Dawn of Swords (53 page)

“As the Lady’s most trusted servant, I will advise the new king, whomever that may be,” Baedan said. “But for now, my duty is simply to escort you to the hall.”

With Howard Baedan leading, Geris and his mother and sisters made their way through the wide, lavish, and strangely empty hallways of Manse DuTaureau. This was about as different from the Sanctuary as possible; even Ashhur’s home and cathedral did not hold a candle to the elegance of this residence. Geris closed his eyes as he walked, remembering the Wardens’ stories once more, and imagined a sprawling city outside the walls of this giant stone structure. The image excited him.

That excitement was somewhat tempered when they passed through a windowed corridor. Outside the slender portholes he saw a familiar scene—tents and crude huts, in front of which people and Wardens huddled, rubbing their hands over blazing firepits. Only the setting differed from Safeway; instead of tall, swaying grass, they were surrounded by gently rolling hills dotted with pine trees.

He noticed that the people seemed to be highly agitated, however. They gathered close to the manse, their eyes flicking toward the monstrous building as if they expected Ashhur himself to appear at any moment. A palpable sort of nervous exhilaration clung to their every move.

“They are awaiting the presentation of the kinglings,” Sir Baedan said, as if reading his mind. “They have been waiting for days to see you and young Maryll, and after dinner tonight they will get what they have been seeking.”

“I see,” said Geris. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his doublet, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of being paraded before such a large throng.

“Will the First Man be in attendance?” he asked, thinking it would do wonders for his nervousness just to see Jacob’s face in the crowd.

Sir Baedan shook his head.

“Not to my knowledge. Eveningstar has not graced the north with his presence in near a full year, and I do not expect that to end this night.”

“I see,” replied Geris, disappointed.

Their journey ended at the entrance to the dining hall. Sir Baedan pulled open the double doors, standing aside to let his charge enter first.

“Stand straight,” Geris’s mother whispered, and he did. She then offered him her hand, which he took. He gazed up into her warm blue eyes and then at her flowing hair, which was a darker shade of blond than his own. She appeared nervous but strong, and Geris tossed aside any of the misgivings he’d felt on hearing the rumble of voices echoing from inside the foyer. Instead of waiting for her to lead him, he took the first step, entering the huge dining hall.

“I present Kingling Geris Felhorn!” shouted Sir Baedan, and a sudden hush overtook the crowd. All eyes turned to the entrance.

Geris stepped confidently, even though his stomach rumbled from the combination of nerves and the palatable scents of roasting meat. There were simply dressed people and tall Wardens everywhere. He made sure to look each person in the eye, offering him or her a slight bow as he passed. Almost everyone returned his bows. He and his mother strolled down the center aisle, surrounded on all sides by gawking people, heading for the large table at the back of the room and the throng of regal-looking people that stood before it.

As Geris gazed at them and their features registered in his mind, his confidence shattered into a million pieces.

The final dream struck him like a deadly poison that had waited patiently before bursting forth and infecting every part of him at once. The gathered diners gasped as he stumbled backward. His hand slipped from his mother’s as he fell, breathing heavily and staring at those who awaited his company. There was Ahaesarus on one side, his proud expression quickly replaced with concern. With him was Judarius, dressed in an ensemble similar to Ahaesarus’s, his dark hair flowing down his wide shoulders, his mouth locked into a scowl that never seemed to leave his face.

But it was the pair who stood between them that had caused the dream to roar back into memory. They were a man and woman, similar to the point of being nearly identical. The man appeared disinterested with the whole affair, never taking his gaze off the woman beside him, but the woman stared intently at Geris with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. It seemed as though the light that suffused the dining hall refused to shine on her fully.

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.

C
HAPTER

27

A
s 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.”