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The whirlwind vanished, breath-swift, leaving a lovely, dark-haired, blue-and-white-clad young woman standing before Bel-Tygeon. Nik froze in the huge arching doorway, staring at the thin metallic-looking vinewood staff in her hands. He’d seen that staff in Parne, wielded by her—Ela of Parne!
The king stared at the young woman then straightened, his dark gaze furious. “Prophet! What are you doing here?”
Didn’t Bel-Tygeon fear her in the least? Nik held his breath. Ela of Parne paused then answered in clear, carrying tones. “Majesty, what should a prophet do but warn the king?”
Evidently unimpressed Bel-Tygeon glared. “You are tempting death by entering this place uninvited!”
“As any prophet expects. Sir.” Her amused tone eased some of Nik’s fears.
Until Lord-General Siyrsun stepped nearer to the throne, eyeing the prophet’s back as if preparing to strike her down. “Sire, shall I remove her?”
The prophet, courageous as ever, didn’t move or turn to look over her shoulder. But Bel-Tygeon leaned forward, seeming amused, idling with the gold and crystal scepter. “You would kill her, Lord-General, the instant you drag her outside.”
Motioning his guards to surround the prophet, Siyrsun proclaimed in ringing, flattering tones, “As we all say, Sire, you are Wisdom itself. Why should I not wish to kill your enemies?”
Like some cruel gambler setting one fighter against another, the king told Siyrsun, “Yes. Remove her.”
Without turning, the prophet yelled, “General Siyrsun, by His Holy Name, the Infinite commands you and your men to stand where you are until He releases you!”
Siyrsun struggled then snarled, as did his guards, all of them seemingly held in their own footsteps, unable to capture her. Nik twitched his own feet. Yes, he could move—and flee from the prophet’s presence if he must. Yet he longed to snatch away the errant king before he suffered the yet unknown catastrophe that sent tremors through Nik’s very soul.
Ela of Parne shook her head at the king. “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite’s will is for you to live and to celebrate eternity if you listen to Him. And I am His faithful servant, not your enemy.”
“A nice sentiment, though inadequate.” Bel-Tygeon flourished the glittering scepter at her. “But enough. Your theatrics have our attention. Tell us what your Infinite wishes to say and then leave.”
“You and your counselors have planned a ceremony for your naming day, involving sacrifices and worship—to you.”
“Yes, and why not?” Bel-Tygeon stood. Haughtiness personified, he descended from his throne. “It is our tradition, as it has been for generations. Why shouldn’t I continue in our ways?” He lifted his hands, his fury heightening with the gesture. “Why am I the first king of Belaal chosen for your Infinite’s wrath? What is your true game, Prophet?”
“This is hardly a game, O King. You are the first ruler of Belaal to command exclusive worship for yourself, banning all other gods, as you enslave your people.”
As Nik caught his breath at her boldness, her candor, the prophet continued. “Your arrogance stinks to the heavens and will only continue to grow unless you are corrected, which the Infinite is concerned enough to do. You’ve done nothing to deserve your place in this life. Your Creator has granted you everything, yet you cannot see beyond yourself.”
“I see perfectly. You need not worry.” Bel-Tygeon strolled past her, circled the livid lord-general, and stared at the man’s military boots. He kicked at Siyrsun’s left boot, seeming pleased. “General, are your feet dead as stone, or do you sense pain?”
“There is no pain, O King, but neither are my feet dead. They simply refuse to move.”
“Interesting.” Bel-Tygeon turned away, almost smirking. Missing his lord-general’s sullen glare, the king glanced over the crowded throne room, clearly appraising his courtiers’ stances, deducing those who were trapped by the prophet’s command from the Infinite and those who were unaffected. For a brief instant he eyed Nikaros, his gaze no longer hostile but not friendly either.
Nik deliberately shifted from foot to foot. Let Bel-Tygeon see that although Nik was enslaved, his movements were free. The king lifted an eyebrow then turned away.
O, King, Nikaros warned in his thoughts, heed the prophet!
Retracing his steps Bel-Tygeon faced the prophet and raised his crystal scepter, severe now. “Free them. You’ve performed an interesting trick, but its fascination has ended.”
Ela of Parne straightened all the more, her vinewood staff changing, glowing blue-white, like metal afire, until Nik almost had to squint to look upon it. Stern as the king she announced, “I cannot free those men, Sir. Your Creator commanded them to remain where they are. He will release them when it pleases Him to do so.”
Nik strained to listen and stare as king and prophet clearly exchanged quiet threats.
At last the prophet raised her voice, defiant. “Bel-Tygeon, the Infinite asks, ‘Who are you? Did you create the heavens? Were you present when the foundations of Belaal were set in place and the mountains were raised to shelter your lands? Can you cause those lands to shift beneath the feet of mortals?’ No! But He does—now!”
Her movement delicate and deliberate, she placed the staff upright on the throne room’s marble floor. Before Nik could retreat a ferocious glow poured downward from the staff and flashed through the entire throne room’s floor, splitting the marble, lifting the stones, and dropping Bel-Tygeon and his proud, richly robed courtiers to their knees. Nikaros reeled at the quake’s impact, clutching to the huge gilded door to remain upright.
The air crackled with lightning that shaped itself into a burning tree as the prophet cried, “When the Infinite created this world, mortals were mere dust! Your pretensions cannot affect Him, yet He calls to each of you. Seek Him!”
A spiral of air closed about the prophet now, removing her from Nik’s sight, leaving the shattered throne room and the gaping, kneeling courtiers who stared at the marble floor ruined by their Creator. Bel-Tygeon blinked at the wreckage, visibly stunned.
Nikaros stifled his inward whoop of joy. Infinite, You have shaken his very soul! Who is like You, bringing down the proud and compelling those who hate You to kneel?
He stepped back from the door, and his movement caught Bel-Tygeon’s attention. The toppled god-king stood, the image of barely controlled wrath as he glared at Nik.
Behaving as a slave, Nikaros bowed, waiting for a tirade or imprisonment. Or—forbid it, Creator!—death.
Instead Bel-Tygeon looked away and commanded his now-babbling courtiers, “Check everyone for injuries, and calm yourselves. This was nothing but a show; all will be restored.”
Bravado. Nik almost smiled. Undoubtedly the king was shaken and frustrated by his own mortal weakness. This instant, Bel-Tygeon must confess, if only to himself, that he was no god.
Bel-Tygeon picked his way around the huge, jutting, angled slabs of broken gold marble then departed his wrecked throne room with his dazed attendants and nervous guards. The distinct just-uncovered aroma of ancient soil roiled in their wake.
Gradually the remaining courtiers straggled from the throne room, with Nikaros humbly bowing to any who stumbled past him through the doorway. But Lord-General Siyrsun and his cohorts remained, glaring at the wreckage. Siyrsun growled, “This was sorcery! She should die for such an attack; they should all die, the evildoers! Why doesn’t our god-king execute them?”
Nik retreated to the doorway’s shadows, but he prayed, his Eosyth heart hammering with longing to fight. Siyrsun’s servile fawning attitude toward Bel-Tygeon vanished, replaced by fury. How might such wrath incite the lord-general?
In a near-muted whisper, Nik prayed, “Infinite, I beg You, ruin the lord-general and his plans as You ruined this floor! Open Bel-Tygeon’s eyes to the evils of Siyrsun’s advice. The king must survive!”
Nikaros straightened and hurried away, his muted robes flaring, his thin boots slapping against the marble floors. He must warn Josias and Lije.
***
LIJE STARED, HIS THIN brown jaw sagging with astonishment. “She destroyed the throne room?”
“The Infinite destroyed the throne room’s floor,” Nikaros corrected, darting a glance toward the stark communal slave dormitory’s narrow open stone doorway. In a whisper he added, “More than ever, in eight months, when our families fail to deliver the full ransom, Siyrsun is determined to kill one or all of us. We’ll become examples to all ‘pagans’ in Belaal. Pray the Infinite destroys Siyrsun before he takes the kingdom.”
Josias raised one thick black eyebrow. “Takes the kingdom?”
How could they not see the danger? Nikaros grasped his friends’ thin sleeves and tugged them closer, keeping his voice a mere breath. “Who will inherit Belaal if the king should die?”
Lije shook his head. “Who knows? Bel-Tygeon has no son, no heir.”
“But...” A dawning horror slid over Josias’s squared features. “Siyrsun has the most power...and thus every reason to kill Bel-Tygeon the instant he considers him vulnerable.”
“Exactly,” Nik agreed. “Then Siyrsun will destroy or enslave all the Infinite’s faithful, including the Eosyths, to avenge his defeat in Parne.” Nikaros stared hard at his friends, willing their agreement. “We make a pact now to protect and defend the king. Bel-Tygeon must survive! He’s far from perfect, but he’s better than Siyrsun.”
“Agreed.” Lije brightened, turning eager. “So we’re spies!”
Josias moved one big hand over his belt, clearly seeking the dagger he no longer owned. “And we guard the king.”
***
EBATENAI’S FLOWING sleeves fluttered like errant wings as he led Nikaros down a narrow corridor, and his thin, high voice matched his distracted movements. “Haste-haste! I need every slave who can write a clear hand. We have one-hundred missives to pen and deliver by midmorning to every courtier who was in the throne room yesterday. All must return there this afternoon. By the king’s command. All!”
Huffing, Ebatenai flung Nik a stern, jowly frown. “And you. The king saw you there. All must be as it was, everyone as they were. No exceptions, no explanations.”
“As the king wills,” Nik agreed.
He would face Siyrsun again. And watch the man for any hint of rebellion.
***
AGAIN ATTENDING THE side doors of the shattered throne room, Nikaros eyed the puzzled courtiers. He must not fret. Infinite, what is Your plan? Give me insight, I beg You! Give me wisdom for the sake of those who love You! But as You will...
Calm descended upon Nik with the prayer. He almost smiled when General Siyrsun and his cohorts stomped through the main doors then milled around the massive golden slabs of angled marble, some of the men arguing about where they’d been standing during the disaster. Likewise the lavishly garbed courtiers wandered in confusion, gradually finding their places along the throne room’s walls.
Behind Nikaros a coldly amused voice muttered, “They look like addled peacocks.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Nikaros met the man’s cynical smiling gaze. Commander Utthreates. The soldier looked past him toward Siyrsun, warning quietly, “Son of Levos, you saved us in the mountains; therefore, I warn you...if the worst happens today, or ever, the Lord-general has ordered me to take your life and declare that you conspired against the king.”
Beneath his breath Nik protested, “I have not! It’s my duty to serve the king for now, and so I will.”
“To no avail, young lord.”
“Why is Siyrsun so determined to punish me and my people?”
“For your betrayal at Parne. For your abandonment of our god and king.”***
As he’d suspected. Why was it a crime for his people to trust their Creator? Nikaros hid a scowl. A fanfare of trumpets resounded at the end of the corridor, causing him to turn.
Bel-Tygeon’s entourage approached, all solemnity, a glittering army minding its cadence. Javelin-bearing guards flanked a procession of slaves, eight of whom bore the god-king in a gilded sedan chair on their shoulders, as if he were indeed a carved idol set high for all to worship.
The young king’s regal manner alone proclaimed his rank, but the tower-like gold crown, his lavishly jeweled gold and blue robes, the gold imprinted boots, and his gem-encrusted ceremonial sword and gold and crystal scepter demanded reverence. As did those weapon-wielding guards.
Bel-Tygeon’s slaves set his chair before the door, and he descended, cool and remote, a living, moving sculpture. Nikaros bowed. To the king, not to a god.
Bel-Tygeon proceeded past him, threaded his way through the broken slabs of marble, and climbed the steps to his golden throne. As the king ascended his throne, Nik slid a glance toward Siyrsun. Barely concealed impatience and a flash of disdain slid over the lord-general’s squared, battle-scarred face.
If he rebelled, would Siyrsun replace Belaal’s god-kings with himself? Or with Utzaii Atzaia and all the mountain gods?
As Nikaros contemplated possibilities, the prophet, Ela of Parne, entered the main door, carefully walking through the rubble, eyeing the broken floor as if astonished by the damage. Had she been summoned for punishment as the lord-general threatened?
She halted at the throne room’s center, and Nik saw her glance up at the king. Bel-Tygeon returned her glance, cool and imperious, a god-king who expected perfect obedience.
Ela of Parne closed her eyes briefly, apparently praying.
Finished, she smiled, planted the branch like a sapling in the center of the room, and then stepped back. Her tone joyous she called out, “Infinite, Creator of all, including these stones! Who is like You in the heavens above or here below? For the glory of Your Holy Name, restore this place!”
The branch grew, spreading high as a lightening-bright tree, its glare searing. Nik looked away and grabbed at the door to prevent himself from falling as the throne room trembled. Within a flash the floor settled. Nikaros dared another glance as the prophet’s staff became plain vinewood again, balanced upright upon the marble floor. Bel-Tygeon was kneeling as if he’d been jostled. He gripped his crown and the leg of his own throne to avoid falling down those marble steps.
Below the king, the golden marble floor gleamed, perfect and newly inlaid with a giant shimmering iridescent crystal starburst, its rays spread throughout the throne room’s floor, a visual testimony of the Infinite’s power.
Only Ela of Parne seemed unaffected. She lifted the branch, turned, and walked through the silent throne room, escaping her enemies before they could stand.
Utthreates scuffled to his feet behind Nikaros and said quietly, “Look at the Old Dreki. If he could shatter that floor now, he would!”
If the Old Dreki could shatter Bel-Tygeon’s rule, he would. If? No. By that infuriated dart of a look Siyrsun had aimed at Bel-Tygeon, now reseating himself on the throne, the question was not if, but when.
Seeming to sense Nik’s gaze, Siyrsun cut a look at him, showing absolute hatred.
Almost too low to hear Utthreates warned, “Within the next eight months, young lord, you’d best prepare for death.”
***
STANDING IN THE SUNLIGHT, amid the ranks of slaves in Sulaanc’s largest ceremonial public plaza, Nikaros stared up at Bel-Tygeon’s own temple, dedicated to the king’s celestial reign as a god. An extraordinary edifice of marble and gold, dedicated to a lie.
As Nik watched, Bel-Tygeon and his household, with all his women and his guards, paraded into the temple to worship amid a spectacular pageant of shimmering blue and gold gowns, robes, weapons, and jewels, all seemingly dedicated to the king.
Nik closed his eyes against the sunlight, praying he wouldn’t be required to bow to Bel-Tygeon while the king assumed the false authority of a god.
To Nik’s left Lije hissed, “Whatever they say, I won’t bow!”
From Nik’s right Josias retorted in a harsh whisper, “Lower your voice or we’ll all die!”
Nikaros bowed his head in silent, fierce prayer. Infinite, nothing rivals You in the heavens or here below! Spare us, I beg You! Save us from a command to bow before a false god!
A breeze swept past Nikaros, stirring his hair and gusting toward the temple. Something in the current, a sensing, made him open his eyes...just as the temple disintegrated into a glittering sandstorm, cast aloft in the high wind. Screams cut through the air around Nik, melding into deafening chaos that drowned out Lije’s howl of triumphant laughter and his own shocked cry: “Infinite!”
Josias wrenched at Nik’s sleeve. “Run! Now we’ll escape!”
But even as they turned, Commander Utthreates reached them, followed by a troop of soldiers. His voice low, carrying, Utthreates snarled, “By my life, young lords, stand or die!”
***
HANDS SHOOK NIKAROS awake. Jolted he swept his arm through the darkness to take down his attacker—until he heard Ebatenai’s gasp and his thin, mournful voice. “Son of Levos, don’t strike me! Listen! Our Light of the Heavens requests your presence. Hurry, I beg you! We despair....”
Was the king in danger?
Nik donned his boots, snatched his drab slave cloak, and rushed after Ebatenai, who actually ran. Through gate after gilded protective gate, guards bowed them past, clearly expecting them. At last, puffing with the exertion, Ebatenai pressed his hefty form against a wall panel, opening it to reveal a lamp-lit golden room and a golden bed attended by an elegant, dark-haired, weeping woman. Evidently hearing their footsteps, the woman turned, revealing her proud, lovely face and tear-swollen black-brown eyes.
Even as she turned Nikaros saw Bel-Tygeon’s bloodied form upon the golden bed. Dead? “Oh, Infinite, spare him!”
He froze, hearing his forbidden words echo in the regal chamber. The woman burst into fresh tears and Ebatenai said, “Ah, Lady Dasarai, we also weep for him.”
“Pray for him!” Through her tears, the Lady Dasarai spoke directly to Nikaros. “Pray to your Infinite to spare my brother! Who will reign if he dies?”
Siyrsun. His stomach clenched in distress, Nik approached the bed, staring at the king’s face and arms, all marked with swelling, bloodied blisters, some of which had burst, staining his garments and the glistening coverlets. “Did someone poison him?”
Dasarai’s dark eyes widened. “No. This is a plague from the Infinite. He commanded that the Prophet of Parne and Siphra’s queen be freed and returned to Siphra. I’ve sent them away. Pray to Him that my brother recovers!”
To Nik’s shock Bel-Tygeon opened his swollen, bloodied eyes and cut an almost self-mocking look at him. “Pray to Him for me...pagan.”
At once Nikaros knelt, prepared to keep vigil for as long as needed. “Infinite, be merciful, for the sake of those who love You! Spare the king...as You love us, spare the king....”