Judge (25 page)

The whirlwind surrounded her completely, removing all other sounds. Blurring her senses. Dizzied, she shut her eyes.

Just as nausea twisted her stomach and threatened to overwhelm her, the air calmed.

Brain spinning, Ela opened her eyes, managed to focus, and saw Prill’s shocked face as the matron waited in the hidden courtyard.

Infinite, don’t let me be sick on Prill!

A wild clatter woke Kien from his first sound rest in a week’s travel. Eleven days until they reached Parne! Frowning, he looked around his tent. What had awakened him? The clatter resumed, shaking his tent’s central pole. Attacking the whole structure. Kien rolled from his cot.

A shadow rushed along outside the tent, and someone muttered, “Hurry! Kill it!”

Kill what? Kien swept his sword from its scabbard and ran outside.

Siphran soldiers were flinging weighted nets at the tent’s crest. An errant woodpecker flitted from the central pole, too late to save itself from being enmeshed.

“Breakfast!” one netter bellowed. He bowed as others roared approval.

One bug-ridden bird had caused all this commotion? Kien laughed and shook his head. Then realized he was barefoot and wearing only an undertunic. Not naked, at least. Already the
soldiers were snickering. Best to ease into his tent. Had half the camp seen him? He swept a glance around—scanning Akabe’s tent in particular.

Yes, there was Akabe, properly dressed and laughing at him. However, Akabe’s nearest servant wasn’t laughing. Indeed, the man hadn’t noticed Kien’s inappropriate attire. His attention was fixed on the king. Kien frowned. Actually, he’d never seen this particular servant before. Odd. The man’s uniform fit him poorly. . . .

A blade flashed from beneath the servant’s long sleeve.

“Infinite! No!” Wielding his Azurnite sword in a two-handed grip, Kien raced toward Akabe’s would-be assassin.

 26 

K
ien charged Akabe’s attacker, rage deepening his bellow. “Save the king!”

Eyes widening, Akabe turned just as his intended killer slashed toward him. The blade stuck, angled behind Akabe’s right shoulder. The young king yelled and knocked aside the assailant’s wrist with his forearm.

Before the man could produce another weapon, Kien shifted his sword to the left and flung his right arm around the criminal’s throat, tightening the hold with all his might. The impact threw him to the ground with the assailant, who fell against the Azurnite blade. A garbled scream told Kien the man could still breathe. He cinched his right arm tighter and anchored the miscreant to the ground with his own weight.

Just as Akabe’s laggard bodyguards fell on them.

Crushed, smothering, and hit with punches and kicks from every direction, Kien yelled, “Ow! Grab him! Help the king!”

From a distance, Akabe bellowed, “Don’t kill him!”

Don’t kill who? The rescuer or the assailant? Kien gulped for air, then coughed at the taste of blood. He was trapped beneath the brawl, unable to move, and afraid to release his hold on Akabe’s attacker. The man wheezed hoarse threats and clawed shreds of pain into Kien’s bare forearm.

Someone roared in Kien’s ear, “We’ve got him, sir! Let go!”

Ears ringing, Kien released his captive, and the bodyguards dragged them apart. The Azurnite sword escaped Kien’s numbed left hand as he was hauled away. “Stop!”

Three bodyguards, pummeling the failed assassin, froze. “Not you,” Kien told them. “The ones holding me.” He twisted to glare up at two fight-riled soldiers. “Unhand me
now
.”

They dropped him. Every fresh bruise on his beaten body screamed. Kien gritted his teeth. He couldn’t very well snarl at them for obeying him, could he? He staggered to his feet and bent slightly to test a deep breath. Good. No broken ribs, just bruises. But blood splashed down the front of his undertunic. Crimson splotches on white. A bashed nose. And likely—from the grinding stabs in his feet—broken toes. Kien scowled and retrieved his sword. Blood oozed from the flesh-shredded scratches on his forearm. He hoped the assassin hadn’t loaded his fingernails with poison.

But what about the knife blade he’d used on Akabe? Horrific thought. Sword in hand, Kien faced the bodyguards who’d dropped him. “The king! Is he well?”

A call echoed from Akabe’s royal tent. “Bring His Majesty to the king!”

Kien hesitated. “Who?”

The bodyguards answered Kien’s question by gripping his arms. Supportive now. “Majesty, are you well? You’ve blood everywhere. The king will be alarmed.”

Majesty. Wonderful. More than a month of politely arguing with the entire Siphran court had accomplished nothing. He
had
to break Akabe’s people of their insistence upon calling him
Majesty
as well as referring to him as
the other king
.

Tsir Aun, current prime minister of Istgard, might misunderstand if he heard that Kien was being addressed as Istgard’s uncrowned sovereign. Bad for international relations.

The bodyguards jostled Kien, evidently concerned. “Majesty?”

Forcing himself to sound courteous, Kien said, “Do
not
call me that! I am Kien Lantec, special envoy from the Tracelands, and a judge-advocate. Either designation will suffice.”

“Yes, um . . . sir.” The man hesitated. “But are you well?”

“Yes, thank you. And thanks to the Infinite. Please unhand me. I’m capable of walking on my own.” Or limping, at least. Yet it would be rude of him to point out that the bodyguards had inflicted most of his injuries. Blood dripped steadily from his nose. Was it broken, not merely bashed? Perhaps Ela wouldn’t mind his altered profile. Actually, she’d be appalled and quite sympathetic. Liable to fuss over him. He smiled at the thought.

The king’s fightmaster, Lorteus, stood guard at the entry to the royal tent. He surveyed Kien from head to toe, clearly hiding a grin. Lorteus bowed his ugly head to Kien, then warned, “Do not think you are excused from practice today, sir. Even now, bloodied and injured, you can fight!”

Cheering beast of a fightmaster.

Kien entered Akabe’s pavilion and halted. Akabe was seated on an x-framed chair in the midst of the oversized tent, his big hands on his knees, his feet braced on the floor. The splendid red tunic hung in shreds around him, evidently cut away by his surgeon, who was now dabbing at the wound with a drenched, blood-tinged cloth. The pavilion reeked of sharp-scented medications. Akabe grimaced as the surgeon splashed more liquid on the gash. At Akabe’s worktable, a clerk poured thick blood-red liquid onto a parchment. Jolted by the sight, Kien reminded himself that all official documents were sealed with Akabe’s signature dark red wax.

Too worried to offer formal greetings, Kien asked, “Was the blade poisoned?”

Akabe shot him a sidelong look. “Trust you to consider a worse possibility, my friend.” He glanced over his shoulder at his military surgeon. “Well, Riddig? Am I poisoned?”

While arranging a series of delicate tools, the surgeon tilted his silvered head, birdlike, contemplating the damage. “It appears a clean wound, sire, more aligned beneath the skin than piercing the muscle. Therefore, if you are poisoned, which I doubt, it will likely be treatable. Odd angled wound, and a lucky one.”

“A blessed one,” Akabe corrected kindly. “The Infinite and my friend protected me.” He nodded to Kien. “I say you have received more injuries than I, Majesty.”

“Respectfully, please, don’t call me
Majesty
.”

Akabe’s mouth tightened briefly as the surgeon jabbed him, suturing the wound. Between stitches, Siphra’s ruler said, “What you wish . . . does not signify with . . . my people. Now that . . . your heritage is known . . . in their thoughts . . . you are a king. Nevertheless . . .” He took a deep breath, then exhaled as the surgeon paused. “If you forbid us to address you so, then you need an official Siphran title.” Eyeing his hovering advisors, Akabe asked, “Suggestions?”

One of the graybeards snatched a document from the heap on Akabe’s worktable. “Aeyrievale has just brought a petition requesting Your Majesty’s personal selection of their next lord.”

Title? Lord? They were serious! Kien snapped, “No!”

“Aeyrievale.” A second graybeard nodded. “Perfect! The income is appropriate to—”

The king of Siphra flexed his hands, then removed one of his rings and tossed it to his clerk. “Approved, chosen, and commanded. Sign and seal the document.”

Summoning absolute sternness, Kien said, “No. I’m a Tracelander, not a Siphran! It’s inappropriate for me to hold any sort of title!”

“Might I also declare him Siphran?” Akabe asked his advisors, who hovered over the petition, scribbling on it. “A dual citizenship?”

“Certainly, sire,” graybeard number one assured Akabe while pouring a blood-red pool onto the document and pressing Akabe’s signet into the liquid. “We’ll see to it immediately.”

Were they
trying
to be irksome, disregarding his protests? “With all respect, sirs, I refuse the title.”

Akabe grinned at him. “Impossible. Your name was signed with my seal added. The document cannot be unsealed.”

“It’s done?” Kien stared. “That’s ludicrous! What sort of government conducts business so swiftly?”

“An efficient one,” the graybeard muttered. “With much catching up to do.”

“Undo it!” Kien commanded. “I’ve refused the title. Doesn’t that count for something?” In desperation, he said, “Burn the document.”

Graybeard’s eyes widened, alarmed. “Majesty, uh, my lord, tampering with the royal seal is a criminal offense, punished by death.”

“I’ll burn it,” Kien offered. Then he would run for his life.

While the clerks hastily locked the document in a wooden chest, Akabe spoke to Kien. “You’re injured and too distraught to think calmly. Don’t worry, my friend. Aeyrievale, from what I’ve heard, is not all gold and joy. Aeryon nests fill its most remote areas, and you’re obligated to clear at least a few of the beasts using your own resources. They tend to prey upon your subjects and their animals.”

Aeryon hunting? Well, he’d enjoy the chance to take down one of those golden monster-bird, feline-tailed raptors. What a trophy to . . . No. What was he thinking? The Tracelands was his concern, not Aeyrievale. Kien growled, “There must be some way I can set aside this title.”

“Short of killing me, you cannot. It’s a royal bequest. An honor.” Siphra’s king motioned to his surgeon. “You’re finished stitching me? Good. Work on my noble friend. He’s out of his mind with pain. Meanwhile, where is my misguided assailant? If he’s still alive, we must interrogate him.”

Following the trail of a vision, Ela lifted the lamp higher, watching its flame sway amid the tunnel’s darkness. Beside her, Father smiled in the fragile, flickering light. “There
is
a definite current of air flowing from here. Are you sure about this, Ela?”

“Very sure. This tunnel is what I saw in my vision. For everyone’s
sake, we must find a way to escape Parne without going through the city.” Everyone’s sake but her own. Shoving aside her fears, she studied the nearest wall. Golden handlike formations of crystals glinted at her in the darkness. Beautiful crystals. “Father? Have you seen these?”

Dan stared at the glittering yellow stones. “Don’t touch them. These are the caustic ores I was accused of selling to others. We must warn everyone not to touch the walls here.”

Footsteps and Deuel’s voice echoed through the tunnel. “Are you there?”

Ela turned. Father called, “Deuel? We’re here—don’t touch the walls!”

Helpful-sounding, Deuel answered, “I’ve a torch, a lamp, and tools.” His words faded, though his footsteps approached. At last, Ela heard him mutter, “Stars and sunsets! What I wouldn’t give for a proper light when we’re away from the tree.” He appeared, his face a play of shadows and creases. “How did you two cross this distance with only one lamp?”

“I’ve been here in a vision,” Ela told him. “It’s only a bit farther. Do you mind climbing?”

Father’s eyes flickered in the lamplight. “
Now
you mention climbing? Ela, you must warn us in advance of risks.”

“Hmm. Well, this is a risk. I’m praying no one from Belaal or in Parne hears us creating this escape.”

Deuel chuckled. “Using metal tools against stone walls? Bah! Who would hear us? Now . . . where is this escape route?”

Ela led the way, pondering each turn, measuring everything against her latest vision. At last, she held the lamp against an oddly angled wall. “Up there.”

As if to verify her statement, the lamp’s flames and the torch drew upward, fluttering, seeming pulled by a current that led to the surface above. No doubt there was a break somewhere, slight and hidden from their eyes.

Father tested the angled wall. “Stone. But workable. We’ll have to carve steps first and be sure they’re safe for the women
and children.” He opened his leather knapsack and began removing tools.

Deuel grabbed one of the chisels and a hammer, then hesitated. “Oh. I forgot to tell you, Ela, Nesac’s wife is having pains. Her child is coming.”

“Oh!” Ela breathed a prayer for the young woman, but envy ate at her. Infinite? Is there the least chance I’ll survive? That I might—