There was a white mare tied to a post in front of the temple. Soleh recognized it instantly, and her heart started racing. She had Pulo bring the carriage to a stop beside it.
“Stay here,” she told her entourage, knowing they wouldn’t mind remaining outside. Karak was beloved throughout the realm, but his forty-year disappearance had made him a mysterious figure for most of the populace. A small dose of fear to keep the people in line, Lanike Crestwell had told her, and Soleh readily agreed. It was too bad those words hadn’t proved true. Perhaps if Karak had made himself more available, the city would not have plummeted into this violence; perhaps it might in fact have retained the short-lived peace and harmony that had emerged just after his reappearance.…
She ran her hand along the smooth hairs covering Highest Crestwell’s horse on her way by. The mare whinnied and kicked its hind legs slightly. Soleh ignored the irritable beast, so much like its master, and climbed the steps, pulling open the tall temple door.
The inside of the temple was lush, filled with fineries donated from every corner of Neldar and beyond. In the antechamber alone there were stuffed carcasses of pelicans, cranes, and brightly colored kingfishers, pottery from the ruins of Kal’droth, potted plants as tall as grown men, and weapons that predated man by a thousand years, which had been given as gifts by the Quellan elves. The items had built up over Karak’s absence, as visiting the temple had become a pilgrimage for many of the deity’s children. It struck her as ironic that now that the god had returned, the temple saw far less traffic.
She walked through the antechamber and entered the monastery, where there were no more fineries to distract from the hall’s true purpose. Twenty rows of pews lined the floor, leading up to the altar at the rear of the chamber. On his return, the great statue of the deity had been removed. It was the true Karak who now sat on the altar steps, hands dangling between his knees as he listened to the confessions of Clovis Crestwell.
The god glanced up the moment her feet hit the polished stone floor. He didn’t move, only acknowledging her with a slight rising of a single eyebrow. Highest Crestwell kept his posture as well, kneeling in the front pew, head bowed, hands folded in prayer, his mouth whispering his wrongdoings so that they could be absolved by Karak. There must be many, she thought, but silenced that part of her brain. Soleh clasped her hands in front of her and slowed her pace. No matter what her problems were with the Highest, she needed to show respect to her god, especially in his own house.
By the time she reached the foot of the altar, Clovis had finished his confession. He slid from the pew and kissed Karak’s bare foot.
“You may go in peace now, my son,” the god said. Clovis bowed his head and shuffled away, nearly running into Soleh. The Highest didn’t acknowledge her presence, but she swore she saw a grin spread across his lips.
It wasn’t until the sound of the outer door closing echoed through the hall that Karak gestured for Soleh to sit.
“I would prefer to stand, my Lord,” she replied.
“As you wish,” said Karak, rising to his feet and turning to tend to the candles burning behind him. “Why are you here, my sweet Soleh? It has been many days since you last visited, and I have missed you.” Moving back toward her, he looked down at her closely. “Yet there is no peace in your heart as you look upon me. What troubles you?”
“So much more than I can handle, my Lord,” she said. “The whole of your kingdom is falling to pieces. You must help us.”
Karak faced her, his glowing eyes like portals into the heart of a sun.
“What is wrong with my kingdom, sweet Soleh? And why must I help you?”
She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Clovis is ruining everything. It was difficult enough to keep the peace before, but your Highest ordered most of the good men of the Watch into the army that bears your name, leaving us shorthanded, and replaced them with hired thugs and cutthroats. There is no honor among them and little love for you. The castle dungeons are overflowing, as are the tombs. The merchants are fearful of selling their wares, for the thieves and delinquents the Watch had kept under control are now running unchecked. The new Watchers either can’t handle the situation or won’t.”
Karak sat once more on the edge of the altar and lifted his hands, palms up. “What would you have me do?”
“For one, you can order Clovis to return the men of the Watch to their posts!” she replied, her frustration robbing her of her better sense. She immediately reined herself in. “I apologize, my Lord. I meant no disrespect.”
“None is taken.”
“My point is this, my Lord…even before the Highest spirited our best guards away, the city was growing difficult to manage. Haven is a tiny community. Barely a thousand live there, of which perhaps half might be capable of mounting a resistance—much less than Clovis now has at his disposal. He has no need of so many soldiers!”
“Would you have me call them back?”
“Perhaps.” Soleh swallowed hard and continued hesitantly. She felt like she was tugging on the tail of a lion. “Or, perhaps you could show your face among the people once more. After you came back to me, there were five days of peace. Five days when wrongdoing all but halted. The people saw you, and they rejoiced! There was calm, there was brotherhood, there was harmony. But it seems now as if you have…”
She paused.
“It seems you’ve given up on your children. I sense the angst when I walk the streets. The people think you no longer care, and if their own god does not care for their lives, why should they?”
Karak stared at her with heart-wrenching intensity, his eyes filled with an emotion she had never before seen on his face: anger. The god-made-flesh stood, and his lips twisted into a frown. When he spoke next, his tone was so cold it chilled her to the bone.
“The responsibility for the current state of affairs lies solely with you, my…sweet…Soleh. Did I not give you life? Did I not give you laws to govern your own land? Did I not provide you with the knowledge of carpentry, farming, metallurgy, and combat? What more would you have me do? Act as nursemaid, sitting you all in a corner when you misbehave? I have seen much, child, and believe me when I tell you that the gifts I have bestowed on you are well beyond any that humanity, in all the worlds it populates, has ever been given so freely. Do you think my brother has allowed this much autonomy to his children, giving them the opportunity to live how they desire, building prosperity that’s equal to their efforts? I can assure you, he has not. All I have ever required from you is your respect and worship, honoring me by understanding my teachings and bringing order to this world.” He laughed then, a frigid sound like ice scraping against brittle steel. “Do you know why my Highest was with me this day giving his confession? He came to beg forgiveness for his failures, for helping to create a city filled with murder, greed, and corruption. He begged my forgiveness. And what do you do, sweet Soleh? Do you fall to your knees and beg absolution? No, you dare stand before me and demand further action on my part. You blame me, not yourself. Was the act of creating you not enough? Do you not value this immortal life you have been given?”
The tears came upon her all of a sudden, pouring over her cheeks. Soleh collapsed, her elbows striking the ground as she stooped before her beloved deity. All desire to live abandoned her in that moment.
“I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I was not thinking.”
“Stand up, child.”
“I deserve no mercy…I deserve no honor…I do not deserve this life you have given me.…”
A hand fell on her shoulder, warm and inviting. Soleh lifted her head and Karak was her Divinity again, smiling tenderly as if his tirade had never happened.
“Stand up, Soleh.”
She did so mindlessly, and the god took a moment to straighten out her cloak and even tug out a snarl in her hair with his gigantic finger. “I apologize for my tone,” he said, “but sometimes one must break a child in order to open their eyes and make them see the folly of their ways. Do you
understand?”
Sniveling, Soleh nodded.
Karak rubbed his palms against her shoulders. “Then calm yourself. You have much work to do. You must preach the message, scream it loudly over the rails of every shop and homestead if need be. Show the people the right way, even if that means making an example of some. In a scant ninety-three years our population has risen to nearly eighty thousand. As much as it disappoints me to see the state your city has fallen into, I knew that such growth would bring pains. In Omnmount, across the Ramere, in Thettletown, Brent, and Hailen, things are much better. There it is peaceful, calm…and empty. But a third of our people reside within the borders of this city, and I consider it a notable accomplishment that most are kind, lawful men and women.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” said Soleh.
“That does not release you from responsibility, my child. That does not absolve your failure. It is still a mess that you must fix. When you leave this place, sing my message far and loud. Make sure the people hear you; make sure they understand. And find relief in this: whether Haven repents or we must forcibly burn their temple to the ground, all will see what it means to deface the nobility of their creator. It will be a lesson none will forget.”
Soleh curtseyed. “I understand, my Lord.”
“Now go from this place, child, and sing my name.”
Soleh turned to leave but paused, casting a hopeful glance over her shoulder. She trembled like a schoolgirl, even though she had never once been that young in all her god-crafted life.
“My Lord?” she said.
“What is it, child?”
“Please tell me you love me.”
The god laughed sweetly then and strode across the short distance between them. He took her in his arms, lifted her off the monastery floor as if she weighed nothing, and kissed her cheek. Soleh felt the blood rush through her body.
“I love you, sweet Soleh. More than any who have ever come before.”
She was crying again when he put her down, but by the time she arrived back at the wagon and rejoined her escort, her cheeks were dry.
There was much work ahead, and she had to be strong. As strong as the title of Minister of Justice deserved.
CHAPTER
13
“I heard that the whippoorwills in the delta have begun tweeting incessantly at night. Morgan told me so. She said they perch outside the windows of the old and dying, singing in tune with the last breaths the people take. It’s quite strange, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Who in the deep, dark underworld is Morgan?”
“Silly,” replied Nessa, playfully punching his arm. “We were guests in her home for nearly three weeks. How could you not remember?”
“Forgive me. It’s difficult when your head aches like rotten fruit that’s been popped. And in my defense, I was asleep for most of those three weeks.”
His horse trotted to the side to avoid a depression in the road, jostling Patrick in his saddle. He uttered a pained yelp and grabbed at his knobby forehead. The pain was less than it had been, but its echo still tormented him like the remnants of a bad dream. They had barely stepped foot in Lerder, the easternmost township on the Gods’ Road before the delta, when the sickness set in. Patrick’s fever rose uncontrollably, coupled with vomiting and a case of the shakes that rattled his teeth. His mind had become so clouded, it was difficult to separate reality from delusion. He remembered Nessa sitting by his bed, holding his hand while she gazed down at him with concern, but also a cloaked man in black who came to him in the night, watching over him from the shadows as he writhed and moaned.
The sickness was made all the worse by the fact that neither the Wardens nor Ashhur’s healers seemed able to quell it. Patrick had fallen ill before, but usually all it took to cure him was a healing touch from one of his siblings or the city elders who led the prayers in Mordeina. Whatever had stricken him this time had baffled everyone, and he was left bedridden. Two conclusions entered his mind: either the sickness was so powerful that only time could cure it, or the faith in Ashhur that facilitated the healing touch was waning as he got closer to the Rigon. Neither scenario was pleasant, but the latter frightened him more than anything else.
His fever had finally broken three days ago. He’d awoken, frightened and sweaty, in a stranger’s bed. His panicked voice had been so weak, it barely echoed off the bare walls. Nessa didn’t come to him until much later, when the sun was painting the horizon with deep reds and purples. She’d seemed distracted and far away while comforting him. But the next day she’d been more attentive and had helped him gather the strength he needed to continue on his journey.
The current state of his aching brain made him wonder if he should have taken more time to rest.
“Patrick, are you all right?”
He turned to his sister and tried to smile. The glare of the sun forced him to avert his eyes, and he caught his reflection in the mirrored crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle. Carrying the sword on his back made him unstable in the saddle, so it was strapped to the side of his horse, its scabbard tucked beneath his left knee. Snatching a handkerchief from the pocket of his light coat, he dropped the fabric over the hideous likeness, wanting to banish his reflection. Even on a good day he was a sorry sight, but after a lengthy bout of illness? It was a wonder that passersby didn’t lunge for whatever weapons they could find and vow to Ashhur to send this escaped demon of the underworld back to its hole. At least that’s the way he felt.
Nessa gave him a queer look and nudged her horse closer. Her hand fell on his leg, the pressure of her touch changing with each bob created by the horses’ strides.
“Seriously, are you all right?”
Patrick sighed and gazed into his sister’s eyes. There was concern in them, and innocence as well, and he knew that she did not look on his physical deformities the way he did. For the millionth time in his life, he was thankful for that.
“I am, Ness. I’m just hurting.”
“Is it bad?”
He waved his hand in front of him. “Manageable.”
“Good,” she said with a grin. “Because Ashhur’s Bridge is coming up soon. I can see it now. Race you there?”
Nessa kicked her horse and took off at a gallop, flying away from him without even waiting for his agreement. His sister’s red hair whipped out behind her like a comet’s tail. Patrick moaned, the ache in his head persistent, and tried to match her speed. It was no use, for the minute his steed began to pick up its pace, the wind and motion filled his skull with agony. He pulled back on the reins and tried to call out for Nessa to stop, but his throat was dry, and the words died just as they started to emerge.
Defeated, he slumped in his saddle and gazed straight ahead. He watched Nessa and her horse grow smaller and smaller as they approached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon River. In the distance he could see the misty rise of the Clubfoot Mountains, the small collection of mounts that split the river and formed the delta. There was a strange fog in the air, even though there were no clouds in the sky, but Patrick was in too much agony to think about what that might mean.
Nessa went up and over the bridge, disappearing on the other side. Patrick hoped she wouldn’t get too eager and go off exploring on her own. She could be so impatient sometimes—and quick on her feet to boot. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day trudging through swamps and wetlands, screaming out her name, while she sat on a rock, splashing her bare feet in the water as tiny fish nibbled at her toes.
Yes, that had happened once before. No, he wasn’t bitter about it.
“PATRICK!”
Her voice came to him like a flash of lightning from on high, full of panic and terror. Patrick bolted upright, the pain in his head swallowed by his sister’s distress. He urged his horse onward, slowly picking up speed. He squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out what was going on. He saw nothing, only the tall grasses tha
t swayed like water on the other side of the bridge. Closer and closer he rode, each bump horrible, but at last he finally did see something—the strange dark fog he had noticed before, except it wasn’t fog. It was smoke.
A great fire burned beyond the bridge.
He rode faster.
Moments later he reached Ashhur’s Bridge, a wide overpass made from pearly white marble and reinforced with tall, elegant arches, a complex structure that had been created by divine hands before the dawn of humanity. The horse’s hooves hit the marble with a series of weighty thunks. Patrick could hear the river scuttling below him, rushing out toward the Thulon Ocean.
He became like that water, moving in a steady rhythm with the wind and his horse, steering the mare off the bridge and onto the dirt path that cut between the chest-high grasses. He rode a few feet down the road, and then stopped, making the horse circle in place, gazing out in all directions. All he saw was an endless sea of wavering vegetation. The billowing smoke was actually some distance to the southwest, rising in a triplet of plumes.
“Nessa!” he screamed, listening for a response that never came. At best, he caught what might have been a muffled cry, but the twirling horse kept him from honing in on it. He pulled up hard on the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. “Nessa!” he yelled again, this time holding his breath afterward and cocking his head to listen.
And then, from behind him, a voice.
“’Ello there.”
Taken by surprise, Patrick yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse bucked. He lost his balance in the saddle and teetered until the clasp holding it in place broke, and he slipped off the side. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately covered his head with his arms. His headache had reawakened with a fury, assaulting his eyes with its blinding power. Fighting the pain, he lifted himself up on his elbows.
“Well, what we have here?” the voice said.
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