Dawn of Swords (16 page)

“Don’t know,” she said with a shrug.

As if to answer the question, Joseph Crestwell struggled to his feet and approached the side of their platform, blood still dripping from his chin. Aully saw that Neyvar Ruven had made his way down the stairs, and she shushed Kindren with a finger to her lips so that they could listen. They peered through the slat beneath the balustrade, watching as the elf and man shook hands.

“Thank you for that, Joseph,” the Neyvar said. “I’m sure my son will remember never to disregard his lessons…or underestimate an opponent.”

“A lesson learned in victory is the best lesson of all, especially for one so young. How old is the boy now?”

“Just turned ninety-five last season.”

Joseph offered a laugh. “He looks much younger.”

“A century isn’t even a third of the way through our lives. Elves of his age are no longer children, and many feel that they are beyond further learning. Which as you have seen, given the way he fought today, is an attitude he can ill afford.”

“For how lightly he has taken his studies,” Joseph said, rubbing his chin, “he still packs a wallop. Gods forbid he ever apply himself. Then he will be truly mighty. Now if it would please you, Neyvar,
I need ice for my chin and brandy for the pain. I fear your son may have cracked my jaw.”

“I’ll have a servant bring what you need to your room. Take rest, for we have much to discuss tomorrow.”

With that, the two men strode away from the platform and out of Aully’s vision. She sat up, and smoothed out the front of her chemise. Kindren echoed her movement, resting his back against the side panel of the balustrade and giving Aully a queer look.

“What was that all about?” he asked, and the way he asked it, full of wonder and confusion, made him seem younger than his sixteen years.

“Don’t know. Maybe that’s just how the Neyvar teaches his children lessons?”

Looking up at his own parents, who were watching the finals in the arena, Kindren said, “I’m glad
my
parents aren’t like that.”

“Me too,” said Aully.

They retook their seats and watched the rest of the night’s contests. By the time the last bout ended, the sky was dark and twinkling with stars. Palace Thyne lit up as if flames burned within its green crystal walls, illuminating the arena. The crowds began to file away, and an exhausted Aully stretched her arms high above her head and yawned.

“Long night,” said her betrothed.

“Sure was.”

His lips brushed her cheek, soft and tentative. Aully closed her eyes and let the sensation wash away the day. The competitions, the clang of steel, the human throwing his match—all became afterthoughts.

She turned to Kindren and gazed into his eyes; lit up by the glare of the palace, they looked like the surface of the ocean. She felt her face go hot and noticed that Kindren’s cheeks were red already. She placed her fingers on one of those cheeks, soaking in its warmth.

“I like you,” he said, his hand closing over hers.

“I like you too.”

“Thank Celestia, right? I thought I was going to hate you.”

Aullienna couldn’t help but laugh.

“Me too,” she said.

“But we don’t. And you’re going to stick around for a while, right?”

“Tonight? But my mother’s calling me for bed.”

His grin was infectious. “No, silly, not tonight. Tomorrow and the day after.”

Aully felt her nerves threaten to jangle, but she shoved the feeling down.

“I’ll be spending a lot of time here,” she said. “My parents are leaving in two months, but I don’t think I’m joining them. I think Dezerea is my home now.”

“It is,” said Kindren. “For now and forever. Does that scare you?”

“A little.”

“Don’t let it. I’ll be here. And there are some wonderful things in this city I can show you.”

“Like the crypts?”

“Like the crypts,” he said.

With that, Aully stepped on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on Kindren’s lips. She ran away from him afterward, giggling, the sound of her mother calling her to her quarters ringing in her ears.

C
HAPTER

8

T
he grass was soft against Bardiya Gorgoros’s rear end as he sat cross-legged beneath the shade of a cypress tree. His eyes faced north, locked on the slender Gods’ Road and the small cloud of dust that had formed in the distance. The Gods’ Road stretched the entirety of Ashhur’s Paradise, running diagonally down from the northwestern township of Drake until it crossed the Corinth River, cut through the grasslands of Ker, and reached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon Delta. From there it continued east, maintained by Karak’s people instead of Ashhur’s. The road was rarely traveled, and Bardiya knew this because he sat in that same spot beneath the soul tree almost every day, surrounded by mile upon mile of high plains grasses, to say his afternoon prayers to Ashhur. Only when an envoy from Mordeina or Safeway came calling was there any traffic at all. It was not that the two factions of Ashhur’s children did not get along or that they considered themselves separate. In truth, the lack of travel and cohabitation stemmed from one simple fact: almost everyone in Paradise lived perfect lives, and no one had no real desire to go anywhere other than where he or she had been raised.

Bardiya leaned back against the trunk of the soul tree, and his head struck a branch. He muttered and rubbed the spot. Glancing behind him, he looked at the many notches carved into the tree, the highest groove added only a month ago. Bardiya sighed.

He’d grown again.

Over his eighty-seven years of life, Bardiya had never stopped growing. Each year had meant another inch or two of height, ever since the day he was pulled from his mother’s womb, the first human child born in all of Dezrel. He now stood almost ten feet tall, towering over everyone. A few of the Kerrians thought his constant growth was a defect, but to the populace at large, the reasons for his gigantism were obvious: it was a sign of his undying belief in the teachings of his deity. Many whispered that Bardiya was Ashhur’s most devout follower, an assumption that Bardiya himself doubted. He could never explain to them the deep ache he felt in his bones from such constant growth. At times, he just wished the pain would end.

Yet he could not deny how much he loved his deity. He felt genuine peace only when he was by his god’s side, learning the virtues of forgiveness, family, honor, poise, and spiritual strength. He worshipped Ashhur completely, dedicating his life to his god’s service, eschewing even something so simple as the love of a woman. He had become a beacon for his people, showing them how to live at peace with the land, teaching them how to respect the nature of
all
gods and their creations, not just those of Ashhur. Bardiya lectured to his fellow worshippers that the antelopes, wolves, bovines, and horses that Celestia had created were just as important as their own friends and families. He even expressed a vast respect for Karak, the deity of the east.
He and Ashhur are brothers,
he was fond of saying,
and as such, they are both divine.

A thudding reached his ears, and he turned his gaze to the expanse of brown grass behind him. A large antelope, its antlers curved and regal, bounded through the swaying grasses. Chasing it were a group
of people clothed in simple cured skins, their hair braided and their dark skin beaded with sweat. They used their spears as walking sticks. It was a hunting party, led by Bardiya’s mother and father. The long pole for the day’s kill hung empty, but given the antelope’s exhaustion, it would not remain that way for long.

Hands rose in greeting, and Bardiya raised his own massive hand in return. The party knew better than to interrupt his prayers. His mother smiled up at him, her broad cheeks spread as wide as possible, and his father offered a gentle nod. Their ageless beauty, and the potency of their smiles, reflected the simple affection they held for their son. Bessus and Damaspia Gorgoros were dedicated to advancing their culture under the loving gaze of their god, so much so that they’d only had one child, eager as they were to devote their lives to leading their nation along the path of Ashhur.

Up ahead, the antelope slowed its frantic gallop, trudging through the field but keeping up a determined forward momentum. Bardiya watched as his father, Bessus, gestured for a young lady near the back of the party to come forward. The young girl approached them, the spear she held dwarfing her tiny frame. Bessus pointed to the antelope and mimicked a throwing motion. The girl followed his lead, her eyes focusing as she reared back, trying to stay upright while holding the much-too-long spear aloft. Two hopping steps, a thrust, and out soared the spear, wobbling as it flew.

The girl had been too slow, and the spear came in low, burying into the animal’s rear thigh with a faint squirt of red. The hunting party cheered, but their merriment was short lived. The spear was not embedded deeply enough, and when the antelope jolted, the weapon bobbed and fell into the deep grass. The animal began to buck, picking up speed as it raced through the meadow toward the Gods’ Road. Bardiya’s mother shouted for the party to give chase, and they did, but human legs could not match those of a wounded beast. By the time it reached Bardiya and his tree, it had put a lengthy distance between it and the hunting party.

Bardiya cracked his back and slowly rose to his full height. Changing positions was murder on his joints, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain. The section of the Stonewood Forest that rested on the southern bank of the Corinth River was visible on the horizon. He knew that if the injured antelope made it to the cover of trees, a much less dignified death awaited it, be it an agonizingly slow demise from blood loss or the slow horror of being devoured alive by the wolves and hyenas that prowled come nightfall.

Cupping his enormous palms around his mouth, he let out a low, vibrating hum, working his jaw up and down and circling his tongue, a trick taught to him by one of the Dezren elves before relations between the Kerrians and the elves had deteriorated even further than their original standoffish state. The sound shimmered in the air, causing everything in the path of his voice to appear hazy as a desert oasis. The antelope stopped in its tracks and turned to him, its head tilted at a curious angle. The beast seemed to forget the chase, seemed to forget about its injuries, and slowly approached the giant human, drawn in by the seductive sound.

The hunting party ceased their running, not daring to approach while he performed the
seducing whisper
. Bardiya raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment but didn’t stop his humming until the animal was near. The creature’s antlers were huge and deadly, and would have dwarfed a regular man, but they barely reached Bardiya’s chest. It was certainly a healthy beast, strong and meaty. It would feed the village of Ang for at least a night, perhaps the children for two. He reached down and gently rubbed the back of the antelope’s head, letting calming energy seep from his core, putting the creature at ease.

Bardiya gradually lowered himself back to the ground—he needed to stand to issue the
seducing whisper
, as the act stretched his lungs to their limit—and continued massaging the antelope’s head. It nuzzled against him, wide antlers scraping past his cheek.
He examined its wounded thigh, which was still seeping blood. The leg beneath quivered with weakness.

He grabbed the animal beneath its narrow snout and lifted its head so he could gaze into its huge brown eyes.

“You are precious,” he said while massaging the creature’s jowls. “You are important. I give you Ashhur’s grace and wish you happiness when you are once more in Celestia’s arms.”

He grabbed the immense antlers where they began at the top of the skull and jerked his arms in a circular motion. The antelope’s expression didn’t have time to change as its head was twisted around, snapping the bones in its neck and severing its spine. It collapsed to the ground, offering a final, gaseous moan before the light faded from its eyes. Bardiya placed his hand over its snout, leaned over, and gave it a final kiss.

“I am sorry,” he said. In all honesty, he wished he had healed the majestic creature instead.

With the deed done, Bardiya’s mother urged the hunting party to approach the scene. They drew near one by one, each offering him a bow or curtsey of appreciation. Then they began the process of roping the dead antelope to the carrying pole. They had to saw off its majestic antlers, which would have dragged along the ground.

His parents approached him last, while the rest of the hunting party began the trek back to the village. Bessus sat down across from him while Damaspia gently massaged the shoulders of her giant and tender son. He leaned his head back and gazed into his mother’s eyes. They were sea blue, contrasting wonderfully with her skin tone, which neared black. Damaspia Gorgoros was at least five shades darker than her husband. Bessus claimed it was because he had created her using stones from the heart of the Black Spire, a mount that rose in the center of the desert and was considered a sacred monument by their people.

Bessus himself exuded dignity. He was understated, hardworking, fiercely loyal, and always questing to further his knowledge,
the ideal figurehead for an infant species. He looked up at Bardiya and rested his hand on a knee that was wide as the trunk of the tree. Bardiya knew from the conflicted expression on his father’s face, one black eyebrow raised higher than the other, that he wasn’t pleased with how the morning had gone.

“Thank you, son,” he said, his voice wavering from reverence to irritation. “Though I wish Taniya had stronger arms and better aim. The girl is eleven, and it is long past time for her to learn the art of the hunt.”

“She will grow stronger, Father. And more capable.”

“I know. I simply wish you had given us the chance to follow the beast.”

“The antelope was beyond your hunting party and would have escaped into the Stonewood. It would have died a horrible death had I not intervened.”

“Your mercy knows no bounds, my son. However, you must remember that every action our people make is a potential lesson to be taught. We must allow them to fail, even if that failure is embarrassing.”