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Bel-Tygeon grabbed Araine’s wrist and dragged her a short distance from the other ladies, his motion jangling the collection of delicate copper bracelets on her arm. He halted, giving the fragile ornaments a disgusted look. “Why are you wearing those ridiculous things? I’ve sent you caskets of jewelry. Aren’t my gifts more important to you?”
Araine settled her humble bangles and her flustered emotions. Rude god-king! He deserved a shaming, truthful answer for his rage against the blameless Nikaros. “Sire, these modest ornaments were gifts from your slaves—the best they could afford—to thank me for helping to save your life. Therefore I cherish them. However if they displease you, I won’t wear them again.”
The king’s handsome face relaxed slightly, though he sounded a bit perturbed. “If the lowest bricks of a tower are its support, then I’m pleased Belaal’s slaves deem my life worthy. Wear the bracelets, then, to please their givers. But when you appear before me, you’ll wear my gifts, no one else’s.”
Such a possessive, condescending answer. Yet she must be grateful; he’d been so irate, particularly with Nikaros. “Sire, please don’t remain angry with—”
“With the son of Levos?” Bel-Tygeon cut off her plea with a slashing motion. “I won’t have him diverting your attentions from me, nor from your duties, toward reckless flirtations. Do not tempt me to punish him further.”
Further? Her heartbeat skittered in a rising panic. Dear Infinite! How had he punished Nikaros? And she was to blame! Before her knees buckled, she knelt and bowed her head. “Sire, as I said, I am your servant and the Infinite’s. I’ve no intention of allowing anyone to steal me from my duties.”
Bel-Tygeon snapped, “Swear it!”
Swear? Well... Araine gathered her courage, lifted her chin, and looked up into the gorgeous tyrant’s dark eyes, meaning every word of her pledge. “May the Infinite take my mortal life if I fail to serve you and Belaal according to His love for you and your people.”
Something like uncertainty flickered in those dark eyes, and a most subtle wince crossed his royal face. Clearly her pledge was harsher than he’d expected. He sighed and held out one long, near-perfect hand, offering to help her stand. Fear ebbing, she rested a hand in his and stood. But he didn’t relinquish his hold. Instead his grip tightened, and he stared at her as if trying to resolve a mystery. “What is it about you? What are you to me and my people?”
“I’m your servant, sent by your Creator who loves you.”
He didn’t quite sneer. “A simple answer from two singular complexities—you and your Creator.”
Your Creator. Araine sighed. Infinite, will Bel-Tygeon ever accept You?
Gently, her Creator answered. The decision is his and his alone.
A sense of pained eternal brooding settled over Araine, compelling her to persist. Infinite? What will happen to him? When will he decide?
When his own will must be forever worshiped or cast off, according to his true desires.
The merest flash of insight leapt in her thoughts, making her gasp. Feral darkness. A hideous—
“Prophet!” Bel-Tygeon’s voice summoned Araine to the present with his staggeringly fierce grip. “Attend me! Why must I repeat myself? Where are your thoughts?”
“In another realm with the Infinite.” She blinked, mentally stepping away from the terror of her vision-fragment. But her Creator’s aching Spirit lingered, making her whisper, “He loves you so!”
Bel-Tygeon caught his breath visibly and stared as if he’d glimpsed their Creator’s hurt. But within that same breath, the king released her now-numbed hand, which stung with the return of blood. “Enough. The Lady Dasarai is waiting, and I’ve other concerns to tend.”
He led her toward Dasarai, who fanned herself languidly though her expression revealed tension as she eyed them both. Beside her Zaria was a study of pouting, self-absorbed mortal beauty. Bel-Tygeon addressed her and Araine, a displeased god-king who would not be denied. “I expect the two of you to make peace this instant and abide by it. I will not have you upsetting the Lady Dasarai with another fight. Do you both understand?”
Araine nodded. “Yes, Sire.”
But Zaria glared. “She burned my hair! She injured me, and I expect an apology!”
Truly? Aware of the king and the Lady Dasarai’s sidelong glances at her, Araine said, “I am sorry you were sheared when you invaded my garden and attacked me, Zaria, and I’m glad your injuries weren’t permanent. I beg you, next time control yourself when I’ve warned you; I don’t want you to suffer something worse.”
As Zaria opened her mouth to protest, the Lady Dasarai interceded. “Hush and listen. You are both under my sovereignty in the Women’s Palace. If you fight again you will suffer severe consequences. One hopes you will practice self-control.” She cast a particularly frosty glance at Zaria, who lapsed into a seething sulk.
Sounding bored, Bel-Tygeon said, “This matter is ended. If I must deal with another such scene among my women, I will double the Lady Dasarai’s sentence against the offenders. Prophet, your presence is required in the throne room at midday.”
He strode off, and Dasarai followed him at a more leisurely pace. Behind her Zaria tweaked her veils around her seared locks and hissed at Araine, “There are other ways!”
“Don’t!” Araine warned. “Whatever you’re thinking, for your own sake, don’t!” Dear Infinite, This woman’s ambition robs her of all sense. Protect me! Protect her, I beg You!
Waiting silence met her plea.
***
IN THE SHELTERED COURTYARD of the Women’s Palace, followed by her attendants, Araine offered a bit of parchment to the wary Ebatenai. “Please, Sir, it’s a simple open warning from me as Belaal’s prophet. Nothing clandestine about it, I assure you.”
The portly chief steward eyed the small note as if she’d set it afire. “Lady, you have my esteem above all the young ladies here. You know that to be true. However I will not for my life carry even one message from you to the son of Levos.”
“Did you read it, Sir?” Araine lifted the parchment. When Ebatenai averted his gaze, she begged, “Ebatenai, I implore you...!”
He raised both hands in a warding, warning gesture, even as he pleaded in turn. “No, Lady. Be sensible! And don’t weaken my resolve with your piteous looks. I refuse for your welfare as much as mine. Forgive me.”
He turned and fled, his robes aswirl with his tumult. Araine lowered the note, trying to hide her dejection. She was as much a prisoner here as Nikaros was in his cell. How could she send just one simple, prudent verse to him?
Behind her Inae asked, soft-voiced, “Lady, is the note terribly important?”
“It might be.” Araine sighed and turned toward her attendants, crushing the note in her hand. “Or it might be my own flighty imagination because I feel responsible for sending three men to prison.” Most likely Ebatenai was right. This little note to Nikaros, inoffensive as it was, posed too great a risk to send. Best to forget it.
Jemma cut her a sly look. “The king loves you, Lady. Wouldn’t it be a marvel if Belaal’s prophet also became its queen?”
“No. It would be a disaster.” She felt it with all her soul, not merely her Nikaros-smitten heart. “I need to be alone for a while to pray. Amuse yourselves as you wish; just don’t pick fights with Zaria’s attendants, please, or you’ll end up in the prison as well.”
Her jewel-flecked garments flashing with every dejected step, she returned to her rooms, dropped the note and veils on a puffy floor cushion, removed a scroll from her storage chest, then went out to the garden, scanning for spies along the walls.
Even as she walked and watched for spies, she heard eternal words whispering and saw the purity of their endless light. “Infinite, protect Your servants as they live for Your will...”
She could not think the word “die”. Surely Bel-Tygeon wouldn’t be so cruel. If he harmed Nikaros she would never recover from his regal spite, for that was what it would be. Spite. From a selfish, spoiled god-king who must be brought to his mortal senses and recognize his own limits.
“Infinite, You saved me as I was dying within a noose. You saved me when I came face to face with grief and death for Your Name, Mighty One....”
Beyond doubt, He would protect Nikaros.
Careless of her rich garments, she sat on a shaded stone bench, opened the scroll, and lost herself in the living verses.
At sunset she returned to her rooms, becalmed.
Until she realized the note was gone.
***
IN HIS STONE CELL, blinking against the morning light, Nikaros opened the latest box of requisitions, pension petitions, and commanders’ notes to be recorded in their appropriate scroll for the king’s perusal. Perhaps it was a mercy that Ebatenai had decided that imprisonment must not interfere with his duties. Being busy kept Nik from brooding over Bel-Tygeon’s jealousy and the injustice of his imprisonment, though a considerable portion of his thoughts involved using these documents as privy paper.
At least Josias and Lije had ceased to blame him for their predicament. Bel-Tygeon was the unspoken target of their ire. From across the cell, Lije smirked and tossed his handful of rough clay markers onto a grid they’d etched into the stone floor, the latest round of an endless game he shared with Josias when they weren’t dragged out of the cell for chores. “Anything interesting?”
“No. Just the usual recordkeeping.” He lifted the document from the box and caught a crisp parchment scrap that had been crushed and re-smoothed. The script was rounded and clear with delicate flourishes, not the usual half-legible scrawl of some busy subordinate commander or the commanders themselves. Undoubtedly this was a woman’s handwriting. Be faithful in your duties to the king and to the Infinite. Surely, He will bring good from evil!
Who else in Sulaanc would write such a note except Araine? Grinning he offered it to Josias and Lije. “It seems the prophet is concerned for us.”
Good from evil? Huh. He couldn’t see good in his imprisonment yet. Except he now had tangible proof that she cared about him—for all the good it would do either of them, enslaved as they were.
Infinite, let matters be as You will them.
Though he wished the Infinite’s will might include their escape from Belaal and the wrath of its god-king.
“Prophet,” Jemma protested for the hundredth time in the midmorning light, “we saw nothing last night. No one entered and left your rooms without your permission.” But Jemma’s almond-brown eyes sparkled with a secret that she clearly enjoyed keeping.
Beside her Inae focused too intently upon the veil she was pleating for Araine to wear as they waited on the Lady Dasarai. But Inae murmured, “Let your heart rest easy, lady. The Women’s Palace shelters hundreds of lives, yet it conceals thousands of secrets. We saw nothing.”
Araine frowned at the mischievous pair and hissed, “Without even asking the Infinite, I see you both seeing nothing as you carried my note out of here with your eyes closed!”
Inae hid her face in the veil’s cream pleats, and her shoulders shook with a muffled laugh. Again, demure as ever a sassy attendant could be, Jemma said, “Prophet, we saw noth—”
“Nothing!” Araine sniffed. “I know. You told me.” But she smiled and added, “Don’t risk such a thing again please.”
Jemma shrugged her narrow shoulders. But then she sobered. “Prophet, I count no risks.”
Araine sighed. How could she manage two such headstrong attendants?
She hugged them each in turn as silent thanks. Never, she warned herself, never risk their safety again over a mere whim.
***
BRANCH IN HAND, ARAINE knelt as bidden near the foot of Bel-Tygeon’s throne. She smoothed her pale blue-violet robes and waited through myriad petitions from overawed citizens, who could barely summon the courage to approach the throne. Indeed many were too overwhelmed to speak until prompted by the king.
For his own part Bel-Tygeon was amazingly patient, even kind, though he never promised to grant any of the petitions. If interested, he questioned the petitioner, agreed to consider the matter, then motioned the groveling subject toward his clerks, who duly marked and noted each petition in their official scrolls.
What would the king do if she offered a petition requesting clemency for Nikaros and his friends? Surely two weeks in prison was enough. Did she dare ask, knowing the three men might be punished further?
At last, when Araine’s feet were half-asleep with waiting and her thoughts warred with each other concerning Nikaros, the final petitioner entered the throne room.
In Araine’s hands the branch unfurled its first telling glimmers of light, just as the throne room’s steward announced, “O King and God, rule us forever! Your high priest, Ro’ghez, approaches with his earnest petition.”
Araine looked toward Ro’ghez, and the breath seized in her throat.
The man who’d authorized the Dreki talon.