David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Once the doors to the makeshift throne room were closed, King Benjamin rose from his throne.

“Master Warden Ahaesarus,” he said, “it is splendid that you have chosen to greet us this fine day.”

“My presence was requested, my liege,” Ahaesarus replied, squinting in confusion.

“Of course it was,” the king said, giving a questioning glance to Isabel, who was as still as stone, her hands folded over her lap. She nodded to the boy king, and Ben Maryll shifted uncomfortably before returning to his throne. He tugged at the scarf wrapped around his neck, revealing, for the briefest of moments, the jagged white bolt of scar tissue that stretched across his throat. Though Ahaesarus, Daniel Nefram, and a team of Mordeina’s greatest healers had succeeded in mending the wound Geris had given the boy, they had barely saved his life. The new king would forever be marked by that fateful night.

Ahaesarus approached the raised platform and knelt before it, but he did not incline his head. That would have been akin to worship, and the only being in all of Dezrel who deserved worship was Ashhur.

It had been a long while since Ahaesarus had seen King Benjamin, for most of his time was spent working on the wall. He took a few moments to examine the boy, and it was an odd sight. Ben was clean, his skin well powdered. Rouge had been applied to his cheeks, which gave him a more childlike appearance than he should have possessed at fifteen years of age. His clothing was draped velvet, both smooth and crushed, in varying shades of maroon, emerald, and lavender, the dominant colors of House DuTaureau. His hair was chopped short and shining with oil, and a plain wooden crown rested evenly atop his head. Ben was growing pudgy around the middle and starting to develop a second and perhaps even third chin.

In most every way, this Benjamin Maryll resembled the child that the traitor Jacob Eveningstar had tutored during the majority of the lordship. Although Judarius had whipped the boy into shape, Ben seemed to be reverting to his old ways. He had a lax demeanor, very unlike the hardened youth his fellow Warden had helped mold. It was amazing how much could change in less than a year’s time. Ahaesarus wondered if Isabel was spoiling her pet king into complacency or if this was simply Ben’s natural state.

“So, Master Warden,” said the young king while he rubbed his hands over his throne’s ivory armrests, “tell me: How does the wall progress?”

Ahaesarus cleared his throat. “It progresses well, my liege. There is but a small section yet to complete, and we still have a sally port to cut, but all being equal, I would say our progress is back on schedule.”

“You have led your workers well, Master Warden,” said Isabel in her remote, emotionless tone. “I see a change has come over you, and one for the better. It was only a few weeks past when you could not reach those who would be your wards.” A smile finally came across her lips, and Ahaesarus had to admit it made her even more beautiful. “Now they work themselves day and night, and success is within our reach.”

“They work not for me, but themselves,” he retorted. “They are beginning to understand the gravity of what will befall them.”

“And you had much to do with that. The progress you have made is admirable.”

Having four talented spellcasters has helped.

“My Liege and Lady Isabel, it is the people of Mordeina whom you should be lavishing with praise, not me,” Ahaesarus said. “I am merely a teacher, a Warden. If what I have taught has taken seed, if the men and women I care for have come to realize the preciousness of the gift of existence that has been bestowed on them, then it is they who deserve to be rewarded.”

“You truly mean that, don’t you?” sneered Richard DuTaureau, who still hovered behind his wife.

“I do,” Ahaesarus replied. He glowered at the petty little man and took the opportunity to rise from his kneel. Ahaesarus towered over everyone in the room, and Richard fell back a step, his expression uncertain, and then retreated. The man’s reaction made Ahaesarus want to laugh aloud, especially when he heard Richard’s footfalls disappear into the alcove to the rear of the hall. It might have been petty, but he so did not like that man.

“I agree with you, though the time for honoring my people shall come later,” said Isabel, seemingly unconscious of her husband’s departure. She leaned forward in her seat, her fathomless green eyes narrowing in on him. She had a sudden aura of seriousness that made him shudder. “Right now, I only wish to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Do you love the people you call wards?”

“With all my heart.”

“Why? Is it true love, or a debt you feel you owe to Ashhur? Tell me, Master Warden. I will know if you lie.”

He felt confused, unsure. This was not the line of questioning he’d expected.

“It began as duty, my lady,” he said. “For many years, I have watched humanity grow, and I have guided them with all my ability. From the moment Ashhur’s first thousand were created, their tiny clay vessels shaping themselves into fully formed youths, I have stood by their side, nurturing, attending, entertaining, educating. I showed them how to farm, fish, speak; I taught them their letters, their numbers, how to raise their children. My brothers showed them how to build with stone and wood, how to sew using a porcupine quill for a needle. We told stories borrowed from our dead world, creating parables that would instill a sense of responsibility in the young race, and we taught them practical magics, drawing on the enchantments Celestia had buried deep within the soil to help crops grow quickly, paving the way for Paradise to prosper.

“And, of course, I taught my wards Ashhur’s laws, preaching about forgiveness and love and service to their fellow man.” The momentum built up inside him, and it was impossible to stop. “But if I am being honest, I never truly understood my wards. I was what I still am-a creature from a different world, very much like the humans I teach, yet completely dissimilar. On our own world, our race had lived for near thirteen thousand years when the demons severed the fabric of our universe and fell upon us. Our society was old, our ways settled. We were, in a phrase, bound to our station, sprouting from the womb seemingly already molded, the course of our lives set before we took our first breaths. My father was a farmer, and so I was to be a farmer too, until it was all ripped away in the cruelest way possible.

“When we were saved by Ashhur and Celestia, their rescue came at a price. Once more I found myself predefined: I was a Warden, one who would guide humanity through its infancy and into a prosperous adulthood. There were no other paths for me-for any of us. And though I was grateful for the second chance at life, a twinge of resentment grew nonetheless. I looked on mankind, at all the gifts and advantages they were handed, and felt…jealous.”

“Jealous?” asked Isabel, her voice animated by curiosity.

“Yes,” he replied. “Look at us, those you call Wardens. We are physically superior and far more advanced in almost every way. Each gift humanity was handed-aside from those bestowed by Ashhur-came from us. Language, arts, mathematics, agriculture-they were all gifts from we who could have been conquerors instead of nursemaids. Especially in those earliest days, humans appeared so feeble compared to us, so weak and useless. Coddled, treated as if all they had was their right rather than their privilege. When my brothers were thrown out of Neldar and the lands of House Gorgoros, they should have been free, and yet they were called back into service, once more coddling these lesser beings who had so unfairly been lifted on high.