King (29 page)

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?”

Oh, lovely—a too-clever doctor with chilly hands. Aware of Ela watching and listening, Caitria told a not-quite truth. “Some of the sauces I was served this morning looked unusual, but they were delicious.”

The doctor's mouth turned downward at the word
sauces
. Peevish, she scolded Lady Dasarai, who stood near the door. “Your young ladies are forever eating those rich sauces, Lady, though I have warned you against them. Such exotic fare provides hiding places for poison—with miserable results!” She gestured at Caitria's hive-covered arms and swollen face.

Dasarai sniffed. “I doubt the queen was poisoned. If so, she'd be dead by now. Furthermore, the sauces mightn't be to blame, and the ladies will riot if they're served nothing but plain steamed foods. My questions, good doctor, are first, can the queen be cured quickly? And second, is she contagious?”

“Not quickly. And possibly yes to contagious. Keep her isolated.”

Triumph! Caitria hid her glee by scratching her welted arms and her scalp. The doctor slathered more ointment on her arms and in her hair. Its gooey chill slid down Caitria's neck, making her shudder. Before she could protest, the doctor snapped, “No scratching the hives, Majesty, lest you cause scars.”

“I won't hold you responsible,” Caitria promised. “However, I'd prefer to apply my own ointment. Will Lady Aeyrievale be safe if she remains with me?”

The doctor's narrow face seemed all the more pinched. “If you are contagious, Majesty, it is too late to protect
her
.” Sounding hopeful, she asked, “Do you wish the prophet gone?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Ha!” Ela gave her a pretend-angry scowl. “See if I don't remember that!”

Caitria laughed, then wheezed as her throat tightened. At once the suspicious doctor snatched a long ominous-looking gold tube. “Open your mouth, Majesty. If you can swallow, I will give you a remedy to bring you rest.”

Ela kneeled beside Caitria's pallet, trying to ease her growing fears. The queen was pale beneath the welts and her every breath rasped. “Is this how you always react to berries?”

“Yes. Naynee says I also become irritable with the hives—just warning you.”

“Majesty, are you risking your life with those berries?”

Definitely cranky, Caitria huffed, “I'd rather risk berries than
his
attention!”

Not reassuring. Ela clasped the branch, knelt, and closed her eyes. Infinite . . . ?

“You're praying, aren't you?” Caitria sounded so petulant that Ela opened her eyes.

Hmm. Siphra's soft-eyed queen was turning quarrelsome. Bad berries. And the physician's remedies were obviously affecting her. “Yes, Majesty.”

“Well, pray aloud!” But before Ela could pray, Caitria continued, rambling beneath the effects of the doctor's medicines. “I now believe He exists. Yet there's so much I don't understand. His followers are no different from any others,” Caitria muttered. “Just as Ateans offer sacrifices to Atea to placate her, the Infinite's priests offer sacrifices to placate Him.”

“To protect us, through obedience to Him, yes. Yet sacrifices offered by mortal priests are also imperfect. Perfection requires faultlessness and, someday, the Infinite will provide a perfect sacrifice for us all. Until then, we wait and trust Him as children trust their father.”

Caitria's eyelids were closing. Her words drifted. “Except for my lady-mother . . . and Naynee . . . you and Akabe and . . . Kien have been the only people to treat me kindly. Dear Akabe . . .” She yawned. “You say the Infinite is . . . as a father. I want
my
lord-father to be a father. . . .” Her breathing eased, and she dozed.

Satisfied that Caitria's coloring looked better, though the splotches didn't, Ela relaxed. She prayed, then set aside the branch. After washing her face and combing her hair, she donned fresh layers of fragile tunics. White, pale blue, then deep blue, covered by a sheer, flowing, embroidered white mantle. Lovely. But not her own. Wearied, Ela turned to lie down on her pallet—just as the branch flared alarmingly in her hand.

A breath of air whisked past her face, making her heart skip with fear. “Oh no!”

The air current closed about Ela like a mighty fist and swept her away.

 29 

A
s the whirlwind released her, Ela drew in a shaky breath. Mercy. One more shift like this and she would certainly retch. Where was she? Ela swept her rumpled hair away from her face, then focused her gaze on the glittering spectacle before her.

Bel-Tygeon was seated several marble steps above her on his gold throne, clad in gold from his crown to his shoes, his long fingers tensed over a crystal-and-gold scepter angled toward the polished floor. For an instant, the king stared at her, clearly perplexed. Then his dark eyes widened and his lean, handsome face tensed. “Prophet! What are you doing here?”

Good question. Infinite? What am I doing here . . . in Belaal's throne room?

Amusement permeated His voice.
Look.

Ela pressed one hand to her head and stared into the brief vision. Absorbing her task, she hid a smile. “Majesty, what should a prophet do, but warn the king?” And shake his throne.

If a threatening stare could strike her down, Bel-Tygeon's glare would do so now. “
You
are tempting death by entering this place uninvited!”

“As any prophet expects. Sir.”

A voice boomed behind Ela, gruff and hateful. “Sire, shall I remove her?”

General Siyrsun, Ela knew without turning. Belaal's general of
the army and leader of the first attack on Parne. She'd seen him in her vision, his face marred by rippling purpled scars earned in Parne. Ela suppressed a shiver as the Infinite allowed her some of the general's thoughts. He cursed her daily for those scars and longed to carve the same over Ela's face and down her arms—before cutting out her heart.
Not
what she'd wanted to know. Ela blinked, then focused on Bel-Tygeon instead.

The king didn't smile, but he leaned forward, clearly interested. Toying with the gold-and-crystal scepter, he said, “You would kill her, general, the instant you drag her outside.”

The general's voice neared Ela. Along with his footsteps. “As we all say, sire, you are Wisdom itself. Why should I not wish to kill your enemies?”

Ela suppressed a shudder and fixed her gaze on Bel-Tygeon. He smiled a taunt at Ela as he told Siyrsun, “Yes. Remove her.”

Without turning, Ela cried out, “General Siyrsun, by His Holy Name, the Infinite commands you and your men to stand where you are until He releases you!”

The general's furious growl answered. Around the gleaming throne room, exclamations of surprise punctuated the air as Ela's enemies obviously tried and failed to move and apprehend her. Ela shook her head at the king. “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite's will is for you to live and to celebrate eternity,
if
you listen to Him. And I am His faithful servant, not your enemy.”

“A nice sentiment, though inadequate.” Bel-Tygeon waved his scepter toward her, its crystal glittering in the light. “But enough. Your theatrics have our attention. Tell us what your Infinite wishes to say, and then leave.”

“You and your counselors have planned a ceremony for your naming day, involving sacrifices and worship. To you.”

“Yes. And why not?” Bel-Tygeon stood and descended from his throne. “It is our tradition, as it has been for generations. Why shouldn't I continue in our ways?” He lifted his arms in a gesture of arrogant displeasure. “Why am
I
the first king of Belaal chosen for your Infinite's wrath? What is your true game, Prophet?”

“This is hardly a game, O king! You are the first ruler of Belaal to command exclusive worship for yourself, banning all other gods as you enslave your people!” Watching his expression chill to majestic remoteness, Ela continued. “Your arrogance stinks to the heavens and will only continue to grow unless you are corrected—which the Infinite is concerned enough to do. You've done nothing to deserve your place in this life. Your Creator has granted you
everything
, yet you cannot see beyond yourself.”

“I see perfectly. You need not worry.” Bel-Tygeon sauntered past Ela, toward General Siyrsun. For the first time, Ela turned to look at the proud military leader, and the sight was not appealing. Siyrsun's powerful, scarred face was livid with rage, but he remained silent as the young god-king circled him, paying particular attention to his booted feet. Bel-Tygeon's lips pursed thoughtfully, and he nudged Siyrsun's left boot with his own gold-embellished shoe. “General, are your feet dead as stone, or do you sense pain?”

“There is no pain, O king, but neither are my feet dead. They simply refuse to move.”

“Interesting.” Bel-Tygeon's mouth twitched as if suppressing a grin, and for one horrible instant, he reminded Ela of Kien contemplating mischief. Impossible! Pursued by the Infinite or not, this fraud-god was nothing like her charming Kien.

Bel-Tygeon swept a cool glance over the crowd of men in the huge golden chamber. Some shuffled from foot to foot, but many were clearly held in place and not the least bit happy. Then Bel-Tygeon returned to Ela, stood directly in front of her, lifted his crystal scepter, and commanded, “Free them. You've performed an interesting trick, but its fascination has ended.”

Hmm. Short attention span. Seeing the branch change from a subtle metallic shade to glowing blue-white, Ela braced herself inwardly. “I cannot free those men, sir. Your Creator commanded them to remain where they are. He will release them when it pleases Him to do so.”

Bel-Tygeon studied the branch and muttered, “
He
does not rule here.”

“So you say.” Ela paused as the Infinite whispered questions into her thoughts. Finished listening, she raised her voice, defying the proud king before her. “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite asks, ‘Who are
you
? Did you create the heavens? Were you present when the foundations of Belaal were set in place and the mountains were raised to shelter your lands? Can you cause those lands to shift beneath the feet of mortals?' No! But He does—
now
!”

Gentle, but deliberate, she rested the end of the branch against the shining floor. Ferocious light blazed from the base of the branch down through the marble and ripped along the throne room's floor, lifting the stones beneath the feet of Bel-Tygeon and all his courtiers, bringing them to their knees.

Clinging to her vinewood insignia, Ela watched huge cracks open outward through the marble from the branch like fiery blue-white roots. Lightning-brilliant spirals snapped in the air above—outlining the translucent form of a burning tree. Ela's hair swept about her in an arc and lit to molten silver beneath the Infinite's fury. As He spoke into Ela's thoughts, she called out His warning, barely recognizing her own voice, “When the Infinite created this world, mortals were mere dust! Your pretensions cannot affect Him—yet He calls to each of you. Seek Him!”

A vortex of air encircled her now, closing in, sweeping her away.

Leaning on the branch, Ela found herself in the tiny enclosed garden adjoining the chamber she shared with Caitria. Watching the garden walls spin, Ela sank to her knees and retched. Thoroughly miserable, she finally lifted her head and took a full breath. “Infinite?”

I am here.

Ugh! How humbling to know that her Creator could see her in such an inglorious state. Well, He'd seen her looking worse. But she definitely needed that nap now. Ela staggered inside the chamber, poured a goblet of water, and drank.

Finished, she crossed the chamber to her pallet. Caitria woke
up and blinked at her. Sleepy-voiced and still splotchy from the berries, Caitria mumbled, “Ela? You're a mess. What happened?”

Dizzied, Ela flopped onto her pallet. “I think the Infinite just . . . destroyed Bel-Tygeon's throne room. You'll hear about it soon enough. Until then, I need to rest.”

Outside in the broad yard, now well trimmed thanks to Scythe and the smaller horses, Akabe checked the soil over the cooking pit. At least pit cooking conserved wood and yielded no smoke. If only it could conserve food. They had no other supplies apart from their stash of dried venison, a small clay jar of flour, and the remains of his family's now-wild kitchen garden—which was thankfully walled off from the horses in the central yard. Where were his men—along with Faine's reinforcements and Faine's report of their plan's success or failure? “Infinite, I beg You, protect my men!”

Calming his thoughts, Akabe tested the ground. Slightly warm, but not enough to deserve another layer of soil. Sweating a bit beneath his protective vest, Akabe stood and looked around. The quiet air and silence weren't reassuring. No birds were singing. Surely something was afoot. If Kien didn't reappear with Scythe soon, Akabe must presume other ominous creatures were roaming through the trees on the slopes below. Such as assassins.

Even as Akabe thought this, thuds shook the ground, reassuring him. Obviously the destroyer was returning from his daily run. No wonder the birds were silent. Akabe approached the massive pit he'd dug in front of the gatehouse with Kien's help—and with Scythe dragging away the excess dirt. The same Scythe who was now shaking the ground. Best not to walk too near the trap until the destroyer halted. “Riddig! A little help!”

“Already on my way, sir!” Riddig's footsteps echoed on the wall above as he scurried to the gatehouse stairwell. The surgeon soon emerged from the narrow stone portal, his white hair wild, his beard a mass of pale bristles. “Allow me, sir.” Shifting his
bow onto his back, Riddig tugged up one of the swords impaled between the slabs at the gate's base. Swords served as unconventional bars, but they worked.

To Kien, Akabe bellowed, “Keep to the side—remember the pit!”

“How could Scythe and I forget?” Kien called from beyond the wall. “We're both blistered from digging the thing!”

Akabe grinned and set down the swords. “Stop complaining, my friend! Our blisters are well-suffered! You know I'm right!” The pit—spiked with numerous half-buried swords and pikes—might slow down their attackers long enough to allow a few volleys of arrows to thin their numbers.

As they hauled open the creaking gate's intact side, Akabe muttered to Riddig, “I hope all our work is wasted—that the Ateans never appear.” To Kien, he yelled, “The way's clear!”

Akabe listened for Kien to make another smart retort, but he merely urged Scythe inside, his voice low and abrupt. “Go. Hurry!”

At once, Riddig shifted his bow and quiver of arrows, his squared face tense. In silent agreement with his guardsman's apprehension, Akabe snatched a sword, ready to slam it into place as soon as the destroyer cleared the gate. Scythe grunted as he stomped inside, lowering his big monster-head to avoid scraping the gate's archway. After a nervous-seeming turn around the yard's fading grass, he bent, allowing Kien to drop solidly to the ground.

Satisfied that Kien and Scythe were unharmed, Akabe slammed the sword in place and reached for another to secure the gate. “Welcome back. You seem uneasy. What's happened?”

Kien nodded toward Scythe. “I don't know what's made him edgy today, but it's affecting me. I'm ready to attack every shadow.” He grabbed a third sword and slid it in place and tamped it with his boot. Grim-faced, he looked from Akabe to Riddig. “Do you suppose the Ateans waylaid Lord Faine's reinforcements?”