King (12 page)

Mindful of his manners, Kien kissed the young queen’s hand and smiled. Inwardly, he frowned, puzzled by her demeanor. She stepped nearer to Akabe, watching Kien as if expecting him to bite her. Interesting. Though he hadn’t said a word to the Lady Caitria, she didn’t trust him. Should he trust her? Infinite?

Finished with Kien’s letter, Ela sat on her sleeping pallet in her parents’ new fortress-like home and stared through glistening tears at his signature on the parchment. No wonder he’d been unable to speak of his trial. This, written in sprawling script, was the letter of a man in utter despair, grieving over the loss of his home and family.

Ela, legally, I have no parents. I am no one!

So the hurt she’d glimpsed this afternoon wasn’t feigned. Kien still mourned.

If she’d read this letter earlier, before seeing him again, she would have hugged and comforted him the instant they met—never mind the gossiping onlookers. But perhaps it was best for all concerned that the letter arrived today.

Come to think of it, however, the result would have been the same: She must marry Kien.

A complication unsuited for her short-lived future as a prophet.

And yet, hadn’t she longed to marry him for more than a year?

Ela folded Kien’s letter, tucked it away like treasure inside her painted storage chest, then kneeled beside her bed and hid her face in her folded arms, praying fiercely. Infinite? I love You! Remember Your servant, and remind me always of You! Thank You. But won’t I become too distracted by my marriage? Will I continue to serve You as I should?

Praying, she waited for a time, then curled up beneath the coverlets on her thick pallet and fell asleep.

Terror woke her. She was sitting up, and dawn’s light sent luminous slivers through her shuttered windows. “Infinite?”

Are you My servant?

“Yes.”

Listen!

Images slid into Ela’s thoughts, sending shivers of fear over her skin. Tormented screams of dying men shrieked from within her mind. Ashes dimmed her sight. “Wait! Please!” She clutched her head and huddled on the tiled floor, rocked by agony. “Infinite!”

The vision opened, drawing her inside. Gasping, Ela looked around, her heart hammering with her soul’s terror. Stone walls, a window, and a girl Ela identified as the queen—a thin, beautiful young lady, who screamed, her huge eyes pleading for safety that Ela couldn’t provide.

And as Ela wept, soldiers died. Horribly.

Kien! Where was Kien? Her thoughts warned him away. Begged him to survive.

The image widened, becoming many. Biting down screams, Ela curled into a ball and fought the torment. Enemies whispered their hatred. Their plans. Decisions had been made in the Tracelands. Were being made in Siphra, and in the nearby country of a vengeful god-king.

All merged and flowed toward her. Toward Siphra’s king. Toward the Infinite’s Holy House, in a tidal wave of malice. Darkness threatened consciousness. “Infinite . . . help . . .”

Released from the stream of images and emotions, Ela muffled sobs, pressing her face against the cooling tiles as she fought to recover her senses. Clearly, this marriage to Kien—the love she’d resisted so fiercely—would be her only brief mortal sanctuary amid the coming chaos.

“Father?” Ela scrambled to her feet, praying as she ran.

For Father. For Kien. For Akabe and the temple.

And for the young queen she could not protect.

 12 

T
he instant the servant departed, Akabe set aside his half-eaten morning meal, opened a gilded silver box, and removed Caitria’s official bridal armband—exquisitely cast in gold with two aeryons in flight supporting a crown. Akabe studied the piece for flaws. None. If the goldsmith held any resentment against his king or queen, or the Infinite’s Holy House, he hadn’t allowed them to show in his work. Satisfied, Akabe carried the armband into his bedchamber.

Stepping inside, he smiled, admiring Caitria, who’d—as usual—remained in bed, her slight form lit by a glowing cluster of gilt bronze lamps. How she loathed their early mornings. “Lady.”

Caitria sat up, suddenly alert. “Majesty?”

Akabe lifted the armband. “Siphra’s gift to its queen.”

She allowed Akabe to fasten the gold around her arm without protest. But by her pitiable expression, the gold ought to have been an iron shackle on her left ankle instead, denoting imprisonment. Caitria fingered the band and sighed. “Thank you. It’s heavy.”

“Not unbearably so, I hope,” Akabe murmured. “However, if it becomes intolerable, tell me. We don’t agree on everything, but we’ve each been brought here as captives to our situations and, therefore, I’ll understand. Unless . . .” He looked around at
the dimly lit, windowless, trinket-cluttered royal chamber. Safe, yet suffocating. “Unless you actually like this place.”

A smile lit her drowsy features. “No, sir. I hate this place! I hate feeling so trapped, so watched! I hate . . .”

Akabe could almost hear the words she’d just stifled.

I hate the circumstances that brought me here!

And he was the instigator of her misery, yet he couldn’t free her. Guilt descended upon him like a sodden cloak. As he bent and kissed her hair, frantic tapping sounded at the antechamber door. Faine’s muffled voice beckoned, “Majesty—a message from the prophet! She waits in the council chamber!”

The prophet! With a message? Heart thudding, Akabe spun on his booted heel and charged from his bedchamber, dread chasing his steps.

In his temporary rooms within the palace, Kien finished his morning meal and studied the documents just offered by his steward, who was already attending to legalities on the opposite side of the decorative table. “What are these, Bryce?”

Thin, brown, and businesslike, Bryce continued to prepare blue wax and cords for sealing the documents. “My lord, the first is your declaration of intent to reopen Aeyrievale’s sapphire mines, which we closed during the rebellion, and this is your formal request for the release of Aeyrievale’s funds.”

“Hmm.” He supposed he needed funds. As for sapphire mines—well, if Aeyrievale possessed them and wanted to use them, it meant jobs. Kien scanned the documents, found them in order, and accepted the reed pen and ink, politely offered by Bryce. Still disliking the look of his name, he signed twice.
Kien Lantec of Aeyrievale.

Would he always cringe inside whenever he wrote
Aeyrievale
?

Bryce slid the parchments away from Kien and applied Aeyrievale’s official seal within a puddle of bright blue wax. “That was the last of the legal concerns for this morning, my lord.
I’m told the king’s revenue clerks will release the funds to your control today. You can decide how best to use the money later.”

With a sigh, as if relieved of a long-carried burden, Bryce placed the sealed parchment inside a box, then offered a sketch on a small square of parchment. “For your signature of approval. The future Lady Aeyrievale’s gold—her wedding band.”

Ela’s wedding band! Kien studied the sketch. It appeared to be a cuff, fashioned to resemble a stylish, curling plume-like feather. “Why a feather?”

“Aeryons, my lord. In Siphra, they live only in Aeyrievale, and they are our unofficial symbol. All the former ladies of Aeyrievale, in succession, wore an armband similar to this one. The original was confiscated by Queen Raenna—may she rot forever—after the last Lady Aeyrievale’s murder, more than ten years ago.”

Tracing the sketched outline, Kien asked, “Were there no heirs?”

“No, sir. Lady Aeyrievale’s only child died of a fever at age five. But even if the girl had survived a few months more, she would have died with her parents at the queen’s command.”

May Raenna rot forever, Kien added silently. “I wish your previous lord and his family had survived.” He signed approval to the sketch, then sat back. “What now?”

“We wait, sir. I’ve sent out a few invitations to various people who might be interested in joining your household. And you’ll make additional wedding plans. Unless you’d rather follow Aeyrievale’s ancient custom.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Steal the future Lady Aeyrievale from her family.”

Kien laughed and shook his head. “No! You’re a wild lot in Aeyrievale.”

“We’re trying to improve, my lord, but this custom continues. The former Lady Aeyrievale paid bribes to discourage weapons—your wife might consider resuming the practice. It was becoming rather popular.”

“You’ll have to speak with Ela about the bribes. She—” A
light tapping sounded at the door. Bryce hurried to answer it, admitting a young, crimson-clad page with rumpled hair, who looked as if he’d just been dragged from sleep.

The little boy bowed, gave Kien a bleary, gap-toothed smile and lisped, “My lord, the king requests your presence in the council chamber.”

Careful not to laugh, Kien asked, “How did you lose your front teeth? In a fight?”

The page’s eyes widened, and the gapped smile reappeared. “No, sir. But I wish so.”

“Wild man! You must be from Aeyrievale.” Kien stood, donned his sword and cloak, then checked his attire. All in order, he nodded to the little page, who’d perked up considerably. “Lead on, young sir.” Over his shoulder Kien called, “Bryce, enjoy your day! I’m sure I’ll return before this evening.”

Just as they reached the end of the corridor, a sturdy ruffian with bashed features rounded the turn, wielding his sword. Instinctively, Kien whipped his glistening blue Azurnite blade from its scabbard and edged the little boy aside.

Recognizing his would-be assailant—Akabe’s fightmaster—Kien tightened his grip on his sword. “Lorteus!”

The royal fightmaster gloated and tapped Kien’s decorated Azurnite blade with his own plain sword. His voice low and gritty as ever, he laughed. “Good reaction! And what a pretty toy. Come, Lord Aeyrievale! You are summoned, and I intend to accompany you.”

“Why?”

“Danger, m’lord. I’m like your destroyer, smelling trouble before it happens. The beast’s waiting in the courtyard, you know, and your little prophet now stands in the council chamber. If there’s to be a battle, I’m in!”

“Ela!” With Scythe waiting? What was wrong? Kien scooped up the astonished page boy, holding him in his left arm, still clenching the Azurnite sword in his right fist. Plagues, but this wing of the palace was a labyrinth! “Young sir, which way to the council chamber from here?”

Clearly speechless, the child pointed and Kien ran, with Lorteus at his heels.

Not bothering to sit in his chair at the head of the table, Akabe faced Ela, who stood before him like a delicate guard. In her hands the slender prophet’s branch glimmered, its mysterious light reflecting in her eyes—a silvery gleam, so alive that Akabe shivered inwardly. “Prophet, what was your vision?”

“The temple site will be—”

Clattering echoed at the chamber’s tall carved door. A servant dashed inside as if chased, and Lord Aeyrievale entered the chamber, sword readied, with Barth under his arm. As the servant departed, hastily closing the door, Kien offered the barest of bows and set the little boy on his feet, then sheathed the Azurnite sword. “Majesty. Prophet, what’s wrong?”

“The temple site is about to be attacked.” Ela stepped toward Kien, but looked up at Akabe, tensed, her words abrupt. “Majesty, I’ve warned my father, but there isn’t time to warn away all the workers and send them to safety as they arrive—you must bring more soldiers to the site at once. Your enemies plan to use arrows and bolt throwers to besiege the temple.”

Akabe motioned to Trillcliff and Piton. “Call out my garrisons and order men stationed at every street corner. Send for my horses, and have my guards bring weaponry and battle gear, then command that the palace gates be locked and guarded the instant we leave—
and
I want my council alert against trouble!” Trillcliff and Piton hurried from the chamber, their mantles billowing with their haste. Akabe studied Ela’s somber face. “What are your plans, Prophet?”

She hesitated and shook her head, clearly baffled. “The Infinite commands me to stay away. I’ll wait with my mother. Majesty, this conflict is yours.”

Kien stared at her. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. Why did the Infinite command you to stay away?”

“I asked. He waits . . . silent. I’m praying for you, Majesty, and”—Ela touched Kien’s arm in a clear, silent plea for his safety—“I’m praying for the men who accompany you.”

Akabe paused. Why did her words and manner disturb his spirit so? But he had no time to fret over inert details now. As she’d said, this conflict was his. All his warrior instincts keen for a fight, he nodded to Kien. “Let’s go.”

Barth piped up now, his lisp young and eager. “Me too, Majesty?”

A pity to disappoint such an enthusiastic future soldier. Kien opened the door—revealing Fightmaster Lorteus pacing outside. Akabe nudged his page through. “No, Barth. You’ll remain here. Go find Master Croleut for lessons.”

His page frowned and kicked at the floor. “Aw!”