King (33 page)

In despair, Ela shut her eyes and prayed. Caitria planned to escape. But she would fail.

Infinite? Don’t tell me the details, please. I know I’ll mourn with her.

From prison.

Already, within her thoughts, Ela felt the weight of iron chains and fear. The weeping of fellow-prisoners wrung her heart enough that she prayed for them even now.

Whispers resounded from among the ranks of waiting women. “The king—there’s the king!” Ela turned, looking with the others. Bel-Tygeon entered the huge gathering area, clad in gold from his booted heels to his robes and intricate towerlike crown. In the sunlight, he resembled a stunning living, moving statue. The image made Ela’s spirit recoil.

Around her, the women were sighing their admiration for Belaal’s god-king. Understandable. Add gold and god-king power to Bel-Tygeon’s spectacular looks and most women would all but kill for him.

With the exception of the Infinite’s prophet and Siphra’s queen.

Beside Ela, Caitria sniffed and looked away from the king, her beautiful brown eyes narrowed. “Hmph!”

Seeming unaware of them all, Bel-Tygeon stepped up into a gold ceremonial chariot and accepted the reins from his handler. Four perfectly matched white horses waited until their king and the handler urged them forward into the glittering ranks of Belaal’s royal guards. Ela took a deep breath as the women around her stirred, smoothing their garments and faces into order. Multitudes of slaves lifted innumerable glittering banners above them all.

Beyond them, the massive palace gates opened, and the pageant began.

They walked beneath the gate’s colossal arch, into a broad square beyond. The plaza led to a wide main road clearly constructed for processions such as this. The citizens of Sulaanc knelt and bowed their heads, worshiping their god as Bel-Tygeon rode past.

Fear coiled in Ela’s stomach, for Caitria, herself, and Kien’s baby. Infinite? Give me strength!

I am here.

Taking a deep breath, Ela continued to walk among the palace women, their footsteps sounding in unison against the wide avenue’s pristine stones. At the end of the street, she climbed a graceful stone ramp, which opened into a vast plaza crowded with row after orderly row of citizens and officials. Ela blinked, trying to absorb the sight. Multiple thousands of citizens and officials knelt, then bowed their heads to the stones in worship, creating an exquisitely timed wavelike ripple from one side of the plaza to the other.

Nerves and summertime warmth sent rivulets of sweat trickling down Ela’s back. She took a deep breath and prayed. Infinite? Help me to remain calm!

From the plaza they approached stairs, where Bel-Tygeon descended from his chariot, strikingly godlike. Lady Dasarai, equally regal, left her golden chair and followed him up the steps.

The stairs led to a high terrace. The terrace gave way to a great temple with wide, stately marble columns.

Ela shivered as she walked inside and breathed the scent of burning spices. The walls gleamed, gilded and gem-laden. Surely she’d walked into a giant’s jewelry box. And at the head of this glittering opulence, on a marble dais, stood a magnificent larger-than-life statue of Bel-Tygeon. The perfect depiction of a mortal naming himself a god.

Ela stiffened. She would
never
bow to this gloriously handsome monstrosity!

In her hand, the branch took fire.

As the other women halted, knelt, and bowed—with Caitria hesitating among them—Ela marched forward. Praying. She moved past the guards and ignored Bel-Tygeon’s groveling priests. The instant she passed Bel-Tygeon, Ela turned and stood before him, defiant.

His complexion stark in the vinewood’s burning light, Bel-Tygeon stared at Ela, his dark eyes huge.

Ela placed the blazing white branch between them.

Bel-Tygeon stepped back. Not in alarm, but in tight-lipped fury. Beneath his breath, through clenched teeth, Belaal’s king muttered a three-word threat.

“Don’t. You. Dare!”

 33 

D
are? Oh yes, she dared! Before anyone could stop her, Ela cried out, “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite declares that you are no god! He reveals this place for what it is in His sight—nothing!”

On the dais above them, the brilliant statue creaked, then folded to the floor as if bowing, its forehead ringing against the marble. Within the next instant, a tempest swept through the false temple, which sifted away in a glittering sandstorm, becoming nothingness as all the worshipers screamed.

As their Creator’s blessed sunlight washed over them, Ela called out, “The Infinite alone is God! There is no other ruling with Him! Belaal, turn to your eternal Father and worship Him!”

Still standing face-to-face with Ela, Bel-Tygeon shook his head as if dazed. He studied the air where gem-studded walls had stood only a few breaths before. His fear reached Ela—tangible as a touch. He stared at her again, and his lips parted. Taking a deep breath, he yelled to his guards, “Bind her! Remove her to the palace prison,
now
!”

Bel-Tygeon’s women and slaves screeched and scattered as the guards swarmed through their ranks, armor clattering while they raced toward Ela.

Infinite! Within a heartbeat, she felt callused hands grasping her wrists so tight that she feared they’d break her bones. Amid the scuffle, Ela lost her grip on the branch. The soldiers wrenched
Ela’s hands behind her back and tied them together before they carried her away.

Infinite! Panicked, Ela strained to see beyond the guards. Where was Caitria?

No, no, no! Infinite!

Her thoughts chaotic as the glistening dust whirlwind of Bel-Tygeon’s once-glorious temple, Caitria fled from the site. No one stopped her.

What had she just seen? An entire building disintegrated around her without injuring a single person inside! How? And they’d taken Ela. Oh, Infinite! But she couldn’t contemplate that now. Not until she was safe again in Siphra with Akabe. He would know how to rescue Ela.

Ela! Oh mercy! She’d survive, wouldn’t she?

Caitria quickened her pace. The plans she’d made this morning, which had seemed to be nothing but one of her hopeless dreams, now seemed possible. She’d trade her jewelry for supplies and a horse, or transport to Siphra’s border. Surely she could reach Siphra within two days!

She ran, her delicate sandals clicking wildly against the steps and street pavings. At the base of the plaza, Caitria hesitated. The white, blue, and gold city of Sulaanc seemed to open before her—to swallow her, she prayed, into anonymity.

To the east lay Bel-Tygeon’s palace. To the west, the canal and the marketplace beyond. The marketplace offered her best hope. But she must barter for a plain mantle, then blend into the crowds, if possible. She would become a lady perusing wares. A lady requiring transport to her distant home.

But the marketplace seethed with turmoil as Sulaanc’s citizens scurried about, craning for a glimpse of the temple as they called to each other, “It’s gone! Impossible! We’re going mad!”

A plain-robed woman stopped directly before Caitria and bowed her head, lifting sturdy work-worn hands in a pleading
gesture. “Lady, you must know! What’s happened to the temple? To our king—may his name be praised above all!”

Caitria’s thoughts skittered. “I-I . . . don’t know. It’s a disaster! All I can think of is that I must return home! Do you know of a conveyance with a trustworthy driver?”

The woman blinked, clearly stupefied. “Should we run?”

“Run? Yes!” Caitria snatched at the word. “Who knows what will happen now? Won’t it be safer if we leave Sulaanc? Help me, and I’ll repay you.” Caitria removed one of the fragile silver bracelets from her wrist and offered it to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Amiyra,” the woman breathed. She accepted the ornament, stared at it, then nodded to Caitria. “Lady, it must be as you say. I know who can help.”

By now the marketplace was emptied of all citizens but the merchants and tradesmen who’d begun to pack their wares and herd their animals from the area. Amiyra—now wearing the bracelet—hurriedly pointed Caitria into her modest stall that sheltered baskets of dried fruits, vegetables, and netted rounds of wax-covered cheese. She motioned Caitria to a fabric-draped shelter at the back of the stall. Inside, a baby slept in a basket, chubby and oblivious to the confusion outside. Amiyra checked the baby, then whispered to Caitria, “If you please, lady, sit here. I’ll speak to my man.”

Hoping she’d made the right choice of rescuers, Caitria sat on a heap of coarse cushions and stared at the baby. Judging by all the work evidenced in those tiny embroidered robes, this child was adored. A fine, healthy baby. Caitria exhaled, trying to control her fears for Ela and her unborn child. Let them be safe!

Before long, Amiyra reentered the shelter and offered Caitria a clay cup brimming with water. “I wish this’d be more, but it’ll refresh you. Rest a bit, lady. My man is seeing to transport. Where is your home?”

Caitria hesitated, then shifted on the cushion and accepted the cup. “North. Near the DaromKhor Hills.”

“I’ll tell him.” Amiyra backed out, flicking the rough brown curtain in place once more.

Sipping the water, Caitria focused on the baby and tried to calm her fears.

Sickened, Akabe tended the fire in the kitchen hearth and listened as Riddig talked. The burly surgeon tossed a fabric-wrapped packet of herbs into a steaming kettle and sighed. “The abdominal incision is healing well. However, the leg wound is festering inside. The tube is draining unhealthy fluids and the skin around it resembles raw meat. In addition, Lord Aeyrievale now has a fever.”

A fever. Akabe shut his eyes. Not good. He’d lost friends to similar wounds. The next step would be darkening, dying flesh, with the fever growing. Beyond that, unconsciousness, Akabe hoped. But more likely, the fever would set Kien to raving. Infinite, spare Kien that much, please! Focusing on the surgeon again, Akabe asked, “Is there any way we might save him?”

“I want to reopen his wound, cut out the decay, and attempt restoratives.” Riddig eyed the steaming kettle. “Heat—as much as he can can endure without blistering. Then sunlight and more of the honey ointment. If only I’d purchased maggots to consume the rotting flesh!” Bleak, the surgeon added, “Majesty, with this second surgery comes the increased chance of permanent crippling. I cannot guarantee the results. We can only pray it saves his life.”

“I’m already praying.” Akabe stood. “Will you need me to hold him still?”

“I’ll need you and Flint, Majesty. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I’ll tell him what we’re going to do. Come upstairs when you and Flint are ready.”

Fortifying himself with more prayer and the resolution to save his friend, even if that friend temporarily hated him, Akabe headed for the stairwell. He found Kien propped up in the stone window seat, not resting on his pallet like a cooperative patient.

Flushed with the unapproved exertion and fever, Kien nodded at Akabe, grimly satisfied. “Scythe isn’t pacing, so it seems the assassins aren’t yet lurking at the gate. What are you three doing?”

“We’ll finish filling in the pit this evening and plan new defenses. But first, we have another task to perform.” Akabe told Kien of Riddig’s diagnosis and his recommendation.

Kien listened quietly, then nodded. He reached into the window seat, picked up a scabbard-shielded dagger, and removed the weapon.

Was he going to kill himself? His heart racing, Akabe started toward Kien, prepared to disarm him. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Kien set down the dagger and waved the leather scabbard at Akabe. “This will be a perfect biting surface, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” Akabe exhaled and relaxed.

Kien made a face. “Majesty, did you think I’d try to hold off the three of you with a single dagger? Not likely.” Wincing, he scooted from the window seat. As Akabe hurried to help him back to the pallet, Kien said, “Don’t worry. I’m all for the surgery. It’s better than slowly rotting to death. Just be sure to warn Scythe that I might yell.”

“I’ll warn the monster. Not that it’ll do any good. He’s been mighty testy with me.”

“Don’t worry. He likes you.”

“Thank you.” Akabe steadied his friend.

As he limped, Kien eyed Akabe’s sword belt. “You’re not wearing the Azurnite blade.”

“It’s not mine.”

“It is until we know I’ll survive.” Sweating now, Kien persisted. “That sword was a gift from my father, and I’ll refuse the surgery until you’re wearing it.”

“You’re a rotten patient.” Plagues! Bad choice of words.

Kien almost grinned. “Yes, well, if I weren’t rotten, we’d have no need of this surgery.”

They halted beside Kien’s pallet. Steadying his friend, Akabe
said, “When the Infinite’s temple is completed—if it’s His will that the temple be completed—I want you there to see it.”

“I hope for the same. With Ela. But as He wills.” Grayed by the effort, Kien settled down and shut his eyes, clutching the scabbard. “Just warn Scythe.”

Finally! Caitria stood, easing onto her half-asleep legs as the shelter’s rough brown curtain opened. Amiyra scooted inside and picked up the baby. “All’s ready, lady. My man found a way.” Cuddling her child, Amiyra nodded Caitria outside. “We need to hurry.”