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Eyeing the spears and swords, Nikaros held still, as did his father. Lord Levos began quietly. “Utthreates—”
But even as Levos spoke, three soldiers grabbed Nik’s arms and weapons, dragging him away. To kill him? Or Father? “Father!”
Father lunged for him, bellowing at the soldiers. “Stop! You will not—”
Instantly three more soldiers slashed their swords and spears toward Levos in warning arcs. Another dropped a noose over Nik’s head, tightening it around his throat so swiftly that Nik gasped for air. Father halted. His gaze never leaving Nik’s, Lord Levos begged, “Utthreates, spare my son! Please! Talk with me. What do Lord-General Siyrsun and your god-king require?”
“Your pledge of future loyalty,” Utthreates intoned. “And tributes from each of your clans, to protect hostages whom we will choose.” Every word clipped and threatening death, Commander Utthreates added, “You Eosyths will bow to Belaal. You will pay us for the safety of those taken. For every future act of treachery, one hostage will die and another will be demanded.”
Hostage. Nik stilled. Calmed. He was a hostage. He might survive. And Father’s life would be spared. Acceptable terms. Resisting fear, he nodded, willing Father to see his agreement.
Visibly tense, his words clipped, Lord Levos asked, “When will he be returned to us?”
“When Lord-General Siyrsun and our Bel-Tygeon, Prized of the Heavens, decree his release.”
Prized of the Heavens. Nikaros suppressed a scowl. Why was Bel-Tygeon still worshiped as a god, though the Infinite had defeated him at the siege of Parne? And how long would this god-king confine Nik as a hostage? As if sensing Nik’s inward rebellion, one of his captors yanked the noose, half-choking him. From a distance, his mother shrieked. “Nik!”
Nikaros fought panic. Breathe.... They wouldn’t kill him. Not here, at least.
The rope eased. Barely. Lifting his gaze, Nik concentrated on his father, who raised his hands and nodded, clearly trying to placate the invaders, while holding his clan in check. “As you say. We’ll cooperate. I’ll speak to the other clans; just tell us your demands.”
Reining in his gray horse until the beast tossed its head, Commander Utthreates glared at the gathering men, women, and children of this branch of Clan Qedem, each of them a treasured part of Nik’s life. Each of them worth protecting. But the commander sneered. “Look at you all. You’re savages! Why our Lord-General concerns himself with you, I don’t know.”
Savages! If this rope weren’t so tight around his throat, Nikaros would have disputed the word—or proven it. His fingers twitched for a bow, a sword. Anything!
Utthreates continued. “Nevertheless, hear me!” He reached into a leather pouch slung across his saddle, withdrew a red, fist-sized stone, and cast it at Father’s feet. “That stone is your measure. In twelve months you Eosyths will return here with fifty times this stone’s weight in silver and twenty times its weight in gold.”
Nik’s thoughts reeled. The Eosyths didn’t possess such troves of gold and silver. Lord-General Siyrsun knew this. The promise of limitless gold was the main reason the Eosyths had joined Belaal at the ruinous Siege of Parne last year. Parne’s ancient temple had been full of treasure. But because of Bel-Tygeon’s god-king pride, the Infinite’s unseen fist had physically flung aside Belaal’s army in a vast storm of rocks swept up from Parne’s shattered wall.
That rock-storm had left the scar on Father’s face and a gash hidden in Nik’s scalp. They’d been blessed to survive—for which they now worshiped the Infinite. Only a God above all gods could have inflicted such wounds on all three allied armies in one strike.
This newly found worship of their Creator was the profit the Eosyths had gained from Parne. They had little else. Why, then, did Belaal make such impossible demands?
Did Lord-General Siyrsun wish to guarantee the death of his hostages, thereby punishing the Eosyths? If so...why? Was this retribution for the Eosyth retreat at Parne?
Watching the commander steadily, Lord Levos asked, “Will raw gems suffice if we cannot gather such a large amount of gold and silver?”
Utthreates warned, “Do not depend upon gems to save your son unless those gems are flawless! To us his life is worth nothing except tributes.”
As if to emphasize the point, one of the soldiers shoved Nik, making him stumble so hard that his hair obscured his vision, and he half-choked against the noose.
“Nikaros!” Zinaya ran to him, heedless of Father’s silent command for everyone to remain still.
Eyes watering, Nikaros straightened and caught his breath as she brushed his hair off his face. “Mother, I’m well. Shh... Don’t risk your life!”
While Zinaya hugged Nik and wept, he threw a subduing glance over her shoulder at his brother, who clenched the dagger sheathed at his side. If Aleon dared to fight, their family could be slaughtered. Infinite, please prevent Aleon from attacking! Prevent Commander Utthreates from noticing Aleon.
Utthreates had never met Aleon, who’d stayed in the mountains to rule the tribes during the siege of Parne, and Nik preferred that the commander believe that Lord Levos had only one son: Nikaros. Mother was certainly behaving as if she had only one son. Nik kissed Zinaya’s braided hair and urged her fiercely. “Don’t be frightened! Just pray I’m returned before too much time passes.” For both his parents’ sakes, he added, “Tell everyone to accept this. I go willingly for our people. No battles!”
The Eosyths would be cruelly defeated. Slave-fodder for Belaal. Was this Bel-Tygeon’s true plan? To enslave the Eosyths?
No. This could not happen!
As Zinaya held him and wept, Father led out Nik’s horse, then prepared it for Nik’s journey. A shaggy golden beast, stocky yet nimble, intuitive, and used to the mountains. Finished saddling the horse, Levos approached Nikaros. Tears rimmed the proud lord’s brown-green eyes, so like Nik’s own. But he smiled and gripped Nik’s shoulders, and his words poured out like a fervent blessing. “Be shielded by the Infinite—trust Him! Survive! Use all your gifts and training to serve and protect your people with honor, and return to us. We’ll be praying for you.”
A hair-raising shiver skimmed over Nik’s scalp and along his arms as his lord-father’s commands sank into his heart. As the rope tightened again around his throat, Nikaros nodded.
Commander Utthreates lowered his spear between them and snarled at Mother, “Woman, if you love your son, leave him and bring out all your tribe’s food!”
Zinaya, most honored lady of the Eosyths, lifted her chin at the commander and spoke to Nik instead. “I will bring out all our food for you.” To his astonishment, Mother, who’d never expressed belief in the Infinite added, “And I’ll pray to your Infinite, my son, that He guards all your ways until you return safely to our tents.”
Head held high, shoulders back, Zinaya wiped her face and strode toward her tent, her realm—walking past Aleon as she would a stranger. Qedem’s regal queen once more.
Watching her, Nikaros almost smiled.
While Clan Qedem gathered the food and packed the supply horses, the soldiers forced Nikaros to mount his horse, with the noose still dangling dangerously about his neck. Given the treacherous landscape, his chances of dying were multiplied by the rope’s presence. If he fell from his horse, or if one of the captor-soldiers accidently wrenched him to the ground, he would die of strangulation or a broken neck. As soon as they’d departed, he must bargain, reason, beg that this noose be removed.
Infinite.... The monster Belaal was removing him from his family. From the mountains.
While they rode down the sloping hillside, followed by the tormented gazes of his parents and clan, Nik’s throat constricted as if another invisible noose had been tightened about his very soul.
He swallowed hard against the pain. And fear. He must survive to protect his people’s interests. He must remember who he was in this world.
Nikaros, son of the Lady Zinaya and Lord Levos, ruler of the Eosyths.
A follower of the Infinite, the Mysterious One, the True God of Parne...and his Creator.
Infinite, be with me and my people. Reunite us, safe and freed of our oppressors.
***
SEATED IN THE GARDEN’S shaded wall-seat beside Iris, Araine frowned down at her lyre, her fingertips resting limply on the gut-strings and ornate myrtle wood frame.
How could she possibly play hymns to Atea when the Infinite’s living verses invaded her thoughts and dreams, stealing her tranquility? Was she going mad?
Insanity certainly seemed a more logical explanation than being called by the Infinite.
Oh, life would be so much simpler if Atea could give her one sign—the smallest!—that she existed. Even divine punishment would be better than this soul-failing silence. One sign, Araine promised herself, and she’d serve the goddess wholeheartedly instead of feeling like a traitor, offering praises to the Infinite.
Iris halted Araine’s thoughts, singsong. “Araaaine...you’re daydreaming. Play!”
Snapping into the present, Araine stifled a grumble against Iris’s next melody—a Siphran love song that bored Araine to fidgets with its dithering verses and tedious pleas for blessings from the goddess.
Enough! She mightn’t have control over deities, but she could best her sister.
As Iris glided into another sleep-inducing verse, Araine mimicked her notes then brightened the tempo. When Iris frowned, Araine sent her notes skittering around her sister’s stately musical tones, gleefully picking at the song’s edges, unraveling it tunefully with her own perfectly timed twangs. Iris gave Araine a soft-sandaled kick. “Stop!”
Araine laughed, feeling normal for the first time in days. She repeated her impish mimicry, forcing Iris to laugh as well, though Iris protested, “Rain! You’re spoiling the music!”
“I am not! I—” Araine froze, then leapt from the seat. “Oh, dear.”
Their parents stood at the garden’s outer gate, obviously just returned from the Atean gathering hall—with a guest. Judging by Darion’s skewed mouth and Liyda’s slender fingers fussing with her mantle’s gold fringe, Araine guessed her parents had been watching long enough to decide her behavior was unsuitable for a daughter of Darion Khalome.
Their guest, however, looked amused. And elegant despite his travel apparel. How many men could overcome the obstacles of creased gray robes, muddied boots, and what must be a three-day ash-brown beard? Not that he was truly handsome—he wasn’t. But the way he stood, so imposing and slim...surveying her with those cool, deep-set eyes.
He held Araine’s gaze, making her look away. Making her blush. Mortification added to her discomfort.
Darion said, “Iris. Araine. This is Corban Thaenfall. Our honored guest. I trust you’ll both practice manners during his visit.”
“Yes, Sir,” Araine agreed, in unison with Iris. She hugged her lyre and focused on its carved surface—an elaborate monster-dreki, its sinuous scale-covered form twisting around the lyre’s sound box, beneath the lyre’s strings. Less daunting than their guest.
Thankfully Darion and Liyda led the amused Corban Thaenfall inside, Liyda talking with all the ease and grace she’d bequeathed to Iris.
Araine exhaled and slumped down into the wall seat. Iris reclined beside her, teasing. “You have an admirer. And he’s attractive.”
“Don’t go all swoony, Iris, please. I don’t want to hear it.” She wanted to forget the man’s bold gaze. And her own horrid blush. Why did he unnerve her? “Besides, we don’t know him.”
“I’m sure we will soon enough.” Iris smiled. “Or, rather, you will. Corban Thaenfall? Hmm. The way Darion and Liyda are behaving, he’s probably extremely wealthy and powerful—or both. What if he’s actually a nobleman? Wouldn’t it be marvelous if you could snag him as a husband?”
“No.” Araine straightened, the lyre thrumming softly as she shifted it closer to her heart. “If he’s some sort of nobleman like that wretch who tormented you, then he’s likely a rogue and I want nothing to do with him.”
“If Darion says you do, then you will.”
Araine stared at her sister, and fear edged her voice as she whispered, “Did Father force you to accept your previous suitor?”
Iris refused to look at her. But her exquisite features tensed, and her eyes flickered. “Yes. But I was smitten, and he was so powerful, from a higher Atean order in Munra. Father couldn’t risk ignoring him.” Softly Iris added, “Perhaps this Corban Thaenfall will prove more devoted to you.”
Araine clutched the lyre. Why was she so shaken? This shouldn’t be a surprise. Darion and Liyda would certainly expect similar obedience from Araine, proof of her loyalty to them and to Atea. But would this Corban-creature abandon her as carelessly as Iris’s suitor had discarded Iris? Never. She would not permit anyone to treat her like rubbish to be cast off in a whim. She must devise a way to protect herself from her parent’s schemes. Otherwise Iris’s heartache and betrayal would become her own. How might she triumph here?
Infinite. Araine hesitated. Why would she appeal to the Ancient God for rescue? Despite all the lovely, irresistible verses in those scrolls, she couldn’t allow Him to exist. Not if there was the least chance Atea might finally prove herself real.
Atea, please speak! Call to my heart. Give me peace again!
A clatter and a sharp whistle called her attention to the tower above. Grumps glared down at Araine and crooked his gnarled fingers in a stern summons.
Iris murmured, “He looks grumpier than usual. Do you want me to come with you?”
“Thank you, but I can manage Grumps.” She managed a smile for her sister. “Remember, I mix his tonics and liniments.”
As Iris chuckled Araine hurried from the garden, still praying to the silent, divine Atea.
***
THOUGH THEY WERE ALONE in his chamber, Grumps lowered his tone to a harsh whisper. “No doubt he’s here to spy for the upper orders. The reason I persuaded your father to volunteer for this mission to ToronSea was to remove you girls from his kind. He’s some sort of nobleman, and I saw him watching you. Don’t trust him, Rain.”
“Of course not. But I don’t understand why he would watch me if Iris is nearby.”
Grumps sniffed. “You’re so busy looking for Iris in your mirror that you can’t see yourself. Just pay heed, Rain, unless you want to suffer as your sister did. Avoid that man!”
“I plan to.” But her heartbeat skittered. She kissed her grandfather’s silver-whiskered cheek, determined to sound brave, to not alarm him with her qualms. “You’re sweet to fuss, and I promise I’ll be careful. Now...why this fear of the upper orders? It’s not as if our little colony here in the Tracelands is important.”
Fretful lines crimped around Grandfather’s mouth. “It might be. The highly-placed lords who are devoted to Atea all fear Siphra’s new king because he’s pledged to the Infinite. They’d hoped he would die in Parne. Instead he returned victorious. Now that the Ateans fear suppression in Siphra, they could be considering escape to foreign places, such as ToronSea.” Low and harsh, he added, “We don’t want them here, Rain.”
“I know.” Talk of government, worship, or bad food always made Grumps irritable. Best to hush.
Interesting that for all his cantankerous views, he didn’t sound resentful of Siphra’s new king—unlike Father. Darion had cursed, hearing of King Akabe’s beliefs.
“Grumps...?” She faltered. How could she ask her grandfather about his apparent lack of zeal for the Atean cause? Sighing, she amended her question. “What do you think will happen?”
He settled into his cushioned window seat, imperious as a lord-king himself. “I think you’ll fetch me a mint tonic. And you’ll obey me by staying away from your father’s guest.”
“Done, Sir.” She draped a mantle over him like a blanket, rumpled his hair, and scooted from the chamber. A mint tonic would be easy. But avoiding Corban Thaenfall, with his bold gaze and nobleman-style arrogance...
Araine shivered and prayed, not naming the Deity.
***
FINISHED WITH HIS PORTION of dried meat and the last of his mother’s bread, Nikaros looked around the dusk-lit camp—carefully because the rope had chafed his neck raw. No doubt the oozing stickiness he felt trickling and stinging about his neck wasn’t sweat, but blood. And if his neck was bleeding, then infection couldn’t be far. He must rid himself of the rope.
Keeping his tone and expression respectful, he asked the nearest soldier, “Would you allow me to loosen this rope a bit?”
The guard, square-faced and ruddy despite his olive complexion, broke into a grin. “For certain you’d like that off your neck before sleep, young lord. Here...I’ll take care of you.”
While his comrades laughed, the soldier cheerily bound Nik’s ankles and wrists. Finished, he eased the noose from Nik’s raw throat, lifted it a bit, then cinched the rope viciously into Nik’s mouth, creating a gag. Finally he cuffed Nikaros, knocking him flat onto the hard ground. “There! Swaddled and set down for the night. Sleep well, Lordling!”
Pestilence infest the man! Nikaros exhaled, praying for calm, tasting his own sweat and blood on the rope as he squirmed onto his side. Indeed he’d sleep well, trussed like a deer and left to—
In the fading light, he saw it, a luxuriant spring-green cushion of damp moss flourished one hand’s width from his face, its hair-like tendrils gently, insidiously testing the air...seeking fleshly sustenance.
Witches’ moss! Infinite, spare me!
Nik twisted away from the moss, holding his breath. Hadn’t this pasture been properly burned a few seasons past? Frantic, he checked the ground beneath his legs and arms in the fading light. No moss. He calmed a bit. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t resting on the stuff.
But several of his guards were.
Fighting to articulate against the stifling rope, he spoke, but his warning emerged in a jumble, making the soldiers, including Commander Utthreates, howl with laughter. In desperation, Nikaros yelled, garbling his words. “Listen—you must listen! Those men will die!”
The commander himself clobbered Nik unconscious.
***
HE WOKE DURING THE night to shadows lurking beyond the fire’s embers. Scufflings, animal hissings, the clickings of claws over stones, and glottal feeding noises. Tremors of horror ran over Nik’s flesh. Had scavengers been drawn to the dead soldiers? If so, he’d also be eaten alive, bound and helpless. Infinite...!
Around him, the soldiers scrambled up from their pallets as someone bellowed, “Grab your swords! We’re overrun! Crested lizards!”