Judge (30 page)

Zade’s gaunt face contorted with rage. He threw Ela onto a path, then kicked her back and ribs, provoking her shrieks as he bellowed, “Don’t make me kill you here and now—I could!”

Ela tried to think past the pain in her sides and a myriad of hurts along her arms and face. Did she want to die quickly? No. Despite all her resolutions, an anguished, terrified part of her soul begged to live. If only she could. Infinite . . .

At last Chacen turned away and two of the zealots, with the smooth hands and fine robes of priests, hauled Ela to her feet. Her slapped, scraped face burned with the rawness of its torn flesh. And a shiver-inducing trickle that could only be blood worked down her right cheek. Her eyesight dimmed and her hearing buzzed unpleasantly. Ela lowered her head, trying to concentrate on breathing. On remaining conscious.

She revived in the temple’s outer courtyard, aware, in her first slight breath, of nothing but peace. Bliss. And the overwhelming need for sleep.

Until a slap stung her face and a man’s voice snarled, “Wake up!”

Dazed, Ela remembered what was happening. Particularly as Zade Chacen shoved her with his booted foot, provoking fresh pain. “Stand up.”

Could she? Ela eased to one side, forcing herself upright a bit at a time. Chacen remained composed as she stood and steadied herself. Disturbing, that composure. He clamped a hand on the back of her neck and guided her toward the open well usually reserved for the priests and their families. Zade pointed at a step adjoining the well’s low, encircling stone wall.

Wary, Ela obeyed and mounted the step. By now a small crowd had gathered. Mostly priests and a few of their wives, all of them emaciated, and none sympathetic to her plight. Indeed several were gloating.

Shifting her gaze from the priests to the well’s darkness, Ela confronted what she’d been trying to ignore. Zade intended to wound her and drop her into the well to die. Useless to beg . . . His expression, when she dared a glance at his face, chilled her with fear. As did the knife he removed from a scabbard at his waist. The blade glistened in the morning’s first light. A crystal knife. Yellow crystals. Caustic ores. Wounds that failed to heal. . . .

Zade smiled. “Your expression,
Prophet
, is laughable. You know what this blade is carved from.”

“Yes,” she mumbled, her swollen mouth making it difficult to speak. “The poisoned ore you accused my father of selling.”

Don’t touch them, Father cautioned in her thoughts.

Chacen was talking. “When I thought of killing you, I decided you must have time to think while dying. To repent of your guilt. You’ve betrayed us all. My sons died because of you!”

“Parne is dead because of rebels like you!” she retorted, speaking through the pain. “Yet the Infinite will forgive you if—”

Zade shook her. “Be silent!”

He slashed at her left arm, the blade leaving a burning wake in the flesh over her bicep. Even as she gasped at its searing torment, Chacen sliced the skin over her right bicep. Ela clenched
her teeth against the fiery cut and watched blood ooze from her wounds. Sweat stung her skin from scalp to toes.

Zade pushed her forward. “Climb up. Hurry, or I’ll carve your pretty little prophet-face!”

She climbed. If only she had the courage to provoke him to stab her through the heart. It would be swifter. More merciful. However, mercy and Chacen obviously weren’t compatible. At least where Ela Roeh was concerned. Praying she could endure the poison without going mad, she sat on the well’s edge, feet dangling. Chacen shoved her in.

She gasped and dropped endlessly into the blackness. At last, her feet struck the well’s muddy bottom. Stabs of pain shot upward through both legs. “Augh!”

Ela fell backward in the well’s dank interior and consciousness vanished.

Kien pivoted away from the impromptu meeting before Akabe’s royal pavilion, watching as Scythe galloped beyond the Siphran army’s encampment. The destroyer’s giant hooves hammered tremors through the ground, unnerving all the encampment’s occupants—himself included. Kien’s heartbeat raced. “Ela . . .”

Infinite? What’s happened to her?

Followed by Jon, Akabe, and Tsir Aun, Kien ran for the destroyer. Scythe flung himself at Parne’s walls, slamming his massive hooves against its stones in a futile attempt to break into the city. “Scythe, stop!
Obey!
”

Scythe huffed, then stomped, managing to sound offended and distraught in the same gust. But he held still, glaring and seething as Kien and the others approached. “Calm yourself,” Kien urged, trying to take his own advice. “If pounding on those walls would help matters, I’d join you!”

Akabe, Tsir Aun, Jon, and a handful of guards closed ranks around Kien. Jon said, “This is how he behaved when Ela’s
enemies attacked her before the siege. No doubt something’s happened to her!”

Tsir Aun exhaled, his stern face tense as he watched Scythe. “Whatever’s happened, it concerns more than Ela, I’m sure. The last time I knew of Parne’s prophet walking throughout the night, as Kien said, Istgard was defeated and our king was cut down in combat.”

“I thought of that same night,” Kien agreed.

Akabe stood to Kien’s left now, wary of the destroyer. “We
are
at risk for combat today. Belaal’s certain to find us now that the sun’s up.”

Tsir Aun grunted. “Given his reputation, Bel-Tygeon is likely to send negotiators first, without honor, to gather information.”

“Undoubtedly,” Akabe agreed. “Everyone spread the word. We must fully arm ourselves. Now.”

“Thank you, Majesty.” Kien grabbed Scythe’s halter, willing to face anything to free Ela from Parne. Infinite? When?!

 31 

I
nside his tent, busy with his military cloak’s gilded clasps, Kien glanced at Bryce, who stood before him. Infinite? Is this man always so serious? “How may I help you, Bryce?”

Bryce stood even straighter if such a thing was possible. Sharp-eyed, his brown face strictly controlled, his voice cool, he said, “My lord, I offer myself to be a spy for Siphra.”

Bryce was offering himself as a spy? No. Kien scowled at the thought of sending another servant into probable death. “My name is Kien.”

“It is indeed, my lord.”

“May I bribe you to stop calling me
my lord
?”

“I cannot be bought for any reason, my lord—particularly in failing to honor you.”

Fine! And Siphrans called Tracelanders stubborn. “How will you spy for Siphra?”

“By infiltrating enemy ranks. I’ll walk in quietly by night, observe Belaal’s forces by day, then walk out quietly, again, by night.”

Kien stared. The man was serious. “You intend to just walk into the enemy’s camp?”

“Unarmed, sir,” Bryce added.

Unarmed . . . “Have you done such a thing before?”

“Rather, sir. I’m unrivaled at remaining unnoticed, when I wish to be.”

Scanning Bryce’s subdued apparel, his calm brown eyes, silver-brown hair, and unmoving stance, Kien believed him. Infinite? What sort of servant have You sent me?

Wait. He didn’t actually want an answer. The question was badly worded and presumed the Infinite had indeed sent him a servant. Kien wanted no verification of his suspicion. He didn’t want servants. Already he admired Bryce. Liked him. Not good. Kien ran one hand over his face. “Do you realize you’ll die if you’re caught?”

“Yes, sir. Death would conclude all the details of being caught. Yet I’ll survive.”

Kien heard
torture
and
interrogation
unspoken within those words. Despite Bryce’s cryptic acknowledgment, the man seemed confident. And determined to go. Kien exhaled, realizing the decision had been made. “You’d best survive, Bryce—and in one piece. Before you leave, we’ll speak to the king. And Istgard’s prime minister.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ela returned to consciousness, then wished she hadn’t. Trembling in the absolute darkness, her arms burning with the poison, she pressed her back against the curved, slimy wall. Yes, this was her death-scented burial place. Infinite, I don’t want to be here!

Could she stand? “Infinite, please . . .” Ela tensed, willing her legs to support her within the sticky mire. Mud oozed cold into her boots, slathering her nearly numbed feet, causing her to slip, half burying her, and provoking renewed spikes of pain in her legs. She fought sobs and the sludge for an instant, then stopped. Must she fear drowning in this mud? Biting her lip against tormenting pain, she pushed a heel into the gooey depths. There was a base. A nearly solid foundation to the mud.

This well was drying, of course. Useless to Parne. Had all the wells run dry? Was this why so many Parnians were dying so swiftly? For lack of water?

Water. Did she still have her own supply?

Ela fumbled at her mud-slopped garments, seeking the podgy contours of the old water bag she’d appropriated from Father. Gone. Obviously, someone had taken it while she was unconscious. Proof that Parne was dying of thirst.

As she would die. Unless the poison killed her first. Her arms felt swollen, burning as if she’d been set afire from shoulders to fingertips. Could she untie herself?

Moving cautiously, Ela eased her body along the mud’s surface, trying to spread out her weight and rest. Satisfied that she wasn’t sinking too much, she raised her bound wrists to her cheek, testing the cords in the darkness. Where were the knots? If only she could see! There. The small, hard edge of a knot. Ela clamped her teeth over the muddy bond. Sludgy grit coated her tongue and crunched between her teeth. She spat into the darkness and lost track of the knot. All right . . . be calm. It wasn’t as if she could leave this well. Nothing remained for her except to pray and die. Or might she be wrong? Was there more she ought to do?

Infinite? What now?

Ela found the knot again and tugged at it cautiously, feeling it slip as she listened.

Infinite?

Silence pressed around her, upsetting as the chilling, unseen mud. Ela lowered her hands, trying not to give way to fear. Was He testing her? Allowing her to die alone?

Waiting for her to curse Him?

No! “Infinite!”

In Akabe’s royal pavilion, Kien accepted a leather-wrapped packet from the young messenger, a Tracelander. His censure? So soon? Without a trial? Would he be forced to resign his commission? He would fight the decision!

Aware of Akabe, Jon, and the others watching him, Kien opened the packet and glimpsed a blue wax seal, embossed with a military shield. General Rol. Kien released a breath he didn’t know
he’d been holding. A message from the general, not the Grand Assembly. Good. Kien slid the note into his coin pouch. Akabe and a number of the courtiers seemed disappointed. Regrettable, but Kien wasn’t about to read potentially bad news amid a crowd.

Akabe, however, was already addressing his men, Jon, Kien, and Tsir Aun. “No sign of Belaal’s approach?”

“None, sir,” one of his advisors said, distinctly pleased.

Istgard’s prime minister, Tsir Aun, frowned. “They have no reason to miss seeing our fires, as we’ve seen theirs. Have you noticed that almost no smoke rises from within the city? Parne has run out of fuel.”

Kien nodded. True. He’d seen none of a typical city’s household cooking fires this morning. “It seems Belaal is occupied by other matters.”

Akabe said, “What these other matters might be, we hope to learn soon enough.” Akabe had agreed with Bryce’s plan only after Bryce had insisted. Even now, Siphra’s king seemed unhappy. “And until we know Belaal’s plans, we can only guess at our own strategies.”

At Kien’s right, Jon observed, “By now Parne’s water supplies must be dwindling. When I was here more than six weeks past, we were told that this region has suffered a severe drought. The wells I visited were low enough to alarm me, and I’m not Parnian.” He glanced around the tent. “What’s the longest anyone’s heard of a city enduring if there’s no water? A week?”

“If the weather remains mild, perhaps ten days,” Tsir Aun said. “If plagues are present and if the citizens have had little food from the start of the siege, they have less than a week.”

His voice low, uneasy, Akabe said, “Siphra’s prophets declared Parne will become a tomb if we allow Belaal to take the city. Everyone will be slaughtered. Slaves will not be taken.”

Kien listened, appalled at the enormity of such a potential butchery. Ela would die. As would her family. Infinite . . . “Then our role is clear. We must save the remaining Parnians. Have your prophets told you how we’re to accomplish the task?”

“No. However, two of Siphra’s prophets are traveling with us. I’ll send them word and ask them to pray—as should we all. Perhaps the Infinite will have some answer for us soon. Meanwhile, those who are not keeping watch should rest.” Akabe targeted Bryce with a swift, rueful glance. Was the young king already questioning his conscience in sending an unarmed Siphran into the enemy’s camp?

If so, it didn’t matter. Bryce would not be talked out of going.

Kien prayed the man’s life wasn’t about to be squandered.

In his tent, with Bryce dozing and Jon lurking, Kien pried open the blue seal and scanned the pale note. General Rol’s handwriting covered the parchment in a chopped, concise script.

News of your honor, Lord Aeyrievale, has unleashed a tempest within the Grand Assembly. Be prepared. Undeniable jealousy now inspires your father’s enemies to do their worst, and East Guard’s Lantec supporters have already suffered for championing this excursion to Parne. Those with shortsighted views now call us warmongers, naming your father as the chief instigator and you as his singular reason for risking the lives of our soldiers.

Kien growled, almost hearing Father raging from this distance. Yet a gnawing guilt bit at the edge of his thoughts. Was he partially responsible for this confrontation? Infinite? Have I judged wrongly in this? Have I acted impetuously instead of trusting You?

Silence answered. Not reassuring. Gloomily, Kien continued reading Rol’s message.

As a result, when you are summoned, you must, unfortunately, defend yourself from a point of weakness. Your personal integrity
and your continued good standing with the military are vital. If you give Belaal the slightest concession—much less a victory—you will be condemned.

Truth is, we are all condemned. For speaking my mind in the Parnian matter, my home was defaced by vandals. Insult enough to make one consider invading the swamp of politics. . . .

General Rol, a politician? Not a bad idea, except that the Tracelands would lose its finest general.

After a lengthy political digression, Rol concluded:

I advise you to set aside, unopened, any official communications from the Grand Assembly, should they arrive before the Parnian conflict is finished. If the communication is hand-delivered, do not accept it, but return to East Guard as soon as Belaal is defeated. I order you to burn this parchment.

Kien dropped the parchment into his tent’s low, fiery brazier and watched it burn.