David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“I assume the message is for me?” he asked.

“It is,” said Isabel.

Richard backed up a few paces, allowing his wife and matriarch the space to rise from her chair. She approached her son and handed him the bowed scroll. He took it in his knobby fingers and flattened it against the wall.

“It’s from Jacob,” he said, his eyes flashing over the tight scrawl of the First Man of Dezrel. “He’s heading north, passing by Mordeina to go on a scouting mission to the Tinderlands. It seems-”

“I know what is in the letter,” said Isabel abruptly.

“So you’ve read it? It is good to know my privacy means so much to you.”

“This is no laughing matter, Patrick. An army of Karak attacked the township of Haven, killing Martin Harrow. You remember Martin, correct? The youth Judarius chose as a kingling? Jacob wants you to ride to the delta in the hopes that you can convince Deacon Coldmine to tear down his temple. Apparently, he sees more use in you than I do.”

Patrick leaned his head back as far as it would go, so that it was resting against the bulge of his humped back. It was a gesture of frustration that he had perfected since childhood.

“Thank you for saving me the trouble of actually reading the note addressed to me.”

His mother’s expression didn’t change. It rarely did. The only time that look of stern consternation dropped from her face was when she was staring at her husband. He thought again of the story of his parents’ creation, and shuddered.

“This is important, Patrick. I am trying to make you understand that.”

“I understood it when I read This is important , spelled out right here. Look.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“No. Don’t mock me .”

Isabel fixed him with a venomous stare. His father averted his eyes, avoiding any involvement in the scene. Unlike Patrick’s sisters, his mother had never doted on him. She’d acted like he was a burden for as long as he could remember. It struck him as humorous, in a very sad way, that a timeless woman who preached Ashhur’s sermons of love and forgiveness should treat her own child with such coldness. But at least coldness was something . His father hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade, even though they lived beneath the same roof. It was as if, in Richard’s eyes, it would be better if Patrick didn’t exist.

Without another word, Isabel returned to her position in the straight-backed chair. Her husband started rubbing her feet again, and she picked up her knitting from beneath the dais and began clicking away with her needles. Patrick rolled his eyes at them both. Apparently their business with him was done.

“What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with irritation, “is why Jacob doesn’t go there himself. It’s only a three-day journey to the Tinderlands from here. If I write him and ask what he’s seeking, I would be more than happy to look for it myself. As it is, we will likely pass each other on the way, which seems impractical.”

“Jacob speaks for Ashhur,” his mother said without lifting her head from her knitting. “Do not question the orders of your god.”

“But, Mother, if-”

“Enough. The decision is made. Leave us.”

“Fine.”

Patrick wheeled around and stumbled out of the atrium. Brigid and Keela moved to follow him, their faces awash with pity, but he brushed away their consoling hands. He heard the sound of Cara weeping softly behind him, followed by his mother’s scolding. Disgust roiled in his midsection, and it struck him that only a few minutes earlier there had been something much more pleasant churning down there. He wished Brittany were still around. Another roll with the young temptress would have done wonders for his morale.

He slammed the double doors of the atrium shut behind him. When he turned, he was startled to see Nessa, her hands clenched just below her mouth. She had been listening in at the door. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping into the collar of the heavy white nightdress she wore. Her strawberry hair was a tangled mess. Though she was over thirty, she still looked like the same innocent babe she’d been when she was but a teen. Even her stature, shortest of the DuTaureaus, hinted at incredible youth. It seemed as though Nessa’s development had been irrevocably arrested in almost every way.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” she whispered, throwing herself into his arms.

Patrick huffed when she rammed her head into his chest. He embraced her, feeling her warmth. When he leaned her back and kissed her cheek, he could taste the salt of her tears.

“It’s all right, Ness,” he whispered. “I’m used to it by now.”

“But why is Mother so mean ?”

He shrugged. “Guess she doesn’t like having a monster for a son.”

She punched him in the shoulder. He was surprised by how much it hurt.

“You’re not a monster.”

Patrick laughed. “So you keep telling me, sister. You almost make me believe it.”

He blew out the candles closest to the atrium door and, throwing one huge arm over his sister, escorted her down the hall.

“You know,” he said, “we should run off together. You and I. You with your shortness, me with my freakishness-we could take the south by storm. Maybe in Karak’s lands we could establish ourselves a career as performers. We could learn about money, and how quickly it vanishes. It could be fun!”

Nessa passed him a hopeful look. “Or we could simply go to the delta.”

Patrick laughed. “And why would you choose to go with me? Didn’t you visit there just last month?”

“Yes, but it’s late summer, and the barking cranes are migrating. I’ve heard they gather in such great numbers that the marshlands look like they’re covered with writhing maggots for miles.”

“That’s a pleasant image.”

“They’re not gross maggots. They’re…feathery maggots. Please, Patrick, take me with you.”

Patrick laughed.

“Very well. Just make sure you’re the one who tells Mother you’re coming. I don’t think I have the stomach to speak to her for a few years, maybe even a decade.”

“I imagine not,” she replied with a tinkling laugh. “When will we be leaving?”

Patrick let out a grunt. “Let me get some sleep, and we’ll go first thing tomorrow.”

“That’s good, actually,” said Nessa. Her eyes brightened and she wiped the last vestiges of tears from her speckled, rosebud cheeks. “Make sure to wake me at dawn. I must go feed the birds.”

She spun around and ran down the hall, her tiny feet making no impression on the thick rug.

“Feed the birds?” he shouted after her. “Now? But it’s dark.”

“I forgot earlier,” he heard her reply as she disappeared around the bend in the hall. Patrick shrugged his shoulders.

“Strange little girl,” he said and then chuckled. Who was he to talk?

He returned to his room and flopped down on his bed, which still smelled of Brittany. Pulling the covers up and nestling them beneath his nose, he let the smell of femininity carry him off into a very much needed and dreamless sleep.

M y love ,

It has been only forty-nine days since our last congregation, forty-nine days since my lips kissed yours, and I miss you so. Each passing day is like torture as I lie alone, dreaming of your face, the sweep of your hair, the smell of your skin. My family surrounds me, oftentimes oppressively so, and yet I have never felt so alone.

I wish to see you. I need to see you. Not a moment goes by that I don’t wish to be in your bed once more. I long to hear your voice as you prattle of tariffs and trade laws and the courts. You have a way of brightening even the dreariest of subjects. I want to hear you speak of your battles with the Carstakian mobs, your hunts for the immense wolves of the northern hills. Life is dreadful here, all prayer circles and farming and preparing meals for the family. Surely we, as a people, were made for much more. And when I look at the life you live, it all seems so much more interesting, full of adventure and struggle, each day a new challenge. Yes, I know it’s sometimes daunting, and the thought of thieves roaming the night sends a chill up my spine, but I know that if you were by my side, I would always be safe.