Her eyes reflect the glimmer of the western sea, her cheeks are spotted with the stars above, and around her head is a ring of fire, the lion had said, and before him stood a woman with blazing green eyes, skin dotted with ruby freckles, and the reddest hair Geris had ever seen. Even her clothing seemed wrong—much too tightly fit, displaying her womanly form in a way more appropriate to the Temple of the Flesh.
Ahaesarus turned to face the woman. “I am sorry, Lady DuTaureau,” he said frantically. He seemed to be afraid of her, even though he stood more than a full head taller. “I fear we have pressed Kingling Felhorn too much given his recent illness.”
Shock filled Geris, making his elbows quaver. One of Ashhur’s first creations was the witch of whom the dream-lion spoke? It didn’t seem possible, not until he gazed back into her hardened expression, which had not changed even after Ahaesarus’s plea for understanding. She looked at him not as a person to be cared for, but as a thing to be tolerated, perhaps even loathed. It reminded him of the way his father looked at the rake beside the door to their hut when it came time to clean out the firepit. Geris began to mutter to himself, strange words even he didn’t understand, unintelligible sounds like those of a wild beast. And still his heart beat out of control. Not even his mother, who knelt beside him, anxiously swiping the hair from his forehead, could do anything to stop it.
“What’s wrong with him?” another voice asked, and then Ben Maryll appeared, strolling past Geris with Sir Baedan by his side. The crowd remained hushed, looking on with curious dread. Geris glanced at his friend and fellow kingling, taking in his coldly inquiring expression. It was then Geris noticed how slender his old friend had become: where once Ben Maryll had tended toward plumpness, now he possessed the lean body of an athlete. The well-developed muscles in his neck flexed when he bent his head downward.
All that change in two months? It didn’t seem possible. The lion was right. Ben wasn’t Ben. He was the imposter.
The visions of death and destruction that had been imparted to him filled his mind, and Geris screamed. He scrambled to his feet, tossing aside the restraining grasp of his mother, and ran full bore into Sir Baedan’s hip. His sudden actions caught the head steward off guard, knocking him backward. Senses overridden by terror and desperation, Geris gripped the ivory handle of Sir Baedan’s dagger and ripped it from its sheath. A shriek tore out from the crowd, followed by another, but everyone was too shocked to actually do anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geris knew that violence was not expected. This was Ashhur’s land, the land of healers and Wardens and forgiveness. No one would know how to react, which would give him the time he needed to do what he had been chosen to do—save Paradise from the witch and her deceiving bastard child.
Ben was closest to him, his eyes wide with shock, and Geris charged. He held Sir Baedan’s blade out wide, the handle fitting snugly in his grip, as if he had always been destined to hold it. Ben backed away, exhibiting some of his newfound athleticism, until he clumsily bumped into a chair and nearly fell over. Geris was there to break his fall, grabbing his false friend by the hair and pulling him upright.
His blade pressed against a now sobbing Ben Maryll’s throat, drawing a sliver of blood that trickled down the boy’s neck and saturated the front of his white tunic.
“He’s an imposter!” Geris yelled, his voice cracking. He wanted them to see this, needed everyone gathered in the hall to bear witness as he exposed the charlatan for what he—or it—truly was. He bore down harder, sliding the dagger across flesh, opening a tiny mouth that yawned when Ben thrust his head back, trying to escape Geris’s grip. But Geris was fueled by something different now, something meaningful. He was fueled by destiny, by duty, by the need to be the savior.
Strong hands gripped him from behind. They yanked him off the screeching boy and lifted him into the air. The dagger clanked on the dining hall floor, covered with slick, red wetness. Ben collapsed to his knees, covering his neck with both hands as blood spilled between his fingers. Others—including Sir Baedan, the witch, and her look-alike lover—rushed to the imposter’s aid. Geris grinded his teeth, growled, and tried to free himself from his captor’s grasp, but their hands were too strong.
“Are you mad!” he heard Ahaesarus shout. “What have you done?”
His body was thrown to the floor and then spun around. He faced the two Wardens, the normally pallid flesh of their cheeks flushed red. Ahaesarus reared back and backhanded him across the face, causing one of his teeth to puncture his tongue, drawing blood. All the while his mother sobbed in the background, comforting his sisters while she watched Ben’s parents join those who were trying to save their son’s life. The white linens they pressed against the imposter’s neck quickly turned a deep crimson.
“Someone get Daniel!” the witch shouted, frantic now that her imposter was dying. “Get him quickly!”
“There is no time!” shouted Ahaesarus. “I will do it. Judarius, handle this…this boy.”
Ahaesarus flung him into Judarius’s arms, then rushed to the Ben’s side. Judarius dragged him out the door by the throat. Geris protested, trying to warn them of what the dreams had told him, to convince them to let him finish the job he had started, but Judarius’s grip was too strong. He could not form words of any kind, he could only thrash and wail and scream.
CHAPTER
27
As he strolled into the solarium of the Gemcroft Mansion, the first thing Patrick thought when his eyes came to rest on Peytr Gemcroft was that he was a beautiful man. He hadn’t seen the merchant since Peytr’s arrival in the delta four days earlier, but now that he did, he could see that he and Rachida were well matched. The man’s hair was close-cropped and black with a few flecks of white, his skin the lightest shade of peach, his eyes a deep, soulful brown, his features delicate but strong. Just beautiful, through and through. And strong of voice as well.
“I do not agree,” said the merchant. “It is folly.”
“Says the man who has spent perhaps five days in Haven over the past year,” snapped Deacon.
There were three of them sitting around the table—Peytr, Lord Coldmine, and Moira. None of them lifted their eyes to him as he approached the table. It was clear that their argument was all that mattered to them.
“You don’t understand, Peytr,” said Moira. “Must we turn our back on our ideals, on our way of life? And for what?”
“It seems to me it is pride you speak of, not ideals,” replied the merchant.
Deacon growled. “What do you know of pride? We are protecting our freedom, nothing more.”
“Yet you do not wish to protect your lives,” said Peytr.
“No, obviously our lives are important.” Moira placed her hand on his arm. “But if we give up our homes and our beliefs, we go back to being slaves. What are our lives worth then? Did we not leave Neldar for that very purpose? Why give it all back now?”
“Because the fight is hopeless. You all know this. You need to either tear down the temple or flee. There is no other choice.”
“There is always a choice!” shouted Deacon.
Sighing, Patrick closed his eyes and began tapping his foot on the marble floor. Still no one looked at him. It was as though he were invisible again.
Impatience grew in his belly, a tight knot slowly unwinding, fraying his nerves. He was getting too used to feeling this way. Ever since Nessa had left Haven eleven days ago, it had become his natural state of being. He had spent his days penning letter after letter. He wrote to his mother, the Warden Pontius, Master Clegman, and anyone else he knew in the west who might assure him of his sister’s safe arrival. He had received no answer to his queries. Of course, eleven days was hardly enough time for a letter to return to him, but that did nothing to quell his anxiety.
He knew he was being foolish. Nessa was with Crian, the very man who had handed him Winterbone so many years before. Crian was a good man with a good heart who loved Nessa entirely, at least according to Moira. So
long as they made it out of the delta, Patrick knew no harm would come to them. It was irrational to be as worried as he was, but he was worried nonetheless. No one had gone with them when they left Lord Coldmine’s estate, and no one had escorted them to Ashhur’s Bridge. Anything might have happened between here and there.
That isn’t all, and you know it, he thought, feeling pathetic.
What bothered him more than anything was how much of Nessa’s life had been hidden from him. She and Crian had been carrying on a secret love affair for more than a decade, according to Moira. She told him how Crian had courted her, taking leave of his duties to both god and kingdom to spend a few fleeting moments with her in the soggy bog of the delta. It made for a beautiful, tragic story, but it also made Patrick jealous. No matter how loyal and dedicated Crian was, no matter how much the eastern deserter loved his sister, the one person Patrick loved almost as much as his god had been stolen away…and he hadn’t even had the chance to say good-bye. His darker half insisted that all of Nessa’s sweet talk about how important he was to her had been lies. It was silly and childish, but Patrick had to find out for certain that she was all right. He needed confirmation.
The argument between the three seated at the table grew louder. Patrick placed Winterbone on the floor, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Still nary an eye turned to him. He drummed his fingers on the table, but still they did not address him.
“Then what of the young?” shouted Peytr. “An honorable man would at the least protect the innocent.”
That statement brought a pause to the conversation, and Patrick leaned forward, sensing an opening for his voice to be heard, but then Deacon thumped his fist against the table.
“Honor,” Deacon grumbled. “Will honor fill our bellies? Will honor slay the army that threatens us, that will chase us wherever we flee? What of preserving what is right?”
Frustrated, Patrick slumped, his hunched spine pressing against the hard back of his chair. Moira joined in, making the same argument as Deacon. Peytr rolled his eyes as their voices assaulted him, but he didn’t back down. His posture remained rigid, his gaze strong.
Finally, Patrick had had enough. He reached down and picked Winterbone up off the floor. Without removing the heavy sword from its scabbard, he slammed the iron-plated tip against the solarium’s marble tiles. The ensuing clang stopped the argument mid-complaint, all eyes turning to him.
“Aaaah, silence,” he muttered, and returned the sword to its resting position.
Peytr eyed him queerly, the attractive man’s expression impossible to interpret. Moira’s gaze dropped while she picked up her wooden mug in shaking hands and took a sip. Deacon fumed silently, his shoulders rising and falling, his cheeks red with frustration. He stared at Patrick as if he’d just levied a vile insult against his mother.
“What?” Deacon growled.
“So you’re finally acknowledging my presence,” Patrick said. “Good to know that I’m not fucking invisible.”
Peytr cocked his head to the side, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his plump lips.
“Patrick DuTaureau, I presume?” he said. “Your reputation—and your language—precedes you.”
Patrick nodded and offered his hand, which Peytr accepted.
“State your business, man,” said Deacon, impatience burning in his eyes. “Can you not see that we have much to discuss?”
“I see no discussion,” Patrick replied. “I see three people screaming at each other.”
Deacon leaned forward, his face beet red, his knuckles white as he gripped the table. He looked as though he were ready to leap over the top and crash into him head on. It was Moira who calmed him, placing her slender, waifish fingers on the older man’s back. She leaned over and whispered into Deacon’s ear, and he grunted and sat back.
Patrick hadn’t moved during Deacon’s outburst and was still slouched in his chair, his heavy arms dangling by his sides. Of the many things Corton Ender had taught him during their daily training sessions—sessions that had been on hold since Nessa’s departure—the one that had stuck with him most was that his oddly powerful upper body gave him a marked advantage in hand-to-hand combat. Deacon was strong and athletic despite his age, but Patrick was stronger.
Peytr turned to fully face him. Patrick took in the man’s expression, which was remarkably similar to the one he and Bardiya would have as they studied odd-looking insects during their formative years.
“Please,” Peytr said, “there is no need for sarcasm or accusations. We might not agree with each other, but I assure you that every man at this table—I apologize for the designation, Moira, dear—holds the utmost respect for the others. Many apologies if it seemed otherwise to you.”
Patrick grunted.
Deacon shook his head and exhaled loudly. Moira shot him a look, and he straightened his posture.
“Yes, yes, that is true,” he said, his voice calmer now. “I’m sorry for not greeting you sooner. Please, tell me why you’ve come.”
“My sister,” said Patrick. Peytr developed a confused expression, but Moira offered him a sympathetic nod. Deacon, meanwhile, shuffled his feet beneath the table, blinking rapidly.
“And?” the older man said, strangely nervous.
Patrick hesitated, taken aback by the sudden change in Deacon’s attitude.
“I…well, I think it is time for me to leave,” he finally said. “I wish to head west to look for her. I fear for her safety.”
Deacon let out a long sigh.
“You are being rash, young DuTaureau. Crian is a capable young man. They love each other. Nessa will be safe with him. Whatever in Ashhur’s Paradise could harm them?”
“Even so, I would like to see her one last time. I was never given the chance, due to…well…other activities.”
Other activities being his glorious night with Rachida, which he didn’t dare mention with her husband, Peytr, in the room. He felt his neck flush; it hurt him to know that his little rendezvous had cost him the chance to bid farewell to his beloved little sister.
“So be it, then,” Deacon said. “You don’t need my permission to run off to find her. You aren’t a prisoner here. You can leave any time you wish.”
Patrick shrugged. “That is true, I suppose. However, my horse is locked in your stables, Deacon, and she is the only mare accustomed to my condition.” He stood up and leaned forward, bowing in respect. “I just wish to have her returned to me, and your new stable hand refused me when I asked. Odd of him to do so, considering I have been a guest in your home for some time.”
Deacon nodded.
“I apologize, that was my fault. The old stable hand decided to run off to Corton and be a soldier. Johan just came into my employ yesterday, and he knows you not. The mare is all yours again if you wish to retrieve her. I will make sure of that once I return home. You can depart this evening if you wish, tomorrow at the latest.”
“Thank you,” Patrick replied.
Moira leapt up from her chair, knocking it backward with a sudden clatter that made Patrick flinch. Her pale cheeks were flushed when she said, “But you cannot leave, Patrick. We need you here.”
“Let the man go,” said Deacon dismissively, tugging on her sleeve.
“I will not,” she replied, and pulled away from the older man’s grip. She faced Patrick once more. “Why would you choose to leave now, Patrick? It’s less than a month away from the next full moon, when Karak’s Army promised to return. Corton has said you are his best pupil, the most natural with a sword he has ever seen. We need you. And besides, were you not instructed to come here? Is this not where your god wishes you to be?”
Patrick shrugged. “To be honest, Moira, I’m not sure why I am here. I haven’t spoken with Ashhur in years. It was Eveningstar who sent me here, under instructions to convince you all to tear down that temple, though I’ve struggled with that task since I arrived. It seems as though I’ve joined you instead. The temple still stands, and none of you have any i
ntention of tearing it down anytime soon. I’ve clearly failed at what I was sent here to do.” He glanced at Peytr, who now held a glum expression. “I apologize, but in all honesty, I have no horse in this fight. I am no soldier, and though Corton may say I am good at it, I have no desire for violence. All I wish to do, beyond making sure that my sister and Crian made it home safely, is to return to Paradise. What I do not desire is to lose my life protecting a temple dedicated to fucking.”
Patrick bent over, picked up Winterbone, and offered Peytr a cursory nod before turning on his heels and strolling awkwardly out of the room. He heard footsteps follow after him as he walked down the hallway. He anticipated that it would be Moira, pleading with him to stay, but when he turned, ready to offer his best dismissive words, Peytr was the one standing there. Patrick expected him to be angry, but he seemed appreciative instead.
“Yes?” Patrick asked.
Peytr’s hand came up, soft, powdered fingers stroking the knotted flesh on the side of Patrick’s face. His touch was as delicate as a lover’s, which made Patrick feel somewhat uncomfortable. As if sensing this, Peytr pulled his hand away.
“I understand your decision,” the merchant said. “And I do not wish to change your mind. In fact, I wish you had convinced my people to tear down that monstrosity. I do not know why it was constructed in the first place. At times it seems as though Deacon is trying to test Karak’s patience.”
“He obviously succeeded.”
“That he did,” said Peytr with a nod. “And I will not be here to reap what he has sown. I will be gathering my wife and some…others who are important to me…and heading to the Pebble Islands. I have another estate there, and the ocean will keep us safe for a time.”
Dawn of Swords Page 41
