David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

His blade pressed against a now sobbing Ben Maryll’s throat, drawing a sliver of blood that trickled down the boy’s neck and saturated the front of his white tunic.

“He’s an imposter!” Geris yelled, his voice cracking. He wanted them to see this, needed everyone gathered in the hall to bear witness as he exposed the charlatan for what he-or it-truly was. He bore down harder, sliding the dagger across flesh, opening a tiny mouth that yawned when Ben thrust his head back, trying to escape Geris’s grip. But Geris was fueled by something different now, something meaningful . He was fueled by destiny, by duty, by the need to be the savior.

Strong hands gripped him from behind. They yanked him off the screeching boy and lifted him into the air. The dagger clanked on the dining hall floor, covered with slick, red wetness. Ben collapsed to his knees, covering his neck with both hands as blood spilled between his fingers. Others-including Sir Baedan, the witch, and her look-alike lover-rushed to the imposter’s aid. Geris grinded his teeth, growled, and tried to free himself from his captor’s grasp, but their hands were too strong.

“Are you mad!” he heard Ahaesarus shout. “What have you done? ”

His body was thrown to the floor and then spun around. He faced the two Wardens, the normally pallid flesh of their cheeks flushed red. Ahaesarus reared back and backhanded him across the face, causing one of his teeth to puncture his tongue, drawing blood. All the while his mother sobbed in the background, comforting his sisters while she watched Ben’s parents join those who were trying to save their son’s life. The white linens they pressed against the imposter’s neck quickly turned a deep crimson.

“Someone get Daniel!” the witch shouted, frantic now that her imposter was dying. “Get him quickly!”

“There is no time!” shouted Ahaesarus. “I will do it. Judarius, handle this…this boy.”

Ahaesarus flung him into Judarius’s arms, then rushed to the Ben’s side. Judarius dragged him out the door by the throat. Geris protested, trying to warn them of what the dreams had told him, to convince them to let him finish the job he had started, but Judarius’s grip was too strong. He could not form words of any kind, he could only thrash and wail and scream.

As he strolled into the solarium of the Gemcroft Mansion, the first thing Patrick thought when his eyes came to rest on Peytr Gemcroft was that he was a beautiful man. He hadn’t seen the merchant since Peytr’s arrival in the delta four days earlier, but now that he did, he could see that he and Rachida were well matched. The man’s hair was close-cropped and black with a few flecks of white, his skin the lightest shade of peach, his eyes a deep, soulful brown, his features delicate but strong. Just beautiful, through and through. And strong of voice as well.

“I do not agree,” said the merchant. “It is folly.”

“Says the man who has spent perhaps five days in Haven over the past year,” snapped Deacon.

There were three of them sitting around the table-Peytr, Lord Coldmine, and Moira. None of them lifted their eyes to him as he approached the table. It was clear that their argument was all that mattered to them.

“You don’t understand, Peytr,” said Moira. “Must we turn our back on our ideals, on our way of life? And for what?”

“It seems to me it is pride you speak of, not ideals,” replied the merchant.

Deacon growled. “What do you know of pride? We are protecting our freedom, nothing more.”

“Yet you do not wish to protect your lives,” said Peytr.

“No, obviously our lives are important.” Moira placed her hand on his arm. “But if we give up our homes and our beliefs, we go back to being slaves. What are our lives worth then? Did we not leave Neldar for that very purpose? Why give it all back now?”

“Because the fight is hopeless. You all know this. You need to either tear down the temple or flee. There is no other choice.”

“There is always a choice!” shouted Deacon.

Sighing, Patrick closed his eyes and began tapping his foot on the marble floor. Still no one looked at him. It was as though he were invisible again.

Impatience grew in his belly, a tight knot slowly unwinding, fraying his nerves. He was getting too used to feeling this way. Ever since Nessa had left Haven eleven days ago, it had become his natural state of being. He had spent his days penning letter after letter. He wrote to his mother, the Warden Pontius, Master Clegman, and anyone else he knew in the west who might assure him of his sister’s safe arrival. He had received no answer to his queries. Of course, eleven days was hardly enough time for a letter to return to him, but that did nothing to quell his anxiety.

He knew he was being foolish. Nessa was with Crian, the very man who had handed him Winterbone so many years before. Crian was a good man with a good heart who loved Nessa entirely, at least according to Moira. So long as they made it out of the delta, Patrick knew no harm would come to them. It was irrational to be as worried as he was, but he was worried nonetheless. No one had gone with them when they left Lord Coldmine’s estate, and no one had escorted them to Ashhur’s Bridge. Anything might have happened between here and there.

That isn’t all, and you know it , he thought, feeling pathetic.

What bothered him more than anything was how much of Nessa’s life had been hidden from him. She and Crian had been carrying on a secret love affair for more than a decade, according to Moira. She told him how Crian had courted her, taking leave of his duties to both god and kingdom to spend a few fleeting moments with her in the soggy bog of the delta. It made for a beautiful, tragic story, but it also made Patrick jealous. No matter how loyal and dedicated Crian was, no matter how much the eastern deserter loved his sister, the one person Patrick loved almost as much as his god had been stolen away…and he hadn’t even had the chance to say good-bye. His darker half insisted that all of Nessa’s sweet talk about how important he was to her had been lies. It was silly and childish, but Patrick had to find out for certain that she was all right. He needed confirmation .

The argument between the three seated at the table grew louder. Patrick placed Winterbone on the floor, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Still nary an eye turned to him. He drummed his fingers on the table, but still they did not address him.

“Then what of the young?” shouted Peytr. “An honorable man would at the least protect the innocent.”

That statement brought a pause to the conversation, and Patrick leaned forward, sensing an opening for his voice to be heard, but then Deacon thumped his fist against the table.

“Honor,” Deacon grumbled. “Will honor fill our bellies? Will honor slay the army that threatens us, that will chase us wherever we flee? What of preserving what is right?”

Frustrated, Patrick slumped, his hunched spine pressing against the hard back of his chair. Moira joined in, making the same argument as Deacon. Peytr rolled his eyes as their voices assaulted him, but he didn’t back down. His posture remained rigid, his gaze strong.

Finally, Patrick had had enough. He reached down and picked Winterbone up off the floor. Without removing the heavy sword from its scabbard, he slammed the iron-plated tip against the solarium’s marble tiles. The ensuing clang stopped the argument mid-complaint, all eyes turning to him.

“Aaaah, silence,” he muttered, and returned the sword to its resting position.

Peytr eyed him queerly, the attractive man’s expression impossible to interpret. Moira’s gaze dropped while she picked up her wooden mug in shaking hands and took a sip. Deacon fumed silently, his shoulders rising and falling, his cheeks red with frustration. He stared at Patrick as if he’d just levied a vile insult against his mother.