David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Very true.”

Patrick gnawed on the inside of his lip. “Listen, Judarius,” he finally said, feeling nervous even to ask, “I need you to tell me something.”

“Of course.”

“Is Nessa here?”

“Nessa, your sister?”

“Yes.”

The Warden shook his head. “Last I knew, she was with you, and your mother has not mentioned her name once in all the time I have been here. Perhaps you might ask her?”

Patrick shook his head, his heart sinking in his chest.

“Trust me, Judarius, my mother knows nothing. If she did, everyone else would as well. She was with the son of Clovis Crestwell when she fled into Paradise. If they were here, the great Isabel DuTaureau would not keep it secret.”

The Warden’s green-gold eyes brightened.

“In that case, perhaps she did and is hidden among the crowds? There have been massive clusters arriving nearly every day. She might have slipped in with them.”

Patrick felt a glimmer of hope. That sounded exactly like something Nessa would do.

“I’ll do some searching, then. See what I can find.”

“Very well, Patrick, and I wish you luck. If there is anything I can do to help you, please feel free to ask.”

“I will. In the meantime, I think you need a bath yourself. You smell like a grayhorn shit you out.”

The Warden shook his head. “Good day, Patrick, and good luck.”

He turned, walking back toward the blockaded path that led to the gate.

“Wait, Judarius,” he said.

“What is it?” the Warden asked, turning slightly.

“My mother…my father…please don’t tell them I’ve returned. I’d rather do that myself, in my own time.”

Judarius bowed and continued on his way. Patrick hoped the Warden would remain true to his word as he always had in the past. He had absolutely no desire to speak with his parents yet.

He made his way through the throng of people. For the first time in a very long while, he actually felt the weight of his armor, of Winterbone as it bounced on his back. He realized then that he was wincing and scowling, which could have been why many of the people he saw cringed and ducked away from him. Not that he wished otherwise. He found himself feeling irritated by the carefree smiles that painted most every face he laid eyes on, the dismissiveness the people seemed to feel about the danger they would soon be facing. He felt completely alone in the throng.

You are a different animal now, he reasoned. But you are not alone. Your god will always be with you.

“Damned inner reason,” he muttered.

Swallowing his anger, he put on the best pleasant face he could muster and dove into the crowds. He searched from one family camp to the next, asking questions as he kept an eye out for Nessa’s bright red shock of hair. None he spoke to admitted to having seen her, and many gaped at him as if he were some idiot for even asking. “Why would your sister be here ?” one of them asked, hands up in confusion. “She has a room in the manse. Only a simpleton would think she’d sleep anywhere else.”

It took every last ounce of his restraint to clench his fists and turn away.

Afternoon passed into early evening, and still his search was fruitless. He went from the new arrivals to the longtime residents, knocking on cabin doors and peeling aside yurt flaps. Still, there was no sign of her. He was feeling hopeless when an innocent voice called out his name, and he heard the patter of bare feet running up behind him.

“Nessa?” he said excitedly, spinning around.

A small form collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck. The head pulled back, revealing a nest of sandy blond hair and a slender, pretty face devoid of freckles. Patrick’s heart dropped. The girl kissed his cheek and released his neck, stepping back. The demure smile she wore fell away when he simply stared at her in response.

“You…don’t remember me?”

Patrick cocked his head, then closed his eyes. He saw the girl writhing atop him while her pelvis ground into his.

“Of course. Bethany. How could I have forgotten?”

“Brittany.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The girl bit her lip. “You don’t seem happy to see me,” she said.

“Why should I be? The last time we were together, you said you were only with me in the hopes of having a child, and then you left.”

His words brought back memories of Rachida. He wondered where the splendid woman was now, if she were safe, and if the child he had planted in her had been born without complications…

“That was before,” Brittany said, breaking him free of his recollection. “It’s said you’re a hero now, that you battled Karak and beat him back.”

“Don’t believe every story you hear,” he said with a grumble.

She stepped forward and threw her arms around him once more. It aroused him a bit, but only a bit, to realize that she did not seem to mind the grime and dried blood that covered him. However, when he looked in her eyes and saw his reflection, he cringed and pushed her away.

“Not now,” he said. “Not ever again.”

As he walked away from her, that familiar feeling of loneliness swept over him. You should have just gone with her, his inner self chastised. She was willing and eager, and you haven’t been with a woman for months. You need it.

There were tears in his eyes when he said, to nobody in particular, “But that’s not what matters now. Karak’s Army is what matters. Helping Ashhur is what matters. Finding Nessa”-he choked up, which drew odd looks from passersby-“is what matters.”

Deciding he’d had enough of crowds, he maneuvered toward the outskirts, staying as far away from the many groups of people as he could. He made sure to keep space between himself and Manse DuTaureau, fearing that at any moment his mother might emerge from inside, spot him, and flag him down. But she didn’t. Although a great many individuals strolled in and out of the sprawling building his family called home, he saw none of his relatives.

His unrest grew the longer he walked. He saw folks laughing and chatting, tending to the meager garden plots in front of their tents, caring for children, or simply lazing about, eyes to the sky as if they had not a care in the world. The lines heading down the side street to the granaries were long, and the people who emerged from them were carrying huge baskets filled with goods. He saw no evidence of rationing, as had been done in Haven when Karak’s Army was approaching, and no one was being schooled on how to defend themselves. In short, the people acted as if nothing were wrong in the slightest, as if the gargantuan walls that surrounded them were novelties and nothing more. He made a fist, digging his fingernails into his palms. For a moment he was tempted to head for the manse so that he could chastise his mother and the new king for their ineptitude.

Alas, he did not. Instead he kept walking, circling the great hill until the crowds thinned. At the edge of the column of old birch trees where he used to play run-and-chase with his sisters as a boy, he spotted a new collection of ramshackle tents. There were perhaps a thousand, sprawling from one end of the miniature forest to the other, but those who had gathered around the cookfires here had the air of those who had experienced hardship. Chatter was sparse, and he actually spied sparks flying as a few folks ran stones over steel blades. These were his people. Most of them had journeyed through the lands east of the Wooden Bridge with Ashhur, though where they’d found actual weapons was beyond on him. He thought perhaps their god had forged them.

Eyes lifted as he approached. Expressions brightened and bodies rose from the ground, approaching slowly, moving like people who had endured a long and arduous journey-which of course they had.