David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“I am so sorry,” he said while Geris continued to push himself against the stone wall as if he were trying to force his way through it. “Please, Geris,” he whispered, placing a hand on his leg. “Please, I just wish to be forgiven.”

The moment his fingers touched the grimy material, Geris ceased his thrashing. The boy drew his knees to his chest, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed clear for the first time since they’d left Safeway.

“It’s not your fault,” Geris said.

Ahaesarus drew back, astonished, and lost his balance. He collapsed on his side, striking his elbow hard on the packed dirt. He hardly felt the pain.

“What did you say?” he whispered.

“I said it’s not your fault.”

“You’re speaking without screaming. Geris, how do you feel? Do you see the creatures that haunt you?”

“What creatures?”

“The shadow lion, the demon, the witch, the imposter-you have ranted about all of these. Are you saying you no longer see them?”

“No…I don’t think so.” He looked sane but confused, the yellowish tint of the torchlight attesting to his innocence.

“Please, tell me, boy, what do you remember?”

“I remember everything,” he said, his eyes wide as a doe’s. “I remember slicing Ben’s throat.…I remember screaming and being placed in this well, then a pain in my head, and after that…It was horrible, sir.…I saw…”

He said something Ahaesarus couldn’t hear.

“What was that? What did you say?”

“I saw myself, screaming, falling down a dark hole.”

“What hole? What were you screaming at?”

Tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, almost pleading. “Dreams are portentious.”

Ahaesarus took a chance and inched forward until he was close enough for Geris to lean into him, sobbing against his chest. He held the boy’s head, his greasy hair slipping between his fingers. This was the most cogent he had ever seen Geris, and it gave him hope. Perhaps the boy could be saved after all.

They held that position for quite some time, until Geris’s breathing slowed down and his cries ceased. At last the Warden pulled back, gazing on the youthful face with its watery eyes and quivering lips.

“Sir?” the boy asked.

“Yes, Geris?”

“I want to go home.”

“I know, son. I know.”

“Please, sir. Please let me out. You can accompany me on the journey back, and you can keep me tied up if you wish. But I want to see my family again. I want to be home .” He looked like me might start crying again.

Ahaesarus slid backward, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“I cannot,” he said.

“But why ?”

He thought of Isabel’s decree, of how stern she had been. He then tilted his head, showing the boy his ear.

“You see this wound, Geris? You nearly bit my ear clean off. And I am not the only one you have attacked in your madness. We cannot let you out until we are certain you no longer pose a threat to yourself or anyone else, and only Ashhur can decide that.”

“But sir, no! Please! I’ll do anything! I’m better, I promise!”

“I am truly sorry, but…but…I cannot.”

Ahaesarus slowly grabbed the torch off the ground, stood as much as he could in the cramped space, and returned the torch back to its resting spot. Geris continued his protests in between gnawing on the heavy rope binding his wrists to the wall. Ahaesarus gazed at his student, and guilt ripped through his insides once again.

“I am sorry, I truly am,” he told the crying boy, “but our god will be here soon.”

“I know,” said a small voice. “Thank you sir. I…I love you.”

Ahaesarus bit back his tears and walked up the steps and out of the chamber. Once outside, he replaced the covering over the stairwell, sealing Geris in darkness once more. Less than twenty paces down the road, he leaned against the side of one of the carelessly constructed barns to catch his breath. This time he could not stop the tears from coming. He couldn’t help doubting whether he’d made the correct choice, and when he closed his eyes, he saw Geris’s innocent stare, the loving gaze of the child who cherished and respected him. Ahaesarus swore to himself that he would be strong for the boy, for Paradise, for his god. If Geris were indeed cured, he would be released, but only after Ashhur made that determination. In the meantime, he would work better, harder, and longer. The world might have gone insane, but he hadn’t, and it was past time for him to put aside his uncertainty and help set things right.

“Good-bye, my love, you will be missed,” said Rachida Gemcroft, the most beautiful woman that Matthew Brennan, the richest man in Port Lancaster, had ever laid eyes on.

“As will you,” Moira, the exiled daughter of House Crestwell, said softly. “I will carry you in my heart always.”

The very pregnant Rachida eased aside a stray filament of Moira’s silver hair and then leaned forward. The women’s lips met and lingered for a long moment. Their arms were wrapped around each other’s waists, locking them in a lover’s embrace. When their lips finally did part, Moira was crying. Matthew stared at them dumbly, aroused by the display.

The night was cool as they stood atop the bobbing pier in Port Lancaster. Beside them was the dinghy set to carry Rachida and her husband to Matthew’s galley, the Free Catherine , which waited out in the harbor, her sails withdrawn, her forty oars raised. Peytr Gemcroft stood by on the dinghy, tapping his foot impatiently while the women said their good-byes.

“Let’s go, Rachida,” said Peytr. “It’s getting cold, and I don’t wish to linger.”

Rachida glared at her husband, her lips drawn down in a frown, and then brought her eyes back to Moira.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

Moira touched the pregnant woman’s stomach. “I will. Don’t worry about me. Our child will not grow up without his second mother.”

“Enough,” said Peytr. “The galley awaits.”

Rachida placed one final kiss on Moira’s forehead, paused to give Matthew a curtsey, and then Peytr helped her climb down from the pier and into the awaiting boat. Her back was to them as the high merchant rowed out into the gradually undulating water of Port Lancaster’s inlet.

Matthew stepped to the edge of the pier, and Moira sidled in close as the dinghy became small and then smaller in the distance.

“Will they be all right?” she asked, her voice quiet, the question asked as if no answer were truly wanted.

“They’ll be fine,” said Matthew. “So far as I know-and I know much-the Free Catherine is the only fighting ship in all Dezrel. The deck is equipped with nine spitfires, and I assigned twenty of my most loyal men to the crew. They’re all experts with a sword as well. Should they find trouble once they make landfall on the Isles of Gold, your friends will be in good hands.”

“It’s not trouble on land that worries me.…”

“Pshaw,” said Matthew, throwing out his arm as if presenting the sea to her as a gift. “I own these waters. The Free Catherine is the finest ship you’ll ever lay eyes on. My father laid waste to any brigands who looted our clippers, and I’ve carried on that legacy. If there’s a sailor on this sea who’s worth his salt, it’s because I trained him. Karak has no army on these waters. Rachida and Peytr will be safe, I promise you. Only the Quellan elves possess ships that come close to ours, and the pointy-ears have no horse in this race.”

Moira stared after the fading ship, a frown on her face.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”