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Araine summoned words and courage. Tears stung her eyes, and she swallowed hard to subdue them. A miserable failure of an effort. She must speak clearly and with composure. Oh, if only she could offer him the least hope that matters would be changed!
His words endlessly gentle he said, “Araine, don’t be frightened. Tell me what you know, that I’ve suffered another dream.” Almost lulling he continued. “I know the Infinite is with you and that His very breath gives you discernment. Tell me. I won’t be angry.”
How was it possible to love this arrogant, vengeful man, who’d decreed death and punishments upon innocent people? Upon her. Yet within this instant, sensing her Creator’s compassion, she loved Bel-Tygeon so much that her heart constricted, thudding heavily.
Telling him the dire truth would be easier if he weren’t being so kind. Infinite, help me!
Bel-Tygeon prompted her. “I dreamed of a tree, much like the one that exists within the prophet’s branch, though larger.”
“Sire,” Araine breathed, “I wish I could tell you that your enemies would suffer what you saw. I wish I could tell you that your dream hasn’t the least thing to do with you.”
“Nevertheless, tell me.”
She sat up and wiped her eyes, another futile effort. She was crying again. Stupid weakling tears. “Sire, you saw a glorious tree. Not divine, yet still marvelous and surpassing everything else in the mortal realm. The Infinite created this tree to shelter others and provide for all who came to rest within its shade. But then it was utterly devastated, its leaves shredded and blasted by the wind, its branches and trunk splintered and scattered until there was almost nothing left.”
“And...?” he prompted again, finally revealing his impatience.
“Sire, that tree is you.” Araine looked him in the eyes now. “Not your kingdom but... you.”
He remained remarkably composed. Eerily so, his dark eyes wide and still, his handsome, smooth-shaven face statue-still. Taking courage Araine said, “From this year onward, left unchecked, you will devastate Belaal. As a last resort, because you declare yourself as Belaal’s only god and because you afflict your people and refuse to admit that the Infinite gave you this kingdom, everything you treasure will be removed from you. When you recover—in that very instant—your own actions and decisions will determine your final sentence.”
Quietly he asked, “When will this happen?”
Araine paused. Dear Infinite what should I say? Her Creator’s Spirit hovered, yet He remained silent. She exhaled, fighting despair. “I don’t know. The Infinite waits. Most likely the judgment will be determined by your own actions. Therefore, Sire, I implore you to do what’s right! Acknowledge that you’re mortal, and don’t oppress your people; they’re at your mercy. Then perhaps the Infinite will have mercy on you, and you and your kingdom will be safe.”
For a long breath of time, he studied her, his face masklike perfection. Then he stood and left the room, his extravagant scent of agarwood and spices lingering after he’d vanished.
If only he’d said something—anything—to give her hope.
The Lady Dasarai broke the silence, snatching a gilded palm fan with such ferocity that Araine jumped. Until this very instant Dasarai and her ladies had been so still that Araine forgot about them.
Dasarai’s lustrous eyes flashed with pent-up fury, and she wielded the fan so violently that dark tendrils escaped from her usually perfect hair. She snapped at Araine, “Do you know what you’ve asked him to do? You and your Infinite? You ask him to deny his heritage, his birthright bestowed upon him by our ancestors!” She swiped her fan toward Araine and missed, sending delicate waves of perfume through the air. “You ask him to dismantle all of our religious traditions!”
“Yes, Lady,” Araine murmured. “I have asked, as commanded by our Creator. But the decision is his. We cannot choose for him.”
Dasarai waved the fan toward the door. “Hush! Take your lyre and go! One hopes you realize that you have sent us into mourning until the king is happy again.”
Araine bowed and crept from the stately apartments, her heart painfully constricted. The Lady Dasarai’s scolding prompted an unwelcome thought. Infinite? Is Dasarai in danger as much as the king?
Wounded longing surrounded Araine like an all-encompassing cloak. Its weight halted her in the corridor, so overwhelming that she clung to the lyre as if it could support her like a living thing. Within her thoughts the Infinite warned, For as long as she loves him as her god, she is blind to My presence and deaf to My warnings.
Her Creator’s pain caught her now, yet laced with pity...and grace so tender and sweet that she could almost breathe in its life-giving scent. The Lady Dasarai’s life is in the balance with Bel-Tygeon’s. Yet if she or any idolater asks any question of you, I will answer because I want to touch their hearts. I want to show them that I love them though they scorn Me.
“Infinite,” Araine murmured, “who is like You? No one! Not in any realm...here or beyond.”
A soggy-sounding sniffle distracted her, and she turned, temporarily abandoning her praises. Jemma and Inae...
While Jemma shifted from foot to foot with the air of one impatient for adventure, Inae sighed, her peaked face and big brown eyes the image of tragedy, a girl besotted with a condemned man. She flung Araine a confused, blaming-pleading look. “Lady, why must this be so? Can’t the Infinite undo what He’s proclaimed? The king surely hasn’t been so evil!”
Aware now of other women watching from a distance, including Zaria, exquisite despite her veiled, shorn hair, Araine said, “It’s not what the king has done yet, as much as what he will ultimately do. Don’t despair, Inae; there’s still time. Only pray. Pray!”
“That’s all?” Jemma snorted. “Will we ever do anything?”
Araine couldn’t help smiling at her. “Jemma, if you’d ever experienced a true battle, where your very life was in doubt, I think you’d be a bit more cautious.”
Jemma cut her a sharp look. “Oh, would I? Have you?”
“Yes.” Araine felt her smile fade with the remembering. Corban. Grumps. Iris. And her father, dangling the golden cord between his fingers. “It’s something I wouldn’t wish upon the most terrible reprobate ever to breathe.”
Inae winced. “Was it so bad? Did you—”
Jemma practically skipped with eagerness. “Tell us! Now!”
“Oh, mercy!”
***
HIS SHOULDERS HUNCHED with tension, Nikaros scratched his reed pen over parchment after parchment, praying to finish this latest task in time for Commander Seir.
Though he was a prisoner, who would ever dream that his life could become a whirlwind, spiraling at a frantic pace within four suffocating stone walls? By now Josias and Lije twitched at every footstep outside. With each parchment Nik signed and sealed, another life would be spared...he hoped.
Josias grunted. “When did so many in the military become secret followers of the Infinite? I admit, I’m amazed.”
“I am too,” Nik confessed. “Yet think about it. Some turned to Him in Parne; they saw what we saw. And some believed afterward when they invaded Siphra and saw Ela of Parne defeat her enemies at the Infinite’s command. Who could be better to train for the king’s new regiments? Wouldn’t they be less likely to attack the Eosyths, knowing they’re also devoted to the Infinite?”
Lije stood, glanced up at the high, narrow sunlit window, and asked, “How long do you have to finish those transfers?”
Nik pressed his cylindrical seal over the next round of clay then slid the document into a waiting basket. “Midday. Utthreates said they’re to leave at dawn. They need these orders to transfer their men in time.”
“Well,” Lije muttered, “you’re running out of time.” He crouched beside Nik’s table, and Josias scooted over to sit with them. “Let us help you. If we have no choice and there’s a chance to save our people, then let’s get busy.”
Nik fended off his comrades, warning, “Anyone using the royal seal without permission is liable to face a death sentence.”
Josias chuckled as Lije snatched the stone seal and nudged the tray of unused clay blobs within easier reach. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
“Write!” Josias commanded. “Just be sure you’re not signing our death warrants.”
Nikaros grinned and read and signed note after note, praying as he worked.
For his people. His friends. Even for Bel-Tygeon.
And for Araine, whose very name in his thoughts now clutched at his soul.
***
THE SHARP, MEDICINAL tang of camphor resins lifted around Araine as she warmed its white powdered granules in olive oil. Concocting balms and elixirs for Cythea wasn’t one of her prescribed duties, but she had to do something to avoid thinking too hard.
Tomorrow Ro’ghez and his priests would rejoice, seeing their petition honored publicly, forcing all in Sulaanc and the realm to bow to Bel-Tygeon or risk death.
Cythea dashed into Araine’s chamber, her gray topknot unraveling in wisps around her harassed face. “Have you finished the bitters tonic?”
Araine motioned toward a slender jar. “It’s there, just as you ordered.”
Lifting the jar Cythea removed its fragile stopper, tested the scent with a sharp sniff, and flinched. As she replaced the stopper with a delicate ‘clink’, she smiled. “Perfect! One of Zaria’s attendants is complaining of faintness and digestive troubles; this should cure her of wasting my time with non-existent symptoms. It’s bad enough that Zaria is demanding potions to make her hair grow faster.”
“Olive oil,” Araine recited, remembering her recipe for Grumps, “with rosemary extract, citrus, and evergreen—and we hope no one tells her I created the pomade. Though Zaria would do better to eat properly and stop using heated tongs on what’s left of her curls.”
“You sound like me,” Cythea said. “I should train you to be my replacement.”
“I might not live long enough.”
“You should be safe in the Women’s Palace,” Cythea murmured. “Just hide for a month and keep quiet.” Seeming satisfied with her verdict, the women’s physician snatched up several vials and bottles and departed, her garments rustling crisply.
Araine whispered, “Beloved Infinite, let it be as she says!”
Worrisome, waiting stillness met her plea.
Not the response she wanted.
***
ARAINE GLANCED ALONG the walls surrounding her hushed, dawn-lit garden. Autumn’s approach showed in the fading blooms framing her garden’s paths and in the seedpods drooping from her favorite sleeping tree’s lush, feathery green branches. No more fledglings squabbled or sang in the nearby birds’ nests.
And no spies lurked above. Sighing Araine gathered her garments close, concealing her chosen scroll, already hearing the verses and seeing them alive within her thoughts. Infinite? Bless me with Your words! Strengthen me, though I’m troubled. Protect the king from himself. Use the priests’ plans for Your glory, and save Nikaros and his friends from all dangers.
She sat on the morning-chilled bench beneath the tree and tucked up her feet, losing herself to the precious verses.
Make Your ways known to me, Infinite! Show me Your path, for You are my Lord.
At the stanza’s final verse, she closed her eyes and prayed.
Until a long seedpod dropped, hitting her shoulder with a dry, rattling rustle.
And a shadow flickered from beyond the lush, feathery tree limbs, barely discernible except that she’d looked up because the seedpod had dropped. Above her the wind skimmed through the tree like a sigh. Infinite? How long had she been sitting here, lost in prayer? Araine snatched her veils together, hiding the scroll beneath the sheer blue gossamer as she scurried toward her rooms.
***
INAE POPPED HER POLISHED needle through the bleached linen, humming to herself as she hemmed her new tunic. But Jemma shifted on her floor cushion and frowned at Araine, clearly impatient though the day was still young. “When will the king and Lady Dasarai forgive you? It’s not as if you were disobedient. The king commanded you to speak, and you told him the truth. How long can they leave you here in silence?”
“As long as they please.” Araine flicked back her bejeweled crimson veil as she inspected this morning’s array of spices and Cythea’s scribbled notes. “They rule, and I’m a slave.” A frenzied, disjointed hammering at the door set Araine’s heart thudding. “Who is it?”
Jemma cast aside her stitching and hurried to greet the boisterous visitor. But before she even touched the door, it swung open, making her jump backward. One of the king’s female guards stalked in, followed by two eunuchs. The guard motioned to Araine, her voice low and flat. “Arrest her. Find those scrolls, the Books of the Infinite, and bring them with her to the courts of the priests at once.” To Jemma and Inae she said, “Defy us and you’ll also perish at the king’s command.”