| |
As if by prearranged signal, the leather and fur-clad Agocii warriors all stood at the same instant, about thirty of them, spaced along the crest and caves, quivers of arrows bristling over their backs. Each held their longbows readied with an arrow—readied but not set. Nik exhaled. The worst of his fears eased—leaving only a hundred or so threats to dread.
The Agocii chieftain, his white-streaked, braided black beard tellingly aglitter with innumerable gold clasps, sneered at Belaal’s soldiers. His echoing taunt created mist in the evening’s deepening chill. “Have you returned at last, little boys? Your Lord-General Siyrsun has become impatient and besets us with messengers demanding information. We were planning a raid to find you. Had you been Eosyths, you would be dead!”
Nik stared, unable to believe what he’d just heard. The Agocii allied with Belaal and prepared to raid Eosyth lands! Why?
Beside him Lije hissed, “What’s that Agocii boor saying?”
Beneath his breath Nikaros snapped, “Bite your tongue, Lije, before the Agocii cut it from your mouth!”
Josias shifted his free hand toward his belt, clearly seeking a weapon he no longer possessed. His motion drew at least half of the archers’ gazes, along with the haughty chieftain’s.
Nik’s guard lifted a staying hand toward Belaal’s archers while speaking to the chieftain. “Sir, we are indeed returning, and these are our captives taken as commanded by our Lord-General. We request, by the names of all your gods, do not kill them.”
At once the chieftain formally pressed his fingertips to his mouth and then raised his hand toward the reddish cloud-hazed sun in homage to the highest of his gods, Utzaii—a gesture Nik once revered. Utzaii, lord of the sun, was honored among the Eosyths as Utzaos, with his consort, Atzaia, goddess of the heavens and hearts.
Until Parne.
The chieftain motioned his archers to descend after him from the red cliffs and caves. A contemptuous smile turned his mouth upward within his long gold-weighted beard and mustache. He sneered at Nik, Josias, and Lije then deigned to speak to their guards. “We knew the Eosyth puppies were among you. The stink of their fear reached us in the caves.”
Nik leveled his gaze on the chieftain, willing the arrogant man to look at him. The Agocii leader’s contempt heightened—an almost tangible scorn that enfolded him like an inglorious mantle. He lifted a shaggy eyebrow at Nikaros, combining insult and threat. “Whelp of the high lord, Levos, I recognize you from Parne. What do you wish to ask?”
“Thank you, lord, for remembering me.” Recalling Agocii manners and braving a thrashing or worse, he persisted. “You alone, Lord-Chief, honored above all these men, can answer my question. Why have the Agocii turned against the Eosyth clans?”
“Because you Eosyth mongrels have turned against Utzaii and all the gods of our fathers. You bow like pagans to the Infinite of Parne. Slavery is more mercy than you deserve. All our past treaties are finished!”
He spat toward Nikaros, the globule of mucous landing in the dust at his feet. Beside him Lije moved to kick the spit-upon dirt back at the chieftain. No! Nik flung his free arm against Lije’s chest, shoving him back.
Just as an Agocii warrior shot a warning arrow at Lije.
Blazing pain sliced over Nik’s arm as the arrow skimmed past, deflected from Lije. Nik gasped but managed to step in front of his hot-headed younger friend and plead with the warrior, who’d drawn a second arrow. “Spare him! He’s nothing but a boy, unworthy of notice.”
The chieftain stared then laughed, a genuine side-shaking, vapor-producing howl, startling everyone. “Son of Levos, you are almost civilized! If you were not required as hostage to Belaal, you’d make a fine slave for the Agocii.”
Suppressing a chilled shiver, Nik worked up a polite smile. The chieftain seemed to neither notice nor care. He opened a tiny gold clip from the lowest fringe of his beard and motioned to one of his men, who grudgingly took the bit of gold, strode forward, and then pinched the clip into Nik’s scraggly beard just beneath his chin. When the warrior stepped back, the chieftain said, “True courage and self-sacrifice should always be rewarded, even among pagans.”
He turned away from Nikaros and snapped at the guards, “Where is your commander? These caves are Agocii for tonight; you will abide in the most distant ones.”
Now that they were being ignored, Lije apologized. “Sorry, Nik. I lost my temper.”
And almost your life.” Nick checked his stinging, bleeding wound. Deeper than he’d prefer but not as bad as it could have been—a scar in the healing. “Practice some restraint, Lije. We’ll need it to survive the coming year.” Before one of them died as promised in Belaal.
“Give up the lecture, scribe,” Lije grumbled. “I apologized.”
Josias leaned around Nik. “Let’s see your wound.”
Lije changed the subject. “That chieftain’s eyebrows are almost thick enough to braid; did you notice?”
Yes. Nik fought the word, his dark amusement vanquished by fear. “Forget his eyebrows, Lije, and pray for our families. It’s clear that the Agocii intend to punish the Eosyths for abandoning Utzaii and Atzaia.”
Josias groaned in apparent realization. “We’ve no way to warn our clans, particularly Tsir Andris’s. Infinite, guard them!”
Lije shut his eyes, his silently mouthed prayer marked by vapored breath.
Grimacing against the sting of his wound and at the first traces of snow drifting downward from the clouds, Nik added his prayers to his friends’ unspoken pleas.
Dispirited he turned, obeying the guards who motioned them to follow the Agocii warriors.
***
“SHAVE THEM!” UTTHREATES commanded, brisk as the banners that flapped above him in the icy spring breeze. “Eosyth or not, they cannot enter Belaal looking like savages.”
Nik’s guard balked. “What about his Agocii gold? If he’s not wearing it, the warriors might be offended.”
Utthreates scowled at Nikaros. “Son of Lord Levos, I still cannot believe you earned gold from an Agocii chieftain.” To his men he snapped, “Leave the clasp, but clean up his beard! Sculpt the edges if you must to make him presentable. Lord-General Siyrsun will expect his hostages to be ready for show.”
Nik’s guard shook him slightly, leading him away. “Hurry, girl. Let’s make you pretty for the Old Dreki Lord-General! By all the stars, one Agocii chieftain laughs at you, and you’re suddenly a champion.”
Deliberately composed Nikaros smiled. “If you wish, I’ll prove my worth. Give me a sword.” Then this irreverent soldier would never dare call him girl again.
The guard shoved Nik against a nearby boulder. “Don’t tempt me to cut you down. Sit. I’ll go dig up our best razor-man. You Eosyth animals need his skill.”
Nik squelched a testy retort, fearing he’d prove the guard’s lowly view of all mountain tribes. Eosyth animal? How long could he swallow the endless insults?
Infinite, bless me during the next eleven months in Belaal, for the sake of Your Name and for my people. Let everything I do be used for good!
He had less than a year to earn mercy before the executioner’s sword fell upon an Eosyth hostage.
***
ARAINE ENTERED THE great hall then stopped. Corban Thaenfall stood near the hearth, and she didn’t want to face him. Her lyre, left near the dais last night, wasn’t as important as evading her hunter. However Corban, usually so sharp-eyed, didn’t notice her in the least. Instead he focused on a parchment in his hands. Had a messenger arrived?
It seemed so, for one of the servants was barring the huge iron-bound entry door as Corban dropped into the chair beside the hearth. One fist against his finely carved mouth, Corban winced as he read. Araine hesitated, twisting her scarf as the servant bowed and hurried away.
Just as she decided to flee, Corban looked up then blinked as if summoning his wits from a distant place. And he called to her, his voice authoritative, echoing in the hall. “Araine!”
Remembering her parents’ warnings to be pleasant, she approached. He stood, folded the parchment, and tucked it into the leather coin purse slung from his belt. “At last. We have an instant alone—though it won’t be more than an instant.” Corban held out a hand to her. Muting her fears she placed her hand in his. The iciness of his touch startled her. Before she could pull away, he drew her close and wrapped his arms around her, making her blush with his nearness.
“Sir!” Her protest faded as she stared. Corban’s complexion was drained, sickened. Pity was the last emotion she’d expected to feel for him, but there it was; this man was badly shocked. “Are you ill?”
“I’ve received distressing news from my relatives in Munra. My father is dead, and his lands have been confiscated. I must return to help my family.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” And he was holding her much too close for her own comfort—doubtless seeking comfort for himself.
He breathed into her hair then muttered, “I’ll be leaving at once. I can ride a considerable distance before sunset.” Staring down into her eyes now, his expression eased. A bit of color returned to his shock-paled skin. “Do not consort with anyone else while I’m gone. Not even if it’s a year.” He shook her, and his brown eyes glittered with unforgiving ferocity, as if she’d already offended him and he meant to beat her. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” Infinite...let him be gone forever!
Corban bent and startled her with a kiss—a thought-numbing, tantalizing intimacy that left her shaken and blushing all the more. Straightening he smiled slightly and ran his fingertips lightly along her face. “Write to me when I write to you. And be sure you are as naïve and sweet when I return. Now...” He swatted her rump. “Go find that overprotective grandfather of yours and tell him that if he’s wise, he will continue to guard you from the world. Go!”
She fled, running because if she remained in the hall, she’d certainly forget herself and tell Corban what she thought of him. Nobleman or not, how dare he threaten her and Grumps! Moreover he’d kissed her and swatted her so intimately, the presumptuous snob! If he returned within a year, he’d find himself in the hunt of his life. She would not follow him like some tame, meek creature. And what in all the world did he expect she’d write to him? They had nothing in common.
Halfway up the wide, right-turning stone stairs, she paused. Corban was leaving. She stifled a whoop, then snatched up her skirts and ran to her chamber. Corban was gone, hopefully forever! Now she must come to terms with their Creator, the Infinite.
However, by His own verses, by the living golden words existing within those ancient parchments, and by the testimony of that handsome young stranger on the doorstep, the Infinite would not depart as swiftly as Corban.
“Infinite...” Her soul caught at His name even as she whispered it. “What do I believe of You? What do You expect of me?”
***
GRUMPS SETTLED IN HIS chair and motioned for Araine to open the scroll. “Read!”
Araine sank within the cushioned stone window seat, almost sweating with apprehension. It was bad enough that he'd been angry with her for days after learning of the scrolls. Now, if he disliked what she read, he'd probably never speak to her again. "Grumps, are you certain?"
He growled, not looking at her. “Raindrop, after a lifetime of hearing the Infinite cursed, I want to learn what all the fuss is about before we burn these scrolls. Read.”
Burn the scrolls? Could she?
Araine unrolled the parchment gently, staring at the words, watching them come alive, the ink ever shimmering, fiery...beautiful...the verses singing to her soul like a series of perfect chords, coaxing her to follow the Infinite’s path. She cleared her throat. “From the Book of Wisdom. ‘Fear of the Infinite is the beginning of all wisdom, but fools scorn advice of the wise.... My Child of Dust, walk not with the wicked...that your life be spared....’” Through verse after verse, she drank in the words as she spoke them. “‘Heed Wisdom and My Spirit will grant you hidden meanings... Hear Me and live in peace....’”
She read the scroll’s fatherly admonishments until Grumps finally lifted a hand then motioned her away, still not looking at her. What was he thinking? Why wouldn’t he discuss the verses with her? These beautiful, caring verses...
How could she ever burn the scrolls? She would regret their loss for the rest of her life.
Ultimately she must hide them. Or run away. And running away was certainly an option to consider, for Corban clearly intended to return. His parting note seemed more of a threat than a love letter.
I hold you to our pledge. We will celebrate Spring Rites together when I return in ten months. Do not betray me!
Araine winced at his implied violence. Why was he so cruel? She’d offered him no pledge. None! Infinite, I beg You, delay him forever! Or at least until I can halt his threats with sense and calming words. But how? Perhaps the answer was in her arms.
Hugging the precious scroll close, she ran upstairs to her chamber. There in her sanctuary, she snatched parchment and a reed and ink, and sat down to write.
Did I pledge to you? I remember no words. Indeed, if I have committed myself to a pledge, Sir, I will never break it. There is a wise saying, ‘Walk upon a good path and you will not stumble.’ Another is, ‘with honor you will find peace.’ This is what I expect of myself....
Corban need never know the source of her words, only the ideals of this book.
If her parents and Corban forced her to become his, then for both their sakes, he must learn peace.
***
HUMBLE AS ANY HOSTAGE should be, Nikaros knelt in the dirt with Lije and Josias, awaiting Lord-General Siyrsun. Undoubtedly the Lord-General hadn’t mellowed during the months since Parne. Siyrsun continually scorned the Eosyths as savages, and he’d passed his contempt to his men.
What would it take to gain their captors’ respect? Nik could usually count on Josias to behave. As for Lije.... Protect Lije and still his unruly impulses—but not his courage. Infinite, give us Your words if we must speak. Grant us insight.
Trumps blared, high and low, sending vibrations through Nik’s body and a shudder through his soul. If he’d had his weapons, he’d snatch arrows now—a warlike impulse. Foolish and futile. He must use his wits. A clattering of weapons and shields heralded the Lord-General’s approach. Too soon a pair of gold-embellished black boots halted before Nikaros. Undoubtedly the great Lord-General stared down at him now.
Commander Utthreates was speaking, reverent, obviously answering a previously asked question. “...this one, with the beard, Lord-General.”
Nikaros held still. Prayed his heartbeat would slow. He’d been singled out again. Why?
A deep, forceful voice cut through the hushed air. “Son of Levos, look at me.”
Praying for dignity Nik looked up. The lord-general’s cold, calculating gaze cut through him. No wonder Belaal’s lower-ranked soldiers called him Old Dreki among themselves, though he wasn’t old. Middle-aged and stocky, the battle-scarred man bristled with weapons, gold, and a ferocity that made Nik long for his sword. The lord-general’s scar-crimped face tightened as he stared at Nik. “Have you indeed pledged to always tell the truth?”
“Yes. To honor my Creator, the Infinite. I will speak the truth, ever as I know it.”
“Then you are a fool! An oddity in Belaal. How did you earn that Agocii gold?”
“By daring to ask one question of a chieftain, then protecting my friend from retribution.”
“Which friend?”
Nik nodded at Lije, who seemed—thankfully—impressed to silence. The lord-general grunted. “May your Infinite protect you, son of Levos. For when your people fail to pay the full tribute, you will likely be the first to die.”
The first to die? So the lord-general had already decided? Trying to ignore a stab of fear in his guts, Nikaros inclined his head. “So be it, Sir. May my Creator ever protect my unworthy soul.”
The lord-general’s flat brown eyes glittered. “When one has offended the divine, a price must be paid, and there’s no mercy for wrongdoings. Our god and king reigns as Wisdom itself. He will weigh and test your soul. If he finds you lacking, you will not survive.” Turning, he snapped at Utthreates, “Commander, summon your men. We’ll leave at once.”