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Araine turned and opened her eyes. The first slivers of morning light illuminated the baby’s basket and Ela’s pallet—both empty, their coverlets in place though rumpled in the center. Had the Infinite swept the prophet and Caed away while they slept?
Catching her breath, Araine sat up and reached for the baby’s basket, just as the king flung open the door and strode inside.
He halted and stared. “Where are they?”
Her voice sleep-roughened, Araine said, “Vanished, Sire, while I slept. Yet I heard nothing. Not even a peep from the baby.” She touched the center of Caed’s basket and sighed. “It’s still warm.”
Bel-Tygeon leaned down and tested the basket’s soft lining. A pang crossed his face. Hurt? Regret?
The king straightened and then departed, silent except for the rustling of his gold-edged blue robes.
***
ELA OPENED HER EYES. To morning. And to her own chamber that she shared with her husband, who sprawled beside her sound asleep on their thick blue bedcovers, fully clothed. Gorgeous man! Had he been awake most of the night awaiting the return of his wife and son? Oh... Where was her son! “Caed!” Ela flung herself out of the bed and rushed to her son’s cradle.
Behind her Kien’s voice lifted in sleep-dazed alarm. “Ela? What’s wrong? Where did you two go?”
Ela exhaled and leaned over the cradle. Caed slumbered on, perfect and safe, still gripping the gilded silver rattle. Ela shushed her fretful husband as he approached. “Dearest, we’re both well. The Infinite took us to Belaal.”
“Without me? Fine.” Kien wrapped his arms around Ela, warm and consoling as his whisper. “I’m just grateful He returned you at a reasonable time, before I woke up and worried.”
“Why worry? I’m safe as a prophet can be, for now, and your son charmed everyone. Particularly the king and his sister. Look.” Ela gently lifted Caed’s blue outer robe, revealing the gold-cloth boots, miniature leggings, and elaborately embroidered linen tunic. “They gave him gifts.”
Kien leaned over, inspected his son’s miniature gold boots and leggings, and then straightened and dragged Ela away, hissing, “Such insufferable arrogance! They fitted him with a gold anklet, as if he’s Belaal’s property! Did you notice?”
“No, I didn’t notice it amid all the fuss and gold boots; I wasn’t even allowed to change his linens, he was so over-attended. But all’s well. We’re home, slave anklet or not.” Ela hugged her husband and he quieted, sighing into her hair. Softly she asked, “Do you remember speaking to a girl in ToronSea? A beautiful young lady with blue eyes?”
“The girl I warned? What about her?”
“Pray for her. Whether or not she becomes Belaal’s prophet—as I hope—she’s in danger. Belaal’s god-king is about to crown himself with disaster.”
***
MOPING, BEREFT THOUGH she’d only just met the prophet and her beguiling infant son, Araine dressed, tidied her chamber, and ate the modest breakfast offered by her eunuch-guard.
Then she knelt and stared at the walls, seeing nothing and hating its dull blankness.
Yet this would be her life if she refused to accept her role as prophet. Did she wish to confront life boldly, as Ela had on the Infinite’s behalf?
Could she?
What if she never heard from the Infinite again? What if—should the scrolls ever be returned to her care—what if those amazing words never came to gleaming life for her as long as she lived?
Could she endure such losses?
Not happily. Furthermore, as the prophet had warned, wasn’t her life at risk every instant in this hostile palace? Anything could happen. Poison from a jealous rival. A fever. Plots. One misstep and she’d be gone. Then Grump’s death would be for nothing because of her own fears. Coward! Araine scolded herself. Decide!
Closing her eyes, she prayed, all her heart and soul in the words. “Infinite, who am I to You? I’m dust as the Books declare. By the Sacred Words, everything is Yours. You need nothing. No one! Yet You called to me, and Your verses sang. Infinite...I miss that joy! I long to hear those words and Your voice! Without them I will fade away like the last note of a final song. Let me be Your servant....”
My Child of dust, the Infinite murmured. Will you hear Me?
Unable to contain her soul’s elation, she babbled in a whisper, “Infinite! Yes, I am your servant! How I’ve missed You! I’ve longed for Your Spirit to shine in the verses! Please, please! Let me always hear Your voice!”
Then brace yourself, and look! See what I will do!
Within her thoughts a vision opened, fragments from the future, with all the terrors and uncertainties of a Siphran epic plucked to life upon the strings of her lost lyre.
And seemingly lifted from the delicate carvings of her lost lyre, she saw a dreki come to life, sleek and shimmering, crimson-scaled and crested with flames, its eyes glowing with the fires of eternal hatred. Approaching her. Followed by multitudes of liquid-dark drekar—their eyes flat with primal, pitiless hunger, all turning toward her.
Living, breathing legends, yet unknown.
All so real. Or were they?
Whispers surrounded her, the Infinite’s servant. Loved and loathed. Sought and rejected. Saved. Only to be attacked and savaged again. Dark messengers, dispelled with swords of light.
To serve Belaal you must understand what my faithful ones will confront. And what My enemies’ rebellion will ultimately cost.
As they faced the crimson dreki, Araine’s hands, her very body, collapsed like a burned stick of incense, unable to sustain itself without its Creator. “Infinite! Save me!”
She sobbed, gasping as normalcy instantly returned. Mortal flesh, cold and heavy, shielded her soul. Fabric warmed her chilled body. Woven mats covered a floor, solid beneath her feet.
Shivering Araine rested then lapsed into a visionless sleep as the comforting warmth of the Infinite’s spirit surrounded her like a protective cloak. Yet when she woke, shaken with new fears, fragments of images lingered. With echoed cries of countless lost souls.
Tears slipped between her fingers. “Beloved Creator, what does it all mean?”
His voice touched her soul again. Are you My servant?
Why had he asked a second time? “Yes! Weak as I am.”
Another image filled her thoughts, so vivid that she briefly lived within it—trembling, cringing, overwhelmed by its brilliance and the terrors it implied. How could she dare allow stupid fears to break her resolve? Earning her Creator’s quiet rebuke.
Are you My servant?
“Yes!” She scrambled to her feet and stumbled to the door, dizzied, almost sick from the vision. Her guard stepped into her path. Araine dropped to her knees and yelled beneath his arm, “Cythea! Where are you? I must speak with the Lady Dasarai at once!”
***
SEATED AT HIS LOW WRITING table in Ebatenai’s work room, Nikaros stifled a yawn, covered his ink jar, and eyed the sun’s rays slanting in through the high, narrow, latticed window. Soon it would be time for the evening meal. However, he’d volunteered to guard the sacred scrolls—after pledging to not read them. It would be best for him to fast tonight and remain here to keep the sacred books away from his fellow slaves’ snooping.
He eyed the old battered scrolls and prayed beneath his breath, “Protect them, my Creator, as You’ve protected her.”
Guilt ate at him. He’d been too harsh with Araine. He’d hurt her for his own selfish reasons, refusing to recognize his own two-faced standards. Did he dare apologize? Nikaros eyed the scrolls again. He’d promised not to read them. But she surely would.
Nikaros snatched a trimming of parchment, lifted the cover of his ink jar, then smiled as he wrote a secret note. Finished he dried the ink, rolled the small parchment tight, and slid it inside one of the open-ended scrolls. He marked the scroll with a bit of official blue cordage and then tucked it into the heap, folding all the scrolls snugly within the blue fabric covering.
The instant Nik had finished, Ebatenai dashed into the room, his blue robes awhirl. He swung on his official blue and gold mantle then shrilled, “Son of Levos, you are called to the throne room by the king! Bring those scrolls! Haste-haste!”
What had happened? Nikaros smoothed his rough mantle into order, slipped on his sandals, grabbed the scrolls, and then followed the agitated eunuch. They rushed through corridor after corridor, with Ebatenai screeching and waving off all slaves who happened to wander into their path. “Move, move, move! Our Prized of the Heavens calls!”
Loathing Bel-Tygeon’s deified title, Nik clenched his jaw and smoothed his features. As they approached the throne room, he forced himself to bow and then wait with Ebatenai as other authorities, free men, entered the huge room.
Araine, swathed in an embroidered blue mantle, knelt near the floor’s sparkling central starburst rays, her light hair falling loose down her back, her head bent, her small bare feet showing from beneath her blue garments. Was she ill? No. She was praying.
Infinite, why was she barefoot? Orders perhaps? Following her example Nikaros stepped out of his sandals, leaving them outside the grand main entry. Chills sped over his arms and scalp even before his bared feet touched the cold marble. Drawing upon his new role, he asked in silence, Creator of all, what is Your will?
An impulse, and a brief jolt of imagery propelled him forward. Exhaling, eyeing the guards and General Siyrsun’s men lest they intercede, Nikaros approached Araine quietly, knelt a respectable arm’s length to her right, then placed the Books of the Infinite between them. One sidelong glance told him that she was wrapped in her prayers much as her mantle and layers of tunics and veiling. And assuredly it was no coincidence that she was kneeling exactly where the prophet Ela of Parne had stood last summer.
Dare he believe that the Infinite had sent Belaal its own prophet?
Nikaros bowed his head and prayed. Let it be so!
***
SNATCHES OF VERSES sang through Araine’s soul as she prayed, golden words from the scrolls, alive in her thoughts. Infinite, hear me and be merciful! Be my help! You saved me from my enemies...turned my grief to celebration...took my mourning and covered me with joy....let me sing Your praises forever!
A trumpet blast stirred her from prayer, alerting her to Bel-Tygeon’s approach. She sat up and watched him enter the throne room, splendid in sapphire robes and followed by the Lady Dasarai, who studied Araine as if looking for flaws in her appearance. The king ignored her—until he placed one gold-booted foot on the lowest step of his throne...and the floor shivered.
As Bel-Tygeon turned and stared at her, his handsome face reflecting wonderment, the crystalline starburst glowed, spreading fiery root-like white rays through the throne room’s floor and unfurling branches upward and outward, forming a vast eternal vinewood tree. The on-looking courtiers gasped and backed toward the walls. Even forewarned by her vision, Araine recoiled, trembling at the tree’s splendor.
Infinite ... I’m merely dust.
Will you accept?
Her soul leapt, even as fear chanted. Remember the visions! Remember the battles....
But she’d faced death before. At the hands of her mortal father, no less. She spoke aloud. “Infinite, I have no father except You.” Accepting His offer she reached toward the living, eternal vinewood.
In a blink the tree vanished, leaving a vinewood staff, a branch of the tree, shimmering in her hand. A beautiful, simple piece of pale and straight wood but with a spiraling grain, alive with iridescence, just as the Books of the Infinite had been alive to her. She could have stared at it forever, except— Perfect silence reigned in the throne room, prompting her to look around.
The courtiers all stared at her, mouths agape. Keeling to her right Nikaros drew in a sharp breath, like a man recovering from a shock. Then he threw her a look, a quiet smile. His eyes, warm green-brown, shone with almost-hidden delight. Between them, neatly wrapped in her old blue mantle, lay the Books of the Infinite. Safe. Steadying the branch in her grasp, Araine returned his smiling look and whispered, “Thank you!”
Footsteps approached, brisk and sharp against the marble floor. The king.
Bel-Tygeon stared down at her, statue-perfect, his gaze indecipherable. Raising his voice he asked, “What are you to me and my people, Araine, slave of Belaal?”
Remembering her place she bowed until her face almost touched the crystalline floor. But she matched her carrying tones to his. “I am here according to the Infinite’s will to serve Belaal and its king as a prophet.”
“And what is the son of Levos to Belaal?”
Taken aback Araine blinked. The son of Levos? Infinite, what does Nikaros have to do with me?
Her Creator whispered into her thoughts and she looked up at Bel-Tygeon again. “Sire, as the Infinite wills, the son of Levos has future tasks for your sake and Belaal’s, as I have mine.”
The king paced around them, a glorious figure of gold, obviously not altogether pleased. Facing Araine once more he demanded, “What if I believe you are a danger to me or to my people?”
He didn’t yet trust her? Heat sped to Araine’s face, adding a shaming blush to her frustration. Surely she looked like a fool. “Sire, if you believe I am a danger, then deal with me as you please. However...” She nodded at the Books of the Infinite. “...as you have seen, I’m willing to risk my life for what I believe in. I will serve Belaal and its king with this same faithfulness, and with the truth as you have commanded me. May the Infinite bring good from any evil in your realm!”
Did she imagine the flicker of royal amusement in his dark eyes? “Then I’ll allow you to live—as long as you understand your place.”
So much for his wistful musings in the garden and his odd words about her being a welcome sight. Was he playing some sort of royal game for the sake of on-looking courtiers? Or was he serious? Yet what did it matter? She was merely a slave and a despised servant of Belaal...but she was Infinite’s prophet.
Exhaling Araine closed her eyes and bowed.
“Infinite, grant me patience!”
***
HOLDING HER PRECIOUS collection of scrolls, Araine knelt on a puffy floor cushion, tenderly placed the vinewood staff beside her, then looked around her new chamber. Did this larger room, so near to the Lady Dasarai’s and to the favored Zaria’s, indicate that she was also favored...or that she was being watched even more closely?
Difficult to tell. A eunuch still guarded her doorway, and she remained isolated. But her garden evidently adjoined the Lady Dasarai’s, promising a lovely place of retreat.
A place to pray.
A place to read the Books of the Infinite.
She opened her old mantle, smiling because Nikaros had folded it so neatly. But one of the scrolls was oddly tied with a bright blue cord. Why? She untied the knot and unfurled the scroll, jumping slightly as a smaller parchment scroll dropped out, bouncing lightly onto the floor. Opening the hidden note, she scanned its blocky, concise script.
Forgive my harshness when we spoke before the king. Know that I pray for your safety and success. May our mighty Creator guard us both as we serve Him.
Nikaros, Son of High Lord Levos of the Eosyths, Captive of Belaal.
Nikaros, the son of an Eosyth lord? Hmm. Well, he wrote a fine hand and a lovesome note. She eyed her precious collection of scrolls. Every knot seemed just as she’d left them. Either Nikaros was a man of honor or a clever sneak. She opted for honor.
Tucking the note into her mantle, she finally dared to look at one of the scrolls.
The verses opened before her gaze, alive with the purest golden fire, drawing her soul toward her Creator. Tears filled her eyes, dazzling her with the scroll’s luster. “Infinite, bless You! And bless Belaal through these living words!”
Araine gathered the scrolls and stood, her layered garments drifting and fluttering around her. What better time to inspect her new garden and enjoy her studies?
She lifted the garden door’s latch and crept outside, half-wanting, half-dreading a garden such as the one she’d enjoyed with Iris for so many months.
Instead, a small stone birdbath and feeder occupied one corner of the slightly overgrown garden, opposite a stone seat shaded by a pink-blossomed sleeping tree, similar to those in the king’s own garden. Araine touched a feathery leaf on the tree and watched it curl shut in temporary sleep, and then she inhaled a delicate fragrance from the puffy, pink blossoms and sighed. What she wouldn’t give for Iris’s company and for Grumps, scowling upon her from the tower above. Not to mention freedom.
She blinked away the past and focused on the present. Would the Lady Dasarai grant her a lyre to practice? Even if she didn’t, this little garden was lovely.
Araine brushed the dried, dropped flowers off the bench and lost herself in the Infinite’s gleaming verses, until an unleaf-like shadow flickered over the ground, drawing her attention from the scrolls. A thin, solemn slave girl peeked down at her from atop the wall bordering another garden. Araine smiled. “Good evening!”
Looking alarmed and disgruntled as any detected spy, the slave swiftly retreated, descending from the wall and into the garden beyond.
***
LIJE, AS ALWAYS, COMPLAINED at the end of the day when they entered the grand corridor, the Hall of the Blessings, to cross the palace to their allotted quarters. “Look at this stinking mess!”
“Mm-hmm.” Nikaros grimaced as always at the end of their day when they entered the palace’s official blue-and-gold corridor of prayer, dedicated to receiving incense and gifts to honor Belaal’s god, Bel-Tygeon. And as always he carried a long official wooden-spooled parchment scroll, as if still at work. It was safer to seem distracted and busy when ignoring officially sanctioned worship of a god-master-king.
Nonetheless this corridor was difficult to ignore. Burning spices routinely clouded the air, and offerings edged the floor to the right and left. Flowers, casks, fabrics, ewers of wine, and vials of rich perfumes all begged favor from Belaal’s god-king and, less conspicuously, his ancestors. Before Ela of Parne’s unexpected visit last year, this place had been eerie to Nikaros, seeming full of invisible, watchful beings. Through her presence, however, it seemed the Infinite had banished the specters. Nik prayed daily they wouldn’t return.
Worshipers often visited this grand hall to tuck scripted prayers into niches with their gifts. Even now a gray-mantled worshiper arose from the spot where he’d been kneeling in prayer. Head lowered he approached Nikaros and Lije, apparently still focused on his prayers...or on the tarnished blade he removed from his cloak just before he lunged at Nikaros.
Nik slammed the wooden-spooled scroll against the assailant.
“Behind him,” Lije bellowed at the top of his considerable lungs. “Guards! An assassin!”