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“Pink?” Lady Dasarai frowned as Araine presented herself for routine inspection. “One hopes you are joking, Prophet.”
Araine lifted her chin and her prophet’s branch, determined to defend both her moral position and her layered pink tunic and veil. “Lady, I mean no offense. But I cannot be clad similarly to the king’s priests—I’m not one of them. I am the Infinite’s prophet to Belaal, a different task entirely. Anyway this pink’s quite pretty with my blue mantle, don’t you agree?”
Dasarai passed a perfect bejeweled hand over her lovely face and closed her lustrous eyes as if reminding herself to be patient. “One wishes you had voiced your objections earlier. There’s no time to send for new attire now; the king must never be kept waiting.”
Victory! Araine stifled a whoop. But she smiled and bowed to the exquisite, crimson-clad noblewoman, liking her. “You’re so devoted to him, lady. Perhaps one day I’ll be as perfect.”
“We serve whom we love.” Dasarai sighed and smoothed her faultless garments. “I’ll go with you and plead for clemency, if needed. And yes, we have hope of bringing you to some semblance of order, that you may love and serve the king faithfully.”
“I’m commanded to serve the king, and I admire him already.” She would never worship the king. Ever. But could she love him? Oh, he was splendid to be sure, yet his haughty, cruel resemblance to Corban made her cringe whenever he lost his temper, which was all too often.
As they proceeded along the grand main corridor toward the enclosed central courtyard, Araine took courage. “Lady, please forgive me; I’m not complaining but merely trying to understand the king. Are his moods always so changeable? One instant he’s raging death threats against us, the next saying, ‘Go rest’ as if he’s truly concerned. What am I supposed to think?”
Dasarai smiled, but then her expression turned every bit as distant and enigmatic as Bel-Tygeon’s. “The king was taught from childhood to be concerned for those who serve him, yet to also honor his divine nature. One hopes he will never allow others to rule him.”
Aha. Clearly the Lady Dasarai had set the king’s proud spirit at war with his heart. No wonder the god-king was so complicated. Araine nodded. “I’ll pray for him.”
Dasarai answered with slight nod then ordered a carrying chair for herself. And a fan.
Which reminded Araine... “Lady, may I request a lyre?”
The noblewoman’s emotional distance vanished, becoming interest. “Of course. Hasn’t he commanded that you be given whatever you please here?”
“Yes. Though all music reminds me of my sister, and Siphra.”
The chair and fan arrived, ending their conversation. The porters sped them through the corridors and gates, finally setting them near the throne room’s entrance. Araine settled the folds of her mantle more firmly over her left shoulder and followed the Lady Dasarai into the throne room to await the king.
He appeared, as always, amid such fanfare and pomp that Araine shivered as she bowed. And she almost pinched herself. Was she truly here, serving Bel-Tygeon, god-king of Belaal?
The king banished her dazedness the instant he noticed her. He halted near the steps of his throne, frowning—then taunting, loudly. “Pink? Isn’t that frivolous, Prophet?”
Straightening Araine felt her face go warm, doubtless matching the color of her tunic. “Most likely, Sire. I pray you will forgive me.”
He turned his regal, crowned head, as if pink deserved no forgiveness. And from time to time, while receiving endless petitions from his subjects, and graciously acknowledging the gold-clad third prince of Darzeq and his retinue, Bel-Tygeon cast Araine baleful looks as if she’d betrayed him. Araine gnawed her lower lip. Oh, plagues and blights! Well, perhaps the pink was a mistake. However she wouldn’t give in. She—
A sensing seized her, and she gasped, causing the Lady Dasarai to tap her shoulder smartly with the gilded palm fan. Araine turned, seeing Dasarai from a distance as the sting of her rebuke widened, its slash now so excruciating that Araine doubled over, gasping again. In her hands the staff turned metallic, burning. In her thoughts, a splinter of a vision— “No!”
Dasarai stood. “Sire...”
Araine gripped the fiery branch as tears blurred the vanishing image. Unable to control the tremors shaking her entire body, she stammered, “S-Sire, for your own s-sake, I beg you—rescue the son of Levos and his friend!”
The guard snapped back the scourge, preparing to strike again as his cold-eyed commander snarled, “Talk! The truth this time!”
Still reeling from the pain, Nik gritted his teeth. Had they reopened his wound? Beside him, bruised and bleeding from their initial beating, Josias protested, “We’ve told you the truth! We came to visit our friend; we were not escaping.”
The guard lashed Josias with the scourge, its long metal tips also gouging Nik, making him gasp as Josias yelled.
Blood trickled beneath Nik’s tunic. Forget his single wound; now he bore several.
His limbs shaking with uncontrolled tremors of pain and rage, Nikaros addressed the commander. “Please, I am Nikaros, son of Lord Levos of the Eosyths. This man is Josias, heir of Clan Ma’rawb. Send word to Ebatenai, chief steward of the king’s household.”
“Do you rule me, slave?”
“No. Sir.” Nikaros controlled his bitterness and the longing to fight back, which could be fatal. His people and the king wouldn’t be protected if he died here in prison.
The offended commander signaled his subordinate. Nik shut his eyes as the scourge descended, slicing his flesh this time, torment crushing him to the stone paving. He gasped, the stones blurring beneath his abraded face.
Infinite, how long must we suffer here? How does this serve You?
Beside him, Josias wheezed, his breath catching harshly in his throat. Nikaros shifted his chained hands and patted the cold paving between them. As if such a feeble gesture could console his friend. Would it help them if he mentioned the plot they’d overheard? Most likely not. Indeed such a revelation might hasten their deaths if the guards elected to shield their own comrades.
“Talk!” the commander snapped. “How did you escape? Who provided you with fresh robes?”
Nikaros risked a glance at the man’s harsh, carved face. “May our Creator, the Infinite, punish us both if we haven’t told you the truth.” Nearby, the guard lifted the scourge Nik sucked in a pained gulp of air. “What can we say to make you believe us?”
Footsteps echoed in the passage beyond, and a man bellowed outside, “Commander! The king has sent for your prisoners—Nikaros, son of Lord Levos, and Josias, son of Tsir Davor!”
The commander turned ashen. The subordinate dropped the scourge as if burned. Josias made a noise halfway between a laugh and a snarl. “I love this...being near-killed for something we didn’t do!”
Now the commander knelt before Nikaros and bowed his head to the stones. “I am Axiyn Seir, commander of this prison. Forgive me; I was mistaken! You are who you claimed to be and in favor with our god and king.” In despairing tones he whispered, “I am a dead man! Beg our god-king to spare my men and dispatch me quickly.”
Tell him. The Infinite interceded, His words pouring through Nik’s very soul.
“I’ll beg the king to spare your life,” Nikaros promised, longing to plead for further details from the Infinite. Never mind Josias, who glared at him.
Commander Seir lifted his head, staring Nik in the eyes, clearly stunned. “Why?”
“Your Creator wills that we forgive you. And you were doing your duty for the king’s sake. Remember me, Axiyn Seir. I, Nikaros, son of the High Lord Levos and the Lady Zinaya, pledge to beg Belaal for your life.”
Seir took a quick breath, stood, and addressed the waiting gawking messenger. “Bring carrying chairs for these men. And water. Give them whatever they want before they leave this place.”
Josias growled, his swollen eyes glittering with unspent fury. “We want our comrade, Lije, heir of Tsir Mikial of Clan Tsahfon, to be freed—or at least spared any further retribution!”
As Commander Seir and his men hurried to fulfill the king’s orders and check on Lije, Nik muttered to Josias, “Surely the Infinite will bring good from our suffering. Now, however, we must warn the king.”
Araine eyed the two commanders who’d just entered the king’s courtyard. Yes, these were the allies she’d seen. Commander Utthreates, and Commander Rtial Vioc, accompanied by five silent, somber guardsmen. Infinite, You are beyond amazing!
She nodded to the bruised, battered Nikaros and Josias, and then to the king, who was watching her, one handsome dark eyebrow lifted.
Bel-Tygeon shifted a hand to his gem-laden sword, remarkably composed. “Prophet, accompany us and verify the ones we seek.”
Araine bowed. “Yes, Sire. The leader’s payment is tied to her belt, beneath her mantle, in a bag stamped with the prison’s official emblem.”
“As her cousin said,” Nikaros added. He cast a wondering glance at Araine then faced the king. Bel-Tygeon nodded and turned, his robes flaring as he led them into the palace, through a maze of corridors, following Nikaros and his friend Josias. Araine winced at the bloodied gashes scarring the two men’s’ tunics and their backs beneath. Several slashes in particular still oozed blood. Both men needed ointment and bandaging, perhaps even stitches. But they weren’t complaining. Indeed they seemed wholly intent upon hunting the conspirators, who should be protecting Bel-Tygeon, not seeking his life.
Araine flicked a glance at the prophet’s branch, which now transformed itself to something beyond mortal reality. Subtle lights glided along the vinewood’s changeable-metallic grain. Beautiful. And frightful.
Alarm chilled her within, setting her atremble. Infinite, what am I doing here? This is not what I expected of my life...to snare conspirators. To become a target myself. Even so, Infinite, lead us. Let me serve You, beloved Lord, as we strive to protect the king!
She poured her thoughts into prayers, barely seeing the corridors now, nor the king, his friends, and their guards. Until they reached the elaborate series of gates enclosing the king’s private rooms. Senses sharpening, she looked each guard in the face—eunuchs, tall and stout, and female guards, ferocious and athletic, each chosen to guard the long path between the Women’s Palace and Bel-Tygeon’s chambers. Each trusted.
Until now.
At the second-to-last gate, as they entered the cage-like doorway, Araine looked the female guard in the face and halted. Just behind her Commander Rtial Vioc spoke softly. “This one, lady?”
Sickened Araine nodded, staring at the woman’s cold, angular face framed by its crested metal helmet. As the female guard’s brown eyes widened with alarm, Araine said, “Yes.”
Before the guard could even twitch, Vioc’s readied sword touched her throat. While his men rushed to bind the woman, Vioc intoned, “You are under arrest.”
The guard yelled, her voice echoing through the last corridor, “Flee! Escape!”
Hissing his exasperation, the king drew his sword and sprinted through the gate, followed by Nikaros, Josias, and the remaining guards.
Araine chased after them in the corridor, catching up to Bel-Tygeon and Commander Utthreates just as the two female guards opened the gate—and one drew a sword, clearly hoping to cage and kill the king.
The guard charged Bel-Tygeon, aiming her sword at his heart. He struck aside her arm like a trained soldier, then jabbed his sword to rest beneath her chin, halting her. Commander Utthreates clouted the woman, and his guards tackled her in a clatter of weapons and armor.
Bel-Tygeon yelled, “Don’t kill her! She must be questioned!”
As he spoke, the second female guard charged Bel-Tygeon from an oblique angle, wielding a spear with the desperation of a trapped creature. “Sire!” Araine lunged past him and struck aside the spear with her staff. The guard swung at Araine. Gasping, Araine whipped the vinewood backward against the woman’s face. Amid a flare of light, the woman screamed. Nikaros and Josias snagged the guard, who fought blindly until they shoved her face first against the cage-like gate and held her there.
The woman cursed and spat, kicking while Utthreates’s men bound her. To Bel-Tygeon the female guard screamed, “Imposter! You’re no god. False king!”
Bel-Tygeon froze as if stabbed by unseen weapons.
He remained silent as the guards finally dragged the conspirators away. Not looking at Araine or Nikaros and Josias, he asked, low-voiced, “Is this what my people say I am?”
Shakily, Araine sank to her knees beside the wearied, wounded Nikaros and Josias. Catching her breath, she beckoned, “Sire.” His bleak expression drew her pity. “You’ve been given sovereignty over Belaal, by law and by your Creator’s will. Never doubt that.”
The king stared at her, frowning, as if second-guessing her every word. Araine added gently, “Your mortal decisions, however, are an entirely different matter, O king.” Before he could argue she motioned toward Nikaros and Josias. “Sire? May we send for some ointments and bandages? And Cythea, perhaps?”
Bel-Tygeon blinked, as if seeing Nikaros and Josias for the first time since their retrieval from the prison. Both men were wan and bloodied, clearly drained. “Yes. Of course. Let their wounds be tended before they leave. I’ll command Ebatenai to let them rest. And...” He extended a coin purse. “...here’s the payment given to my conspirators, as you’ve each described. You three may divide these coins among yourselves, and you’ll be rewarded further.”
Nikaros cautiously eased back his shoulders. “Thank you, Sire. But we were only doing what was right, serving you as our Creator wills. However...” He hesitated as if pondering his request. “May I speak on behalf of your prison’s commander, Axiyn Seir? He’s most zealous for your cause and deserves a promotion.”
The king grimaced. “Why should you petition for him? He’s given you scars.”
Despite his pain, Nikaros actually grinned. “Sire, the Eosyths believe that a man who dies without scars has never lived.”
Josias managed a rueful chuckle. “I feel as if I’ve lived a lifetime already.”
As Nikaros cautiously nudged his friend in unspoken agreement, Araine realized she was smiling. What a relief that he’d escaped! Though Nik’s wounds grieved her—the love....
Oh, dear. Araine averted her gaze from Nikaros, hoping to hide the beginnings of a horrid blush. How could she, a slave, be infatuated with a man who was also a slave? Their lives weren’t their own. And kind as he was, if Nikaros were ever freed, he would leave Belaal forever. He was the son of a great lord in the far mountains, a place she could never settle. Her future was in Belaal, serving the king, his country, and its people. Not a secure and pleasing prospect.
Infinite, strengthen me! Protect me from my mortal foolishness, as You have protected me thus far. Remind me always of Your love. Guard my impulses toward Nikaros... Her thoughts a-scramble she hurriedly sent for remedies and Cythea.
If only it were as easy to send for sanity and pour it over herself like oil.
When she returned, calmer, paler, assured that the remedies and Cythea were on their way, Araine knelt before Bel-Tygeon again. Why was he lingering here in the gateway? Shouldn’t he leave now that matters were settled? Curious she looked up at him.
He smiled—a tender, breath-stealing grin.
At her.
His expression, for once, told her far more than she wished to know. She, Araine Khalome, cast-off child of Darion and Liyda Khalome, was now favored in the king’s sight.
Unless she could un-win him tactfully, she was doomed—as was he, according to the Prophet Ela’s warning.
Facing traitorous guards had been less frightful. Oh, Infinite...
Proof of royal favor arrived with the dawn, with gifts from every corner of the palace. Flowers. Delicate bracelets from other slaves, Verses of gratitude from the other ladies in the Women’s Palace, thanking her for helping to protect their adored king.
And from the king himself, gauzy robes and veils of every shade—except pink—adorned with gold and pearls. He also sent her a lyre. Jewelry. And an invitation to attend a royal audience in the formal gardens this afternoon.
Two slaves presented these gifts—wiry, sharp-eyed Jemma and beaming little Inae. “Lady,” Jemma announced, pert and quite pleased, “we are now your personal attendants.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Her new guard, a kindly, indulgent eunuch with small, sparkling brown eyes, chided her in his thin, girlish voice. “Most-favored lady, aren’t you happy? Where is your smile?”
Most-favored? More than Zaria? Oh, not good! What might the king expect of her now? Araine swallowed, feeling her heartbeat speed ahead with her fears. Would her reaction be reported to the king? “I— I’m simply overwhelmed. I’m a mere servant. A slave...”
Trying to avoid his pleased, eager gaze, she opened a fragrant carved box of richly polished wood. Inside the box on a fold of torn veiling rested a long, curved, cruelly sharp and shiny black—
The guard squeaked, “A dreki’s talon!”
A real dreki talon? Araine stared at the single, appallingly long black hook. “Why would someone send me this?”
“Oh, lady!” Her guard gave her a pitying you-are-dead look. “Someone has officially pledged to kill you. Give that disgusting token to me; I must take it to the king.”