26 

Kien charged Akabe’s attacker, rage deepening his bellow. “Save the king!”

Eyes widening, Akabe turned just as his intended killer slashed toward him. The blade stuck, angled behind Akabe’s right shoulder. The young king yelled and knocked aside the assailant’s wrist with his forearm.

Before the man could produce another weapon, Kien shifted his sword to the left and flung his right arm around the criminal’s throat, tightening the hold with all his might. The impact threw him to the ground with the assailant, who fell against the Azurnite blade. A garbled scream told Kien the man could still breathe. He cinched his right arm tighter and anchored the miscreant to the ground with his own weight.

Just as Akabe’s laggard bodyguards fell on them.

Crushed, smothering, and hit with punches and kicks from every direction, Kien yelled, “Ow! Grab him! Help the king!”

From a distance, Akabe bellowed, “Don’t kill him!”

Don’t kill who? The rescuer or the assailant? Kien gulped for air, then coughed at the taste of blood. He was trapped beneath the brawl, unable to move, and afraid to release his hold on Akabe’s attacker. The man wheezed hoarse threats and clawed shreds of pain into Kien’s bare forearm.

Someone roared in Kien’s ear, “We’ve got him, sir! Let go!”

Ears ringing, Kien released his captive, and the bodyguards dragged them apart. The Azurnite sword escaped Kien’s numbed left hand as he was hauled away. “Stop!”

Three bodyguards, pummeling the failed assassin, froze. “Not you,” Kien told them. “The ones holding me.” He twisted to glare up at two fight-riled soldiers. “Unhand me now.”

They dropped him. Every fresh bruise on his beaten body screamed. Kien gritted his teeth. He couldn’t very well snarl at them for obeying him, could he? He staggered to his feet and bent slightly to test a deep breath. Good. No broken ribs, just bruises. But blood splashed down the front of his undertunic. Crimson splotches on white. A bashed nose. And likely—from the grinding stabs in his feet—broken toes. Kien scowled and retrieved his sword. Blood oozed from the flesh-shredded scratches on his forearm. He hoped the assassin hadn’t loaded his fingernails with poison.

But what about the knife blade he’d used on Akabe? Horrific thought. Sword in hand, Kien faced the bodyguards who’d dropped him. “The king! Is he well?”

A call echoed from Akabe’s royal tent. “Bring His Majesty to the king!”

Kien hesitated. “Who?”

The bodyguards answered Kien’s question by gripping his arms. Supportive now. “Majesty, are you well? You’ve blood everywhere. The king will be alarmed.”

Majesty. Wonderful. More than a month of politely arguing with the entire Siphran court had accomplished nothing. He had to break Akabe’s people of their insistence upon calling him Majesty as well as referring to him as the other king.

Tsir Aun, current prime minister of Istgard, might misunderstand if he heard that Kien was being addressed as Istgard’s uncrowned sovereign. Bad for international relations.

The bodyguards jostled Kien, evidently concerned. “Majesty?”

Forcing himself to sound courteous, Kien said, “Do not call me that! I am Kien Lantec, special envoy from the Tracelands, and a judge-advocate. Either designation will suffice.”

“Yes, um . . . sir.” The man hesitated. “But are you well?”

“Yes, thank you. And thanks to the Infinite. Please unhand me. I’m capable of walking on my own.” Or limping, at least. Yet it would be rude of him to point out that the bodyguards had inflicted most of his injuries. Blood dripped steadily from his nose. Was it broken, not merely bashed? Perhaps Ela wouldn’t mind his altered profile. Actually, she’d be appalled and quite sympathetic. Liable to fuss over him. He smiled at the thought.

The king’s fightmaster, Lorteus, stood guard at the entry to the royal tent. He surveyed Kien from head to toe, clearly hiding a grin. Lorteus bowed his ugly head to Kien, then warned, “Do not think you are excused from practice today, sir. Even now, bloodied and injured, you can fight!”

Cheering beast of a fightmaster.

Kien entered Akabe’s pavilion and halted. Akabe was seated on an x-framed chair in the midst of the oversized tent, his big hands on his knees, his feet braced on the floor. The splendid red tunic hung in shreds around him, evidently cut away by his surgeon, who was now dabbing at the wound with a drenched, blood-tinged cloth. The pavilion reeked of sharp-scented medications. Akabe grimaced as the surgeon splashed more liquid on the gash. At Akabe’s worktable, a clerk poured thick blood-red liquid onto a parchment. Jolted by the sight, Kien reminded himself that all official documents were sealed with Akabe’s signature dark red wax.

Too worried to offer formal greetings, Kien asked, “Was the blade poisoned?”

Akabe shot him a sidelong look. “Trust you to consider a worse possibility, my friend.” He glanced over his shoulder at his military surgeon. “Well, Riddig? Am I poisoned?”

While arranging a series of delicate tools, the surgeon tilted his silvered head, birdlike, contemplating the damage. “It appears a clean wound, sire, more aligned beneath the skin than piercing the muscle. Therefore, if you are poisoned, which I doubt, it will likely be treatable. Odd angled wound, and a lucky one.”

“A blessed one,” Akabe corrected kindly. “The Infinite and my friend protected me.” He nodded to Kien. “I say you have received more injuries than I, Majesty.”

“Respectfully, please, don’t call me Majesty.”

Akabe’s mouth tightened briefly as the surgeon jabbed him, suturing the wound. Between stitches, Siphra’s ruler said, “What you wish . . . does not signify with . . . my people. Now that . . . your heritage is known . . . in their thoughts . . . you are a king. Nevertheless . . .” He took a deep breath, then exhaled as the surgeon paused. “If you forbid us to address you so, then you need an official Siphran title.” Eyeing his hovering advisors, Akabe asked, “Suggestions?”

One of the graybeards snatched a document from the heap on Akabe’s worktable. “Aeyrievale has just brought a petition requesting Your Majesty’s personal selection of their next lord.”

Title? Lord? They were serious! Kien snapped, “No!”

“Aeyrievale.” A second graybeard nodded. “Perfect! The income is appropriate to—”

The king of Siphra flexed his hands, then removed one of his rings and tossed it to his clerk. “Approved, chosen, and commanded. Sign and seal the document.”

Summoning absolute sternness, Kien said, “No. I’m a Tracelander, not a Siphran! It’s inappropriate for me to hold any sort of title!”

“Might I also declare him Siphran?” Akabe asked his advisors, who hovered over the petition, scribbling on it. “A dual citizenship?”

“Certainly, sire,” graybeard number one assured Akabe while pouring a blood-red pool onto the document and pressing Akabe’s signet into the liquid. “We’ll see to it immediately.”

Were they trying to be irksome, disregarding his protests? “With all respect, sirs, I refuse the title.”

Akabe grinned at him. “Impossible. Your name was signed with my seal added. The document cannot be unsealed.”

“It’s done?” Kien stared. “That’s ludicrous! What sort of government conducts business so swiftly?”

“An efficient one,” the graybeard muttered. “With much catching up to do.”

“Undo it!” Kien commanded. “I’ve refused the title. Doesn’t that count for something?” In desperation, he said, “Burn the document.”

Graybeard’s eyes widened, alarmed. “Majesty, uh, my lord, tampering with the royal seal is a criminal offense, punished by death.”

“I’ll burn it,” Kien offered. Then he would run for his life.

While the clerks hastily locked the document in a wooden chest, Akabe spoke to Kien. “You’re injured and too distraught to think calmly. Don’t worry, my friend. Aeyrievale, from what I’ve heard, is not all gold and joy. Aeryon nests fill its most remote areas, and you’re obligated to clear at least a few of the beasts using your own resources. They tend to prey upon your subjects and their animals.”

Aeryon hunting? Well, he’d enjoy the chance to take down one of those golden monster-bird, feline-tailed raptors. What a trophy to . . . No. What was he thinking? The Tracelands was his concern, not Aeyrievale. Kien growled, “There must be some way I can set aside this title.”

“Short of killing me, you cannot. It’s a royal bequest. An honor.” Siphra’s king motioned to his surgeon. “You’re finished stitching me? Good. Work on my noble friend. He’s out of his mind with pain. Meanwhile, where is my misguided assailant? If he’s still alive, we must interrogate him.”

Following the trail of a vision, Ela lifted the lamp higher, watching its flame sway amid the tunnel’s darkness. Beside her, Father smiled in the fragile, flickering light. “There is a definite current of air flowing from here. Are you sure about this, Ela?”

“Very sure. This tunnel is what I saw in my vision. For everyone’s sake, we must find a way to escape Parne without going through the city.” Everyone’s sake but her own. Shoving aside her fears, she studied the nearest wall. Golden handlike formations of crystals glinted at her in the darkness. Beautiful crystals. “Father? Have you seen these?”

Dan stared at the glittering yellow stones. “Don’t touch them. These are the caustic ores I was accused of selling to others. We must warn everyone not to touch the walls here.”

Footsteps and Deuel’s voice echoed through the tunnel. “Are you there?”

Ela turned. Father called, “Deuel? We’re here—don’t touch the walls!”

Helpful-sounding, Deuel answered, “I’ve a torch, a lamp, and tools.” His words faded, though his footsteps approached. At last, Ela heard him mutter, “Stars and sunsets! What I wouldn’t give for a proper light when we’re away from the tree.” He appeared, his face a play of shadows and creases. “How did you two cross this distance with only one lamp?”

“I’ve been here in a vision,” Ela told him. “It’s only a bit farther. Do you mind climbing?”

Father’s eyes flickered in the lamplight. “Now you mention climbing? Ela, you must warn us in advance of risks.”

“Hmm. Well, this is a risk. I’m praying no one from Belaal or in Parne hears us creating this escape.”

Deuel chuckled. “Using metal tools against stone walls? Bah! Who would hear us? Now . . . where is this escape route?”

Ela led the way, pondering each turn, measuring everything against her latest vision. At last, she held the lamp against an oddly angled wall. “Up there.”

As if to verify her statement, the lamp’s flames and the torch drew upward, fluttering, seeming pulled by a current that led to the surface above. No doubt there was a break somewhere, slight and hidden from their eyes.

Father tested the angled wall. “Stone. But workable. We’ll have to carve steps first and be sure they’re safe for the women and children.” He opened his leather knapsack and began removing tools.

Deuel grabbed one of the chisels and a hammer, then hesitated. “Oh. I forgot to tell you, Ela, Nesac’s wife is having pains. Her child is coming.”

“Oh!” Ela breathed a prayer for the young woman, but envy ate at her. Infinite? Is there the least chance I’ll survive? That I might—

She left the thought dangling. The hope must be buried with her in the darkness of an unlived desire. Why allow herself to dream of Kien? Of marrying him, loving him, and bearing his children? She was supposed to die young, somehow entombed beneath Parne. . . .

Parne’s departed sages whispered at her. A silver-haired prophet has failed. All prophets die young. And horribly.

Alone. Entombed. Surrounded by the stench of death. Ela’s throat dried.

As if sensing Ela’s fears, Father gave her a brief hug. “Let’s get busy cutting the steps.”

Properly clothed now, Kien stared down at the failed assassin.

Bound and unwillingly kneeling before Akabe, the wiry, swollen-jawed man darted a look of hatred at Kien through puffy, bruised eyelids. A slice, evidently inflicted by landing on Kien’s sword, created a bloody vertical wound along his left cheekbone.

Akabe spoke to his attacker in low, pondering tones, weighed with reluctance. “Will you say nothing to mitigate your circumstances? To possibly save your life?”

The man refused to meet Akabe’s gaze. Refused to speak. Akabe tried again, actually pleading now. “Will you at least tell us your name? Should your family be left to wonder at your departure from their lives? Do they deserve the agony of endless uncertainty?”

Kien saw the condemned one flinch and suck in a breath as if Akabe had found a weakness. Bracing himself visibly, the failed assassin shook his head, silent.

“Sire,” an advisor murmured to Akabe, “we can gain nothing from him. By his markings only have we learned anything of this man.” The advisor nodded to one of the guards, who pulled up the assailant’s sleeves. “Observe the goddess coils. He is an entrenched Atean who has participated in their deepest rites.”

Kien stared at the permanent etchings curving thick and black around the man’s biceps. These were goddess coils? Infinite? How may I serve You here?

Speak to him.

Stilled, Kien listened to the flow of words through his thoughts. Fighting down his own vengeful impulses, he obeyed and spoke quietly to Akabe’s attacker. “Your Creator calls to you. He bears the scars of your hatred, yet He loves you as His own son. Maseth.”

The condemned one, Maseth, widened his swollen eyes at Kien. “How did you know?”

It was impossible to hate or resent the man now, realizing how desperately the Infinite cared for Maseth. A rush of emotion swept Kien like a wind from the heavens, permeating his soul. Humbling him. And granting the same elation he’d experienced in Adar-iyr. Was this outpouring of the Infinite’s Spirit the source of Ela’s strength? Shaken, Kien said, “I know your name, Maseth, because the Infinite told me when I saw your markings. He asks you to call His name. To trust Him with your whole being. If you do, all will be forgiven.”

Infinite? All?

All.

“All,” Kien repeated. “Your Creator mourns separation from you—He loves you.”

Seeming hit by Kien’s words, Maseth rocked on his knees, back and forth, as if fighting to make a decision. The man’s struggle was visible. Agonizing. Kien coerced himself to watch.

At last, Maseth’s rocking stilled. He gasped, “You must kill me! I must die. To protect my family I can say nothing more, except . . . except what you already know.” He looked Akabe in the eyes. “They want you dead. They will have you dead because of the Infinite!”

Akabe sagged in his chair and covered his face with one large hand. When he didn’t speak, Maseth said, “You must order me killed! You have no choice! I have no choice! I’ve been caught, and I mustn’t survive! Order my death!” Tears rimmed the man’s eyes. “Please. You don’t know them. Please . . .”

Akabe nodded and motioned to his guards. Rough-voiced, he said, “Be swift and merciful.”

Truly condemned now, Maseth wavered in obvious relief. While the bodyguards wrenched him to his feet, Maseth appealed to Kien. “Walk with me?”

Sickened by the thought, Kien started to shake his head.

You are a judge, and he is condemned. Prove My compassion. Walk with him.

Kien stood, motioned one of the guards aside, and gripped Maseth’s arm.