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Hunkered down amid the fray of beasts and soldiers, Nik fought the cords at his wrists and booted ankles. He must free himself. Infinite! Something clawed its way over him in a hissing fury, making him grunt at the stabs of talons through his woolen garments. A shadowed soldier followed the beast, roaring curses as he swung his sword.
Nik struggled. He had to free himself of the ropes and warn the men. Or at least get free to protect himself. Another soldier stumbled backward over Nik, toppling to the ground. As Nik twisted to avoid being kicked, a dimly-outlined crested lizard charged atop him, its long mouth gaping, its blade-like serrated teeth glinting cruelly in the low light. One bend of that big reptilian bird-like head, one snap of those razor-sharp teeth on his neck, and he was dead.
Instead the beast attacked the fallen soldier, treading the man with his talons, then slashing at him, just as the soldier shoved a dagger into the beast’s down-covered hide. Another soldier leapt over Nik and joined the attack.
They subdued the beast and dragged it away from Nikaros. The second soldier knelt and loosened the cord from Nik’s mouth. “Are you injured?”
“Not to death,” Nik muttered, recognizing Utthreates’ voice.
“Sit up,” Utthreates ordered. “We’ll keep watch tonight and move out at dawn, after we’ve buried our dead.”
***
CLUTCHING HIS ACHING head, braced against nausea, Nik studied the three bodies in the early light. A purpled rash mottled the dead soldiers’ crimson faces and torn limbs. And their vacant blood-red eyes.... The image would haunt his dreams. “Witches’ moss poisoning,” he told Utthreates. “I was trying to warn them last night.”
The commander shifted from one foot to the other, not admitting his own responsibility. “Will we also be poisoned if we touch the bodies to bury them?
“If the moss is on their skin and clothes, yes. It’s best to burn the moss and the bodies without touching them.” Meeting the commander’s gaze, Nik added, “Sir, as we pass through the mountains, allow me to check our resting places. If the moss is thriving this year, we should keep to the paths.”
“It seems we’re forced to trust you,” Utthreates complained. “If you lie to us—”
Stung, Nik raised a hand. “I fear the Infinite more than I fear you, Sir. For His sacred Name, I will not lie. Were you at Parne?”
Utthreates’ eyes flickered. “Yes. But the disaster that smashed our army—” He snorted dismissively. “It was nothing but a windstorm.”
Clearly the man was deluded. “Believe it was a windstorm if you wish, Commander, but that ‘windstorm’ of rocks could only have been propelled by immortal might—as by a fist. Nevertheless I will not lie nor try to escape, for fear of the Infinite, our Creator.”
Commander Utthreates studied him, frowning. “Then for fear of your Infinite, whatever you tell us will be the truth, will it not?”
“It will.” Even as he agreed, Nik imagined an overwhelming landslide of enemy-questions thrown at him for the duration of their journey, all aimed at conquering the Eosyths. He wished he’d said nothing. But now that he’d revealed his beliefs aloud, he would serve the Infinite openly—to the Infinite’s purpose.
Perhaps the Infinite would give him a chance to protect his people.
And to protect himself. Nik looked the commander in the eye. “If I’d not been gagged by this cord last night, your men would still be alive. I tried to warn them. Sir, I beg you now, for all our sakes, remove this cord.”
His every movement slow and begrudging, Utthreates himself removed the cord.
***
IN HER SUNLIT BEDCHAMBER, Araine leaned over her mortar and inhaled the deep, rich fragrances of resins, spices, and sandalwood. Perfect. She drenched her fingers in a bowl of water, sprinkled several sparkling drops over the mixture in the mortar, worked it in with the pestle, and then reached for more water, gradually forming a dark, aromatic dough.
This had been a lovely morning. Except for their guest.
One week of Corban Thaenfall’s presence in their home had not endeared him to her in the least. By all the hints offered from Liyda, their guest was indeed a nobleman, and not of the minor sort. Araine didn’t doubt her, for Corban certainly behaved as if everything beneath their roof belonged to him. Including her. Even while writing his letters to his family in Siphra this morning, he’d been furtively watching Araine as she helped Iris and Liyda mend a tapestry. She’d been glad to excuse herself from his presence, pleading that she must create incense to fill orders for other Atea-worshipers.
But would the goddess reject her work? Shouldn’t she—a disloyal soul—have suffered obliteration weeks ago? Answer me, Atea, with any sign, and I will follow you forever!
She would. Yet if the Infinite truly existed, would she be forever uneasy and—
The door creaked open, disrupting her thoughts.
Corban sauntered inside. “I’m pleased to know that I can order my own incense during my visit.”
“Sir!” Araine straightened, resting the heels of her dough-smudged hands on the table. “I’ve no wish to offend you, but please leave. You should not be here.”
“Yet I am.” Corban Thaenfall approached, smiling. He halted, so near that his breath touched her cheek. His warmth and scent surrounded her, unsettling her completely. Iris was right about Corban being attractive. His lowered tone and those deep-set gray eyes held the captivation of a determined seducer. Araine almost shivered as he murmured, “If you’d brought incense to my chamber as a welcoming gift, I wouldn’t be here. We would be there instead. Now, tell me...which fragrances do I prefer?”
Dreadful creature! How dare he? She’d never been so near any man except to hug Grumps and her father. Adding shame to her growing panic, her face heated, no doubt turning crimson as a berry. How could she dislike a man yet be so attracted to him? Wanting to be rid of Corban and praying she wouldn’t stammer like a fool, Araine said, “Um, your favored scent is cloves...with cedar resins...and incense-leaf oil. I’ll send some to you when it’s finished—in three days.”
“Three days?” He smiled. “I’ll wait.”
“You will indeed wait. But not here. Please, go.”
He ignored her request. An irritating tinge of enjoyment framed his mouth and his words. “Regrettably I’m not so easily banished from your sanctuary. You’ve guessed my favorite scents. Therefore...” He bent and kissed her cheek lightly, stirring her emotions as deftly as she’d stirred her spices. “I must guess your scent...Araine.”
She shifted away, clenching the dough in her fist, praying against his tactics and her own weakness. “Forgive me for being blunt, Sir, but this dough is drying and you must leave.”
“Must?” He studied Araine then shook his head, clearly disdainful—and amused. “There’s nothing I must do. We are free to do as we please. Now as for your incense-making, why must you work? If you’re the daughter of a wealthy merchant, there’s no need. Is there?”
Smarting at his demeaning tone, Araine sniffed. Her parents required her to be gracious toward this man. Why? He was an absolute snob. “No, Sir. There’s no need for me to work. But Father wishes for us to be useful, not mere ornaments. Now please, I’ve no wish to create a scene, but you are intruding and—” Her voice wavered, humiliating her.
Corban’s amusement faded, and his dark gray eyes turned serious. Still he didn’t leave. Instead he reached over and caressed her cheek, alluringly gentle. His words soft as his touch, Corban asked, “You are...how old?”
Araine lifted her chin. He spoke as if considering her a baby. “Almost nineteen.”
“Have you never attended the springtime rites?”
“Perhaps next year. I believed myself unready this year and last.” A partial truth. Last year Iris had been mourning her faithless lover, her despair so intense that at the last instant Araine had stayed at home with her, tempted by the rites’ promise of joy yet questioning the goddess as never before.
“Next year,” he murmured, “we will worship Atea together.”
There was a certain admiring tone in his voice and a gleam in his eyes, tempting her. Ridiculous because she didn’t like him. Did she? Was she wrong? “Sir, do you—”
“Rain!” Grumps bellowed from the stairwell, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “Must I ask you again for my salve?” His footsteps slapped up the stone treads and into her doorway. Seeing Corban he huffed and folded his arms across his chest, his sharp blue eyes cutting toward Araine, seeming to condemn her. “No wonder. Look at you! Well? Where’s my salve?”
“Oh, Grumps, I’m sorry.” She grimaced, feeling the heat of an awful blush tinge her face.
Again Corban seemed amused. He bowed slightly, every bit the snobby nobleman she detested. But in that enticing voice, he whispered to Araine, “We’ll resume this conversation later.”
She watched him leave. Grandfather scowled at her. “I woke up from my nap and heard voices. Glad I decided to investigate.” With a glance toward her door, he asked quietly, “You did want me to interfere, didn’t you, Rain?”
“Yes, Grumps, thank you.” It was the truth...wasn’t it?
He frowned. “I’m going down to the hall; need to move around a bit and see what your father is doing. Bring your powders and potions. I don’t want you up here alone.”
***
NIK’S STOMACH TWISTED in knots as they rode into the southern territories of Clan Darom.
Commander Utthreates had turned testy with his men, growling complaints that their comrades were slow in returning. Returning from where? Nik frowned. How many soldiers had Utthreates actually unleashed in Eosyth lands?
At least they’d left Clan Qedem’s encampments in peace and unharmed.
Nikaros prayed Tsir Andris of Clan Darom would be equally peaceable. However threats of attack and subjugation didn’t lead to peaceable thoughts.
Infinite, let Tsir Davor and Tsir Mikial hold the western and northern clans in check.
As they rode into Clan Darom’s lands, Nik surveyed their sturdy, round, brown-felted tents and willed his expression into serenity, hiding his inner turmoil—unlike Clan Darom’s members, who scattered, alarmed as ants on a besieged anthill.
Commander Utthreates bellowed, “Tsir Andris!”
Clearly biding for time, Tsir Andris finally emerged from his wife’s large, pale tent, followed by his family. Tall and impressive, Tsir Andris’s lean face tensed when he saw Nikaros. Tsir Andris’s eldest daughter, Tiphera, was bound to Nik as family by her marriage to Aleon, a tie Nik intended to honor and protect.
Utthreates growled at Clan Darom’s lord. “I have decided that I don’t believe your previous claims that you have only daughters. Tell me again that you have no sons!”
Remarkably calm, Tsir Andris told a part-truth. “I have no sons.”
Utthreates cast a challenging look at Nikaros. “Now, young lord, since you will always tell me the truth, does Tsir Andris have sons? Are they hidden from me?”
Infinite, shield me! Nikaros willed himself to smile. Willed Tsir Andris and his clan to remain calm. And he prayed he himself wasn’t lying, even as he didn’t quite tell the truth. “No, Commander. Tsir Andris has no sons.” Not sons, only one. “And his children are all here.”
Smiling, Nik added, “Clan Darom’s leader is renowned for his beautiful daughters.” And at this instant, standing before his mother’s tent, four-year-old Ayden made a charming little daughter, sulking a bit in an embroidered leather tunic and prettily decorated cap, though he’d undoubtedly rather wear his short tunic and leggings. Just as obviously his mother, queen of her realm, had decreed he must be a daughter today.
Surrounding little Ayden, his three lovely older sisters and his beautiful mother all smiled at Nik’s answer, clearly delighted. But the eldest girl, the proud Serena, held her little brother’s hand, keeping him still, protecting him to the best of her ability, as tradition demanded.
Infinite, let no one betray Ayden! The boy would be a particularly vulnerable hostage in Belaal. And if there were other hostages...no, let there be no other hostages.
Tsir Andris honored Nikaros with a bow. But he protested to Commander Utthreates, “Nikaros, son of the High Lord Levos, is a like a son to me. Why must you take him? We’ll honor our word to you—”
Nik stifled his worries as Commander Utthreates scowled and ordered Tsir Andris and Clan Darom to turn over their supplies and food stores to his men. But that evening, as they settled around open hearths beyond Clan Darom’s tents, Nikaros heard men’s voices, the clatter of metal tack, and the rhythmic thuds of approaching hooves.
Two rope-bound forms were unceremoniously dumped to the ground beside Nik, startling him. Two men. Dead?
One shifted and the other groaned, easing Nik’s fears. Tsir Mikial’s nineteen-year-old heir, Lije, of Clan Tsahfon, lifted his head, his thick dark hair blood-matted against his scalp. Clearly he’d fought and lost. Through swollen, darkened eyes, he stared at Nik and growled, “They took you? What about—”
Before Lije could say Aleon, Nik shook his head and hissed, “He’s not to be mentioned by either of you!” Loudly, to be overheard by the guards, Nikaros said, “This is Belaal’s repayment for our failure in Parne.”
The heir of the western Eosyths, Josias of Clan Ma’rawb, glared at their surroundings. His short brown beard bristled over his tawny face, making him seem half-wild as he grumbled, “I love this! Being repaid for military decisions that weren’t ours!”
“Except that we surrendered to the Infinite,” Nik reminded them. His two comrade-hostages stared at him and hushed. They’d pledged to follow the Infinite after witnessing the destruction at Parne, abandoning worship of their mountain gods and abandoning subservience to Belaal’s god-king.
How long would Belaal and its king punish the Eosyths for their desertion?
Lije muttered, “You’ve always had an answer for everything, Nik. So tell us...what’s your plan to free us?”
Was this what his friends thought of him? A know-it-all? Granted he was his clan’s trained scribe, and he’d been rigorously schooled by the masters of Kiyrem in Darzeq to the west, but even so... Nikaros shook his head. “My plan is to save our families from Belaal, whatever the cost.”
Commander Utthreates stalked toward them, his blue military cloak flaring then swirling around him as he halted. “Little lords, hear me! You need only be alive when I present you to Lord-General Siyrsun. Wounds are another matter. Comply with my orders and you will escape further harm. If you resist I will crush you, hand and foot, limb by limb.” Casting them a sneering smile, he added, “If your families pay their expected tributes, you might live.”
Lije and Josias seethed visibly, jaws clenched, eyes glaring at his mention of the tributes demanded by Belaal. Nik gritted his teeth, fighting rage and helplessness.
One year. How could the Eosyth clans possibly gather the amounts of silver and gold ordered by Belaal? They’d surely fail. Therefore either he or Lije or Josias would die next spring.
Infinite...be with us! Save your servants, captives by Belaal.
***
LUGGING HER BASKET of supplies, Araine stifled irritation as Grumps followed her through their home’s large central hall. Truly he needn’t worry. She had no intention of joining Corban in the garden this evening, though he’d invited her. As ever, work was her excuse—to the lord’s apparent frustration.
Next year, he’d said, they’d worship Atea together. Ha.
Did Corban Thaenfall truly think she’d want him lurking about for a year? Perhaps the question she ought to be asking herself was...did she want him? He was attractive. Shouldn’t she forget her delusions of the Infinite and follow Iris’s example, truly devoting herself to Atea through music, dance, and—instead of rebelling—coaxing new followers to join their ranks? It was the easiest course. And if Araine must confess the truth, following the goddess of love and beauty was alluring. Yet...
She shifted uneasily as words whispered into her thoughts, unbidden. You are forever in My sight, precious and honored, because I love you....
No. She refused to contemplate the verse. The Infinite couldn’t exist. Therefore, she wasn’t the least bit precious, honored, or loved by any deity.
Araine wound a scarf around her hair to avoid contaminating her grandfather’s salve. Grumps lounged in a nearby chair as she checked the central hearth and placed a small iron trivet amid the smoldering ash-coated embers. Several times Grumps cleared his throat as if about to speak. Each time he hushed, and she didn’t ask what else was troubling him. She had enough bothersome thoughts spinning through her brain. Grumps would surely add more.
She placed her favorite small iron kettle on the trivet, poured in some olive oil, and then added essences of menthe leaves, calendula, and cloves, their fragrance mingling, filling the air.
As she stirred small chunks of beeswax into scented olive oil, Grumps cleared his throat. “Raindrop.”
Oh no. Whenever he called her Raindrop, she was in for his most serious talking-to.
Reluctantly he continued. “I must tell you—”
The hall’s huge front door echoed with a series of summoning knocks. Reprieve! Araine removed the kettle from the hearth then dashed to answer the door, not caring that she probably appeared to be a servant. There in the evening light on the stone steps, waited one of the handsomest young men she’d ever seen. Gleaming dark hair, wonderfully sculpted face, and wide, brilliant gray eyes alight with an appealing hint of mirth.
If Corban had been this dazzling...she’d be lost.
Movement at the main gate caught her attention. A monster-horse, huge, massively muscled and coal-black, arched his big neck and leaned over the wall—the wall!—and glowered at Araine. A destroyer! Here in ToronSea...
One wrong move, the giant beast seemed to threaten, and I will eat you alive.