David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

To Patrick, that fact alone confirmed what Rachida had said about the uneven nature of life in the east. How could the people of Haven claim their freedom when they had been raised not to question their superiors? How could there be equality if the term superiors existed at all?

He shrugged those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the faces of all the women who passed through his station, making a mental note of their differing levels of attractiveness, and allowing his mind to wander when one or two of them accidentally brushed his hand with their own. Might any of them be the one to end the ever-loving torture of immortality from which he suffered? He laughed at himself. Here he was, a man from Paradise, ushering women and children into a temple designed for worshipping sexuality, all so they might wait for that night’s full moon, and the attack that had been threatened to follow thereafter. It didn’t seem real.

Finally, the last stragglers-an old woman and man who walked arm in arm, their hunched, uneven strides nearly matching-were escorted through the gates. Patrick looked over his list of names. Two hundred sixteen adults and two hundred eighty-seven children, and he still had nine sacks of foodstuffs sitting in the cart. He whistled, amazed at the amount of preparation that had been put into this endeavor. Given that each sack contained enough food to last a family of five for three days, Deacon had cultivated or purchased virtually three full years’ worth of food. It seemed an amazingly generous amount, especially considering that farming in swampland didn’t necessarily yield the most favorable crops. Although a great number of those who resided in the other townships around haven had came to them in search of safety, it was a good thing the many who resided in the far south of the delta had not decided to join in the fight. It would have been nice to have more men to fight by his side, but Ashhur only knew how Deacon would come up with the provisions to feed those who needed protection.

Two men gathered up his cart and Deacon’s and pushed them into the temple, most likely to be stored for emergency rations. The gates swung shut and a low thud could be heard as the people inside dropped the heavy wooden crossbar into place. Deacon strolled over to him, smiling broadly, though his good cheer seemed to be forced. He chuckled, as artificial a sound as Patrick had ever heard, and ran his fingers through his beard. They began walking back toward the forest’s edge, where their makeshift army awaited. Deacon threw an arm over his shoulder.

“Have I told you how glad I am you decided to stay?” he asked.

Patrick sighed. “Relentlessly.”

“And have I told you how sorry I was for the way I treated you that day at the estate?”

“Again, more often than you should.”

Deacon swallowed hard and glanced at him sideways, as if uncertain.

“It’s just that I am impressed with your resolve,” he said hesitantly. “Giving yourself so freely to others is truly a gift. You are a god among men, Patrick DuTaureau, no matter what your father thinks.”

Patrick stopped in his tracks, allowing Deacon’s arm to slip off him.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“If you don’t know,” said Deacon, “then I’d much rather act as though I’d said nothing.”

Patrick stood baffled. Deacon appeared to regret his words, but at the same time, he’d been the one to clumsily bring up the subject in the first place. His father? What did the Lord of Haven know about his father?

“Just speak, man,” he said, grunting in frustration. “You can’t say something like that and then fall silent.”

Deacon opened his mouth, shut it, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then grimaced. Patrick rolled his head back.

“Forget it,” he said. “I’m getting some wine.”

“Wait.”

Patrick stopped and tapped his foot, gesturing for the man to get on with it.

“It’s just…I have heard stories. The Paradise has long been intriguing to those of us who grew up in Neldar. The song, the dance, the simplicity of existence. We hear of your freedom to do whatever you wish, whenever you wish it, living free of sickness and early death…none of us had any of that growing up. When Antar Hoonen arrived, he fed us all the tales we so desired. You must understand, we fled our land because we were either destitute or criminals. We downtrodden lived under constant fear of hanging or the executioner’s ax. So to hear him say how Ashhur forgave all sins so long as the sinner was truly repentant…how could I not be intrigued?”

Patrick shook his head. “Do they often execute those who swipe an apple from a farmer’s field? Because to be honest, that’s about the most major sin I witnessed while growing up. Antar is telling tales, alright, and tall ones at that.”

“According to Antar, there was at least one man in Paradise guilty of more than petty theft,” said Deacon, lowering his voice. “He told me the story of your parents.”

That got Patrick’s attention. “Go on,” he said, his lips curling inward.

“According to the story, your mother was so vain that when Ashhur granted his First Children the ability to craft a mate, she chose to make one who was nearly her twin, simply so she could look on her own image at nearly all times…”

He paused, and Patrick motioned for him to continue.

“Because of the vanity Isabel put into the vat of creation, the being she created-your father-emerged just as vain and conceited as she was. He wanted your mother for himself, to be with her night and day, and for no other man to come between them. When your sister Abigail was born, she looked just like your mother, and your father was pleased. But when Isabel became pregnant a second time, she was convinced she was to have a son. Rumors abound of your father’s anger and of how he supposedly took it out on those around him. Antar is convinced he feared you would come between him and his lover, no matter how mad, how nonsensical it was for him to feel that way. He didn’t want you to be born, and he told your mother so. Your mother refused.

“It was in her seventh month of pregnancy, when the stars said the child would be born soon, that your father dropped a vial of crim oil into her milk. How he got his hands on the drug, Antar didn’t know. All he did know was that your mother was ill for days afterward. She suffered from high fevers and night bleeds, and cried often for fear of losing the baby. Neither the Wardens nor those with Ashhur’s gift of healing could mend her. They didn’t know what was wrong. But Ashhur did. He traveled north on hearing the news of your mother’s illness, placed his hands on her stomach, and removed the poison from her system, saving you. But it was too late. The poison had altered your form, and you ended up being born…the way you are now.”

Patrick crossed his arms, refusing to look at Deacon as he let the story settle into his mind. When he stayed silent, Deacon continued.

“Ashhur confronted your father, told him he knew what had been done. Your father fell to his knees, groveling before the deity, begging for his life. Now, in Neldar perhaps the greatest sin one could commit is to murder-or attempt to murder-an unborn child. Yet Ashhur decreed that your father was truthful in his contrition and absolved him of all sins.”

Patrick lowered his head, looking at Deacon from beneath his distended brow.

“Is that it?”

Deacon shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“Interesting story.”

“Are you sorry I told you? Do you wish I had stayed silent?”

“No. And no.”

He sighed. “It is but a story, however horrible it may be. I would understand if you wished to depart now and confront your parents.”