoy to Siphra in this matter. We order you to request Siphra’s aid in neutralizing Belaal. We will send further instructions as decisions are reached. You will treat this communication as confidential, to be shared with only the king and his closest advisors.

On a separate parchment scrap, Rol added:

Regarding the king’s curiosity concerning the Azurnite sword, allow him one bout in strictest isolation. You will also allow his advisors to inspect the sword. Soon, however, if Belaal emerges victorious with Parne’s spoils, then the Tracelands, Istgard, and Siphra must join forces for battle. Further secrecy concerning the swords will be, to twist words, pointless.

Kien refolded the general’s missive and hid it within his money purse. General Rol wrote this a week ago, yet Kien had received
it only this morning due to a tardy messenger. At most, Parne would fall in seven weeks. He must persuade Siphra to act today! Wasn’t the king’s audience finished? Aggravated, Kien leaned around the carved pillar and studied the last of the petitioners.

A thin, dark-clad nobleman was now speaking to the king. Why did he seem so familiar? Kien frowned at the nobleman’s arrogant bearing, his black swept-back hair and his embroidered cloak. Could it be . . . ? Kien slipped from behind the pillar and joined the crowd of bored Siphran courtiers. Unable to see the noble petitioner’s face, he listened intently.

“Majesty,” the nobleman was saying, “for the sake of my family, I ask you to mercifully restore my family’s long-held estates to our care.”

Suitably cautious, Akabe watched the nobleman. “Which estates?”

“Here is the written legal description, just as it has existed for two hundred years, concerning my family’s honors.” When the nobleman turned, offering a parchment to the king’s clerk, his proud profile removed all doubt of his identity.

Kien muttered beneath his breath, “Ruestock!” The scheming, duplicitous Siphran lord who’d stolen Ela from Jon and Beka last year! On instinct, Kien gripped his dagger. So the man was begging for the return of confiscated lands? No! Kien moved forward.

Surely Akabe, as Siphra’s king, knew of Ruestock’s past deceits.

Akabe smiled, pleasant but noncommittal. “We will consider your request and answer in due time.”

“Thank you, Majesty.” Ruestock bowed with marvelous elegance. “My family and I are your most humble servants.”

Humble? Ha! Kien nearly scoffed aloud.

Ruestock backed away gracefully, until he caught sight of Kien. For an instant, the oily nobleman froze. Then, shifting his gaze briefly toward the king, Ruestock gave Kien a courtier’s bow, pointedly equal to the one he’d just offered Akabe. “Majesty! What a pleasure to see you in your fellow king’s court, sir! I wish you a good day—and a good visit.”

He continued his smooth retreat, though with such a secretive, calculating smile that Kien wanted to lock him in a choke hold and squeeze the truth from his immoral soul. What game was the man playing? Every courtier within earshot was now staring at Kien.

Akabe frowned. “Wait.”

Ruestock paused, the image of sublime patience. “Yes, Majesty?”

“Explain what you just said to former ambassador Lantec.”

Kien growled. He saw where this conversation was going. As soon as he could isolate Ruestock, Kien would flay the man. Infinite, give me patience, please!

In his most unctuous manner, Ruestock said, “Forgive me, Majesty—and Majesty.” He bowed to Akabe, then Kien. “I did not realize that former ambassador Lantec has concealed the matter. He is the rightful king of Istgard. He refused the honor following the battle of Ytar.”

Akabe stared at Kien, incredulous. “Is this true?”

“In Istgard’s best interests.” Kien fumed. He would beat Ruestock bloody! Why create this scene?

Siphra’s king straightened on his throne, an eyebrow lifted at Kien, not altogether pleased. “We must talk.”

Kien offered with an envoy’s bow. “Of course, sir.”

While Akabe was distracted by the final petitioner, Kien wove his way through the crowd to Ruestock. All courtesy and grace, the rogue nobleman bowed and straightened. “Majesty.”

Kien spoke through gritted teeth. “What game are you playing?”

“My favorite game,” Ruestock murmured. “Realms and kings. And the more kings the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve done you a favor by speaking the truth, sir. All the honors of Siphra are now yours. One day, I’m sure you’ll be glad of it and, perhaps, consider me less of an enemy.”

“Unlikely. On all counts.”

“Oh, more than likely. In time. Majesty.” Eyes glittering, Ruestock bowed and backed away.