David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“I’ll stay in the delta,” Crian said. “We can make a home there, far to the south, where the people are few. We wouldn’t be the only ones to have left the First Families.”

Avila shook her head and sighed. “You have always been naïve, brother, but this is painful. Why Father chose you as his Left Hand over me, I will never understand. Haven is doomed no matter what those heathens do. In five weeks the entire area will be crushed, and the delta will become part of Neldar. Father has ensured that a faction within will resist no matter what the rest might say, and their resistance is all we need. It is on his order, the order of the Highest, that this scenario has been plotted out, and he has Karak on his side.”

Crian’s blood pumped faster and faster. “What of the innocents? What of the young? What of our sister? Moira still resides in Haven! We have not been given word to bring her out.”

“We have no sister in Haven, brother. Moira ceased to be a Crestwell the moment she disobeyed our family’s edicts. She receives no warning, no special treatment. She is what you will become should you continue your stupid infatuation with this Nessa: banished. And what is this talk of innocents? The delta is populated by miscreants and blasphemers, adults and children alike. There is no innocence to be found. They have all turned their back on their creator, and they deserve every bit of the righteousness they are about to receive.”

“You’re going to let them all die,” he whispered.

“No,” replied Avila, folding her arms over her bare chest. “We’re going to kill them .”

He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Crian wanted to tell her she was wrong, deluded, but he knew enough about his father’s greed, his cold, unmoving faith in both Karak’s and his own perfection, to know that her words were true.

“Come back to us, brother,” Avila said, softening her voice. “Lie with me. Don’t do anything you might later regret.”

What happened next was a blur. Without thinking, Crian snatched an iron candleholder from atop his wardrobe. Avila lunged for a bundle that lay at her feet, possibly containing her hidden sword, but Crian was quicker. Down came the candleholder, striking her in the middle of the forehead. Her head snapped back, a red gash opening up in the middle of her pallid flesh. Again he hit her, and again, spraying dark blood in the candlelight. Avila slumped in his arms, and he shoved her backward, sprawling her across the makeshift bed with her arms and legs splayed. Her face was destroyed, her lovely features warped and speckled with crimson. Her chest rose and then fell, exhaling a bloody fizz that spread over her pale lips.

“What have I done?” he whispered, panic roaring through him, pounding between his ears.

Crian turned away from his sister’s still form, tearing through his things. He flung on a smock and leather breeches, and tossed a chainmail vest over his shoulder. Into a sack he dumped a change of clothes, three candles, a dagger, a box of tindersticks, and his wineskin. As a final keepsake he snatched the dragonglass mirror off the post on which it hung, stuffing it in the sack with everything else. In his haste he didn’t bother fastening Integrity to his waist, instead holding the scabbard by its strap and letting it dangle from his hand as he hefted his sack and bolted out of the tent.

The waning moon lit the countryside in an unnatural glow, and to Crian it seemed to stare down at him with a menacing sideways grin. The chill in the air took hold of him, even as the heat generated by his pumping arms and legs grew. His booted feet pounded the grass, shifting between the tents and lean-tos that surrounded him. His senses seemed heightened, his eyes wide, his ears on alert for the slightest shift or call. He ran into the stables, saddled a chestnut mare, fastening his belongings to the saddle, and then mounted her.

“Hey there!” called a voice. Crian spun on instinct, Integrity lashing out. Its sharp steel found flesh. Mouth open, jaw trembling, he watched as Harren crumbled to the ground beside the horse, a wide gash in his throat. Crian stared as the blood pooled beneath the fat man. In his mind’s eye, he didn’t see the lazy grunt he’d sent to the stables for punishment. Instead he saw Nessa in the ruins of Haven, bloodied and beaten by his father’s army.

He fled Omnmount as distant voices began to call out in alarm.

“So is it everything you hoped it would be?” asked Kindren.

Aullienna nodded, her heart skipping a beat as she stared at the massive cavern before her. It was a breathtaking sight, both beautiful and macabre.

Hundreds of jeweled sarcophagi filled the cavern, surrounded by caches of gold, silver, and bronze. Each sarcophagus was covered in images depicting the owner buried within; some of the art was skillfully rendered; some less so. The burial boxes were arranged in groups according to family, and in the center of each assemblage was a giant statue of stone.

“These are so old,” Aully said.

“They are,” her betrothed answered.

“But why didn’t they build the crypts in the old lands? Why here?”

He laughed. “Because the first generation of elves decided that the land above the crypts should be unsettled, that it would be an insult to live right on top of them. So they chose a swath of forest just outside Kal’droth and dug beneath the earth. But when Celestia changed the world, this is where my father decided we would live. Hence, Dezerea.”

“You don’t seem so upset by that.”

“I never saw Kal’droth. I’m happy here. There’s so much beauty up above, and down here there’s so much to learn.”

“Like what?”

“Do you see those statues?” Kindren asked her, pointing.

Aullienna nodded. They were frightening-stone faces forever expressionless, their khandars, staffs, and bows looking ready to strike dead anyone who dared enter this sacred place. Somewhere down here would be her own legacy, she knew, her own family heritage. She thought about asking him to take her there, but she decided there would be plenty of time later. Dezerea was her new home. Time for her was a plentiful commodity.

“Those statues represent the founders of each particular family,” Kindren said. “They stand vigil over the remains of their children, grandchildren, and so on.”

Aullienna was overwhelmed by the sheer number of sarcophagi and statues, and all the more so because according to Kindren, the crypt before her was just one of hundreds beneath Dezerea.

“It would take a thousand trips to see them all,” Aullienna murmured as she slowly made her way through the statues, taking in the various names and images.

“Two hundred and seventeen actually,” Kindren replied, and he smiled at her when she narrowed her eyes at him. “Trust me. I’ve seen every single one. And you will too, if you wish.”

She gazed up at Kindren with adoration. The last few weeks had been without a doubt the best of her short life, though they hadn’t been without their own special sort of irritation. After breakfast with Noni, her nursemaid, her mornings were spent with the Thyne handmaidens, doing everything from trying on clothing and learning the intricacies of court etiquette, to mind-numbing studies that included learning the names and physical attributes of all the elves in the courts of both Dezerea and Quellassar. Why she had to know that a two-hundred-and-twelve-year-old lesser minister named Q’leetho Coresan had a nose bent slightly to the left was beyond her. Yet she suffered through the lessons, dutifully listening as the handmaidens laid open dusty book after dusty book, because she knew lunchtime came next, when she would be awarded with smoked bacon sandwiches and delectable plum pies, washing it all down with the tastiest lemon sour she’d ever drunk.