Judge (35 page)

“He will gladly speed matters.” Kien seized the end of the rope and tied it to Scythe’s collar with quick, fierce knots. “Don’t eat this!”

Scythe made a pathetic noise of complaint and bumped Kien as if to hurry him all the more. At least the destroyer wasn’t prostrate with grief, signifying Ela’s death. Kien rushed Scythe to the edge of the courtyard, unfurling the rope and tightening it along the way. “Stop.”

As Scythe groaned, Kien ran back to the well. “How do I use the cradle?”

“Sit in it as a deep chair, my lord. We’ll lower you in. Tell us when your feet hit bottom.”

No water. Please. Kien sat on the well’s edge, wrapped within the mesh. “Scythe, walk!”

The mesh tightened about Kien and he was lifted off the stones with a sickening sway. “Stop!” Gripping the ropes, dangling in the cradle, Kien stared down into the well’s center. He could do this. He must. Shutting his eyes, he yelled, “Scythe, back—slow!”

Scythe’s “slow” pace dropped Kien with a rush. “Easy!” The descent eased. Kien opened his eyes in darkness and immediately needed to talk to himself. “This is not a monster. It’s a well. A
dried
well.” The cradle’s mesh wasn’t a sea-beast’s gullet, and he would not heave. . . .

At last, his booted feet hit soil at the well’s edge. “Stop!” Kien’s breath nearly halted with the word. The well’s decaying stench seemed to clot in his nostrils and lungs. “Ugh!”

“Sir?” Bryce called from above, “Are you injured?”

“No!” But he would be if he had to breathe again. Where was Ela? Cautious, trying to avoid shifting from the mesh cradle, Kien reached into the darkness, touching damp soil. Then fabric. Finally, matted hair. He followed the knotted strand’s length and touched a face. “Ela?”

Her skin was cold. Did he feel her breath against his hand? He couldn’t be sure. Kien scooped Ela into his arms and rocked backward into the mesh. She felt so frail. Impossibly light, though her mantle and robes were clumped with dirt. And . . . she stank. Horribly. “Infinite!”

Shuddering, Kien settled Ela’s limp body in his lap and held her close. A small sound escaped her. Not a word, nor even a cry. More like an exhalation. He mustn’t think that it was her last breath. “Scythe! Walk!”

Above him, the ropes tensed, then creaked. The mesh closed around him. Sea beast-like. And throughout the tortuous ascent,
Ela remained lifeless in his arms. Kien prayed all the way up to the well’s mouth. At last, the early evening sun made him squint. Bryce grabbed the cradle. “Steady, sir. Swing your legs over here.”

Bryce lifted Ela from Kien’s arms and placed her on the ground. Kien freed himself from the mesh, knelt beside Ela, and stared, horrified, at the gashes on her scalp, the dried blood streaking her hollowed lifeless face. And her arms . . . He wouldn’t have dared to hold her if he’d seen them. Her hands and wrists were swollen and dark, while huge open wounds gaped over her upper arms, the flesh eaten away, exposing bare muscles. “Oh, Ela . . .” How could she live?

Bryce gulped audibly. And when he looked at Kien, his eyes reflected pity. Sympathy.

Scythe approached them now, groaning. Kneeling. Mourning.

Kien stood, fury lending him strength. Allowing him denial. “No!” He’d neither give nor receive futile condolences. Not when there was the least hope she’d survive. He cut the rope from Scythe, then untied his military cloak from the destroyer’s back. “Stop your groaning! We’re taking Ela to her parents.
Now
.”

 36 

H
ow many tears had he swallowed on their journey back to camp? They hardly merited counting. Kien fought to harden himself against the grief. Against Scythe’s despairing moans. Against the concerned voices of comrades calling his name.

Nonetheless he must admit the truth. He’d lost everything.

Ela, wrapped in his black military cloak, never moved in his arms. If she breathed at all, he couldn’t feel it. Moreover, he’d found no pulse at her throat, and he was afraid to test her darkened, swollen wrists and hands. She’d known Parne would take her life. She’d warned him.

In my vision, I was entombed. Surrounded by the stench of death.

A silver-haired prophet has failed.

Biting his lip, blinking against fresh tears, Kien smoothed Ela’s dark tangled hair, then dared another look at her face. So serene. Beautiful beneath the dried trails of blood. What had she suffered? Brave little prophet. He whispered, “I love you!” Always.

He hoped he’d killed the Parnian who did this to her.

The Siphran encampment hushed as he approached on Scythe. Kien refused to look at anyone. Instead, he rode straight to his tent and commanded the destroyer quietly, “Kneel.”

Scythe, Ela’s cherished Pet, sank to the ground and heaved another groan. Balancing Ela in his arms, Kien cautiously slid
off the destroyer’s big back and braced himself as Ela’s parents rushed to meet him.

Kalme Roeh was already crying. And Dan Roeh halted an arm’s length away, staring, as if too stunned by the sight of his daughter’s bloodied, lacerated scalp to take Ela from Kien.

Kneeling, Kien placed Ela on the ground with a tenderness she’d never feel. And he studied her, trying to memorize her face before the Roehs finally carried her away. They knelt with him.

Dan touched Ela’s throat now, obviously testing for a pulse. When he spoke, his voice sounded raw with pain. “What did they do to her?” He reached for the edges of the cloak. Kien moved to stop him, but Roeh was too quick—his expression fierce as he opened the cloak, despite the tears in his eyes.

Kalme screamed at the wounds, “Oh, Ela! Oh, my baby . . .”

Weeping, Dan Roeh released the cloak and held his wife, preventing her from clutching Ela. Inside the tent, Ela’s infant brother began to howl.

By now, Jon, Bryce, and Selwin were hovering next to Kien. Akabe knelt with him and grasped Kien’s shoulder, clearly speechless as he stared at Ela’s flayed arms and the dried rivulets of blood marking her face and throat. And other Parnians drew near, staring, aghast.

Unable to look at Ela’s injuries any longer, Kien reached for the edges of his cloak to fold them over her.

A blue-white flash appeared in Ela’s swollen right hand, taking the shape of a thin, iridescent, weathered vinewood staff. Ela’s insignia, the branch.

Ela’s fingers twitched, healing the instant she clasped the vinewood. Kien saw her gasp for air. The gaping wounds closed within that breath. And her eyelids flickered. He leaned forward. “Ela?”

Behind Kien, Scythe scrambled to stand, huffing.

She drew a breath. Alive. Why? Infinite, no! Hadn’t she suffered enough? Wasn’t her work finished? Tears seeped beneath her
eyelids—real tears. And light glimmered through the edges of her lashes. Unfair! Her pain had ended. She didn’t want to endure more.

“Ela?”

Kien? Before she could turn—to see nothing but another hallucination, she was sure—a tickling, nuzzling warmth grazed softly over her face. A breathing, tickling, nuzzling warmth, with hints of slobber. Alarmed, Ela lifted a defensive hand. “Pet! No . . .”

Voices lifted around her now, laughing, cheering as if celebrating. But somewhere, Jess was crying. Or was she imagining him? Ela opened her eyes.

Kien was staring down at her, too perfect to be a fever-wrought hallucination.

Really, this was a very crowded, bright hallucination. Or was it? Unnerved, she glanced around. Oh, how awful! She seemed to be the center of everyone’s attention. And . . . she was holding the branch. Ela clenched her precious insignia tight. Yes, it was real. The vinewood gleamed at her, bathing her with blessed warmth and yet-unspoken promises for the future. “Infinite?”

A woman clutched Ela now, sobbing. Mother.

And someone was wiping her face with a blessedly cool, wet cloth. “Prill? Where am I?”

“You’re safe now,” the matron soothed, ridiculously teary-eyed.

Kalme snatched Prill’s cloth and scrubbed at Ela’s face, exultant. “Look at you! We thought you were dead! Oh, my girl! You had us fooled!”

Truly?

Father’s low voice cut into Mother’s happy hysterics. “How do you feel? Any pain?”

“No.” But Kalme was smothering her. Ela protested, “Mother! I can’t breathe. And Jess is crying—”

“Let’s go to him. Can you stand?” Kalme continued to fuss as she and Father helped Ela to her feet. “Your clothes stink, your hair is a mess, and you look starved—ugh! You need a bath!”

Oh, lovely. This was not prophet-like, having Mother behave as if Ela were three again—amid a crowd, no less.

And yet . . . and yet . . . While Father paused to speak to Kien, Ela hugged her mother hard. Fighting sobs. Infinite, thank You. I love You!

Evidently oblivious to Ela’s tears, Kalme patted her shoulder and resumed fussing. “We also need to clean and air this cloak. Oh, dear . . . look at it.”

Ela looked. Why was she wearing Kien’s military cloak—dirtied and stinking like the well?

Realization sank in, and she stared at him. Finished talking with Father, Kien sought her with a glance as Scythe loomed over his shoulder.

Had they removed her from the well? Ela whispered, “Thank you!”

Kien grinned and retreated as her parents coaxed her away.

“The Eosyths requested access to the city,” Akabe told Kien as they walked through the sunset-reddened camp, accompanied by Tsir Aun, Jon, and the ever-present Selwin. “I refused their petition, of course.”

Kien nodded. “The Agocii requested access as well, claiming they’d been promised shares of the gold and gems. We reminded them, politely, that they’d lost. Belaal offered them rights that are no longer defensible.”

Grim-faced, Tsir Aun said, “Yet Belaal and its allies might return. We cannot leave Parne unguarded. However, Istgard cannot afford the expense of protecting the site indefinitely.”

Akabe spoke, sounding reluctant, though his expression was determined. “Mine is the commanding army here. Does anyone disagree with this?”

Jon shook his head. “No. The Tracelands sees its role here as supportive. We’re not the prevailing force.”

“Nor is Istgard.” Tsir Aun shot Siphra’s young king a questioning look. “Why do you ask? What are you planning?”

“The plans aren’t mine,” Akabe reminded them. “The Infinite commanded that Parne be destroyed and left a burned waste.”

Kien heard Jon’s subordinate-commander, Selwin, make a stifled sound of protest. Akabe stopped, then turned, his royal crimson and gold robes fiery in the setting sun. The young king’s easy lilt didn’t hide his coldness. “If you have objections, sir, I wish to hear them.”

“No, sir.” Selwin bowed his head in apparent acquiescence. Kien saw rebellion beneath Selwin’s outward humility.

Obviously, Akabe saw the same. He folded his arms and waited, destroyer-stubborn. “I request you voice your objections. A Tracelander’s view interests me exceedingly.”

Selwin remained silent.

Jon said, “Selwin, perhaps you don’t give way to kings, but I am your superior, and you will voice your objections freely—and immediately! You’re delaying us!”

Selwin straightened. “Sirs, you know what will be said if the city is burned. That we had no compassion for the Parnians. That we failed to protect them and show mercy. That, instead, we bow to the cruel whims of their Infinite.”

Even as Kien clenched his jaw to silence himself, the Infinite filled his thoughts with a stream of questions, ending with a command.
Ask him!

Ask Selwin. And, in the process, give him an arsenal of verbal weapons to use in the future. Watching his career evaporate, Kien obeyed. “Commander Selwin, are you all-seeing? Can you prophesy the future before time’s beginning? Do you see how many souls will be lost in the coming generations if the Infinite’s judgments are not obeyed here?”

“No, Judge, on all counts, I cannot. Nor do I care to.”

Kien persisted. “You stood with us this evening and watched a young woman, by the will of the Infinite, healed of fatal wounds. Do you doubt what you witnessed?”

“There’s an explanation for everything, Judge.”

“I said the same thing a year ago, while trying to dismiss the Infinite.” Kien smiled at the memory of Ela’s reply. Rephrasing her words, he said, “But the Infinite is the explanation, and you don’t want to hear Him.”

“Your conclusion, sir.”

Kien nodded. “Of course. You are dismissed from this meeting, Commander Selwin.”

The man’s mouth twitched as if longing to defy the order. Outranked, he bowed and departed. Kien’s enemy, no doubt.

Beneath his breath, Jon said, “You deliberately provoked him! Why?”

“Orders.” He raised an eyebrow at Akabe and changed the subject. “How will you proceed against Parne, sir?”

Akabe studied the vast expanse of wall darkening before them in the dusk. “We empty the city and the temple. Remove the survivors to safety, then use Parne’s ores and fire to destroy every standing wall. If Parne was selling the ores in Istgard and Belaal, there must be a cache somewhere. We’ll find it and use it to take down every possible structure.”

Prepared to bargain, Kien asked, “What are your plans for the survivors?”

The Siphran king’s tension eased. “We remove them to safety. Restore their health, then—hopefully before the winter storms begin—we bring them to Siphra, where they’re needed.” Bemused he said, “I’m told Parne’s chief priest has escaped with the Infinite’s Sacred Books. Most of our copies were destroyed, but Parne’s is more ancient.”

“Do you intend to make the Parnians Siphran?”

“Of course.”

Not so hasty, my royal friend. “What if they prefer to emigrate to Istgard or the Tracelands? Will you allow them to depart?” Particularly Ela.

After a breath of silence, Akabe said, “Yes. But I hope they will not.” His gaze turned distant. Joyous. “The Parnians can help Siphra rebuild its temple! Parne’s chief priest has the learning
and devotion many of our priests lack. And Parne’s prophet . . . is unrivaled.”