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As the attacker lunged toward him again, snarling, Nikaros struck the man’s wrist and sent the blade clattering to the polished marble floor. The assailant hissed an oath and grabbed Nik’s tunic, struggling to wrestle him down.
Nik braced himself, gripped the bare-shaven nape of the man’s neck, and flung him away, even as the assailant clutched Nik’s wrist and tumbled them both off their feet. As his attacker struggled to reach the dagger, Nik pressed one hand to his attacker’s windpipe to subdue him, then strove for the dagger. The man clawed at Nik, grabbed his shoulder, and flung himself over, almost breaking free of Nik’s grasp.
Until Lije kicked the dagger away then bashed the man’s shaven head with a small metal urn, spilling its powdered contents over them both. Acrid spices burned Nik’s eyes and he shoved his dazed opponent back before rolling away. Lije bellowed, “Nik! Are you dying?”
Dying? Only if Lije had accidentally poisoned him. Nik coughed and spat the powder from his mouth then yanked at Lije’s arm. “Get back!”
“Why?” Lije demanded, hazy to Nik’s spice-blurred gaze. “The brute’s down.”
“I’ll take you down if you’ve blinded me.” Nik sat up, coughed, and then sneezed twice, pain searing his belly with each violent jolt. His vision cleared enough with the last eye-watering sneeze to allow him to assess his situation. His attacker lay sprawled beside him, breathing faintly, his shaven scalp bleeding. Blood oozed gently through a gash in Nik’s own tunic. “Ugh! I didn’t feel a stab.”
“You’re welcome!” Lije snorted, his thin brown face twisting in a wry grimace. “But remind me next time that you’re ungrateful when someone saves your life.”
“Thank you,” Nik said, meaning it. He pressed his stained tunic hard against his seeping wound. “I might have subdued him, you know.”
“Or not.” But Lije nodded acceptance of Nik’s observation. He untied his sash and knotted the assailant’s wrists together. “Is the wound deep?”
“I think not.” Nikaros checked his side—a short gash in his flesh that thinned on one end. Obviously he’d struck away the attacker’s hand just in time. As he pressed his tunic firmly against the gash, six guards entered the corridor, their gleaming white-metaled swords and shields held ready.
Their commander, sturdy, calm, and dark-eyed, surveyed Nik, Lije, and the fallen assailant, then motioned to his men. “Carry that man into the outer court then send word to the king.” He addressed Nikaros and Lije, in neutral, authoritative tones. “I am the new second commander of the palace guards, Rtial Vioc, and I know who you are, son of Levos. What happened?”
***
HIS WOUND DAUBED WITH honey-ointment and tightly bound beneath his blood-stained tunic and mantle, Nikaros knelt with Lije in an outer courtyard. Nearby, leaning his head into his chained hands, their assailant sat, guarded by Commander Vioc and two of his men.
A slave hovered beside the man, armed with a pail of sand and a small shovel, prepared to clean up if he vomited again, as he’d already done. Nik almost pitied the man, an emotion that gained force as their silent wait lengthened and the evening shadows deepened. Several times the man groaned, seeming disoriented.
Where was the king?
At last, without any flourish of trumpets or ostentation, Bel-Tygeon strode into the courtyard, followed by several slaves, including the veil-wrapped Araine, who carried the pale prophet’s staff. Her sweet face was troubled, and her blue eyes widened with obvious distress as she eyed Nik’s slashed and stained tunic. Indeed, her sympathetic wince was almost a remedy for his wound.
He studied her for further hints of her feelings toward him, but she glanced at the king, who questioned Vioc. “Commander. What happened?”
Rtial Vioc motioned at the assailant. “This priest attacked the son of Levos in the Corridor of the Blessings.”
Priest? Nikaros stared at the chained and beaten man kneeling near the commander. Certainly the man was shaven bald and plainly clothed, but...a priest? Why had he attacked Nikaros? How had he known...?
Nik snapped out of his musing as Rtial Vioc continued. “We tried to question the priest, but it’s useless. He’s too confused. He wounded the son of Levos, but not seriously, whereas this slave...” Vioc nodded at Lije, “...struck the priest with a stone casket of spices given in tribute to you. All the spices were lost, and the casket was bloodied and chipped.”
Bel-Tygeon aimed a frown at Lije. “You are the son of Tsir Mikial of the Clan Tsahfon Eosyths.”
Lije nodded, appropriately intimidated by the king’s majestic coldness. Bel-Tygeon’s tone was absolute ice. “It seems you were not properly instructed when entering the palace. Slaves never strike free men, particularly high-ranked citizens such as my priests.”
“But, Sire...” Lije leaned forward, his thick eyebrows rushing together, signaling his wish to quarrel with Belaal’s god-king. Nikaros stopped his misguided friend with a warning hand to his arm.
“Furthermore,” Bel-Tygeon continued, as if Lije were a gnat to be ignored, “slaves who lose or destroy royal property—rare property, such as spices and master-carvings—are subject to a death sentence.”
Infinite! Nikaros nearly forgot his own slave status and almost stood. He stifled the impulse, but argued, “Sire, with all respect, if he did so while attempting to save me, then—”
Bel-Tygeon cut off his protest with an imperious wave. “Which was more valuable? The property destroyed, or the property saved—and the value of the destructive slave?”
Meaning us? Nikaros muted his shock. How could his life and Lije’s be worth less than a box of spices? Yet the king eyed them both, clearly pondering their worth as mere property. Most Ancient One, defend us!
Araine stepped forward, clutching her prophet’s staff close. “Sire...”
“Prophet, you will wait!”
She halted, but didn’t retreat. At last the king said, “Son of Mikial, you will be imprisoned for one month, grinding grain as you reflect upon your place here.” Emotionless as a statue, Bel-Tygeon considered the beaten, bloodied, barely conscious priest. “For attempting to destroy royal property and for instigating violence and spilling unconsecrated mortal blood in a sacred place of prayer, he would have forfeited his life if he weren’t one of my own priests—though he could yet die of the head wound.” Bel-Tygeon motioned to Commander Vioc. “Remove the offenders. Set guards around the son of Levos and the son of Mikial, and have a physician tend the priest. If the priest dies and his fellow priests demand retribution, send me word.”
Vioc bowed with all the serenity of a man who considered justice to be fulfilled. Nikaros gripped Lije’s forearm. “I’m sorry, but thank you again! I’ll visit you as soon as possible to be sure you’re well.”
Lije muttered, “I didn’t hear you offer to grind grain for me.”
Good that he could joke, even darkly. Nik threw him a bleak grin. Vioc motioned Lije to stand and then personally led him away. Before Nikaros could intercede and plead for mercy for Lije, Araine knelt near him.
In her hand the pale branch lit with an inward fire.
***
HER STOMACH TIGHTENING with nausea at the thought of the dying priest’s spiritual plight, Araine swallowed and then forced herself to speak. “Sire, I beg you to listen. Here is what the Infinite says. The priest will die tomorrow, but you are not to hand over Lije, the son of Tsir Mikial, to your priests for retribution. The son of Tsir Mikial was only defending himself, and the Infinite despises such injustice.”
The king’s handsome mouth thinned, and his dark, eloquent eyes widened with fury. “Tell me something new, Prophet! If I behave unjustly, how will I die? Another plague called down by you, as your Parnian predecessor wrought upon us last summer?”
Infinite, is this how matters will be for all my life? Hearing the esteemed Ela of Parne’s name flung at her like a weapon or a curse whenever she displeased anyone in Belaal? As well as provoking the king’s wrath? As if she or Ela deserved such scorn! “Sire, I don’t know. I’m only telling you that the Infinite despises injustice.”
Bel-Tygeon growled, savage in his displeasure. He began to pace. “Then what do you know? Tell me what I’ve decided, Prophet! Why did that priest attack Nikaros, eh?”
“Undoubtedly because Belaal’s priests fear his influence.”
And My influence through you both, the Infinite murmured into her thoughts.
“And the Infinite’s influence through us,” Araine added. “Therefore, I’m also a target. And—”
Nikaros pressed a hand to his side as he finished Araine’s next thought. “We are political risks to you, Sire.”
Bel-Tygeon didn’t argue. He passed one long hand through his shimmering black hair, leaving the strands wild in its wake. “I will not be manipulated—not by my priests, who are supposed to serve me, and not by either of you—nor your Infinite! Do you hear me?”
In unison with Nikaros, Araine nodded. “Yes, Sire.”
He dismissed everyone with a haughty gesture then stormed off in a regal tempest of blue and gold robes before Araine or Nik could move.
Araine glanced at Nikaros, restraining her impulse to touch his arm. He seemed to be in pain, tired and distracted. “Sir, will you be allowed time to rest and recover from your wound?”
“Perhaps for a day or two. My duties aren’t physically demanding. I’m more concerned for my friend and for the king. And for you.” He gave her a quiet smile, his green-brown eyes now edged with laugh-lines, making her smile in turn, even as she admired his eyes. So calming and thoughtful. Lowering his voice further he said, “I dislike it that you’re a target.”
Why did his concern move her so? She focused on the iridescent vinewood staff in her hands, studying the perfect simplicity of its spiraling grain. “For the Infinite’s sake I was a target before Belaal, and I came as close to dying as any mortal fears. I pray the experience gives me the strength to face any future threats, as the Infinite pleases.”
Silence made her glance up. His smile deepened, and those marvelous forest-dark eyes shone, making Araine’s heart flutter as Nikaros murmured. “As He pleases. But may it please Him to give you a long and blessed life.” Reflective, he added, “While I guarded the Books of the Infinite, I admit I was tempted to open the scrolls and read them.”
“But you didn’t.”
“They were entrusted to me and I honored that trust. Almost completely.”
Struggling to maintain decorum she corrected him. “With the exception of tucking a note within the scrolls—perhaps not the wisest thing to do, son of Levos.”
“Perhaps not. However I don’t regret the impulse.”
Araine bit down a smile and prayed the warmth of her sudden blush would leave swiftly. “Your writing is very fine.”
He grimaced. “Eosyths might live simply, but we’re not savages. I’m a trained scribe.”
Her blush faded instantly. “I meant the compliment sincerely, Sir. I know nothing of the Eosyths.”
“Forgive me then. We’re regarded as clods here.”
“Not by me, Sir.” Was it appropriate for two slaves to be conversing so intimately? Araine suspected not. Furthermore he must be hurting. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for guarding the books, Sir. I can only express my gratitude by leaving you with a verse.” Pausing, Araine chose. “From the Book of Wisdom. ‘Do not impulsively utter the words of your heart, for the Infinite in His heavens hears you who are mortal. So let your words be few.’”
A spiritual nudge startled her. Infinite, what...?
In obedience to her Creator’s prompting, she added, “Also, the Infinite reminds you... ‘if a king’s anger is turned against you, do not forsake your work on his behalf. Perfect calm can set great offenses to rest.’”
He sobered. “Was that a warning for us both?”
“I’m afraid so. Sir, I’ll be praying for you and your friend.” Surely by now, other slaves had observed them and would possibly be spreading gossip as a result. Araine stood and hurried from the courtyard. My beloved Creator, save us from the king’s anger!
Without the least remorse for his flirtatious impulse, Nik watched Araine leave the courtyard. How beautiful she was, with that mischievous little smile and those wise words. If they were both free and she’d been from an Eosyth clan, he would have tracked her quick light footsteps throughout all the Eosyth lands.
But they were slaves; he must control himself. And he needed to check on Lije then warn Josias of today’s events. Nikaros stood and winced at the burning jolt of pain from his side. He must appeal to Ebatenai for a day or two of rest. Perhaps even a few well-placed stitches to close his wound. To his Creator, he prayed aloud, “Heal my wound and protect my friends, as well as the king.”
Then silently he added, And Belaal’s appealing new prophet.
Amid the women’s central courtyard, her rings throwing off glints of iridescence in the early evening lamplight, the Lady Dasarai motioned for Araine to turn around and show her new official gold-embroidered blue and violet tunic and mantle to the other women. “They are perfect,” Dasarai decreed. “You look lovely.”
“Yes,” Zaria chimed in from her watching place, a cushion of honor to Dasarai’s right. “She’s as fine as a dreki’s hair.”
Beside Zaria a young attendant-slave protested, “But a dreki has no hair.” A dawning look brightened her eyes then. “Oh!”
“Exactly.” Zaria shook a crease from her richly embroidered cream robe as her slave giggled.
Araine shrugged inwardly. Why respond to their childishness? But... Had they seen a dreki? Would she seem too gullible if she asked?
“Young ladies,” the Lady Dasarai scolded, “such spite is undignified and punishable if taken too far. One trusts you will behave and return to your chambers without delay. Do not disturb our evening’s peace.” She gathered her robes and glided away, followed by her slaves, but not by the other women.
“Prophet.” Zaria beckoned Araine.
Araine hesitated. To approach at the haughty woman’s command seemed like servitude. Before she could even convey the thought to her Creator, a fiery light flashed within her hand, becoming her vinewood prophet’s staff. Startled Araine shrieked and almost dropped the sacred vinewood. “Infinite!”
She fumbled, caught the staff then laughed, enjoying her own foolishness. Bah! “Infinite, how wonderful!” But none of the other ladies laughed. In fact most were backing away. Oh, dear, this must be serious. She had to behave.
Araine cleared her throat. “Zaria, did you have a question?”
Zaria stood, her gaze solely on the vinewood staff. “What if I do? Can you answer?”
His concern enfolding Araine like a cloak, the Infinite murmured into her thoughts, Tell this Zaria that the answer to her unasked question is no. She is not carrying a child. Warn her that if she continues to behave as she pleases, she will destroy herself.
Oh dear. Nothing would smooth over this warning. Araine cleared her throat. “Zaria, with all kindness, the Infinite declares that the answer to your unasked question is ‘no.’ You are not carrying a child. Also He warns that if you continue to behave as you please, you will destroy yourself.”
The young woman staggered backward slightly, her brown eyes huge. “How...did you know what I thought?”
“I only repeated what the Infinite said—and of course, He knows the truth.”
Zaria straightened, her defiance returning. “‘No’ is not an acceptable answer! I’ve sold myself and sacrificed my freedom to become the king’s first wife, and so I will be. I will bear his son, and I will be queen! And that day I’ll dance on your grave for speaking against me!”
Araine protested. “It’s not as if we hate you! Your Creator sounded concerned....”
But Zaria spat toward her in a most unladylike way then fled amid the whispers of slaves.
Araine pulled her thoughts from Zaria’s hasty exit to a previous concern. Infinite? They’ve seen a dreki, here in Belaal?
Yes.
Imagery flicked through her thoughts. Liquid movement. Dark yet luminous scales. Flat, primal, hungry eyes... Shivering Araine hastily retreated from the image.
A ferocious hammering at the chamber door jolted Araine awake. In its dawn-lit corner the vinewood glowed a summons, scaring her. “Mercy!”
She flung off her coverlet, rolled out of her puffy sleeping pallet, scrambled for the frightfully bright staff, and then staggered to open the door. Her eunuch-guard squeaked, “Our master, Ebatenai, sends word. The king commands your presence, and he’s in a killing rage. Haste!”
Araine flung her new official blue and violet mantle over her night tunic, then dashed barefoot after her flustered guard toward a golden carrying chair, already held by two attending eunuchs. Breathless she clambered into the chair and gripped an armrest as the porters carried her through the still-dizzying puzzle of corridors and guarded, gilded gates.
A killing rage?
“Infinite...”