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Araine’s teeth chattered as Corban half-dragged, half-carried her through ToronSea’s misted dark streets. “C-Corban...”
He gripped her throat, his long fingers digging in as he growled, “One more word and I’ll snap your neck and leave you here in the street! Thanks to you and your Infinite, I’ve little else to lose.”
Fresh tears stung her eyes, making flashes and sparks of the few dim lamps showing from the windows of nearby homes. A fear-born hiccough threatened, and she swallowed hard. Infinite? Dear Creator, he killed Grumps. I’m so afraid!
I am here.
The words enveloped her, vividly alive. Adding to her terror. She was mad. Infinite?
I am here.
Too frightened to test her Creator’s presence a third time, Araine stumbled onward with Corban until she saw his destination. The Meeting House.
Full of Ateans. Ruled by her own parents.
Corban meant to denounce her before the whole Atean colony, while she carried the Books of the Infinite within her mantle. The books would be destroyed! As would she.
Araine dropped to the pavement to wrest herself from Corban’s grip. He picked her up, trapping her arms and the sacred words between them. “No, you’ve earned this! As have I!”
She gave up struggling and clung to him instead, trying to hold him back. “Sir, you need peace. Where will you find it if you destroy everything that’s good in your life?”
“Peace? After your betrayal?” He hauled her up to the door and lifted the latch, his face sharply outlined in the lamplight, a cruel contrast to the soft, melodious chanting within. Araine squinted and blinked against the glow of innumerable lamps and burning incense. Corban carried her to the center of the Meeting House and set her down so hard that her chattering teeth clicked together, but he held her in a captor’s embrace.
As the chanting around them faded, Corban bellowed, “Tonight, as you’ve been celebrating, I found an enemy, a traitor in our midst!”
From among the worshipers Iris cried out, her voice sharp with fear. “Araine!”
Darion approached, eyes wide and still, suddenly a younger image of Grumps. Weakening against grief, Araine sobbed out a hiccough. “He...k-killed Grumps!”
“Do not listen to her!” Corban bellowed. “She’s a liar and a heretic! Darion Khalome, see what your daughter has been reading and then writing to me—the Books of the Infinite!” He lifted an edge of the mantle in Araine’s arms, revealing the scrolls’ upper edges. “Tell me the penalty for apostasy, Darion, then fulfill your duty as leader!”
Her father looked at her, amid the now-perfect silence, his face ghastly, his hand straying to his official belt, a golden cord. “The penalty is death. But...Araine...is this true?”
Undoubtedly, he saw the truth in her gaze, Araine nodded. Her mother moved forward now, open-mouthed. “Oh, Araine, how could you!”
Darion lifted one gold-ringed hand and slapped Araine, the impact loud in the silent hall. Pointing to a nearby brazier with incense smoldering in its gilded silver bowl, he snapped, “Burn those scrolls! Now!”
Blood welled, metal-bitter in her mouth, Araine shook her head. No. She couldn’t. Not after living with these verses for the past year while they nurtured her soul. Clearly she was dead anyway. Unless... She darted a frantic look around the hall. Could she somehow escape?
Liyda marched forward, a living fury betrayed. “Give me those scrolls!”
“No!” Araine turned away, shielding the sacred scrolls from her mother’s hands. Corban reached around her to snatch the books. She ducked and screamed, “Get away! Murderer!”
He slapped one hand over her mouth then shoved her downward. Araine fell to her knees, clutching the bundled scrolls. Around her a mortal tide unleashed, surrounding her with its violence. Hands tearing at her, voices yowling in her ears. “Release them! Burn them! Kill her!”
Unable to move she huddled atop the scrolls, screaming as fingers clawed into her arms, her shoulders, her face, leaving wakes of burning pain. “No!”
Her outburst brought down a storm of bruising fists and renewed screams, her own and others’. Someone leaned on her heavily, and Araine glimpsed a golden noose, felt it dragged over her head and cinched around her throat. Hands gripped her shoulders, holding her down. Her father raged, tear-choked. “You give me no choice! No choice...”
The noose tightened, choking her, forcing her mouth open, darkening her senses as she fought for breath. All vanished....
She woke as she started to lose her grip on the scrolls. Pain flared in her throat and hammered within her skull. Sucking in a thin tormented breath, she recognized her father’s gold-ringed hand against her face, her nose, her mouth. He said, “She’s still alive.”
Again, the noose tightened. Before it closed off her throat, Araine screamed hoarsely, “Infinite, save me!”
Save me....
Her senses faded beneath the strangling cord, leaving her aware of a spiritual touch.
A gentle twist of air curved about her face and body, cradling her, lifting her away.
***
THROUGH AN AGONIZED blur of tears and rage, Corban stared...at his empty hands. He grasped air instead of Araine’s shoulders. His fellow worshipers stepped back, looking around, their expressions all living reflections of his own bafflement. Where was she?
Beside him Darion lifted the empty golden noose, staring at it, then at the vacant, bloodied floor. “What’s happened? Where is she?”
Infinite, save me!
Corban stood and retreated from Araine’s last words.
From the unnerving sensation of Araine’s dying form vanishing from his grasp.
A chill lifted all the hairs on his scalp and arms. Infinite...
Corban bolted outside into the darkness, sensing his very soul pursued.
***
THIS WAS NOT ENOUGH gold to save him.
Nikaros knelt in the center of the glowing lamplit throne room, staring at the small heap of treasure, with Josias and Lije kneeling behind him as commanded by Siyrsun.
Lije’s whisper, aghast, cut toward Nik as they eyed the gold. “That’s all?”
Nik nodded, unable to speak. How could this be all? And yet, there, atop the collection of gold and silver cuffs, rough gold nuggets, and a number of cast ingots and coins, rested his father’s gold torq, obviously added to the inadequate ransom in a final gesture of despair.
Reaching out, Nik rested one hand on the torq, swallowing his unshed tears and the longing to see his family one last time. Clearly his lord-father had tried. The entire clan had tried to collect the ransom. Yet how could this be the full sum? Unless...
Had Siyrsun taken a portion of the gold to ensure Nik’s death?
Nikaros glared, indignation and conviction strengthening his rage.
Behind them Siyrsun’s low, powerful voice proclaimed to all, including the somber Bel-Tygeon enthroned above them, “The Eosyths have failed, though they knew the penalty.”
Aloof and expressionless Bel-Tygeon studied the shimmering heap, then General Siyrsun. “What was your stated penalty, Lord-General?”
“What should it be, O King, but death? The Eosyths must know that your divine will rules above all. The price must be paid.” Siyrsun moved forward, resting a hand on his killing dagger, while nodding at Nik. “The son of Levos volunteered at the time of his capture to pay that price.”
Bel-Tygeon eyed Nikaros. “Is this true, son of Levos?”
Not precisely. However it was near enough to the truth. But why was Bel-Tygeon asking such questions? Nik had already told him these things during their archery practices. Furthermore Siyrsun must be confronted. Matching the king’s formality Nik raised his voice for all to hear. “This was always my intention, Sire. Yes. However, this cannot be all the gold! What happened to the remainder?”
Lord-General Siyrsun’s powerful voice echoed throughout the throne room as he bellowed, “Let this slave’s pledge be fulfilled as you choose, Sire, for you are Wisdom itself!”
Just as the god-king opened his mouth to speak, a whisper of air threaded about Nik with a sensing that made him turn his head. My Creator. What...?
Before his next blink a huddled form materialized on the floor beside Nikaros, making him flinch. A beaten, bloodied, tatter-clothed body, with long, tangled, sun-streaked ash hair. A girl. How had she suddenly appeared from nothingness, in the same manner as the prophet Ela of Parne? But...was this girl dead?
Ignoring the sudden hum of courtiers’ murmuring voices, Nik scooted over and swept the hair away from her bruised, scratched, blood-speckled, swollen face. Leaning down he listened for breath and winced as he tested her cruelly abraded throat for a pulse. She’d been strangled.
Bel-Tygeon’s voice neared, with his booted footsteps, sharp and hurried. “Is she dead?”
A slight pulse met Nik’s touch. Relieved he glanced up at the king. “Sire, she lives!”
“Then, son of Levos, remove her,” Bel-Tygeon commanded. “Take her out to the corridor, place her in a chair, and tell its porters to take her to the Women’s Palace. Order the women’s physician to tend the girl and then lock her away. When you’ve finished, tell Ebatenai what’s happened—and I want to question you immediately!”
As if he’d caused this girl’s near death? Or as if he’d instigated her shockingly sudden appearance beside him? Even so she’d brought Nik a temporary stay of execution. In truth, the Infinite had saved him and, somehow, this young woman as well. “Bless You!”
Bel-Tygeon swept from the throne room, dismissing everyone with an imperious wave of his hand. Lord-General Siyrsun stared down at the girl then at Nikaros. “Remove her as commanded, but do not believe you’ve won!” His robes flaring and gold insignias glittering, the lord-general hurried after the king, most likely to insist upon Nik’s death sentence.
Nikaros gritted his teeth. Slave or not he must defy the general. But first protect the girl... He scooped up the young woman, along with an odd blue-wrapped bundle held in her limp embrace. Her scent lifted to him, the tang of rich spices mingled with raw odors of blood and sweat.
She’d been horribly beaten, and those ligature marks about her throat... “She should be dead,” he told Josias and Lije, who closed ranks about him. “The Mighty One has certainly brought her here.”
They left the throne room, though Lije hissed, “I’m sure the lord-general’s men will steal our ransom.”
“Let them have it, for we’re powerless,” Josias muttered, dragging Lije along. “May the Infinite repay our people ten-thousand-fold! Where’s a chair and porters?”
“We could carry her ourselves,” Lije suggested. “Just march right into the Women’s Palace and—”
“We’d die at once,” Nik reminded him. As he spoke the girl’s eyes opened, dark blood-red where they should be white, her irises shockingly pale blue amid the blood-crimson.
She flinched and choked out one hoarse, almost incoherent word. “Infinite...”
Another believer! Just as he’d suspected .... Even as his soul bounded with the confirmation, Nik soothed her, low-voiced, “Do not be afraid. By the Infinite’s mercy, you are safe.”
He hoped it was true.
***
“SHE SHOULD BE DEAD,” a man murmured. “Surely the Mighty One brought her here!”
Araine heard the words through a haze of pain. Who was talking...and carrying her? Was she dreaming? Let it be so. Let her wake to find Grumps glaring, furious that she’d overslept.
While the voices continued around her, Araine sucked in a deep breath until a stabbing pain nearly halted the air in her throat. Jolted she opened her eyes and glanced around at exotic pillars, a magnificent corridor, and a stranger—the young man who carried her. No, this was true and not a dream. Grumps was dead. And ... where was she? This place was utterly foreign. Against torment, she whimpered, “Infinite...”
Choked and faint as her plea was, it seemed to touch the young man. He stared down at her then spoke gently, though his words were clipped. “Do not be afraid. By the Infinite’s mercy, you are safe.”
His eyes, calm and dark green-brown as a deep forest, settled her panic, but not her sorrow. Grumps! Oh, Grumps! Sobs wracked her body and forced her to gasp for fresh, excruciating breaths. Trying to endure the hurt, Araine hugged the scrolls in her arms as tears streaked down her face.
Evidently alarmed, the young man quickened his pace, murmuring, “Shh...be still. We’re taking you to a physician. You’re safe....”
His low comforting tones faded to darkness.
***
A COOLING TOUCH BROUGHT Araine to consciousness again as she deciphered women’s imperious voices, the first composed of petal-light notes over a haughty, exacting core. “Will she live?”
“Most likely, Lady,” another voice answered, authoritative and composed, its coolness matching careful icy-fingered touches to Araine’s throat and face. “If swelling doesn’t close off her throat. I applied cold compresses. She nearly died. Look at these marks. And her eyes...”
The icy fingers lifted Araine’s eyelids, making her recoil. “Ah!”
Stabs of light forced her to blink, but then she stared—at one of the most exquisite women she’d ever seen.
Seated on a large floor cushion, the woman’s oval face, jewel-bright garments, and dark eyes were dazzling, crowned with a glittering gemstone headdress that restrained a glossy, perfectly smooth coif of black hair. Obviously shocked by Araine’s scrutiny, she lifted a delicate jewel-laden hand to her heart, her filigree-protected fingernails flashing in the light. “Oh!”
Kneeling beside her a thin gray-clad woman with a severe topknot of gray hair straightened. “Lady, do not be troubled by her eyes. The red will disappear as the blood recedes in a month or so. Meanwhile she must rest—as the king surely must agree.”
“One hopes so.” The exquisite woman lowered her hand, apparently recovering from her shock. In refined accents she asked, “What is your name?”
Araine moistened her lips and willed her hurting throat and her whisper of a voice to work. “Araine. Where...am I?”
The thin gray woman snapped, “Young lady, you will never question Belaal’s princess, the Lady Dasarai! Now be still, and I’ll apply fresh cloths to your throat. I’ll have ice for you soon.”
“Belaal?” Araine pulled in a sharp breath. Infinite? “How? I was just in ToronSea...and my grandfather was...m-murdered!” Tears blurred her vision, and a sob tore at her raw throat. She swallowed, fighting pain.
“Hush,” the gray woman commanded. “You could destroy your voice.”
Her voice was the least of her concerns. Dear Grumps ...
A distant clamor and tapping caused the women to turn toward a carved wooden door framed within a fine wood-paneled wall. Beyond the closed door a girlish voice beckoned. “Lady? Our Prized of the Heavens approaches!”
The bejeweled Lady Dasarai’s expression brightened. She stood and rustled to the door in a flowing cascade of gold-embroidered crimson robes. “Ebatenai, hush and open the door.”
Ebatenai obeyed, and Araine stared despite her own misery. Ebatenai wasn’t a woman as she’d thought, but a big, finely-clad man. With his high cheekbones and smooth, full face, he looked foreign. In thin, fluting tones, he said, “Forgive me, Lady. He wishes to speak with you.”
“Of course.” Dasarai glided from the room, followed by Ebatenai.
The thin woman sighed and reached for a glazed pottery flask that rested on a serviceable wooden tray. She poured water into a pottery cup, set down the flask, then reached for Araine. “I am Cythea, a physician. Move slowly and allow me to help you sit up. You need water.”
Araine marveled at the woman’s care, even as she frowned at her own new robes: clean, pale, and simply made. Where were her clothes? And who had fastened that gold band around her ankle? Apparently she’d been unconscious for a long time.
And obviously she hadn’t devised a nightmare. Grumps was truly dead.
She choked down some of the water then pushed away the cup.
“To recover, you must obey,” Cythea insisted.
“I don’t wish to recover.” She’d contributed to her grandfather’s death. Her own father had tried to kill her. Why should she live? Calmly obstinate, Cythea offered her the cup. Too miserable to fight, Araine sipped at the water. The physician applied cold compresses to Araine’s throat then departed, her gray robes astir.
Alone Araine fought tears, punctuated with hurting sobs. Infinite? Why am I alive? Let me die!
For what purpose?
The words stilled her. Scared her. He’d spoken to her. Again! Why? And yet...
Her voice a raw thread, she sought Him. “Infinite?”
I am here.
His Spirit surrounded Araine, offering consolation. Was she insane? Surely grief spurred her imagination. Araine clutched her throat and cried despite the pain, until Ebatenai’s fluting tones broke through her tears. “Young lady, I beg you to calm yourself.”
She blinked as the big man entered the room and set down a familiar bundle—her mantle, enfolding the Books of the Infinite. Those books were the reason Grumps was dead. Araine covered her face with her hands, now only faintly scented with her spices.
Banished from her sight but not her hearing, Ebatenai pleaded, “Young lady—”
“Leave us,” a young man ordered, his tone absolute, the sound of his robes rustling nearer.
What now? Or rather, who? Araine clenched her hands into fists and opened her eyes as a stunning dark-haired young man in gold and blue robes relaxed on the Lady Dasarai’s abandoned floor cushion.
He raised one dark eyebrow and inspected Araine as if she were an object rather than a person. At last he leaned nearer, his face enthrallingly perfect and alarming. “I know who sent you, Araine of ToronSea, and why. I also know what you’ve suffered. Therefore I grant you a month of mourning to recover from your sorrows. But be warned, if you dare to defy me, you will truly wish you’d perished today.”