David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“As the Lady’s most trusted servant, I will advise the new king, whomever that may be,” Baedan said. “But for now, my duty is simply to escort you to the hall.”

With Howard Baedan leading, Geris and his mother and sisters made their way through the wide, lavish, and strangely empty hallways of Manse DuTaureau. This was about as different from the Sanctuary as possible; even Ashhur’s home and cathedral did not hold a candle to the elegance of this residence. Geris closed his eyes as he walked, remembering the Wardens’ stories once more, and imagined a sprawling city outside the walls of this giant stone structure. The image excited him.

That excitement was somewhat tempered when they passed through a windowed corridor. Outside the slender portholes he saw a familiar scene-tents and crude huts, in front of which people and Wardens huddled, rubbing their hands over blazing firepits. Only the setting differed from Safeway; instead of tall, swaying grass, they were surrounded by gently rolling hills dotted with pine trees.

He noticed that the people seemed to be highly agitated, however. They gathered close to the manse, their eyes flicking toward the monstrous building as if they expected Ashhur himself to appear at any moment. A palpable sort of nervous exhilaration clung to their every move.

“They are awaiting the presentation of the kinglings,” Sir Baedan said, as if reading his mind. “They have been waiting for days to see you and young Maryll, and after dinner tonight they will get what they have been seeking.”

“I see,” said Geris. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his doublet, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of being paraded before such a large throng.

“Will the First Man be in attendance?” he asked, thinking it would do wonders for his nervousness just to see Jacob’s face in the crowd.

Sir Baedan shook his head.

“Not to my knowledge. Eveningstar has not graced the north with his presence in near a full year, and I do not expect that to end this night.”

“I see,” replied Geris, disappointed.

Their journey ended at the entrance to the dining hall. Sir Baedan pulled open the double doors, standing aside to let his charge enter first.

“Stand straight,” Geris’s mother whispered, and he did. She then offered him her hand, which he took. He gazed up into her warm blue eyes and then at her flowing hair, which was a darker shade of blond than his own. She appeared nervous but strong, and Geris tossed aside any of the misgivings he’d felt on hearing the rumble of voices echoing from inside the foyer. Instead of waiting for her to lead him, he took the first step, entering the huge dining hall.

“I present Kingling Geris Felhorn!” shouted Sir Baedan, and a sudden hush overtook the crowd. All eyes turned to the entrance.

Geris stepped confidently, even though his stomach rumbled from the combination of nerves and the palatable scents of roasting meat. There were simply dressed people and tall Wardens everywhere. He made sure to look each person in the eye, offering him or her a slight bow as he passed. Almost everyone returned his bows. He and his mother strolled down the center aisle, surrounded on all sides by gawking people, heading for the large table at the back of the room and the throng of regal-looking people that stood before it.

As Geris gazed at them and their features registered in his mind, his confidence shattered into a million pieces.

The final dream struck him like a deadly poison that had waited patiently before bursting forth and infecting every part of him at once. The gathered diners gasped as he stumbled backward. His hand slipped from his mother’s as he fell, breathing heavily and staring at those who awaited his company. There was Ahaesarus on one side, his proud expression quickly replaced with concern. With him was Judarius, dressed in an ensemble similar to Ahaesarus’s, his dark hair flowing down his wide shoulders, his mouth locked into a scowl that never seemed to leave his face.

But it was the pair who stood between them that had caused the dream to roar back into memory. They were a man and woman, similar to the point of being nearly identical. The man appeared disinterested with the whole affair, never taking his gaze off the woman beside him, but the woman stared intently at Geris with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. It seemed as though the light that suffused the dining hall refused to shine on her fully.

Her eyes reflect the glimmer of the western sea, her cheeks are spotted with the stars above, and around her head is a ring of fire , the lion had said, and before him stood a woman with blazing green eyes, skin dotted with ruby freckles, and the reddest hair Geris had ever seen. Even her clothing seemed wrong-much too tightly fit, displaying her womanly form in a way more appropriate to the Temple of the Flesh.

Ahaesarus turned to face the woman. “I am sorry, Lady DuTaureau,” he said frantically. He seemed to be afraid of her, even though he stood more than a full head taller. “I fear we have pressed Kingling Felhorn too much given his recent illness.”

Shock filled Geris, making his elbows quaver. One of Ashhur’s first creations was the witch of whom the dream-lion spoke? It didn’t seem possible, not until he gazed back into her hardened expression, which had not changed even after Ahaesarus’s plea for understanding. She looked at him not as a person to be cared for, but as a thing to be tolerated, perhaps even loathed. It reminded him of the way his father looked at the rake beside the door to their hut when it came time to clean out the firepit. Geris began to mutter to himself, strange words even he didn’t understand, unintelligible sounds like those of a wild beast. And still his heart beat out of control. Not even his mother, who knelt beside him, anxiously swiping the hair from his forehead, could do anything to stop it.

“What’s wrong with him?” another voice asked, and then Ben Maryll appeared, strolling past Geris with Sir Baedan by his side. The crowd remained hushed, looking on with curious dread. Geris glanced at his friend and fellow kingling, taking in his coldly inquiring expression. It was then Geris noticed how slender his old friend had become: where once Ben Maryll had tended toward plumpness, now he possessed the lean body of an athlete. The well-developed muscles in his neck flexed when he bent his head downward.

All that change in two months? It didn’t seem possible. The lion was right. Ben wasn’t Ben. He was the imposter.

The visions of death and destruction that had been imparted to him filled his mind, and Geris screamed. He scrambled to his feet, tossing aside the restraining grasp of his mother, and ran full bore into Sir Baedan’s hip. His sudden actions caught the head steward off guard, knocking him backward. Senses overridden by terror and desperation, Geris gripped the ivory handle of Sir Baedan’s dagger and ripped it from its sheath. A shriek tore out from the crowd, followed by another, but everyone was too shocked to actually do anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geris knew that violence was not expected. This was Ashhur’s land, the land of healers and Wardens and forgiveness. No one would know how to react, which would give him the time he needed to do what he had been chosen to do-save Paradise from the witch and her deceiving bastard child.

Ben was closest to him, his eyes wide with shock, and Geris charged. He held Sir Baedan’s blade out wide, the handle fitting snugly in his grip, as if he had always been destined to hold it. Ben backed away, exhibiting some of his newfound athleticism, until he clumsily bumped into a chair and nearly fell over. Geris was there to break his fall, grabbing his false friend by the hair and pulling him upright.