King (34 page)

The instant Caitria stepped from behind the rough curtain, a man blocked her path. A weapon-bearing soldier. Clad in the blue and gold of a palace guard. “No!” She ducked away, but another guard stepped in her way. Followed by a third . . . with others waiting beyond. Trapped!

Caitria gasped, then bit her lip. She would not scream. Nor would she fight against such odds. Siphra might not have an ideal queen, but at least she could behave with dignity. She lifted her chin and studied the guards, trying to pick out their commander. A particularly stoic soldier, with an extra edging of gold along his belt, handed a small heavy leather bag to a man who now stood with Amiyra.

The bag’s contents clinked—the thin metallic sound of silver coins.

“I hope you were paid enough,” Caitria told Amiyra. The woman seemed a bit shamed, looking down at the baby in her arms.

The lead guard approached Caitria. “Your absence was noted, lady, and your presence is commanded.” He motioned her toward a carrying chair flanked by four soldiers. Voice low, he added, “I am authorized to chain you, if need be.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She settled herself in the chair and folded her hands in her lap, conveying serenity. Inside, her
stomach knotted hard and her heart fluttered, frantic as a snared bird’s. She’d failed. Just as Ela said.

Now she must mourn the consequences.

Was she about to be branded? Imprisoned for life? Thoroughly ruined and shamed by Bel-Tygeon? Please, no . . .

She refused to think of Akabe.

Shivering, nauseated, Ela drew her knees up to her chest amid a clatter of chains and then leaned against the cold stone wall, praying for Caitria. What now? As if in answer, the branch appeared beside her in the straw, seeming quite ordinary, though its vinewood gleamed at her subtly, offering strength, making her smile.

Infinite? Thank You! Her chains clinking, Ela retrieved the branch.

A rough, feminine voice snapped Ela from her silent praises. “Are you drunk? You’ve no reason to look so pleased!”

The speaker, a tattered, emaciated woman, crouched before Ela in the filthy straw. She appeared to be Matron Prill’s age, and rather pretty, though nowhere near as clean and proper. Behind her, other women were watching and listening with interest—the ragged speaker apparently ruled them all.

Ela smiled at the women. “My name is Ela, and I’m glad because even here, I’m not alone. What is your name?”

“Jemma, and get used to it, Lady Ela! You’ll be a long time visiting us, with no reason to smile.”

“As the Infinite wills.” Ela studied Jemma’s truculent face. Did she imagine the flicker of a remembered hurt? Infinite?

Listen! See her heart—as I see.
The Creator whispered into Ela’s thoughts, sending her images and understanding. “Jemma, rebellion brought you here. Obedience will release you, if you abandon your pride.”

The woman’s eyes widened, then hardened. “I don’t care if I remain in prison for ten years! I was wrongfully accused, and I’ll not accept blame!”

“In part,” Ela agreed. “Your accuser knows this. But her status demands an apology that you must give. You have two choices. Be stubborn and remain here, or bow and apologize, so you may live.”

“Did
she
send you here?”

She.
The head cook in the Women’s Palace. Ela shook her head. “No. Following my Creator’s will brought me here. And I am content to stay until His purpose for me is fulfilled.”

One of the other women crept nearer, staring at the now-shimmering branch, then at Ela. “Who are you, really? Why were you allowed to carry a weapon into our cell?”

“It’s not a weapon. And I’m the Infinite’s prophet, stolen from Siphra.”

She had their attention now. Recognizing the Infinite’s purpose, Ela settled in to tell her story from the beginning.

To reveal their Creator’s love.

Caitria knelt on the throne room’s gleaming floor as the palace guards commanded. Mari had described the room’s transformation by the Infinite, but even Mari’s enthusiastic report failed to do this place justice. Caitria stared at the floor, astonished by its crystalline beauty—even as she shivered. Infinite? Help me . . .

She felt all the courtiers’ stares. And Bel-Tygeon’s. Obviously he’d commanded her to be brought here so he could punish her publicly. Well. Punish away—he and his gloating subjects would not see her break, she hoped.

On his throne above the dais, Bel-Tygeon spoke, his voice cold and echoing. “By law, when my property is lost through carelessness or neglect, a penalty must be paid—and that penalty is equal to the value of my property.”

Property. He made the word sound so cold, yet much too personal, for he was referring to
her
. Caitria lifted her gaze from the extraordinary floor and allowed him to see her hatred.

Bel-Tygeon continued, unaffected, though he looked at her
directly. “Caitria of Siphra, here is your price.” He motioned to a pair of guards, who carried a long fabric-swathed bundle.

Noticing its shape, Caitria trembled. A body? Let it not be true . . .

The guards unrolled the bundle before her as if it were nothing.

Caitria stared at the unmoving form and covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

 34 

T
hrough her tears, Caitria saw welt-like burns around Mari’s swollen mouth. Had she been forced to drink poison? Whatever had happened, it was lethal. Mari’s blotchy skin and staring eyes forbade Caitria any hope that the young woman might be saved. Choking on a sob, she clutched Mari’s cold, lifeless hand and rubbed it. If only she could return to the instant she’d fled the temple site. Mari would still be alive.

This poor girl’s death was her fault! And the king’s.

Caitria blinked to clear her tear-blurred vision, then stared up at Bel-Tygeon. “Why punish an innocent girl for my decision? Why kill her?”

As if noting the weather, Bel-Tygeon said, “She failed her most basic duty, which was to attend you—my most valuable slave. The next time such an impulse seizes you, lady, you will understand the consequences of your actions.”

Her actions? He’d commanded this atrocity! Caitria screamed, “When will you understand the injustice of
your
actions? You’re a curse to Belaal instead of its protector!”

His expression bored, Bel-Tygeon motioned to Caitria’s guards, who lifted her upright, forcing her to release Mari’s hand. As the guards coerced her to turn and depart from the throne room, Caitria threw a last look at Mari’s motionless form, then burst into tears.

Dead because of me!

Mari’s swollen, staring face reappeared in Caitria’s thoughts—an image she’d never live long enough to forget. An image she must never forget. Caitria choked down sobs and the longing to scream like a madwoman. Hadn’t Ela warned her?

“Infinite!”

A rush of images chased Ela from her dreams into consciousness. Her heart thudding with terror, she sat up and looked around. Prison. She was still in prison.

She still had time. Infinite, please, let them listen!

Ela scrambled to her chained feet, clattered around her slumbering cell mates, and hobbled to the woven metal door. She rattled the huge grate and yelled, “Guards—help! Warn the king! Send word to Lady Dasarai! Save the king!” Caitria, pray!
Only
pray . . .

Seated on a cushion in Lady Dasarai’s luxurious antechamber, Caitria stared at the floor, refusing to touch her food. If she stared at Bel-Tygeon, lounging carelessly opposite her, she would spit at him.

Thinking of Mari again, Caitria pressed her hands to her aching head. Help me not to attack this man! “Infinite . . .”

The king’s hatefully amused voice cut into her faltering prayer. “You’ve truly turned pagan. What will the Ateans do if I restore you to Siphra?”

Did Bel-Tygeon have spies everywhere in Siphra? He seemed entirely too familiar with Siphra’s politics. “The Ateans will kill me as they’ve been trying to kill my husband. And that would please you, wouldn’t it?” Digging her fingers into the cushions, Caitria finally looked at the king. If she had Akabe’s daggers, she would throw them now. To her own ruin. Be calm. Self-controlled.

Clearly enjoying his late-night meal—and considering her
as entertainment—Bel-Tygeon’s handsome face twisted with a sardonic smile. “If you’ve turned pagan, they would indeed kill you.”

“I’m already a target for the sake of the Infinite’s temple! Anyway, how can I be pagan if I worship the one true God who created all? You’re the pagans, you and the Ateans!”

“My philosophers would love to crush you in a debate. As for myself, I think you’ve turned delusional.” The king straightened and raised his dark eyebrows at Dasarai, who’d just reentered the room from answering a tap at her door, for they’d sent out all the servants.

Dasarai knelt, arranging herself decorously on a cushion. “The prophet is clamoring in her cell, causing unrest among the prisoners. Should she be ignored?”

The king dipped a crisp wafer into a spiced meat sauce, ate it, then shook his head. “No. I intended to tell her in the morning that she will restore my temple as she restored the throne room. It’s just as well that I speak to her tonight. Bring her here.”

A delicate crease fretted Dasarai’s forehead. “She will need a bath and clean clothes after being in the prison—not to mention delousing.”

Taking another bite of the bread and meat concoction, the king shrugged. “Order her here. We’ll speak with her in the corridor. I’ve endured enough today—I’m tired.”

He’d
endured enough today? Caitria sniffed.

While Dasarai glided away to do her god-king’s bidding, the false idol frowned at Caitria. “Eat. That is a command. Otherwise, I’ll feed you myself.” Bel-Tygeon studied her now, interested. “Actually, I might enjoy carrying out that threat.”

Caitria took one wafer, crushed it to bits on the empty gold dish, then ate one crumb.

The king lifted an eyebrow. By the time Dasarai returned, Caitria had eaten three crumbs. Bel-Tygeon shoved a gold dish at her, its gelatinous dark red contents quivering with his sudden motion. “Enough! Eat, or I will do as I’ve said, and more.”

She ate. Disgusting substance—too highly spiced. Eyes watering, Caitria reached for more wafers to settle her stomach and the fire in her mouth. When she finished, the king smiled. “You look better already.” He tossed a fine linen cloth onto the table and stretched. “If I sell you to Siphra, I will demand the DaromKhor Hills and two hundred thousand Siphran coins. The ones you call gold nobles.”

Caitria gripped her hands tight in her lap, hoping she hadn’t revealed the depths of her shock. He wanted the DaromKhor Hills? But . . . according to her history lessons, those hills were Siphra’s natural border against Belaal. Remove all the border lords, then give Bel-Tygeon control of the DaromKhor region—with time to gather his forces—and he could overrun Siphra! Could? No, he would.

As for the payment in gold nobles . . . She swallowed, calculating.

Her father’s household, large as it was, required six hundred nobles to sustain itself comfortably for one year. The average highborn household required four hundred. Bel-Tygeon was demanding enough gold to sustain one highborn Siphran family for five hundred years!

Did Siphra’s treasury contain so much gold? Likely not, considering Siphra’s years of strife. Queen since spring, and she’d cost her country a fortune. “I’m not worth such a price.”

“Then I must keep you.” He smiled again, beautiful and horrible. “Belaal needs a queen. You might bear me a son.”

Akabe. Oh, Akabe . . . For an awful instant, her eyesight dimmed and a humming welled inside her head, threatening to blot out consciousness. Caitria huddled down, hiding her face in her hands. Trying to breathe. The best thing to do . . . the best thing for Siphra and Akabe . . . was her own death. How? Think!

Would Bel-Tygeon kill another innocent slave if Siphra’s queen took her own life? Poor Mari! Caitria swallowed a sob.

Furtive rapping at the door summoned their attention. Followed
by Dasarai, Bel-Tygeon stood and sauntered from the room—a god-king who was mightily pleased with himself.

“Infinite? Help me.”

Unchained, but surrounded by eunuchs and four big, stolid female guards, Ela waited in the opulent corridor outside the Lady Dasarai’s apartments.

Infinite, may Your will be done. Please let them listen!

The door opened, and the guards straightened as Bel-Tygeon and Lady Dasarai stepped into the corridor. Dasarai, ever the head of the Women’s Palace, frowned at Ela’s rough braid and the plain linen robes provided by the jailors. Ela offered the great lady a placating nod, then snapped her attention to Bel-Tygeon.

The king crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do not think you are forgiven for today’s events! You will restore my temple, on
my
terms this time, not your Infinite’s!”

“But who will restore you, O king?” Before Bel-Tygeon could interrupt, Ela rushed to explain. “I was prepared to remain in Belaal, in prison for as long as necessary—for years if need be—but that is not His plan. As soon as I fell asleep, the Infinite woke me again with a dream. A blood plague has overtaken this palace. I’ve been sent to warn you, sir, because
you
are the plague’s instigator.”

His upper lip curved with obvious disdain. “I am the instigator?”

“Yes.” Ela braced herself. “Because you took what didn’t belong to you, the Infinite will allow the plague to take you. Unless you forget your pride and—”

“I should have known you’d return to this!” Bel-Tygeon interrupted, his icy disdain becoming contempt. Careless of the branch, he leaned toward her, furious, his chin lifted in regal defiance. “It’s clear you’re referring to yourself and Siphra’s queen! But I’ll take whatever I please. You’re both my property and that will
never
change! As for your Infinite, what if I admit
that He exists? Why does He hate me? I’ve done nothing that my ancestors would not have done to consolidate their reigns!”

“But there’s the point! You’ve done what none of your ancestors dared to do. You’ve declared yourself the only god, sweeping all others from your lands. Ultimately, you’ll threaten your people with their lives if they disagree.” The branch now shone metallic and severe, throwing harsh light over the king’s pale face and burning eyes.

Ela continued. “Your Creator loves you, sir! Never doubt it. But you’ll destroy others who love Him—and you are destroying yourself with your pride. What should any loving Creator do to gain your attention?”