David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“ What? ” Deacon growled.

“So you’re finally acknowledging my presence,” Patrick said. “Good to know that I’m not fucking invisible.”

Peytr cocked his head to the side, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his plump lips.

“Patrick DuTaureau, I presume?” he said. “Your reputation-and your language-precedes you.”

Patrick nodded and offered his hand, which Peytr accepted.

“State your business, man,” said Deacon, impatience burning in his eyes. “Can you not see that we have much to discuss?”

“I see no discussion,” Patrick replied. “I see three people screaming at each other.”

Deacon leaned forward, his face beet red, his knuckles white as he gripped the table. He looked as though he were ready to leap over the top and crash into him head on. It was Moira who calmed him, placing her slender, waifish fingers on the older man’s back. She leaned over and whispered into Deacon’s ear, and he grunted and sat back.

Patrick hadn’t moved during Deacon’s outburst and was still slouched in his chair, his heavy arms dangling by his sides. Of the many things Corton Ender had taught him during their daily training sessions-sessions that had been on hold since Nessa’s departure-the one that had stuck with him most was that his oddly powerful upper body gave him a marked advantage in hand-to-hand combat. Deacon was strong and athletic despite his age, but Patrick was stronger.

Peytr turned to fully face him. Patrick took in the man’s expression, which was remarkably similar to the one he and Bardiya would have as they studied odd-looking insects during their formative years.

“Please,” Peytr said, “there is no need for sarcasm or accusations. We might not agree with each other, but I assure you that every man at this table-I apologize for the designation, Moira, dear-holds the utmost respect for the others. Many apologies if it seemed otherwise to you.”

Patrick grunted.

Deacon shook his head and exhaled loudly. Moira shot him a look, and he straightened his posture.

“Yes, yes, that is true,” he said, his voice calmer now. “I’m sorry for not greeting you sooner. Please, tell me why you’ve come.”

“My sister,” said Patrick. Peytr developed a confused expression, but Moira offered him a sympathetic nod. Deacon, meanwhile, shuffled his feet beneath the table, blinking rapidly.

“And?” the older man said, strangely nervous.

Patrick hesitated, taken aback by the sudden change in Deacon’s attitude.

“I…well, I think it is time for me to leave,” he finally said. “I wish to head west to look for her. I fear for her safety.”

Deacon let out a long sigh.

“You are being rash, young DuTaureau. Crian is a capable young man. They love each other. Nessa will be safe with him. Whatever in Ashhur’s Paradise could harm them?”

“Even so, I would like to see her one last time. I was never given the chance, due to…well…other activities.”

Other activities being his glorious night with Rachida, which he didn’t dare mention with her husband, Peytr, in the room. He felt his neck flush; it hurt him to know that his little rendezvous had cost him the chance to bid farewell to his beloved little sister.

“So be it, then,” Deacon said. “You don’t need my permission to run off to find her. You aren’t a prisoner here. You can leave any time you wish.”

Patrick shrugged. “That is true, I suppose. However, my horse is locked in your stables, Deacon, and she is the only mare accustomed to my condition.” He stood up and leaned forward, bowing in respect. “I just wish to have her returned to me, and your new stable hand refused me when I asked. Odd of him to do so, considering I have been a guest in your home for some time.”

Deacon nodded.

“I apologize, that was my fault. The old stable hand decided to run off to Corton and be a soldier. Johan just came into my employ yesterday, and he knows you not. The mare is all yours again if you wish to retrieve her. I will make sure of that once I return home. You can depart this evening if you wish, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Thank you,” Patrick replied.

Moira leapt up from her chair, knocking it backward with a sudden clatter that made Patrick flinch. Her pale cheeks were flushed when she said, “But you cannot leave, Patrick. We need you here.”

“Let the man go,” said Deacon dismissively, tugging on her sleeve.

“I will not ,” she replied, and pulled away from the older man’s grip. She faced Patrick once more. “Why would you choose to leave now, Patrick? It’s less than a month away from the next full moon, when Karak’s Army promised to return. Corton has said you are his best pupil, the most natural with a sword he has ever seen. We need you . And besides, were you not instructed to come here? Is this not where your god wishes you to be?”

Patrick shrugged. “To be honest, Moira, I’m not sure why I am here. I haven’t spoken with Ashhur in years. It was Eveningstar who sent me here, under instructions to convince you all to tear down that temple, though I’ve struggled with that task since I arrived. It seems as though I’ve joined you instead. The temple still stands, and none of you have any intention of tearing it down anytime soon. I’ve clearly failed at what I was sent here to do.” He glanced at Peytr, who now held a glum expression. “I apologize, but in all honesty, I have no horse in this fight. I am no soldier, and though Corton may say I am good at it, I have no desire for violence. All I wish to do, beyond making sure that my sister and Crian made it home safely, is to return to Paradise. What I do not desire is to lose my life protecting a temple dedicated to fucking .”

Patrick bent over, picked up Winterbone, and offered Peytr a cursory nod before turning on his heels and strolling awkwardly out of the room. He heard footsteps follow after him as he walked down the hallway. He anticipated that it would be Moira, pleading with him to stay, but when he turned, ready to offer his best dismissive words, Peytr was the one standing there. Patrick expected him to be angry, but he seemed appreciative instead.

“Yes?” Patrick asked.

Peytr’s hand came up, soft, powdered fingers stroking the knotted flesh on the side of Patrick’s face. His touch was as delicate as a lover’s, which made Patrick feel somewhat uncomfortable. As if sensing this, Peytr pulled his hand away.

“I understand your decision,” the merchant said. “And I do not wish to change your mind. In fact, I wish you had convinced my people to tear down that monstrosity. I do not know why it was constructed in the first place. At times it seems as though Deacon is trying to test Karak’s patience.”

“He obviously succeeded.”

“That he did,” said Peytr with a nod. “And I will not be here to reap what he has sown. I will be gathering my wife and some…others who are important to me…and heading to the Pebble Islands. I have another estate there, and the ocean will keep us safe for a time.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Patrick asked hesitantly.

Peytr shrugged. “I suppose I just wish to thank you. I understand that Rachida holds the utmost respect for you, and you are very special to her. It means a great deal to me that you have been a companion for her. I know how lonely it can be for a wife when her husband is gone for months at a time.”

Peytr smiled then, and it was sincere. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not a problem,” he said. “Not in the slightest.”

“I thought not,” replied Peytr with a wink. “She is a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in all the land. Even someone like me can admit that.”