David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

All the while, the screams and pleas of her dying people assaulted her ears.

She retreated inward, trying to hold onto the last shreds of her fleeing sanity, and above the din of torment that surrounded her, she imagined she heard the voice of her betrothed, howling for her in agony, trapped and alone, beyond her reach.

Soleh had examined the handwriting of the Connington brothers, the king, Karl Dogon, and each member of the Council of Twelve, but it had led nowhere. She sent Pulo, Jonn, and Roddalin out to whisper among the merchants, including Matthew Brennan, trying to discover who might have a motive to sabotage her family. Still nothing. The only person she had yet to confront was the Highest himself, and that was only because he had yet to return.

If only Karak were here, she muttered to herself one cold morning. I’m tired of secrecy and games. Surely he would be able to tell with a glance who wrote it.

Once more she climbed her podium to preach Karak’s word. The crowd before her was in stark contrast to those who had gathered when she’d first begun her sermons. Now they echoed her every word and listened to her on bent knees. Just as she was finishing up, a convoy of horses trotted through the portcullis, Clovis’s white mare in the lead. Sure enough, the Highest sat in the saddle, his expression a mixture of irritation and bland resignation, the heavy shawl draped over his shoulders flapping as a cold wind blew through the courtyard. There were another fourteen horses behind him, ridden by his daughter Avila, his son Crian, and other high-ranking officials from Karak’s Army. All bore the red sigil of the lion over their chainmail.

She immediately thought of Vulfram-Vulfram, who now lingered in the Tower Keep, a shell of the man he’d once been. Often he cowered in his father’s studio, watching Ibis sculpt whatever masterpiece he was currently working on. Other times he stumbled aimlessly through the empty halls, drink in hand.

He had not been sober since the day he rode through the castle gates with mind bent on murder, and his outward appearance was starting to suffer for it. His formerly bald pate began to grow stubbly, and his posture, slumped and defeated. At all times his eyes were bloodshot from drink and lack of sleep. He was like a man wasting away, and Soleh feared for both his health and his sanity. The fear that she kept silent-the one she was reluctant to whisper even to herself-was that he might end up like Adeline, ranting and raving like a loon. It pained her that all she could offer him was a loving shoulder to cry on each night as he bemoaned the fate of his daughter and the treachery that had brought about that fate.

Staring across the palace courtyard at the arriving envoy, she wondered if the Highest might indeed be responsible for it all. Clovis was many things-rude, pompous, at times irrationally violent, and impatient to the needs and qualms of the common populace-but he was not a deceiver.

“Worship is done for today,” she announced, her eyes still fixed on Clovis, and she descended the podium amidst the confused mutterings of her parishioners. The convoy trod a wide path around the quad, heading for the rear stables. It was then, as she drew closer to them, that she finally peeled her eyes from Clovis and noticed the long red hair that was flopping over his son’s shoulder. She stopped in her tracks, jaw agape, as her flock slowly drifted toward the gates.

Red hair was an extremely rare trait east of the Rigon, so rare she could not remember ever setting eyes on it. In Neldar, those who originated in the north were typically fair skinned, with the characteristic silver, blond, or chestnut hair color, whereas those from the south, such as Soleh’s entire family, were generally darker of flesh, with curly tresses that ran the gamut from deep brown to black. Over the last ninety-some-odd years much interbreeding had occurred, causing some of the physical attributes to blend, but still…Soleh had never seen anything like that shock of red before in the east.

The red-haired girl riding behind Crian Crestwell leaned back, and Soleh caught a clear glimpse of her. She was small and looked very much like a child. Her cheeks were flecked with numerous tiny blemishes that seemed even brighter beneath the light of the deepest pair of blue eyes she had ever encountered. Unlike the northern Neldar blue, which seemed almost as clear as ice, this girl’s irises were solid, like the azure hue found on the chests of hummingbirds or in the sky when the clouds cleared after a summer rainstorm.

This girl-whose wary expression conveyed an agedness that belied her youthful appearance-was from the western Paradise. In fact, she looked very much like Isabel DuTaureau, the matriarch of the second of Ashhur’s First Families, whom Soleh had last seen forty years earlier, just after Karak had left his children on their own and she had relocated to this drab, chaotic city. She picked up her pace, lifting her dress so she wouldn’t trip on the hem. Why was one of Ashhur’s children here, and why was she riding so close to Clovis’s youngest, her arms wrapped around his waist?

Soleh neared the entrance to Tower Justice, hoping to reach the procession before it moved out of sight, when the door to the tower flew open. Captain Gregorian stepped out, chest huffing, his skin red beneath his collar. She stopped short, staring up at him, as his one good eye found her two.

“Minister,” he said, respectfully bowing. “Your presence is requested in the Arena.”

“By whom?” she asked, trying to peer around the broad Captain. She caught one final glimpse of those scarlet locks before they disappeared around the edge of the tower.

“I cannot say,” the Captain replied. “I only know that you must come. Now. ”

His insistence captured her attention. Captain Gregorian was a man prone to neither over-excited utterances nor secrecy. His every word was measured and had been ever since he first stood before her, seeking judgment for his crimes. When he spoke with urgency, it was best to listen.

He nodded to her, silently communicating that she must go alone, and she brushed past him, dashing across the antechamber and down the stairs to the main dungeon. She shoved open the door to the Arena, running into the chamber so quickly that slamming into the sandstone balustrade was all that stopped her from toppling over the edge of the raised platform.

Soleh was surrounded by the flickering light of hundreds of torches, which revealed that the gates to the Judges’ cages were open. Kayne and Lilah lay in the center of the arena, their heads resting in Karak’s lap as he kneaded the furry flesh beneath their jowls. Her god’s eyes were fixed on the massive beasts, a loving smile on his face, while purrs of ecstasy vibrated from the lions’ throats.

“Sweet Soleh, come down here,” Karak said without glancing up at her.

She descended the staircase mechanically, joy spreading through her body, though not enough to quash the uncertainty of everything that had happened over the past few days. Walking into the arena, she kept her head bowed low in reverence to the one who created her, the only entity she had ever truly loved.

“You have been busy,” Karak said, continuing to knead the lions’ necks. “I am proud of what you’ve done. When I entered the city on this morn, I felt respect from all I came across. Mothers presented their babes for me to bless, and men fell to their knees to pledge their thanks for the lives they have been given. The city appears to be much more at ease, much more…ordered…than before.”

“I have only done as you asked, my Lord,” she whispered, reverence dripping from her every word. “All is not perfect, however. I still have much work to do.”