Dawn of Swords

by David Dalglish

  It made Patrick very happy it was autumn.

  He rolled onto his side and his neck popped again, sending yet another shooting pain across his back. He lay there, watching the two duelists continue their endless dance, the clang and clink of their meeting swords sounding so far away they could have been on a different continent. For a moment he thought he saw a dark blur dash across his vision, down by a distant line of trees, but he excused it as an apparition brought about by the heat. His mind once more drifted to his memory of killing that man. The fact that Corton, who now acted as his mentor, had been one of his saviors that day only added to the unreal quality of his recollections. He thought of the violence, the life lost, and wondered if he could force himself to forget it all. Would the experience disappear from his mind like his injuries had disappeared from his body? With that contemplation came a pang of regret. Though he was glad Antar had healed him of all his wounds, in a way he wished the old Kerrian had left a tiny bit of nagging hurt. It would have done him well, would have made the fright he felt and the blood he spilled seem more real. To walk away unscathed seemed disrespectful, not only to the soul of the dead man but to the souls of all who had suffered a tragic end.

  “Stop it, Patrick,” he muttered. “Think of better things.”

  He did. He thought of his first few days in the delta, which had been spent at the Gemcroft estate; of mead, warm meals, and hot baths drawn by the house servants. Servants…now wasn’t that a noble idea! People there to serve you, bring you whatever you wanted, cater to your every whim as if it were the most important moment of their day. The closest comparison in Paradise was the stewards who cared for the needs of the elders and religious leaders, but that was an act of servitude and kindness, not a result of affluence.

  Life was easy on the estate, and Patrick was glad to see Nessa smiling like never before. Despite the threatened attack from the east, which cast a pall over the manor, a strange calmness surrounded the estate grounds, which Patrick found wholly satisfying. He credited it to the ladies of the house, as Rachida and Moira seemed to be constantly wrapped in a bubble of lightness and joy. And they truly were happy with each other, however strange it was for him to comprehend their relationship. He had never seen that kind of adoration between women before. A part of him found it unnatural, while a wholly different part thought it beautiful.

  Truth be told, he was more than a little jealous of Moira, she who was on the receiving end of Rachida’s gentle pecks and adoring embraces, she who disappeared into Rachida’s bedroom each evening. He wondered what they did in there, and if Peytr Gemcroft, the absent man of the house, knew that his wife was taking a woman to bed while he was away. Patrick was so focused on Rachida that he had resumed searching for gray hairs with renewed vigor. If he’d been lucky enough to marry such a precious creature, he would never let her lie in bed with another, no matter how innocent it might be.

  He felt so captivated by her face, it seemed as though he could hear her voice while he stared at the crystal-blue sky.

  “Patrick?” she said, the memory of her voice filling his head like rum sweetened with orange slices. “Patrick, are you deaf?”

  He started and turned quickly from where he lay in the grass, wrenching his neck in the process. He rubbed the sore spot and stared with wide eyes at the vision that approached him in a flowing yellow dress. Rachida’s dark, curly hair bounced with each step she took, and Patrick noticed a few peculiar strands of silver woven within. Her green eyes, deep as the ocean depths, stared intently at him. A moment of panic hit him when he realized he’d taken off his sweaty tunic when he finished sparring, and he reached for it so that he might hide his wretched body.

  “I was told I could find you here,” Rachida said, not batting an eye at his modesty, or his abnormality. “Antar had a…gift of sorts prepared for me by my request. I expected you back at Deacon’s manse sooner.”

  “Er…sorry?” he replied, uncertain.

  “What’s the matter? Why do you cover yourself so?”

  “I’m, uh…cold.”

  Rachida cast those dazzling green eyes of her skyward. “Cold? It’s sweltering outside. This shift is thin as parchment, but still it feels too heavy.”

  Rachida reached down and yanked the discarded tunic out of his hands. She didn’t seem to mind that it was damp and probably stank horribly. She held it up, looked at the grass stains dappling the beige material, and frowned.

  “This is no good,” she said. “Do you have another?”

  Patrick froze, trying to get his mind to start working again. He pointed to the rucksack that sat beside Winterbone.

  “I have a change of clothes in there,” he said.

  “Good,” replied Rachida. “You need to get changed now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re coming with me. I have something wonderful to show you.”

  “We’re going here?” Patrick asked, staring at the huge wall of granite before him. It was the only safe place he could look, for he found it quite difficult to tear his eyes away from the scantily clad women who were exiting the gates of the Temple of the Flesh, breasts swaying, faces flushed, skin shining, gaits wobbly.

  Rachida laughed beside him.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” she asked, nudging him.

  Patrick grinned at her, and just like every time before, he found himself lost in the beautiful woman’s eyes, as if she were the only person alive in the universe. The rumors of Rachida Mori’s beauty had been legendary even in Ashhur’s Paradise, thanks to Jacob’s stories. To see that the woman not only matched the legend but exceeded it filled him with wonder.

  “I must say, your change is quite an improvement,” she said. “You look…well, dashing.”

  Patrick felt heat rush into his face. He didn’t think he looked all that special. He had on another plain, cream-colored tunic, leather breeches, and the boots his mother had specially made for him to accommodate his disproportionate legs. Yet what he thought right then was irrelevant. Hearing such a compliment from Rachida made his heart skip beats.

  “Oh, it’s nothing special,” he said. “Just rags I’ve owned for years.”

  Rachida tilted her head forward to whisper.

  “It is not your clothing, Patrick, but your poise. You are carrying yourself like a man of honor, a man of strength. Like I said—dashing.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. However, you best not shrink from praise next time, or I will clobber you.”

  Patrick chortled loudly. “Yes, Mother.”

  Rachida laughed as well, and grabbed hold of his arm.

  “You make me laugh. I like that. An important quality for a man to have…and a rare one.”

  “Well, I’m a rare specimen.”

  “That you are, indeed.”

  They drew nearer to the temple, and now Patrick could see that there were armored men standing just inside the open gates, carefully checking over any who entered. They wore a combination of chainmail and platemail, all of which seemed finely crafted—though in reality that was nothing but a guess, for Patrick had only seen a suit of armor a very few times in his life. He recalled Corton Ender telling him how all the weapons and armor in Haven had come from raiding shipments that had been sent down the Rigon, headed for someplace called Omnmount. Again Patrick felt that same lingering sense of unease, as the need for such protective measures was completely alien to him. That these peoples’ lives were at stake because of the structure they were now approaching made it all even harder to understand. But even if he couldn’t understand, the danger was certainly real. The bridge that crossed into the eastern realm of Neldar was within sight of the place where he stood.

  “So this is what all the fuss is about, eh?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “It is,” Rachida replied.

  They entered the gates, and a pair of women walked toward them. Their gazes turned to Patrick, and their expressions momentarily soured.
One whispered in the other’s ear, and they both steered wide of him, giggling and pointing. The lightness Patrick felt at being by Rachida’s side quickly vanished.

  “Pay no attention to them,” Rachida whispered. “They aren’t important.”

  The guards at the gate, thankfully, were all business, patting Patrick down in search of weapons they wouldn’t find. The only weapon he had was Winterbone, and he’d left the greatsword with Corton at the practice fields. When the search was over, Rachida took him by the arm and led him through the circular path inside the wall. The path was wide, almost fifty feet, and it circled the center structure of the temple, a tower of red brick that rose like an erection but was hidden by the high walls. The temple inside was an imposing monument, with many doors lining its curved stone foundation. On multiple occasions Patrick saw a door open and a couple skulk out, looking sweaty and relaxed, eyes half-lidded. The place was teeming with people from all walks of life—young and old, men and women, unattractive and striking. Unlike in the village surrounding the Gemcroft estate, however, there was no apprehension in the air, no fear of a god’s wrath. In fact, the air tingled with a current of excited energy racing across time and space, connecting one person to another and locking them together even if their bodies never touched.

  “What is this place?” asked Patrick, feeling anxious and awed.

  “It is a place of worship and intimacy. It is here that we celebrate the forms we have been given.”

  “And this was Deacon’s idea?”

  “It was.”

  “What was his inspiration?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. You will have to ask him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The temple was much larger than he’d expected, and it took them almost fifteen minutes to walk halfway across the spherical path. There Patrick saw the entrance to the temple proper, a tall rectangle bordered by thick stone and topped with the image of a dove flying into a waiting pair of hands.

  “We only find peace with each other,” Rachida said. “That is the meaning of the symbol.”

  “Interesting,” said Patrick.

  She stopped him just outside the entryway, pulling him aside so that others could go through unimpeded. She looked at him gravely, those luminous green eyes so seductively framed by her dark hair. She seemed like a legendary creature who wished to lure him into harm’s way. Patrick grinned at the thought, knowing that no matter where she led him, he would follow willingly.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “This is a holy place to us, but sometimes people lose control. The prayer service is…stimulating, you could say. I want to make sure you are ready for it.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he replied, wishing he were as confident as he sounded. “Trust me.”

  Rachida nodded. “Very well.”

  Her fingers slid down his arm until they found his hand, which she took in hers. She stepped through the portal and led him down a long, cramped passage that opened up into a tall, circular room. That was when Patrick noticed that the temple had no ceiling, only a hole above that allowed the light of the heavens to shine down on those inside. Given that it was past noon and the sun had taken root lower on the horizon, the torches on the walls were blazing.

  In the center of the room was a round stone rostrum, the sole furnishing. There were no seats at all, simply cushions stacked by the door, a couple of which Rachida snatched up, handing him one. The place was packed, and Rachida led the way as they wedged through the cramped maze of worshippers until she found an open space a few short feet from the base of the rostrum. Claiming it, she threw down her cushion. Patrick followed her lead. When they sat, Rachida leaned into him, her satin-covered breast pressing into the side of his arm. He thought his head might explode from the contact.

  It took quite awhile for the crowd inside the temple to situate themselves. There was a living buzz in the air, a palpable charge that made all the tiny hairs on Patrick’s arms stand on end. Rachida leaned in, propping her chin on his shoulder.

  “Just remember,” she told him, “feel the energy. Feed off it, but do not act. Priestess Aprodia directs the service and provides the inspiration, but she is not to be touched, no matter how close she comes to you.”

  Feeling lost, Patrick said, “As you wish.”

  The deafening layer of murmurs ceased, and all fell quiet. Patrick watched as a set of double doors swung inward. Out slunk a nude woman, her flesh bronzed, her hair straight and black, her eyes as pale as spent coals. She had the body of an earth goddess, with wide hips and abundant breasts, between which was a strangely alluring tattoo of a bird with wings spread. The woman—Priestess Aprodia, he assumed—was indeed a splendid creation, and were it not for the woman sitting beside him, he might have thought her the most exquisite in all the land.

  The priestess climbed atop the rostrum and stood there, motionless, for what felt like an incredibly long time. Her head then suddenly snapped to the side, lashing her hair about, and her body began moving in wild gyrations. Sweat slicked her flesh, making it shine, as she whipped this way and that, reaching her arms to the sky and then drawing them in like she was holding all of creation against her abdomen, sliding her legs apart until they formed a straight line, rocking back and forth, cupping her breasts with her hands, lifting them, separating them, lolling her head around in circles, panting, moaning, yelping like a wolf in heat.

  Aprodia leaned forward, pulling herself across the floor, then slid her legs out from beneath her. She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs high in the air; then, with her hands gripping her ankles, she spread them wide. Patrick, sitting eye level with the platform, stared directly into her womanhood, eyes bulging in disbelief. It was certainly the strangest form of worship he’d ever seen. He had no notion how to react.

  The priestess spun around, allowing those on the other side of the room to see her as well. Patrick felt the energy in the room multiply, doubling and then doubling again, and when he finally tore his eyes off the dancing beauty before him, he saw that he and Rachida were among the few who were still watching the display. The rest were locked in private passions all their own, lips pressed together, tongues probing, hands exploring. He glanced at Rachida and saw that she was staring at Aprodia as intently as Patrick had.

  The soundless dance kicked up in tempo, the priestess thrashing about as if she were caught in a cyclone that would surely rip her from the ground and send her shooting into the heavens. She leapt from the stage, amazingly not landing on any of the spectators, and continued to gyrate as she made her way around the room. Her hands caressed her body, moving over her nipples, her stomach, her hips, her sex. She stopped a few feet from where Patrick and Rachida sat, thrashing her head around so violently that her hair became a blur, and then reached down and slipped a finger inside herself. Patrick’s jaw dropped open. The priestess began to shudder, working her hand up and down, round and round, yelps and hisses escaping her tightly clenched teeth.

  Patrick discomfort grew, yet Rachida’s eyes were still locked on the scene playing out a few mere feet from them. He noticed her hand was inching closer and closer to down there. He hesitated before leaning toward her and whispering, “Um, Rachida, we should go.”

  Rachida was snapped from her trance.

  “Now?” she said, sounding disappointed. “The service isn’t over.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t…this isn’t for me, I think.”

  Rachida’s face froze, then spread into a smile. Patrick was beyond relieved.

  “Very well,” she said. “I understand.”

  By then Aprodia had moved on to the other side of the room, continuing with her unabashed, animalistic cries and shrieks. Patrick helped Rachida to her feet, and together they maneuvered through the maze of grinding and copulating couples.

  It wasn’t until they’d exited the cramped passageway that Patrick realized that the inside of the temple reeked of sweat and unwashed bodies
. He looked at Rachida, who bore an odd expression on her face. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but before he could, she grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him along the circular path. She seemed hurried now, frantic. She banged on a succession of wooden doors as they passed them by, hearing the surprised yelps of those within.

  “What are you doing?” Patrick asked, winded from both the odd sexual show he’d just witnessed and the effort it took his short legs to keep up with her much longer ones.

  Instead of answering, Rachida continued with her frenzied running and pounding on doors. Then she suddenly stopped short, and it took Patrick a second to grasp the reason—the last door had given no answer. She grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and then pulled Patrick inside.

  The room was small and stank like the inside of the temple had, offset somewhat by a stick of incense burning on the table in the corner. The only other furniture was a slender cot. Rachida stood before him, trembling, her fingers nervously tapping just below her breasts. The tentative yet restless look in her eyes worried him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I like you,” she replied, the words spurting out. “I need to be with you. Now. Right here.”

  Patrick was speechless.

  “Please, Patrick. This is important.”

  “Well…I…um…what about your husband?” he finally managed.

  Rachida waved her hand dismissively, though her gaze still danced with edginess.

  “Peytr is my husband in name only. It is a matter of convenience and no more. His interests lie elsewhere…as do mine.”

  Tentatively, Patrick reached out and touched her. She closed her eyes, still shaking, and let him. Part of him wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be doing this, but his bewildered mind berated that part of himself into submission. His thick fingers lifted the straps of her satin dress and slid them off her shoulders. The dress dropped, stealing down her body, exposing her bareness underneath. Patrick gasped when he looked at her. She was perfect in every way.