Dawn of Swords (10 page)

It was then Karak left her, kissing her lightly on the forehead before stepping into the darkness of the northern road, no doubt riding the shadows to his temple far across the city. Soleh whirled around when he disappeared, her feet light as feathers. She danced through the worshiping populace, down the boulevard and across the cobbled walk. Her soft-soled shoes barely touched ground. She didn’t notice the people around her, exiting pubs and closing their shops for the evening. All recollection of the day’s docket left her mind, as did the memory of Gronk Hordan and his ugly demise. She didn’t care that she’d forgotten to remove her Minister’s cloak. Only one thought circled in her mind, and she whispered it again and again while she danced.

He is back! My Lord is back! Karak has returned to me.

She danced all the way to the Tower Keep in the center of the city, the place she had called home for the last forty years. It was a solemn building, designed by Jacob Eveningstar, the First Man,
before he took up residence on the western side of the Rigon River. The tower had originally been intended to serve as the inner sanctum of the palace of the king, but Karak had built only half of it before deciding it was not lavish enough to inspire awe and obedience in the populace. Its cold gray walls were unwelcoming; its height and angularity, strangely dour; and the spire that rose into the night sky was like a fist constantly shaking at the city in anger. But Soleh didn’t care, for her Lord was back. Karak had returned to her.

She threw open the door to the keep and slipped inside, spinning and singing and stomping her feet. The sound of clanking reached her ears, and she knew immediately what it meant. When she stepped into her husband’s studio, the candles were lit on the walls, and the space was filled with the smell of the oils and acids used for curing stone. She tiptoed around chunks of discarded rock and sediment, and dozens of statues of her god, exacting replicas carved from mica, onyx, and marble. A few of the statues showed Karak flanked by Kayne and Lilah. On the wall beyond the main workstation, resting on a slightly raised platform, hung a huge painting crafted with unmatched skill and detail. At the center of an elaborate landscape swirled a giant portal, a great fire burning within it. Standing before the portal were the brother gods, one blond and the other brown-haired. Perched on the clouds above was a woman with hair as black as coal and eyes that were empty orbs of shadow. The painting had been created by the brother gods as a way of commemorating their arrival on Dezrel. It showed them with Celestia in front of the gateway that had brought them into this world. The painting had hung on that very wall since Karak began building the Tower Keep decades ago. It was the only work in the entire studio that had not been created by the sculptor who resided there.

At the center of it all was that sculptor, hacking away at a tall block of jet with his hammer and chisel. Soleh tiptoed up behind Ibis and slid her hands around his waist.

“Soleh, darling, you’re home,” said her husband.

She stepped back, giving him room to turn around. His eyes, jaw, hair, and physique were all perfect imitations of the statues he carved and installed throughout the city. He was Karak’s absolute likeness, albeit in a smaller body. In the days after Karak and Ashhur created humanity, they gave each of the First Four a clay ewer with which to forge their mate. It was the first and only time a human had been granted the power of a god. Soleh, who had loved her creator since the moment she opened her eyes and saw his face, chose to make Ibis in his image. In a way, she told herself, he was like Karak made flesh, made flesh yet again.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, coyly.

“What is it?” asked Ibis.

Soleh backed away, beckoning him with her finger.

“In time,” she purred. “But first, you must catch me.”

It was a game they’d played since the very beginning of their ninety-three years of marriage. She tore off her cloak, spun around, and darted up three flights of stairs, heading for their chambers. By the time she reached their bed, she was already naked and soaked with sweat. And when Ibis leapt atop her, she took him into her arms and held him close, smelling his sweat, feeling his strength, allowing herself to pretend that he was the god he’d been molded to resemble.

My Lord is back
, she thought as he kissed lines across her neck.
Karak has returned to me.

C
HAPTER

5

T
he girl moaned and thrashed her head while she rode him, her hair a sweat-soaked mess that whipped from side to side. Her young, slender body glistened in the candlelight, and her breasts bounded with each seductive motion. She couldn’t be more than sixteen. She kept her eyes closed the entire time, shouting his name as she traced the outline of his body with tense hands. That alone convinced Patrick DuTaureau she was faking it. He’d experienced sincere lovemaking a few times before, most recently with a blind woman during a fishing trip to the seaside town of Conch. Not that this girl’s fakery mattered much to him. The illusion did its job, and he felt his gut tighten. He shot his seed deep inside her, grinding his teeth and groaning as the girl let out a wild screech and threw back her head.

When it was over, the girl slid off him and lay on her back, giggling into her fists. She began singing a quiet tune, one her mother had most likely sung to her when she was just a babe. The innocence in her voice was enough to remind Patrick of how youthful she really was, forty-nine years his junior. He rolled away from her, slipping his feet over the side of the bed. The elation of the lovemaking
faded quickly, his constant physical torment seeping back into the hidden chambers of his body. He dropped his head into his hands, stroked the knobbiness of his eyebrows, and abruptly stood. His sudden ascent from the downy mattress brought a surprised yelp from the girl, but she went right on singing a moment later.

Patrick wandered across the room, eyes downcast and gait lurching, and poured himself a glass of wine. He reached for the water pitcher next and splashed some water over his face. It was warm and not at all refreshing. He wiped the water off his flesh with an old tunic that was draped over the side of the basin. His fingers brushed the lumps above his eyes, his wide jaw, and the nonexistent slope of his sunken chin. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to Ashhur before finally lifting his gaze to the silver mirror hanging above the basin.

He stared at his ugliness head-on, ignoring his misshapen face, the welts covering his mottled skin, and the hideous, fang-like appearance of the crooked teeth in his much-too-wide mouth. What mattered was atop his head, the thatch of blood-red hair that coiled at odd angles like the tentacles of a sea beast. He leaned in closer, observing every strand as he worked his fingers through the untidy mop.

“Come on,” he muttered, turning his head from one side to the other, frantically searching for a single strand of gray. His younger sister Brigid had told him she’d found her first silver mere moments after lying with her husband for the first time. Patrick didn’t know how many times he had lain with a woman, but it had to be over a hundred by now.

Perhaps you simply haven’t met the perfect someone, a girl who will love you completely in return.

Brigid was fond of saying that each time he complained about his dilemma. Patrick glanced over his knotted shoulder, watching the young, naked girl roll back and forth on the bed, knees held to her chest. She was certainly beautiful, but Brigid was right. She
wasn’t the perfect one for him.
How long will I need to search?
he wondered.
How long will this go on?

Forever
was the answer that trickled into his head, for he knew no girl could truly love him, not with his twisted spine, hunched back, monstrous hands, uneven legs, and repulsive face. He was an immortal monster who wished for mortality, who loved his family and his god and wished to experience
life
, not the repetitive droll of agelessness that had beleaguered him ever since his eighteenth birthday, the day his body had stopped growing. The way he understood it, only the love of someone other than Ashhur could cure him of this plague called
forever
. He wanted to grow old, to grow wise, and eventually to die a natural death. It was all he dreamed about.

The girl on the bed continued her repetitive swaying, the song on her lips much louder now. Patrick turned away from the mirror and faced her, and the expanse of the stone floor between them seemed like a thousand miles.

“What
are
you doing?” he asked.

The girl stopped her rocking and sat up on the bed. She caught sight of him in the flickering light of the candelabra and grimaced for the briefest moment. It was a look she smoothed away as fast as she could, with a quick shake of her head. The smile that stretched across her face was genuine, but he sensed the repulsion hidden beneath it. She deliberately slid her legs downward, parting them somewhat, and arched back her shoulders.

“I was quickening the seed,” she replied almost sheepishly, which sounded outlandish given her pose. “I’m going to have a child of a First Family.” She stroked her stomach, which shimmered with moisture. “I can feel it working already. In here.”

Patrick laughed, holding his deformed face in his hand.

“What you’re feeling is most likely indigestion from the shrimp we ate earlier, or maybe a bit too much of wine. Either way, you aren’t with child. Not mine, anyway.”

The girl looked confused. “Why is that, sir?”

“My seed is as ruined as myself, I fear. I can have no children.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m sixty-five years old. I have bedded many women, and none of them have quickened.”

“Oh.” The girl’s lower lip quivered. She looked like someone who had just stepped in a pile of manure. “I didn’t know.”

Patrick limped toward her and hunched down, getting on one knee and taking her hand in his. She recoiled once more but did an admirable job of keeping her composure.

“Was that why you came here?” he asked. “To beget a child?”

The girl nodded.

He frowned. “You might have told me so. I would have been honest with you.”

“But I thought,” she said, her voice shaky, “I thought you’d be insulted, sir.”

“Ha! Look at me, girl. Take a good look. I’d have bedded you even if you were only doing it to take revenge on a jilted lover. Trust me; in matters of sex, I’m not picky.” He leaned back and held his arms out wide to prove his point. “I can’t afford to be.”

That elicited a laugh from the girl. She brought her fist to her mouth and sucked on her knuckle for a moment before saying, “I apologize for exploiting you, sir.”

Patrick guffawed. “Really, there was nothing to exploit. I enjoyed myself. Did you?”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose so, sir.”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Fantastic. Glad I could be of service, Bethany. And stop calling me
sir
. That is a knight’s title, and in this world knights only exist in the Wardens’ stories. Just one person here calls himself that, and if I’m being honest, that man is something of a prick.”

“Um, my name’s Brittany, sir…sorry…what do I call you?”

“Patrick is fine. It is my name, after all. And I apologize for forgetting yours.”

“’Tis all right, sir. I mean Patrick.”

Patrick rose unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the gray hemp shift the girl had been wearing off the floor. He tossed it to her. “You should get dressed. I’m sure your father is quite worried about you by now.”

Brittany slipped the shift over her head, gradually covering up that wonderful body of hers. She seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave.

“You’re right, I should be getting home. But don’t worry about Father. He’s most likely at temple praying. He and Mother do that every night. It’s only just dark, and they don’t usually get home until later in the evening.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Patrick.

Hurriedly, Brittany gathered up her sandals, slinging them over her shoulder. She breezed past him, but Patrick seized her arm lightly, stopping her in her tracks.

“Do you think you could ever love someone like me?” he asked. He knew how pathetic the question sounded, but he needed to ask it.

Brittany lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“I thought not. Good night, Brittany.”

“Good night, Patrick,” she replied, and hastened for the exit. Her footfalls were already halfway down the hall when the door to his room slammed shut.

“By Ashhur,” he muttered. “At least she was a good lay.”

He immediately regretted his words and offered a silent apology to his god. A chill came over his naked body as he thought again of how the girl had called him
sir
. He was a good man—Ashhur insisted he was—but was he truly noble?
Could
he be noble? He had his doubts.

With this in mind he walked across the room and reached for the sword leaning against his bedpost—a long, gleaming, silver mammoth of a blade that had been given to him twelve years before, when he had escorted his sister Nessa through the southern marshlands on the other side of Ashhur’s Bridge. She’d been nineteen at the time, the youngest DuTaureau by nearly three decades. Obsessed with wildlife, Nessa had wanted to look at the giant water lizards that congregated on the banks of the tributaries, warming their bellies beneath the intense southern sun.

It was during their journey home with a disappointed Nessa—the water lizards had been chased out of the area by the burgeoning township of Haven—that they stumbled upon a pack of bandits attacking a horse and carriage bearing the banners of Karak. The bandits were chopping at the wooden cart with their swords and daggers as someone shouted desperately from inside. Patrick left Nessa sitting astride her horse and rushed to the aid of the helpless occupant of the carriage, moving much more quickly than anyone would have believed him capable. Though he had no fighting experience other than wrestling Bardiya Gorgoros—the other freak of Ashhur’s First Families—he’d been able to hold off the bandits until a beautiful and strong young man leapt from within the wagon, a huge sword in his hands. Together they fended off the thieves, leaving them to flee, bloodied and beaten, into the swamp. The tip of the young man’s sword still dripped blood when Patrick approached him. The stranger introduced himself as Crian Crestwell, son of Clovis and Lanike of House Crestwell, one of Karak’s First Families. Crian had dropped to his knees, thanked Patrick for his help, and handed him his sword as a token of appreciation. “The smith calls it Winterbone, as it was forged in the snows of the northern mountains that bear the name of my family,” the young man had said. “It is a good blade. It will never dull.” And with that young Crian Crestwell departed, leaving a
kiss on the back of Nessa’s hand as his final parting gift. The girl had blushed for weeks afterward.