“Why are you telling me this?” Patrick asked hesitantly.
Peytr shrugged. “I suppose I just wish to thank you. I understand that Rachida holds the utmost respect for you, and you are very special to her. It means a great deal to me that you have been a companion for her. I know how lonely it can be for a wife when her husband is gone for months at a time.”
Peytr smiled then, and it was sincere. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.
“Not a problem,” he said. “Not in the slightest.”
“I thought not,” replied Peytr with a wink. “She is a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in all the land. Even someone like me can admit that.”
After saying his piece, the merchant turned to leave.
“And by the way, Master DuTaureau,” he called out over his shoulder before disappearing into one of the adjacent hallways. “I know you think yourself ugly, but you are not. You are simply different. Remember that.”
And then he was gone. Patrick shook his head, looked to make sure no one else was coming to stall him, and exited through the mansion’s back door. The early afternoon air kissed his flesh, pricking his neck. It was a cool day, the humidity bearable for once. It will get much colder soon, he thought, and the memory of Mordeina’s frigid winter nights made him wrap his oversized arms around himself.
He strolled through the rear courtyard until he found Rachida sitting on a wooden bench, tossing bits of bread into the stream that lolled along lazily behind the Gemcroft mansion. Gulls, geese, and whippoorwills—the latter of which were thankfully silent, as their incessant nightly tweeting had brought him close to insanity on many an evening—swooped down, snatching the bits of bread from the water, swallowing each in a single gulp.
Rachida was, of course, a vision of splendor. On this day she wore a simple white dress that flowed around her body like the water in the stream below, hinting ever so slightly at the exquisite shape hidden beneath. Her dark hair draped lazily over her shoulders, and a stray sunray pierced the canopy above, shining only on her shoulder, turning the wisp of hair that rested there a brilliant gold.
She didn’t look up as he approached, keeping her focus on feeding the birds. Patrick dropped his sword onto the grass, slid onto the bench beside her, and sat back. It was amazing that he still felt comfortable around her after their excursion to the temple, but it was true. Every other woman he had lain with had treated him differently afterward, whereas Rachida acted as if nothing had changed. He appreciated that, but sometimes he wondered if it were truly better. It was as if their time together was so unmemorable that it had been wiped from her memory altogether. And seeing the way she acted with Moira, the way the two women brushed up against each other, their gazes lingering far too long, made her lack of interest in him all the more painful.
Some things are for the best, he thought.
Patrick shivered and leaned forward, waiting for her to make the first move. She did, slowly turning her head toward him, gazing on him as if she were busy contemplating one of life’s grand mysteries.
“What did they say?” she asked.
“Deacon told me to meet him later,” he replied. “I will fetch the mare this evening and be on my way.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “I will miss you.”
“All my ladies claim that,” Patrick said with a chuckle. “I never believe them.”
Rachida paused for a moment and began rubbing her stomach.
“You do understand that we will likely never see each other again?” she said, her alluring eyes staring blankly ahead. “You will go and live your life in Paradise, and I will die here, defending my home from whatever may come.”
“That’s…that’s nonsense,” Patrick said, a lump rising in his throat. “You aren’t staying here. You aren’t fighting. Your husband is bringing you to his estate in the Pebble Islands. He told me as much only a few minutes ago.”
She laughed, though it was a humorless sound.
“Yes, Peytr tries to play the nobleman. He will demand I come, but when I decline, he will go off with his lover, Bryce, leaving me behind with only a token argument.”
Patrick shook his head. “But why are you staying?” he asked, incredulous. “And why were you in such a rush to get pregnant if you were planning to simply throw it all away a month later?”
She shrugged. “I am an idealist. I never thought it would come to this.”
“But what will you gain from your obstinacy? You owe these people nothing!”
“Oh, but I do. I owe Moira my love, and I refuse to leave her to die.” She glanced down at her hand, which still rubbed the satiny fabric over her belly. “And I refuse to run from my home, and the home of my child. Should I die protecting Haven, at least he will die with me without having to exist in a world where men and women are slaves to the ones that created them.”
Patrick froze.
“Your child?”
She looked at him then, and her eyes blazed with compassion. “Yes, my child, Patrick. The one you gave to me.”
“You mean…it actually worked?”
Grabbing his hand, she guided it until it rested atop her stomach. His fingers slid over the fabric, feeling the hint of flesh underneath.
“Yes, Patrick. The spell worked. Your seed found purchase, and now a life is growing inside me. Here, let me show you.”
She reached up with her free hand and gently touched him on his right temple. She closed her eyes and began breathing heavily, muttering words he didn’t understand.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered as bright light assaulted Patrick’s vision. “And see.”
He did, and he saw what was inside of her, a tiny, beating heart within a clump of matter the shape of a bean. The bean rested within a nest of fluid, surrounded by a clear wall that contained an interconnected web of pulsing red lines. The image overwhelmed him. Never before had he seen life in the way he was seeing it now, and his heart filled with joy.
A child, he thought. A son. I have been granted a son.
Rachida pulled her fingers away from him, and the image shattered. He was once more in the rear of the courtyard, sitting on the bench before the stream. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he looked blindly at the splendor all around them. He reached out for her, but she backed away. His hand fell from her stomach, whacking against the wooden bench with a thud.
“The child is yours, but it is not,” Rachida said, and he sensed she was trying to remain firm for some reason.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
She glanced down and began to rub her stomach again.
“This child, this miracle, is to be the only one of his kind, the offspring of two opposite yet equally perfect bloodlines. He will be a great leader of men, and he will carry Peytr’s name. Should we prevail when Karak comes for us, should we win our freedom, my son will be the one who leads humankind to greatness. It will be his destiny.” She looked at him then, and her front teeth bit into her plump lower lip. “I mean no disrespect, Patrick. You must understand. Peytr knows of our tryst, and he knows of my pregnancy, and he is at peace with it. Given his desires, he never wished to put a child in me, but he is more than happy to have an heir. However, only the three of us—you, my husband, and myself—know what actually transpired, and it must stay that way, for the good of the people our son will one day lead. Do you understand?”
Patrick shook his head. In truth, he didn’t. It tore him up inside. The impossible had happened, and he’d sired a child. Two of the different First Families had intermixed to create a life. Yet now, when he could finally have a son of his own, he was being told he must not have anything to do with it? Was this his lot in life, to remain a timeless freak who would forever be alone? Not even his child would know him. And if Rachida insisted on following the path she had chosen, the boy would never reach the light of day. He looked at her, saw the determination in her eyes, and knew he could never deny her what she wished. If it was to be his destiny to be immortal and loneso
me, then so be it.
Unless…
“I don’t care what you say,” he said. “You’re leaving.”
“What?”
“The only thing that matters is that this child lives. You will leave with Peytr, you will find safety on the islands, and you will only return if and when it is safe to do so.”
She squinted at him. “Is that so? And what of you?”
He thought of his sister, who had ridden off to Paradise with the man she loved. He had been foolish to worry, selfish for her company. She had left because she could, because it was her choice, just as it was his choice to do what he wanted. His actions had saved Crian’s life and allowed their love to blossom. Maybe, just maybe, he could help foster something that good again by saving his son.
“I will stay here,” he said, “and fight in your place, should it come to that.”
“You will?” she asked, her eyes widening.
Patrick nodded.
“But who will keep Moira safe?” she asked.
Patrick laughed.
“You really think Moira needs someone to keep her safe? She’s a better fighter than I am, but if it comforts you, I promise to protect her life with my own.”
“I…” Rachida looked flattered, and somewhat satisfied, by his offer. Yet still she protested.
“No,” she said. “No, I can’t leave Moira. I won’t. I love her too much.”
Grunting, Patrick tried one last gamble to get her to listen.
“Is that so?” he asked. “You say you love Moira too much to leave her…but what does she say? Does she wish you to stay or go?”
Rachida tossed another scrap of bread into the stream.
“She wants me to leave,” she said. “She wants me to be safe.”
Patrick put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. His head leaned against hers, and he enjoyed the gentle embrace, which lacked any sexual tension.
“If you love her, then perhaps you should listen to her,” he said. “Go, and feel no guilt. We live in a world where the gods walk among us. Perhaps we can forge ourselves a miracle. And if we fall, well…” He looked into her eyes. “You said your son will be a great leader. Perhaps he’ll be the one to make Karak regret his decision to ever come here.”
Rachida leaned into him, kissing his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said with a sly smile. “I think you’re manipulating me and just trying to spare me unhappiness…but at least you’re good at it.”
Patrick laughed.
“Now go pack your things,” he said. “I have a sneaking suspicion your phony husband is going to want to leave soon, and you will not be left behind.”
“You are one of the most wonderful creations in this world, or any,” she said, offering him one last kiss on the lips. “I will never forget this. Never.”
“I know,” he replied a second later, watching her as she walked away. He leaned back and threw his hands over the back of the wide bench.
“So,” he said to himself. “You’ve just volunteered to give your life fighting for a land you’ve barely lived in for a month, to protect a temple you would rather see torn to the ground, all because of your love for a woman who only used you for your seed. Patrick, you devil, I fear you’re getting dumber by the hour.”
He then thought of her words about manipulation and realized that he had most likely been the one who had been manipulated. Dumber indeed.
The funny thing was, he really didn’t mind all that much.
CHAPTER
28
As if the cold weren’t bad enough, dampness now soaked into Roland’s bones as he pressed against the jagged stone wall, knees to his chest, shivering. His lungs burned with each struggling breath and his heart raced. He felt like he was about to die, so intense was the pain that filled him. He had never experienced anything this horrible in all his life. He began to moan, the sound of his chattering teeth bouncing off the cave walls.
“Please stop,” Jacob’s voice said. “If you’re cold, put this on.”
Something heavy flew through the air, landing beside him with a wet plop. He drew his head out from between his knees and saw Jacob’s cloak lying in a heap next to him. He grabbed it, and though the outside was sodden, the inside was dry. He hurriedly draped it over his body, and after a momentary rush of even more coldness, his body began to warm ever so slightly. He stopped shivering, and even though his lungs still hurt, at least the rattle he’d felt earlier had dissipated.
“Better?”
Roland slid his back up the jagged wall until he could see over his knees. Candlelight flickered all around him, illuminating the rock formations that hung from the cave’s ceiling. Jacob was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, wearing nothing but his thin tunic. Somehow, he seemed oblivious to the cold. His dark hair hung in front of his face as he leaned over his journal, his blue eyes darting back and forth, absorbing the words he had just written therein. He’d held the same pose ever since they’d ducked into this cave in the mountainside after fleeing Uther Crestwell and Karak’s hidden army. Jacob had instantly yanked the journal and writing utensils from his rucksack and started scribbling away with his quill, dipping it into the inkwell as if possessed. When it came to his journal, the man was practically inhuman.
Every now and then they heard the shouts of their pursuers outside the cave walls, and more than once Roland had to plead with Jacob to extinguish his candle.
“Don’t worry, they will not find us,” his master said dismissively each time, and in the end the First Man had been right. No one had entered the cave, and the ruckus outside had died down to nothing.
It seemed like hours had passed, and yet Jacob still wrote as if his life depended on it. Every so often he lifted his head and rested the feather of his quill against his chin in thought, the light from the candle illuminating only his cheeks, making his eyes black voids of nothingness. Roland had asked him several times what was so important that he had to write it down right there and then, but Jacob simply brushed aside his questions and bent back over his journal. He wished his master would talk to him, if for no other reason than to distract him from the horrible images running through his mind, the memories of the ravine that just wouldn’t leave him alone.
The warmth gradually returned to his bones, thanks to his master’s cloak, and Roland stood up. He stretched his numb legs, cracked his sore spine, and wrapped the cloak more tightly around him. The roof of the cave was low, so he had to stoop a bit as he crossed the short expanse separating him and Jacob. The First Man didn’t look up from his work, not even when Roland’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“What is it?” Jacob asked, still jotting down letters in his tight scrawl.
“Please, master, just tell me what you’re doing.”
For a moment Jacob said nothing while his hand continued to craft words on the parchment, but finally he placed the quill on the damp stone beside his skinning knife and looked up at him.
“Done,” he said. There was a wide smile on his face.
“So.…”
Jacob shook his head, as if he’d momentarily forgotten where he was, and then said, “I apologize, Roland. I needed to document what we just witnessed while it was still fresh in my mind. The words the mad priest spoke, the gestures he made, the symbols they used, all of it.”
“But why?”
“Roland, you’ve known me your whole life,” Jacob replied. “When have I not written down the things I’ve learned?”
“But did you have to do it while we’re hiding from those who wish to kill us?”
“Come now, Roland,” said Jacob, shaking his head. “What should I have done? Huddled in the corner, afraid and unwilling to do anything about it? Ashhur forbid I find a way to pass the time instead of worrying about my beloved Brienna.”
Roland stepped back, his heart sinking in his chest. He felt his face drain of color, and his throat hitched. Jacob noticed this and shot to his feet, whacking his head against the ceil
ing of the cave in the process. He cursed and rubbed his wound.
“I’m so sorry, Roland,” he said afterward, wrapping his arms around him. “That was foolish of me. I need to remember that you have been sheltered…all of you have. You may be a man now, but inside you’re still a child, as are your mother, your father, and your siblings. None of you have seen the things I have, nor experienced your life nearing its end. I should be more understanding.”
“It’s all right,” Roland whispered into his master’s shoulder.
“No, it’s not. I was thoughtless and cruel. Now here, sit down and let me show you what I’ve written.”
“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” asked Roland. “We need to find out if Azariah and Brienna made it back all right. And someone needs to find out about that army!”
“Not now,” replied Jacob. “I’m sure Az and Brienna are fine. They’re more than capable, and the river’s current is strong, besides being a much more direct route than by foot. They’ve probably already told Turock about what we saw. Uther’s men may still be out there searching for us—in fact, I’m sure of it. I say we wait for daylight so that nothing can leap out at us from the darkness. Now sit down.”
Roland did, and for the next hour he listened to Jacob prattle on about his theories on ancient rituals, thin points in time, and bridges between worlds. The First Man tried to show him some of what he had documented, explaining his assumptions and conclusions about what they’d seen, but it was so far above Roland’s head that all he heard was gibberish. Jacob seemed agitated, however, and so Roland sat back, listened, and pretended he understood. He did not want to risk his master’s ire if he were made to repeat himself.
“But the best part,” Jacob said, “is that I think I have finally discovered the missing piece. For years I have searched for the missing words, the magical syllables and phrases that would allow for passage between one world and the next. It is obvious that Uther discovered such rites, for how else can we explain what happened tonight, that floating, fleshy portal above the ravine? It’s astounding, really.”
Dawn of Swords Page 42
