David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Without any focus for his rage, his anger turned to a sorrow so sweeping that it was as if the entirety of his being was sinking into a pit of oil. Feeling sick with grief, he ducked into the nearest empty room, slamming the door behind him. There he wept, his bulk quivering uncontrollably. He pictured Nessa as she had been, as she would have become; the youthful vigor in her eyes, the way her every movement seemed to be part of some secret dance, her childlike wonder, her caring and loyalty and capacity for love . It began to sink in that he would never see her again, and he spiraled even deeper.

Pull yourself together. You must tell Mother.

Patrick dug his uneven teeth into his lip hard enough to make it bleed, then stood up as straight as he could. He looked down at himself, at the plain breeches and drab brown tunic he was wearing, and wished he had put on his armor instead. He felt naked without it, vulnerable.

After taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and stepped back into the hall. There was still no one about, though he could hear voices. He placed one foot in front of the other, making his way toward the dining hall, and then he appeared: the one whose presence Patrick desired even less than Karak’s.

His father.

Richard DuTaureau skulked along the wall, his face twisted into a scowl, his hands clasped before him. His shock of red hair was oiled and brushed straight, bobbing just above his shoulders. He was short and willowy, just like his wife and their daughters, though he carried himself with an air of superiority. His face, a close reflection of Isabel’s, had no lines or creases, no blemishes save the freckles sprinkling his cheeks. He did not look up as his son approached.

In an instant Patrick was transported back to Haven, to the moments before Karak’s Army marched over the bridge and a fireball fell from the sky. He heard Deacon Coldmine’s voice in his head as the would-be Lord of Haven told him the story of Patrick’s own birth, of how his father had poisoned him while he was still in his mother’s womb, cursing him with the deformities that would shape his life. At the time he had said he didn’t care.

Only now he did.

Just before they passed each other, Patrick charged his father, his meaty fingers gripping Richard’s gem-encrusted surcoat as he slammed the smaller man against the wall. A surprised yelp left his father’s throat, and the man’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Patrick braced his legs and drove his shoulder into his father’s breast. Richard DuTaureau offered a pathetic whine in protest, spit flying from his lips. His cheeks reddened, his nose flared, and he stared at Patrick with surprise and disgust.

“You made me like this,” Patrick growled. “Did you ever once feel regret for it?”

Richard sneered and opened his mouth as if to offer a biting retort, but Patrick didn’t allow him the chance. In one swift motion he drove his fist into the side of his father’s head. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as he watched his knuckles connect with Richard’s cheek, his father’s flesh rippling outward from the impact of the blow. He heard a pop as the man’s neck shot to the side and his head collided with the stone wall. His father stood there a moment, tottering, his cold eyes vacant, until he collapsed backward, landing on the carpet with a thump .

Patrick loomed over him, breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. He watched his father’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and then turned away, sorrow threatening to overtake him once again. He had dreamed of laying his father out like that even before Coldmine told him the sordid truth. So why did he not feel any better?

When he reached the dining hall, he grasped both handles and threw the double doors open with such strength, they bounced against the solid walls. He expected a surprised reaction from all inside, but the only one who looked his way was a plump young boy who wore an odd looking wooden ring around his head. King Benjamin, I presume, he thought. He had known the Maryls, who were from Conch, most of his life, and seeing Benjamin with that silly wooden crown on his head made him want to laugh. The boy was all the way on the other side of the room, yet his eyes still widened at the sight of Patrick. He rose slightly from a high-backed wicker and ivory chair that was just as odd a choice as his headgear. The boy king seemed to think better of it, however, for he sat back down, staring with equal parts fear and awe at the huffing creature before him. He turned his head to the right, where a pair of individuals were locked in a heated debate.

Patrick followed the boy’s gaze and there she was-Isabel DuTaureau, his mother and the second of Ashhur’s first children. She and Ahaesarus, the Master Warden of Paradise, were the ones talking. It had been almost a year since Patrick had seen her, yet the sight of that lithe yet powerful figure still disarmed him. His shoulders slumped, and he retreated inward as if no time had passed at all.

As for Ahaesarus, Patrick had not laid eyes on him in nearly twenty years, not since the days when he used to visit Safeway with Bardiya. Just like Patrick, the Master Warden looked exactly the same now as he used to then. That he was in Mordeina was strange, since rumor had it he was supposed to be up in Drake assisting Turock’s sister. Then again, if the grayhorns had wandered south…

Just get it over with.

“Mother, a word,” he said, loudly but respectfully.

Ahaesarus glanced in his direction, but Isabel didn’t even turn her head. She continued laying into the Master Warden, calling Ahaesarus a traitor for freeing some child whom she saw was “a danger to us all,” telling him he would be punished severely for his crime. Ahaesarus shot back that he did not care. Isabel never once registered Patrick’s presence.

“MOTHER!” he screamed.

Isabel wheeled around, rage burning in her green eyes. Patrick was glad for it. At least her anger made her human.

“Can you not see I am speaking here ?” she shrieked.

He scowled, disobedience rising to the top of his mixed emotions.

“It is good to see you too, Mother,” he said calmly, “and it brightens my heart to receive such a warm reception.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“You summoned me, didn’t you?”

She nodded, still seething.

“Did you receive my letters?”

“I received them.”

“That’s all? You received them ? You aren’t worried about your daughter, your youngest, the jewel of the family?”

Isabel shrugged. “No. Nessa went off with you to the delta without my permission. She is your responsibility, not mine. I do not know why you expect me to help find her.”

His anger churned. “Oh, Mother, there is no need. I have already found her.”

“Is that so?” Isabel shook her head. “Bring her here, then, so I might discipline her.”

“I would if I could, Mother, but that would entail marching through the enemy’s army, crossing a few bridges, and traveling deep into Karak’s land. And even if I did all that, I don’t think there is much you could teach a corpse.” Those last words were choked with tears.

Isabel opened her mouth, shut it again, and then backed up a step.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying your daughter’s dead, O great Lady Isabel,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “I’m saying she was murdered in Neldar and now hangs from the walls of the castle there.”

“You…you lie.”

“He speaks no falsehood,” said Ahaesarus in an undertone.

Tears rolled down Patrick’s cheeks. “Yes, Mother, your daughter is dead. My sister is dead. Is that lesson enough for you?”