David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

She paused.

“It seems you’ve given up on your children. I sense the angst when I walk the streets. The people think you no longer care, and if their own god does not care for their lives, why should they?”

Karak stared at her with heart-wrenching intensity, his eyes filled with an emotion she had never before seen on his face: anger. The god-made-flesh stood, and his lips twisted into a frown. When he spoke next, his tone was so cold it chilled her to the bone.

“The responsibility for the current state of affairs lies solely with you, my…sweet…Soleh. Did I not give you life? Did I not give you laws to govern your own land? Did I not provide you with the knowledge of carpentry, farming, metallurgy, and combat? What more would you have me do? Act as nursemaid, sitting you all in a corner when you misbehave? I have seen much, child, and believe me when I tell you that the gifts I have bestowed on you are well beyond any that humanity, in all the worlds it populates, has ever been given so freely. Do you think my brother has allowed this much autonomy to his children, giving them the opportunity to live how they desire, building prosperity that’s equal to their efforts? I can assure you, he has not. All I have ever required from you is your respect and worship, honoring me by understanding my teachings and bringing order to this world.” He laughed then, a frigid sound like ice scraping against brittle steel. “Do you know why my Highest was with me this day giving his confession? He came to beg forgiveness for his failures, for helping to create a city filled with murder, greed, and corruption. He begged my forgiveness . And what do you do, sweet Soleh? Do you fall to your knees and beg absolution? No, you dare stand before me and demand further action on my part. You blame me, not yourself. Was the act of creating you not enough? Do you not value this immortal life you have been given?”

The tears came upon her all of a sudden, pouring over her cheeks. Soleh collapsed, her elbows striking the ground as she stooped before her beloved deity. All desire to live abandoned her in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I was not thinking.”

“Stand up, child.”

“I deserve no mercy…I deserve no honor…I do not deserve this life you have given me.…”

A hand fell on her shoulder, warm and inviting. Soleh lifted her head and Karak was her Divinity again, smiling tenderly as if his tirade had never happened.

“Stand up, Soleh.”

She did so mindlessly, and the god took a moment to straighten out her cloak and even tug out a snarl in her hair with his gigantic finger. “I apologize for my tone,” he said, “but sometimes one must break a child in order to open their eyes and make them see the folly of their ways. Do you understand?”

Sniveling, Soleh nodded.

Karak rubbed his palms against her shoulders. “Then calm yourself. You have much work to do. You must preach the message, scream it loudly over the rails of every shop and homestead if need be. Show the people the right way, even if that means making an example of some. In a scant ninety-three years our population has risen to nearly eighty thousand. As much as it disappoints me to see the state your city has fallen into, I knew that such growth would bring pains. In Omnmount, across the Ramere, in Thettletown, Brent, and Hailen, things are much better. There it is peaceful, calm…and empty. But a third of our people reside within the borders of this city, and I consider it a notable accomplishment that most are kind, lawful men and women.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Soleh.

“That does not release you from responsibility, my child. That does not absolve your failure. It is still a mess that you must fix. When you leave this place, sing my message far and loud. Make sure the people hear you; make sure they understand. And find relief in this: whether Haven repents or we must forcibly burn their temple to the ground, all will see what it means to deface the nobility of their creator. It will be a lesson none will forget.”

Soleh curtseyed. “I understand, my Lord.”

“Now go from this place, child, and sing my name.”

Soleh turned to leave but paused, casting a hopeful glance over her shoulder. She trembled like a schoolgirl, even though she had never once been that young in all her god-crafted life.

“My Lord?” she said.

“What is it, child?”

“Please tell me you love me.”

The god laughed sweetly then and strode across the short distance between them. He took her in his arms, lifted her off the monastery floor as if she weighed nothing, and kissed her cheek. Soleh felt the blood rush through her body.

“I love you, sweet Soleh. More than any who have ever come before.”

She was crying again when he put her down, but by the time she arrived back at the wagon and rejoined her escort, her cheeks were dry.

There was much work ahead, and she had to be strong. As strong as the title of Minister of Justice deserved.

“I heard that the whippoorwills in the delta have begun tweeting incessantly at night. Morgan told me so. She said they perch outside the windows of the old and dying, singing in tune with the last breaths the people take. It’s quite strange, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Who in the deep, dark underworld is Morgan?”

“Silly,” replied Nessa, playfully punching his arm. “We were guests in her home for nearly three weeks. How could you not remember?”

“Forgive me. It’s difficult when your head aches like rotten fruit that’s been popped. And in my defense, I was asleep for most of those three weeks.”

His horse trotted to the side to avoid a depression in the road, jostling Patrick in his saddle. He uttered a pained yelp and grabbed at his knobby forehead. The pain was less than it had been, but its echo still tormented him like the remnants of a bad dream. They had barely stepped foot in Lerder, the easternmost township on the Gods’ Road before the delta, when the sickness set in. Patrick’s fever rose uncontrollably, coupled with vomiting and a case of the shakes that rattled his teeth. His mind had become so clouded, it was difficult to separate reality from delusion. He remembered Nessa sitting by his bed, holding his hand while she gazed down at him with concern, but also a cloaked man in black who came to him in the night, watching over him from the shadows as he writhed and moaned.

The sickness was made all the worse by the fact that neither the Wardens nor Ashhur’s healers seemed able to quell it. Patrick had fallen ill before, but usually all it took to cure him was a healing touch from one of his siblings or the city elders who led the prayers in Mordeina. Whatever had stricken him this time had baffled everyone, and he was left bedridden. Two conclusions entered his mind: either the sickness was so powerful that only time could cure it, or the faith in Ashhur that facilitated the healing touch was waning as he got closer to the Rigon. Neither scenario was pleasant, but the latter frightened him more than anything else.

His fever had finally broken three days ago. He’d awoken, frightened and sweaty, in a stranger’s bed. His panicked voice had been so weak, it barely echoed off the bare walls. Nessa didn’t come to him until much later, when the sun was painting the horizon with deep reds and purples. She’d seemed distracted and far away while comforting him. But the next day she’d been more attentive and had helped him gather the strength he needed to continue on his journey.

The current state of his aching brain made him wonder if he should have taken more time to rest.

“Patrick, are you all right?”