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Flanked by his spear-wielding guards, his hands bound, his senses danger-sharpened, Nikaros entered Belaal’s throne room. Behind him Josias hissed, sucking in a sharp breath, no doubt gouged by a captor’s spears. Lije, following them under equal compulsion, growled at his guard, “I’m walking! Ease off!”
Infinite, please settle Lije! Nik exhaled, trying to calm himself and behave as an example to his younger friend, as well as trying to absorb the stunning opulence and yet oppressiveness of Belaal’s palace.
The gold and blue columns, the richly clad onlookers, the polished golden marble floor, the guards in glittering gilded armor...all made him feel insignificant, a savage from a rustic land.
Would his blood spill here today?
Infinite? For Your mighty Name’s sake, I’ve been brought here. Let my life, or my death, serve You and my people. Save them!
Pain spiked between his shoulders, another jab from the guard who urged him onward. Clearing his thoughts Nikaros focused on the scene ahead. On the golden-crowned statue-like figure, seated on a bejeweled golden throne, his gleaming, crystal-embedded scepter clasped sword-like in his lean right hand...
Bel-Tygeon.
Unmoving and silent the god-king stared down at Nikaros, Josias, and Lije, as Lord-General Siyrsun’s deep, fulsome voice echoed throughout the throne room. “For your glory, O King, I have commanded your enemies to be brought here—to kneel and be humbled before you!”
As Siyrsun turned to introduce his Eosyth captives, Nikaros glimpsed a brief flash of emotion tensing the god-king’s face and making his dark eyes glitter. Nik strove to decipher that look. Fury? Impatience? Resentment?
My Creator, You understand this king. I beg You...allow me to perceive his wishes. Show me how to protect my people, my friends, and myself.
Bel-Tygeon’s voice lifted now, bored, remote, completely at odds with that brief fierce look. “Who are these enemies?”
Siyrsun snarled at Nik, Josias, and Lije, “Kneel, traitors!”
Traitors? Was the lord-general so eager to see him die? Nikaros knelt on the polished golden marble. An odd inexplicable prompting urged him to lean forward and rest his forehead on the chill-inducing stone. On either side of him, Josias and Lije quickly copied his motion. Did they share his fear? Traitors deserved immediate death. Why should this god-king allow them to live?
Holding himself still Nik stared at glistening specks of crystal and metal within the marble, while the lord-general’s voice resounded. “Here, O Prized of the Heavens, are worshipers of the Infinite, sons of men who once swore you their loyalty. Josias, son of the Eosyth Tsir Davor; Lije, son of the Eosyth Tsir Mikial; and...” From the corner of his eye, Nik glimpsed the lord-general’s approaching boots, then felt a stinging, searing kick to his shoulder as Siyrsun mocked, “...Nikaros, son of the Eosyth High Lord Levos. This one has pledged by the name of his Creator to never lie.”
Nik sucked in a sharp breath, glared at the floor, and controlled himself. One more kick like that and he would yank Siyrsun’s feet from beneath him. Envisioning the smug lord-general landing on his rear before the king, Nik bared his teeth in a warrior’s grin.
The god-king’s bored voice beckoned. “Nikaros, son of Levos, did I see Agocii gold in your beard?”
“Yes, O King.”
“Have you turned Agocii and pagan?”
Nikaros dared to sit upright and look this mortal non-god in the eyes. “Never, Lord-King; I’m no Agocii. My lord-father would beat me with his torq, and I would deserve it.”
Josias snorted. Lije laughed, the sound unexpected and young amid the throne room’s cold marble formality. Nikaros relaxed, allowing himself to smile a bit as Bel-Tygeon stared. Still sounding bored but with a sharp glance at Siyrsun, the god-king said, “Thank you, Lord-General. We will relieve you of your prisoners.”
Siyrsun gaped, the expression of an outmaneuvered man. But then he shut his mouth and bowed. “As it ever pleases you, Lord of the Heavens. Should they become troublesome, allow me to remove them from your care.”
Tilting his glittering scepter toward Nik, Josias, and Lije, the god-king raised his voice, calling to his servants. “Take these Eosyths into custody and mark them as our property. If they cause any trouble, send word. Then we will decide if they live or die.”
Nik exhaled as he and his friends were hauled to their feet. Safe. For now. Thank you, Infinite! But why hadn’t Siyrsun mentioned the tribute and its fatal penalty?
While he followed his captors down corridor after corridor, each turn revealing ever plainer rooms, Nikaros frowned. Why did he feel...spied upon? Hated to his very soul? Odd since no one was staring at him except a few plain-robed, mildly curious passersby.
Yet the uneasy sensation persisted, making him shudder.
Had the journey warped his senses?
No. All his hunter’s instincts warned Nik he was being watched.
Stalked. Not merely in body but in spirit. Marked for destruction by his enemies.
At last their captors halted in a tiny, stark courtyard. There a fire blazed within a pit, fueled by coals pumped to a searing brightness by plain-clad boys who ran in place, working sets of bellows strapped to their feet.
Seeing one of the palace slaves throw down a clattering heap of bronze cuffs, Nik exhaled. “We’re being marked as slaves.”
Josias scowled then grunted. “Better than being marked as dead. For now at least.”
***
I DID NOT EXPECT TO find a philosopher in you, Corban wrote. Are you a scholar then? I would rather think of you playing music and laughing in your garden—a far more pleasant prospect than my quarrelsome family and the legal obstacles I now face. Tell me of your studies.
Araine smiled and curled up in her cushioned window-seat. Was he agreeable to the idea that she had a mind? Perfect. She could soothe him with lovely words from the Books of the Infinite. Verses of repose. Calm. Joy.
Perhaps if she threw in news of ToronSea and her quiet life here, she might bore the noble Corban to indifference. Yes, let him be too bored to return, ever.
Two months past. Eight to go.
***
FIXATED ON THE PALE leather target at the far side of the stone courtyard, Nikaros ignored his guards and Bel-Tygeon. He shifted arrow after arrow from his fist to his bow, sending one shot after another smoothly to the hide’s center. Father’s stern insistence upon measured speed and flowing movements, as well as watching only the target during archery practice, now seemed as much a part of Nik’s nature as breathing—as did his near-perfect aim.
To Bel-Tygeon’s apparent disgust.
While the other slaves handed Nik more arrows, the god-king growled, “Do you never miss?”
Arranging the arrows in his bow hand, Nikaros ducked slightly, aware as ever of his slave status despite Bel-Tygeon’s courtesy and favor. “I seldom miss, O King. My lord-father insisted upon practice.”
Bel-Tygeon narrowed his gaze, clearly pondering ways to complicate matters. “This is too easy for you. Walk the courtyard as you release the arrows—without missing.”
His words taunted Nik, both command and dare. So very like Aleon. Setting aside memories of his older brother, Nikaros focused on the target’s center while backing along the stone paving as he shot arrow after arrow through the courtyard. Belaal’s god-king growled and shook his head, until commotion at the gate and a high-pitched girlish voice interrupted Nik’s progress.
Ebatenai, chief royal steward, hurriedly bowed to Bel-Tygeon, his embroidered robes fluttering, his broad pudgy hands clutching two elaborate gold armbands as if they were Belaal’s entire treasury. “O King, may your reign be eternal! Important news, if it is our lord-god’s will to hear!”
Though he was a slave stolen from beyond the western mountains as a boy, Ebatenai visibly relished his life in the palace. Some of the steward’s accepting nature was his own, but—Nik winced to think of it—much of the chief steward’s placid character had been carved by a surgeon’s knife, for Ebatenai was a eunuch, which explained the high voice and his soft-jowled face.
Bel-Tygeon motioned Nik to wait, and he nodded at his steward while eyeing the gold armbands. “Part with your news.”
Ebatenai’s small gold-brown eyes sparkled with glee. “Success, O Prized of the Heavens! Your men have stolen Siphra’s queen and Ela of Parne, and they have been brought to Sulaanc! Here are their armbands, sent ahead of them as proof.”
Bel-Tygeon accepted the bands, guarded triumph flickering over his now-composed face. “When they arrive have the prophet and Siphra’s queen taken to the Women’s Palace.”
Siphra’s queen and Ela, Prophet of Parne? Here? In Belaal’s capitol city? A chill took Nik’s breath. Ela, Prophet of Parne, that delicate-seeming young woman who’d paced along the top of Parne’s high walls during the siege... Nikaros saw her even now, her dark hair and pale robes wild as she warned Belaal and its allies of disaster.
As she begged Bel-Tygeon to renounce his love of being worshiped as a god.
As she predicted the sweeping force that removed victory from Belaal and brought the Eosyths to their knees before the mighty, living Creator.
Yet even now, after his shameful defeat beneath the Infinite’s fist at Parne, the god-king Bel-Tygeon still gloried in his deified heritage, commanding the worship of others.
And Parne’s formidable prophet was in Sulaanc. “Guard us, Infinite!”
The god-king heard and cut a glance at him. “Why do you say His name? He does not exist here. I am Belaal’s ruler and its god by divine right! Pray to Him again, and I will forget my past mercy toward you, Son of Levos!”
“My lord-king, forgive me. I speak only in fear for your life and the lives of your subjects. I—”
“You are dismissed! Return to your work. Ebatenai, remove this pagan from my sight!”
This pagan. Nikaros bowed quickly, handed the bow and arrows to the other slaves, and departed with the fluttering chief steward. Clearly he’d lost favored status in Bel-Tygeon’s service. Months of work, learning, and praying had vanished when he’d uttered his Creator’s name.
Nik exhaled his frustration and followed Ebatenai through the oppressive palace corridors. Infinite, redeem me! Return me to the King’s favor for the sake of my people!
Were his past four months of hard work now wasted? As an Eosyth clan scribe, he’d thrown himself into learning Belaal’s tedious palace clerical routines, observing everything possible of Belaal’s inner workings. The slow grind of its ancient governing wheels—slow despite Ebatenai’s continual promptings for haste—had often set Nik’s teeth on edge, yet he’d persevered—only to be disgraced now.
As they passed the opulent blue and gold Hall of the Blessings—the royal hall of prayers and offerings—Nikaros fought back a shudder. He must learn to ignore those formless shadows within this hall that made him believe he’d lost his mind.
Four months in the royal courts and he still felt this skulking, nameless presence here. Lurking. Hating. A presence that could not be fought with mortal weapons.
Even as he thought this, the very air around Nik shifted with breathtaking force as if an unseen, unfelt army of enemies had been swept away in a current. Leaving in its wake...
The Presence he’d first sensed in Parne.
“Infinite?” Nik exhaled, whispering a prayer. “Be merciful!” Was Sulaanc’s destruction near? Nikaros grabbed the royal steward’s official mantle. “Ebatenai, I must deliver a plea to the king. He must heed the prophet! Whatever she says, it will be true!”
Ebatenai’s pudgy hands made patting, smoothing motions in the air. “Becalm yourself, Nikaros. By our blessed lord-king’s name, I’d say you’re afraid of the young woman.”
“With reason!” Nik released Ebatenai’s mantle. Becalm himself? Unlikely. If the Infinite moved against Belaal as He had moved against Parne, nothing could help Bel-Tygeon. Except a royal surrender, also unlikely. Aware of the listening guards and Ebatenai’s attendants gathering around them, Nik said, “Pray for Belaal, for the king, and for all his servants.”
Ebatenai stared as if pitying Nikaros for losing his mind. “Pray for what, Sir?”
“For our lives and souls. You must allow me to send that plea!”
***
STANDING AT ATTENTION just beyond the throne room’s massive gilded side doors, Nikaros kept his gaze fixed upon Belaal’s gold throne. His written plea to the king had earned an edict against his life if he should enter the throne room without royal permission. Yet he couldn’t ignore a chill of dread that sent his heart rate speeding ahead as if he’d run, then lost, a race for his life. He sensed disaster overthrowing today’s royal audience. As if a tempest approached. Why? The king, calm almost to boredom, gave no hint of fear.
Bel-Tygeon lifted his scepter and his voice toward Lord-General Siyrsun, his words echoing down the magnificent chamber. “Lord-General! You have a plea.”
“Two requests, my lord and god.”
The king lifted his chin, cold and authoritative. “Name them.”
“First, O King, in honor of your naming day, I ask on behalf of all your subjects that you allow us to decree the day be dedicated solely to your worship! Anyone who dares to call to another god must forever forfeit freedom or life, according to your pleasure.”
Nik clenched his jaw, willing Bel-Tygeon to decline the lord-general’s request—a death sentence to anyone who dared to worship the Infinite.
Bel-Tygeon smiled. “Agreed.”
No! This decree was insane! A crime against all mortals, freed and enslaved. Nik lunged forward to storm the throne room and speak on behalf of Belaal’s condemned “pagans”—just as a ferocious whirlwind materialized directly before the throne’s steps.