King (31 page)

 31 

L
ying in the yard, trying to subdue his anxiety, Kien held his bloodied abdomen, stared up at the sky, and waited. Scythe nuzzled him again, destroyer-panic evident in his repeated vocalizations of distress. Despite his own fears, Kien smoothed the monster warhorse’s big face with his free hand. “Calm yourself. Deafening me with your noise and drowning me in slobber will only defeat your hopes.” And Kien’s. Was this wound truly his death sentence?

Finished securing the gate as much as possible, Akabe and Riddig kneeled beside him, their faces as distressed as Scythe’s. They unbuckled Kien’s boiled leather vest and the padding beneath, then lifted it away. Gripping his dagger, Riddig ordered Kien, “Remove your hand from the wound, my lord.”

Sickened by the wound’s bulging slipperiness, Kien obeyed. “Do I want to see this?”

Riddig slit open the fabric above the wound. “No, my lord.”

Akabe eyed the wound and winced. “Riddig, what do you need?”

“The pot of water I set to heat above the hearth—as soon as it steams—with a cup and some of that stinking cheese Lord Aeyrievale fed us earlier, please, Majesty.”

The Bannulk cheese? Mistrustful, Kien asked, “Why?”

Ignoring him, Riddig called after Akabe, “Wash your hands, sir! Blood of the dead must not taint blood of the living!”

“Meaning what?” Kien demanded. “Are you giving me up for dead?”

“Not yet, my lord. Did you save any of that foul cheese?”

“Perhaps. Why do you need it?”

“To determine the extent of your injuries.
Not
for a jest.” When Kien hesitated, Riddig turned a bit testy. “My lord, hand over the cheese.”

Grudging every syllable, Kien said, “It’s inside my tunic.”

“Well,” Riddig observed, “it ought to be ripened strong enough to serve its purpose.” He slit Kien’s tunic and snatched the contested packet. “You need to eat this, my lord. Every cube.”

All? Kien eyed the warm sludge-brown cubes. He could stomach two or three without puking. More would be debatable. Torture, actually. “This is your revenge for my joke, isn’t it?”

The field surgeon smirked, his silvery beard bristling. “I enjoy knowing there’s a bit of retribution in your treatment. Now, eat, my lord.”

“Fine.” Kien chewed cube after rank brown cube. The stink set Scythe’s nostrils a-twitch. Moaning, the beast backed off. Kien muttered, “Coward!” As he bit into the last cube his stomach clenched painfully, threatening revolt.

Evidently noticing Kien’s squeamishness, Riddig said, “Whatever you do, my lord, you must not vomit. Remain still. I’m going to wash my hands.”

Kien swallowed and willed his stomach to settle. His eyes watered with the effort. He should be written into a Siphran epic for such a feat. Infinite . . .

Akabe returned with a small kettle of steaming water, a mug, and a respectably clean white tunic. “Here’s the water. I’ll prepare some bandages.” He knelt beside Kien, then froze. “Augh! What is that stench?”

“Lord Aeyrievale’s medicine, Majesty.” Hands now clean, Riddig unfurled a leather roll, revealing a gleaming array of small,
vicious-looking tools. Grim-faced, he poured some of the steaming water into the cup and offered it to Kien. “Drink, my lord. If your guts are pierced and fluids are draining from your stomach, we’ll smell that cheese through your wound.”

“And what if you don’t smell it?”

Unnervingly quiet, Riddig said, “If we don’t smell it, then there’s a chance you’ll live.”

A chance. Kien drank the steaming water, then settled down. As they waited, Riddig Tyne unfastened Kien’s greave and inspected his leg wound, muttering as if reciting lessons. “Now the actions of healing are these . . . purge, anoint, stitch, and bind.” Almost ceremonially, he poured some of the heated water over his clean hands, then some over Kien’s leg.

Kien gasped at the liquid’s sting. “How will a scalding cure me?”

Riddig ignored him, opened a vial, and drizzled a dark honey-like substance over the gash. “Remain still, my lord. I’ll be stitching a tube within your wound.”

Gritting his teeth against the repeated stabs, Kien held still. But Scythe paced, twitched, and groaned throughout the procedure. While the field surgeon bound his wound, the warhorse breathed moisture on Kien’s face. Kien reached for the destroyer’s halter. “Easy, monster.”

Kien hesitated. What would become of Scythe if he died and Ela didn’t return from Belaal? And if the next mob of Ateans descended on them while Kien was downed with his wounds, how could Akabe and Riddig defend themselves alone? Decision made, Kien beckoned Akabe, who tore another bandage from the clean formerly royal tunic. “Majesty, look Scythe in the eye.”

One eyebrow lifted in his wearied, rough-bearded face, Akabe complied. But he asked, “Why the destroyer-staring contest, my friend? Aren’t you too afflicted for pranks?”

“This is no prank, sir.” Kien tightened his grip on the destroyer’s halter. “Scythe. . . .
Obey!
Do you hear me? Obey the king!”

Scythe huffed, then growled and shut his eyes, clearly in a sulk.

“Good monster-horse.” The best. Sighing, Kien shifted his Azurnite sword in its scabbard, pushing it toward Akabe. “Guard this. With Scythe. If I don’t recover . . . turn them against your enemies.”

The king’s expression set into stubborn lines exaggerated by his beard. “I’ll guard them
until
you recover.” A rueful smile lit his face. “I’m praying your guts won’t stink. That would be a miracle from the Infinite!”

Kien grimaced and shut his eyes. No doubt if he survived, he would laugh about this later. “Majesty, I ate
all
the Bannulk cheese. One way or another, my guts will stink.”

Ela lowered her comb. Why was she fretting so for Kien? Fears had invaded her sleep, stirring her to pray before she’d even opened her eyes. “Infinite? What is—?”

Frantic tapping sounded from the base of the chamber door, with the now-familiar voice of Mari, the young slave woman. “Prophet? You are summoned at once!”

Smoothing her hair and robes, Ela hurried to the door. She flung it open. “Yes, Mari?”

Mari quavered, “The k-king is in the Women’s Palace. Come out at once!”

“I’m surprised he didn’t arrive sooner. I’ll hurry.” Ela whisked through the chamber to snatch the branch and then to lean into the garden and warn the still-splotchy Caitria, “Majesty, the king is in the Women’s Palace—I’m called for, but don’t worry. I’ll return soon.”

“Just don’t bring
him
with you!” Caitria scowled. “Ela, can’t you simply roast him?”

“I think not.” Outside, Ela scurried through a labyrinth of elegant corridors to keep up with the frightened slave. Mari led Ela to Lady Dasarai’s rooms, knelt, and rapped on the door. Bel-Tygeon himself answered, no longer crowned, but still clad in his golden robes. Instantly he grabbed Ela’s arm, dragged
her inside his sister’s apartments, and slammed the door in the frightened slave’s face. His voice dangerously quiet, the king said, “If you expect to live, Prophet, you will repair the damage you’ve caused to our throne room!”

Repair the damage? She’d never considered it. And wouldn’t, unless . . . Infinite?

Tomorrow. At the same hour it was shattered, and before the same witnesses, the floor will be repaired according to My plan.

All right. Ela repeated her beloved Creator’s words. Bel-Tygeon slammed a fist against the door beside them, making Ela jump. “
His
plan! What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, sir. The Infinite hasn’t revealed it to me—I’m only His servant.”

The young king’s proud face tightened. “Only His servant? After that performance? You mock me!”

“I’ve warned you, sir!” Ela retorted. “Furthermore, my actions were no performance! Unless you change, your reign will destroy this nation and you with it, to the everlasting agony of your soul. The Infinite calls you, Bel-Tygeon! Despite your pride, He is present to you—to everyone! He
loves
you. Turn to Him and live!”

His peculiar remote expression returned, slipping over his smooth, handsome face like a mask. “I intend to live—and exactly as I please. I’ll worry about everlasting agony if it arrives.”

Ela’s entire being stilled. “You would not speak of eternal torment so lightly if you’d experienced it, sir.”

A quirk of humor broke his composed facade. “Are you about to tell me that you have experienced eternal torment?”

“Yes!” Shuddering, Ela recalled that brief fragment of time, the absolute soul-searing torment. She gazed at the darkness, forcing words past her lips. “I was trapped inside everlasting fire. I could not die, though I begged for death! The agony of being wholly separated from the Infinite was so intense—I wish it on no one! Ever!”

When Ela drew her thoughts into the present, she found Bel-Tygeon studying her. He smiled and whispered, “Excellent! I
almost believed you. Now . . .” He grabbed Ela’s arm and pulled her close, as if preparing to embrace her, but without tenderness. “You will do as I command. If you possess the means to ruin my palace, then you possess the means to restore it. Don’t defy me, or I will
destroy
Siphra’s queen. Do you understand?”

A bluff. This had to be a bluff. He wouldn’t dare risk a full-blown war with Siphra by destroying the queen, she was almost certain. Almost. Surely his demand that she declare his future victories meant that this proud god-king feared another humiliating defeat such as the one he’d suffered in Parne.

Gathering her courage, Ela said, “You needn’t threaten me or Siphra’s queen. The Infinite has declared He will restore Belaal’s throne room tomorrow. His word is always true. Fear Him, sir! Seek His heart before you suffer calamity.”

“The calamity will be your own if you defy me.” Bel-Tygeon released Ela and strode from the room as if he could endure her no longer. Soft rustling alerted Ela to the Lady Dasarai’s presence. Ela cast the woman a pleading look. “Lady Rethae, beg your brother to consider the Infinite’s warnings! I’ve no wish to see him or Belaal suffer for his pride.”

The noblewoman lifted her chin. “With pride, he honors his birthright. One hopes you will eventually see the aptness of his ways. Now—” she waved a bejeweled hand toward the door—“you may return to your chamber.”

Feeling every bit the unwelcomed guest, Ela departed. As she prayed and followed the still-agitated Mari back to her chamber, a feminine voice beckoned, “Prophet!” Ela halted.

Followed by blue-clad slaves, a lovely, bright-eyed young woman approached, her dark hair and bare arms glittering with jeweled ornaments. Breathless, she snatched at Ela’s sheer mantle. “I hoped to speak with you. We’ve all heard what happened to the throne room—no doubt you’re a true prophet. Please, may I ask you a question?”

Listen.
The Infinite’s words permeated Ela’s thoughts so swiftly that she shut her eyes and clung to the branch to withstand the
impact of His voice. As for His news . . . no. Not what this young woman wanted to hear. “The Infinite has told me your question as well as its answer. You are Zaria, the king’s current favorite, and you wish to know if you are pregnant with his first child. You are not.”

The young woman flinched, then blinked away tears. Ela felt the depths of her disappointment and the Infinite’s compassion for her soul. Aware of the listening slaves, she said, “I’m sorry. The Infinite declares this palace is barren. Furthermore, it will always be so unless Bel-Tygeon acknowledges who he truly is—and is not. Pray to the Infinite for him.”