Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


20


The old man with the gray beard circled Patrick, one eye opened larger than the other, studying him as they practiced atop the grassy hill overlooking the fields where the others sparred. The grass was damp, and the air was filled with the sloshing sound of skittering feet. The Temple of the Flesh lurked in the distance like a sleeping giant.

“No, brace yourself. Weight on the back leg. Now turn at the waist. The waist. You know what your waist is, right? Keep your shoulders locked, but give yourself room for quick motions. Better. Now relax your wrists ever so slightly. You’re gripping with two hands, you can afford some slack. Lift it over your head, then hold it straight out. Good. Let go with your off hand. No, not your dominant hand, the other one. Excellent. Now hold that stance. Steady now. Amazing.”

The graybeard was Corton Ender, a tall man who was long in years but spry of spirit. He seemed genuinely impressed, and Patrick felt honored by his attention. Corton had taken leave of training from Deacon Coldmine’s militia just to oversee his progress. Ender had been an accomplished swordsman in his younger days, back when he had served as a mercenary for a rich man named Matthew Brennan, though this information meant very little to Patrick. He knew nothing of the east or of the doings of mercenaries. It sounded like an unsavory way to live, although he couldn’t deny that a certain part of him was indeed drawn to the notion, and even excited by it.

“Tilt that majestic thing to the side,” said Corton. “Flex your arm. Now that is impressive.”

The wizened old bastard had been truly awed upon his first sight of Winterbone, and he’d wondered openly how Patrick could carry such a large weapon with relative ease given his “condition.” Rather than being offended by the accusation, Patrick had appreciated the old coot’s bluntness. His family always treated him with caution. It felt liberating to be around someone who was honest with him for a change.

Corton pointed at a log that was propped up on a pair of stumps a few feet away.

“If you would, shift the weapon down slowly and place your off hand on its handle, beneath your other hand. Now swing from the legs up. Gather the strength in your calves, and send it up through your thighs. Let it flow through your trunk and expel out your arms, just like you would with a good punch. Bring the weapon down in a wide, sweeping motion, and split that log.”

Patrick followed the instructions, planting his right foot behind him, breathing deliberately in his effort to maintain the balance between his mismatched legs. He arched his back as far as he could. In a single, fluid motion, he cocked his elbows until Winterbone’s pommel was beside his ear, then reversed his momentum, stepping back with his left foot while bringing the sword up over his head in a long, winding arc. When the tip reached its apex, he felt himself lose control of the weapon. Still, it careened downward in a straight line, striking the center of the log. The steel drove through the wood, pulping it, splitting the log in two. Patrick didn’t feel any resistance when it happened; in fact, the only sensation he did feel was a frightening teetering as his body was yanked forward by the weight of the sword. Winterbone’s tip pierced the ground, halting his fall, jarring his wrists. He squinted and gritted his teeth, forearms shaking.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Corton, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed red. “You still have worlds to learn about control, but that’ll come with practice. The strength you have, however…it is truly amazing. That log was oak, almost two feet thick. Normally, it’d take five swings of an axe to halve it.”

“So I did well?”

“Well?” the old man laughed. “I don’t think that word gives justice to what you just did. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was damn near freakish.”

Patrick’s elation dipped. He kicked a foot, pulled Winterbone back from the split log.

“Freakish?” he asked.

Corton stopped staring and shook his head vehemently.

“No, no, I apologize. Not freakish in that way, Mr. DuTaureau. Yes, your body might be…unique…but it seems to have been built for one distinct purpose—to swing that sword. The shortness and unevenness of your legs plays perfectly for the sideways stance that’s required to handle a weapon of that size. Your humped back prevents you from bending too far backward—the bane of the backswing, where a man is at his most vulnerable. And those arms…I’ve never seen a more powerful pair in all my years. You may look odd, son, but when it comes to that sword, you are unfailingly perfect.”

The old man looked downright whimsical. Patrick lifted Winterbone and held it in one hand, beaming. For once, his body was not a subject of ridicule or pity, but of awe and even envy. He tossed the sword from one hand to the other, feeling the weight, the blade’s downward momentum threatening to snap his wrist. But he succeeded in keeping it straight, virtually parallel to the ground, stretching his tendons near the breaking point. He smiled through clenched teeth.

Corton smiled, shaking his head. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Patrick grinned, ear to ear.

The old man set up another log, and Patrick split that one as well. Corton put up a third, this one larger than the first two, and this time Patrick took several swings to punch through.

“I think we’re done for the day,” Corton said after that last one, and Patrick sheathed the sword. “You’re getting tired and hurrying through what I’ve shown you. Even with all that power, you must have patience and control. Never forget that.”

The old man offered him some wine and a towel, items Patrick accepted without hesitation. As Patrick nursed the wineskin, flexing his sore hands, he watched a pair of young militiamen spar at the base of the hill. They were like leaping rabbits as they poked and prodded each other with their thin steel blades. It was a thing of beauty to see, a coordinated dance of skill and grace, and it made Patrick feel clumsy and slow by comparison.


The old sellsword caught him watching the duelists and chuckled.

“There are many different ways to swing a sword,” he said. “All of them works of art. View them as dances, if you will. There is the water dance, the air dance, the dance of cloaks, the moonrise dance, and many others known to the elves that they will not share. No one way is greater than the other, and each has its advantages. But one must learn the style meant for his or her body, and you, Patrick, were meant to be a bull dancer. Your dance is one of power, of always moving forward and never turning back.”

He pointed to the duelists.

“Those men have more skill than you, but they’ve also had more practice. And they’re more graceful, something no amount of practice will fix for you. But do you know what matters most? With not much improvement on your part, you’d annihilate them. A single swing of your sword would shatter theirs and spill their guts across the dirt.”

“A lovely image,” whispered Patrick, remembering how he had done much the same thing to one of the bandits when he and Nessa had first stepped foot on the delta’s moist soil. Ever since that moment he’d been able to relive the memory with painful clarity. He remembered the blood, the odd smell of copper, the look of disbelief and fear shining in the eyes of the dying man. It should have been horrible, but something about it intrigued Patrick. Even as he thought of the blood, he remembered the exhilaration.

The words of Ashhur popped into his head, his god preaching about the sin of violence and the virtue of forgiveness: If a man strikes you on one cheek, offer him the other. Patrick hung his head.

“You should go now,” he told Corton. “You have other students to tend to.”

“Of course,” replied the old man. “Will you be heading back to the manse?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here for a while. Watch a little. Perhaps learn a little too.”

“Very well.”

Corton left to care for the rest of his charges, and a stillness overcame Patrick in his absence. He removed his sweat-soaked top, ringing it out, and then rolled his shoulders. It will be wonderful to get back to Deacon’s and relax in the bath, he thought. He’d been staying at the Lord of Haven’s manse while he trained, just outside the township itself, which was hidden by the thin section of forest a few hundred yards behind him. Slogging all the way to the Gemcroft estate, where Nessa was staying with Moira, was just too long a journey for his body to suffer through after the hours of training.

He heard a pop when he stretched his neck to the side, and that old familiar pain shot up his spine. Cringing and feeling a bit dizzy, he lowered himself to the ground and lounged in the grass, staring at the billowing clouds that floated across the sun-drenched afternoon sky. The heat was intense and the air humid, as it had been every day since he’d arrived—so different from Mordeina, with its four distinct seasons and often-dreary skies. From what he’d heard, the weather in Haven was measured by degrees of brutality: it was oppressive in the winter and like the burning fires of the underworld in the summer.

It made Patrick very happy it was autumn.

He rolled onto his side and his neck popped again, sending yet another shooting pain across his back. He lay there, watching the two duelists continue their endless dance, the clang and clink of their meeting swords sounding so far away they could have been on a different continent. For a moment he thought he saw a dark blur dash across his vision, down by a distant line of trees, but he excused it as an apparition brought about by the heat. His mind once more drifted to his memory of killing that man. The fact that Corton, who now acted as his mentor, had been one of his saviors that day only added to the unreal quality of his recollections. He thought of the violence, the life lost, and wondered if he could force himself to forget it all. Would the experience disappear from his mind like his injuries had disappeared from his body? With that contemplation came a pang of regret. Though he was glad Antar had healed him of all his wounds, in a way he wished the old Kerrian had left a tiny bit of nagging hurt. It would have done him well, would have made the fright he felt and the blood he spilled seem more real. To walk away unscathed seemed disrespectful, not only to the soul of the dead man but to the souls of all who had suffered a tragic end.

“Stop it, Patrick,” he muttered. “Think of better things.”

He did. He thought of his first few days in the delta, which had been spent at the Gemcroft estate; of mead, warm meals, and hot baths drawn by the house servants. Servants…now wasn’t that a noble idea! People there to serve you, bring you whatever you wanted, cater to your every whim as if it were the most important moment of their day. The closest comparison in Paradise was the stewards who cared for the needs of the elders and religious leaders, but that was an act of servitude and kindness, not a result of affluence.

Life was easy on the estate, and Patrick was glad to see Nessa smiling like never before. Despite the threatened attack from the east, which cast a pall over the manor, a strange calmness surrounded the estate grounds, which Patrick found wholly satisfying. He credited it to the ladies of the house, as Rachida and Moira seemed to be constantly wrapped in a bubble of lightness and joy. And they truly were happy with each other, however strange it was for him to comprehend their relationship. He had never seen that kind of adoration between women before. A part of him found it unnatural, while a wholly different part thought it beautiful.

Truth be told, he was more than a little jealous of Moira, she who was on the receiving end of Rachida’s gentle pecks and adoring embraces, she who disappeared into Rachida’s bedroom each evening. He wondered what they did in there, and if Peytr Gemcroft, the absent man of the house, knew that his wife was taking a woman to bed while he was away. Patrick was so focused on Rachida that he had resumed searching for gray hairs with renewed vigor. If he’d been lucky enough to marry such a precious creature, he would never let her lie in bed with another, no matter how innocent it might be.

He felt so captivated by her face, it seemed as though he could hear her voice while he stared at the crystal-blue sky.

“Patrick?” she said, the memory of her voice filling his head like rum sweetened with orange slices. “Patrick, are you deaf?”

He started and turned quickly from where he lay in the grass, wrenching his neck in the process. He rubbed the sore spot and stared with wide eyes at the vision that approached him in a flowing yellow dress. Rachida’s dark, curly hair bounced with each step she took, and Patrick noticed a few peculiar strands of silver woven within. Her green eyes, deep as the ocean depths, stared intently at him. A moment of panic hit him when he realized he’d taken off his sweaty tunic when he finished sparring, and he reached for it so that he might hide his wretched body.

“I was told I could find you here,” Rachida said, not batting an eye at his modesty, or his abnormality. “Antar had a…gift of sorts prepared for me by my request. I expected you back at Deacon’s manse sooner.”

“Er…sorry?” he replied, uncertain.

“What’s the matter? Why do you cover yourself so?”

“I’m, uh…cold.”

Rachida cast those dazzling green eyes of her skyward. “Cold? It’s sweltering outside. This shift is thin as parchment, but still it feels too heavy.”


Rachida reached down and yanked the discarded tunic out of his hands. She didn’t seem to mind that it was damp and probably stank horribly. She held it up, looked at the grass stains dappling the beige material, and frowned.

“This is no good,” she said. “Do you have another?”

Patrick froze, trying to get his mind to start working again. He pointed to the rucksack that sat beside Winterbone.

“I have a change of clothes in there,” he said.

“Good,” replied Rachida. “You need to get changed now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re coming with me. I have something wonderful to show you.”





“We’re going here?” Patrick asked, staring at the huge wall of granite before him. It was the only safe place he could look, for he found it quite difficult to tear his eyes away from the scantily clad women who were exiting the gates of the Temple of the Flesh, breasts swaying, faces flushed, skin shining, gaits wobbly.

Rachida laughed beside him.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” she asked, nudging him.

Patrick grinned at her, and just like every time before, he found himself lost in the beautiful woman’s eyes, as if she were the only person alive in the universe. The rumors of Rachida Mori’s beauty had been legendary even in Ashhur’s Paradise, thanks to Jacob’s stories. To see that the woman not only matched the legend but exceeded it filled him with wonder.

“I must say, your change is quite an improvement,” she said. “You look…well, dashing.”

Patrick felt heat rush into his face. He didn’t think he looked all that special. He had on another plain, cream-colored tunic, leather breeches, and the boots his mother had specially made for him to accommodate his disproportionate legs. Yet what he thought right then was irrelevant. Hearing such a compliment from Rachida made his heart skip beats.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” he said. “Just rags I’ve owned for years.”

Rachida tilted her head forward to whisper.

“It is not your clothing, Patrick, but your poise. You are carrying yourself like a man of honor, a man of strength. Like I said—dashing.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. However, you best not shrink from praise next time, or I will clobber you.”

Patrick chortled loudly. “Yes, Mother.”

Rachida laughed as well, and grabbed hold of his arm.

“You make me laugh. I like that. An important quality for a man to have…and a rare one.”

“Well, I’m a rare specimen.”

“That you are, indeed.”

They drew nearer to the temple, and now Patrick could see that there were armored men standing just inside the open gates, carefully checking over any who entered. They wore a combination of chainmail and platemail, all of which seemed finely crafted—though in reality that was nothing but a guess, for Patrick had only seen a suit of armor a very few times in his life. He recalled Corton Ender telling him how all the weapons and armor in Haven had come from raiding shipments that had been sent down the Rigon, headed for someplace called Omnmount. Again Patrick felt that same lingering sense of unease, as the need for such protective measures was completely alien to him. That these peoples’ lives were at stake because of the structure they were now approaching made it all even harder to understand. But even if he couldn’t understand, the danger was certainly real. The bridge that crossed into the eastern realm of Neldar was within sight of the place where he stood.

“So this is what all the fuss is about, eh?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“It is,” Rachida replied.

They entered the gates, and a pair of women walked toward them. Their gazes turned to Patrick, and their expressions momentarily soured. One whispered in the other’s ear, and they both steered wide of him, giggling and pointing. The lightness Patrick felt at being by Rachida’s side quickly vanished.

“Pay no attention to them,” Rachida whispered. “They aren’t important.”

The guards at the gate, thankfully, were all business, patting Patrick down in search of weapons they wouldn’t find. The only weapon he had was Winterbone, and he’d left the greatsword with Corton at the practice fields. When the search was over, Rachida took him by the arm and led him through the circular path inside the wall. The path was wide, almost fifty feet, and it circled the center structure of the temple, a tower of red brick that rose like an erection but was hidden by the high walls. The temple inside was an imposing monument, with many doors lining its curved stone foundation. On multiple occasions Patrick saw a door open and a couple skulk out, looking sweaty and relaxed, eyes half-lidded. The place was teeming with people from all walks of life—young and old, men and women, unattractive and striking. Unlike in the village surrounding the Gemcroft estate, however, there was no apprehension in the air, no fear of a god’s wrath. In fact, the air tingled with a current of excited energy racing across time and space, connecting one person to another and locking them together even if their bodies never touched.

“What is this place?” asked Patrick, feeling anxious and awed.

“It is a place of worship and intimacy. It is here that we celebrate the forms we have been given.”

“And this was Deacon’s idea?”

“It was.”

“What was his inspiration?”

She shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. You will have to ask him.”

“I’ll do that.”

The temple was much larger than he’d expected, and it took them almost fifteen minutes to walk halfway across the spherical path. There Patrick saw the entrance to the temple proper, a tall rectangle bordered by thick stone and topped with the image of a dove flying into a waiting pair of hands.

“We only find peace with each other,” Rachida said. “That is the meaning of the symbol.”

“Interesting,” said Patrick.

She stopped him just outside the entryway, pulling him aside so that others could go through unimpeded. She looked at him gravely, those luminous green eyes so seductively framed by her dark hair. She seemed like a legendary creature who wished to lure him into harm’s way. Patrick grinned at the thought, knowing that no matter where she led him, he would follow willingly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“This is a holy place to us, but sometimes people lose control. The prayer service is…stimulating, you could say. I want to make sure you are ready for it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, wishing he were as confident as he sounded. “Trust me.”

Rachida nodded. “Very well.”

Her fingers slid down his arm until they found his hand, which she took in hers. She stepped through the portal and led him down a long, cramped passage that opened up into a tall, circular room. That was when Patrick noticed that the temple had no ceiling, only a hole above that allowed the light of the heavens to shine down on those inside. Given that it was past noon and the sun had taken root lower on the horizon, the torches on the walls were blazing.

In the center of the room was a round stone rostrum, the sole furnishing. There were no seats at all, simply cushions stacked by the door, a couple of which Rachida snatched up, handing him one. The place was packed, and Rachida led the way as they wedged through the cramped maze of worshippers until she found an open space a few short feet from the base of the rostrum. Claiming it, she threw down her cushion. Patrick followed her lead. When they sat, Rachida leaned into him, her satin-covered breast pressing into the side of his arm. He thought his head might explode from the contact.


It took quite awhile for the crowd inside the temple to situate themselves. There was a living buzz in the air, a palpable charge that made all the tiny hairs on Patrick’s arms stand on end. Rachida leaned in, propping her chin on his shoulder.

“Just remember,” she told him, “feel the energy. Feed off it, but do not act. Priestess Aprodia directs the service and provides the inspiration, but she is not to be touched, no matter how close she comes to you.”

Feeling lost, Patrick said, “As you wish.”

The deafening layer of murmurs ceased, and all fell quiet. Patrick watched as a set of double doors swung inward. Out slunk a nude woman, her flesh bronzed, her hair straight and black, her eyes as pale as spent coals. She had the body of an earth goddess, with wide hips and abundant breasts, between which was a strangely alluring tattoo of a bird with wings spread. The woman—Priestess Aprodia, he assumed—was indeed a splendid creation, and were it not for the woman sitting beside him, he might have thought her the most exquisite in all the land.

The priestess climbed atop the rostrum and stood there, motionless, for what felt like an incredibly long time. Her head then suddenly snapped to the side, lashing her hair about, and her body began moving in wild gyrations. Sweat slicked her flesh, making it shine, as she whipped this way and that, reaching her arms to the sky and then drawing them in like she was holding all of creation against her abdomen, sliding her legs apart until they formed a straight line, rocking back and forth, cupping her breasts with her hands, lifting them, separating them, lolling her head around in circles, panting, moaning, yelping like a wolf in heat.

Aprodia leaned forward, pulling herself across the floor, then slid her legs out from beneath her. She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs high in the air; then, with her hands gripping her ankles, she spread them wide. Patrick, sitting eye level with the platform, stared directly into her womanhood, eyes bulging in disbelief. It was certainly the strangest form of worship he’d ever seen. He had no notion how to react.

The priestess spun around, allowing those on the other side of the room to see her as well. Patrick felt the energy in the room multiply, doubling and then doubling again, and when he finally tore his eyes off the dancing beauty before him, he saw that he and Rachida were among the few who were still watching the display. The rest were locked in private passions all their own, lips pressed together, tongues probing, hands exploring. He glanced at Rachida and saw that she was staring at Aprodia as intently as Patrick had.

The soundless dance kicked up in tempo, the priestess thrashing about as if she were caught in a cyclone that would surely rip her from the ground and send her shooting into the heavens. She leapt from the stage, amazingly not landing on any of the spectators, and continued to gyrate as she made her way around the room. Her hands caressed her body, moving over her nipples, her stomach, her hips, her sex. She stopped a few feet from where Patrick and Rachida sat, thrashing her head around so violently that her hair became a blur, and then reached down and slipped a finger inside herself. Patrick’s jaw dropped open. The priestess began to shudder, working her hand up and down, round and round, yelps and hisses escaping her tightly clenched teeth.

Patrick discomfort grew, yet Rachida’s eyes were still locked on the scene playing out a few mere feet from them. He noticed her hand was inching closer and closer to down there. He hesitated before leaning toward her and whispering, “Um, Rachida, we should go.”

Rachida was snapped from her trance.

“Now?” she said, sounding disappointed. “The service isn’t over.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t…this isn’t for me, I think.”

Rachida’s face froze, then spread into a smile. Patrick was beyond relieved.

“Very well,” she said. “I understand.”

By then Aprodia had moved on to the other side of the room, continuing with her unabashed, animalistic cries and shrieks. Patrick helped Rachida to her feet, and together they maneuvered through the maze of grinding and copulating couples.

It wasn’t until they’d exited the cramped passageway that Patrick realized that the inside of the temple reeked of sweat and unwashed bodies. He looked at Rachida, who bore an odd expression on her face. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but before he could, she grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him along the circular path. She seemed hurried now, frantic. She banged on a succession of wooden doors as they passed them by, hearing the surprised yelps of those within.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asked, winded from both the odd sexual show he’d just witnessed and the effort it took his short legs to keep up with her much longer ones.

Instead of answering, Rachida continued with her frenzied running and pounding on doors. Then she suddenly stopped short, and it took Patrick a second to grasp the reason—the last door had given no answer. She grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and then pulled Patrick inside.

The room was small and stank like the inside of the temple had, offset somewhat by a stick of incense burning on the table in the corner. The only other furniture was a slender cot. Rachida stood before him, trembling, her fingers nervously tapping just below her breasts. The tentative yet restless look in her eyes worried him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I like you,” she replied, the words spurting out. “I need to be with you. Now. Right here.”

Patrick was speechless.

“Please, Patrick. This is important.”

“Well…I…um…what about your husband?” he finally managed.

Rachida waved her hand dismissively, though her gaze still danced with edginess.

“Peytr is my husband in name only. It is a matter of convenience and no more. His interests lie elsewhere…as do mine.”

Tentatively, Patrick reached out and touched her. She closed her eyes, still shaking, and let him. Part of him wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be doing this, but his bewildered mind berated that part of himself into submission. His thick fingers lifted the straps of her satin dress and slid them off her shoulders. The dress dropped, stealing down her body, exposing her bareness underneath. Patrick gasped when he looked at her. She was perfect in every way.

He gently touched her nipples. She cringed at first, but then seemed to relax. Slowly he steered her to the bed and sat her down. She began to quake so violently, he feared her nervousness and tried hard not to think about why. As she lay down, he gently began to kiss her all over. She kept her arms by her sides, not touching him. He found it odd but was willing to accept it.

His hand slipped down from her breasts to her belly, to the tuft of hair below that, then between her legs. Her thighs tensed, trapping him there. Her eyes shot open and she stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She was crying, and the small tears running down the sides of her face were like knives cutting into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning away. “I should have known better.”

“No,” she said, grabbing him. “It’s not you. It’s not…what you think.”

“Then what?” he said, whirling on her.

Rachida slid away from him, her head drooping, her eyes downcast.

“I have never been with a man,” she said. “I have never even liked a man. Moira is the love of my life and has been ever since we were children.”


“So…you don’t like me?”

“No, I like you, Patrick, just not…in that way.”

Patrick couldn’t contain his exasperation.

“Then why are we here?”

She sucked on her upper lip, looking absolutely radiant despite her obvious sadness. “I wish to be with child. I wish to be with your child.”

Patrick groaned. Not this again. Not now. Why didn’t she ask him for a ride to the moon or for him to shit gold into a chamber pot? There were plenty of other impossible things she could try to barter out of him for sex.

“I see,” he said, sighing. “I thank you for telling me so, but I’m sorry to say, you’re going to be greatly disappointed.”

“Why?”

“I can have no children.”

That caused a sad grin to stretch across Rachida’s exquisite countenance.

“I know of your…problem,” she said. “Your sister told me. I have taken precautions in that regard.”

“You what? How?”

“A little bit of research. A little bit of magic. Antar helped greatly in that regard. And Peytr’s library is extensive.”

“And that’s all it takes? I won’t have to lick a toad or eat a bunch of mushrooms? Because I’ve tried both, at my sisters’ behest, and I assure you, neither had the promised effect.”

“No toads, no mushrooms.”

“Oh.” Patrick leaned back on the bed. He looked to Rachida again and narrowed his eyes. “But why me?”

“You are from one of Ashhur’s First Families,” she said, running a hand through that exotic curly hair of hers. “It had to be you. Haven was built for the solidarity of all peoples. All who want to live within our borders can do so. I have always wanted a child, and I want that child to reflect the values that we’ve instilled in this land. What better symbol than a child born of the offspring of the First Families of both gods?”

Patrick really didn’t think such a child would be all that special or amazing, but then again, it wouldn’t take much convincing for him to give her what she wanted. The word please was really all that was necessary, and even that was debatable.

“You are certain your spells and whatnot will work?” he asked.

She bit her lip.

“As certain as I can be,” she said.

He reached out and fanned his fingers over her eyes, closing them.

“Despite my appearance, I do know my way around a bedroom. If you’ve never been with a man, then let me guide you. Don’t look if you don’t want to. Think of Moira or your hope for a baby—whatever you need to do. Just let me know if I hurt you.”

“You’re still willing to do this?” asked Rachida in a faraway voice, keeping her eyes closed. “You do not find this an insult to your honor?”

Despite the bizarreness of the past hour, Patrick let out a heartfelt laugh.

“Trust me, Rachida, I’ve been insulted in far, far worse ways than this.”