Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


21


A sentry patrolled the bridge in the deep of night, blocking any chance Crian had at crossing, as usual. He lingered at the edge of the Ghostwood, peering around the trunk of a giant spruce tree, waiting, hoping he might get his chance soon. The sentinel disappeared around the bend, offering him a brief opening, but a replacement soon appeared. He fell back into the safety of the woods, cursing to himself.

There was smoke in the distance, appearing over the sepia-colored grasses like a bulbous black snake. A cookfire, he assumed, lit by the unit that had been sent to capture him. He snuck back through the trees to the small camp he’d made untold days before. It was a rustic setup, nothing but a pile of clothes for a bed and a torn-apart nightshirt tied to a tree for shelter. He’d lost his candles while in flight, dropping them in the middle of the dark and confusing woods. Not that he minded too badly. These woods, and the lengthy river that ran through them, were all that had saved him from capture. All throughout Neldar, the Ghostwood was considered a haunted and evil place. Superstitions and legends abounded of how the ghosts of the dead resided there alongside the lingering specters of the creatures that Celestia had supposedly spirited from Dezrel to pave the way for humankind.

But Crian knew better. Of all his family, he was the only one whose relationship with Jacob Eveningstar had been amicable, and when he was younger—before the First Man had left the east to take up permanent residence in Ashhur’s Paradise—Jacob had taken pains to teach him the topography of all of Dezrel, disclosing what was legend and what was not, describing the many natural oddities that existed throughout the land’s four corners. Jacob had laughed off the legends of Ghostwood, which was known for its haunting murmurs.

At the center of the forest lies a bubbling hot spring. The heat creates gas that must escape, which it does through tiny gaps in the ground. When those gaps breathe, it sounds like moaning, or a steady, sinister whisper. But that is all there is. There is no such thing as ghosts, child, and if they once existed, they are as gone as the dragons are.

Crian slumped down cross-legged beneath his shoddily constructed lean-to and, reaching into his sack, removed the mirror he’d brought with him when fleeing Omnmount. He placed it in his lap and took a swig of stream water, which stung his throat with its odd, sulfurous tang. He stared at his reflection in the vibrant moonlight. Gently he touched at the silver strands of his hair, which were poking through more and more now that he lacked the means to hide them.

So be it, he thought. I’m never going back to Veldaren, and I will never sit at my father’s left hand again. When I take Nessa and Moira away from here, we’ll flee deep into the Paradise. I can grow old there.

He didn’t know if his plan would work, but he had heard that Ashhur was a loving and forgiving god, with an undying affection for the pathetic and downtrodden, and none were more pathetic and downtrodden than he. All he did know was that he could never return home again. Avila’s words were proof of that. If all of Haven were to be massacred, including his own excommunicated sister, there was no mercy to be found in Karak’s lands. Crian’s own hand had signed his death warrant with a flourish of blood the moment he brutalized Avila. It was an act he regretted. He truly did love his sister, even though their relationship was contentious. But for her to do what she did, to come on to him like that and then taunt him with promises of Moira’s and Nessa’s deaths.…

That was in the past, a different problem for a different day. If he wanted to survive, he had to focus on the present, and right now his greatest dilemma was finding a way to cross Karak’s Bridge and escape into the delta. Hardly an easy task. The soldiers chasing him were his own, men he’d trained, men he’d considered his brothers. They knew he lurked in the forest, and constant patrols hemmed him inside. Always their bows were at the ready. Crian couldn’t even risk wandering deeper into the woods so that he could jump into the river and bypass the bridge entirely. Should they hear him or spot him swimming along, he’d have no safety from their arrows. His only saving grace was time—and their superstitions.

“It’s a shame you’re not with me, Nessa,” Crian said, sighing at his exhausted reflection. “We’d have all the privacy in the world in here.”

A high-pitched whistle suddenly bit at his eardrums and made him wince. He glanced all around him, but there was nothing there. The whistle sounded again, again coming from nowhere. Something tickled at the back of his mind, and as if by instinct he glanced down at the mirror that lay in his lap. His lips quivered, and his eyes nearly bulged from his head.


The mirror no longer showed his own reflection; instead, a vaporous apparition fogged over the reflective glass. He could make out the shape of a face, or perhaps a skull of some sort, along with a deep red outline that shimmered when the smoke inside the mirror billowed. He wiped at it with his sleeve despite his fright and the pain of the constant whistle in his ears. Nothing. No change, just the phantom leering out at him. A paralyzing tremor froze his limbs and set the nerves behind his eyes to throbbing, as if invisible lightning had coursed through him.

Go.

The word entered his head much like the tip of an arrow, piercing the front of his brain and making him cry out in surprise. He collapsed to his side, the mirror sliding off his lap, now clear of smoke and haunting images. He rolled on the ground, over leaves and jutting roots, pain shooting through his entire being. Pressure built in his head, threatening to explode his skull, gradually becoming more and more awful until he let out a primal scream of terror. The pain began to dissolve, but that word kept repeating in his head, louder than before. This time he listened.

GO!

More screams, these not from his own mouth. He jerked his head up and looked around, but the forest was empty save for the chattering birds in the canopy overhead. He scurried to his feet, snatching his sword from its dry place beneath the lean-to, and stumbled down the path he had created. Branches tore at him, scratching at his face as he ran in the darkness. He made it to the path’s end, where he used to sit for hours, day and night, watching the soldiers safeguard the bridge. The screaming multiplied the closer to the forest’s edge he ran, and in his waking nightmare he imagined a parade of hideous monsters slipping out of the shadowed gaps of the world, lopping off heads and devouring entrails, turning the southern banks of the Rigon into a bloody form of the fiery underworld.

And then he reached the carnage at the edge of the forest. Soldiers, those still alive anyway, fled in all directions. Chasing them, almost lazily, was a formless mass of smoke that shimmered black and silver in the moonlight. It surrounded the men, gray tendrils whipping from its swirling center, knocking them aside as they shrieked in unimaginable terror, and then disappeared into the tall grass in a spray of red. The smoke was gradually moving away from him, progressing toward the opposite side of the Gods’ Road. Crian watched, his feet made of lead, his mind locking tight. What he saw—it just couldn’t be. Jacob couldn’t have been this wrong about the forest.

Again that voice, this time softer, more serene, yet oddly more urgent than ever.

Go.

The spirits of the Ghostwood were real. They had watched over him, lurking in his thoughts, stealing into his dreams. Had they felt his love for Nessa? Did they sense his frustration and anger toward the soldiers who chased him? This shapeless creation before him—was that its normal form, or could it shift and change, perhaps even becoming human?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. Before him was an opening, and he would not dare refuse the spirits’ command. Crian burst from the line of trees, running at a full sprint through the open space. All that separated him from the bridge was a couple hundred feet of green grass. He didn’t dare take his eyes off his goal, didn’t want to even acknowledge the misty cloud that slowly receded away, leaving trails of body parts strewn about the grass. As he ran through its lingering presence, a chill seeped into the very depths of his bones. He held his breath, waiting for it to take him, to crush him like any other mortal, mocking his hopes.

It never did. His feet churned up bits of grass and chunks of dirt and rock, and his ears still rang with the echoes of the soldiers’ piercing screams. By the time his boots fell hard on the steel-reinforced granite surface of Karak’s Bridge, he felt like sobbing.

It took much less time to cross the bridge, and once he was on the other side, he spied a large structure of some sort in the near distance, situated at the base of the mountain that rose behind it—the Temple of the Flesh, he assumed—and then he was flying alongside the river, keeping up a constant speed, no matter how dicey the footing became. Integrity swung useless in his hand. A part of him wanted to stop, to rest his burning chest, but he didn’t dare. His footfalls would not slow until the Ghostwood was banished from his sight. Besides, there was still the chance he was lost in a delusion or a dream, that Avila’s men, his men would come storming into the delta. These lands were considered neutral no longer. It was enemy territory now, and according to his sister, it was full of enemies to be crushed.

The terrain became marshy and damp, and finally Crian’s mind returned to him. He collapsed to his knees, gasping in air. He couldn’t run further. He just couldn’t. A glance behind him showed Karak’s Bridge in the distance, and beyond that.…

He looked away. The Ghostwood terrified him, and a deep part of him wanted to never, ever think about it again. When his breathing grew more controlled, Crian rose back to his feet. He had to be careful now. With things as they were, there was no guarantee he would be treated as a guest rather than a threat. Sticking to the cover of the twisting wetland mothertrees and swampy vegetation, he struggled through the quagmire, his boots constantly getting sucked beneath the mud or ensnared in vines. He heard recognizable animal sounds: the repetitive bleats of the whippoorwills, the throaty exclamations of whooping cranes, and the ominous splash of large, hidden bodies dropping into the bog. He kept his wits about him, remembering the lessons Moira had taught him about staying alive when trapped in the delta swamp. Head down, keep moving, don’t turn around for anything. This wasn’t his first venture into the wilds, after all. Hopefully it wouldn’t be his last.

It was morning by the time he found the landmark he was seeking—a vast garden of blood roses and orchids that exploded in red and white brilliance from the drab greens and browns of the swamp. The sound of the ocean rumbled in his ears, not very far away. He immediately climbed the bank, yelping as he narrowly avoiding the snapping fangs of a frightened bogsnake. Keeping close to the spiky vines of the roses, he worked his way through a tightly woven copse of trees. When he emerged on the other side, he breathed a sigh of relief, almost falling to his knees and crying his thanks to the sky. A small, brown-rooted courtyard led to the rear of a simple log cottage with a hay-lined roof. Moira’s cottage. He was here at last.

Throwing caution to the wind, he went straight for the front door. He didn’t care who saw him now—he had no secrets left to hide. He rapped lightly on the wood, a grin stretching across his face, and tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Moira to answer.

She never did.

Gently he leaned his weight into the door. It rotated inward, unbarred. He stepped inside, hesitating just before he crossed the threshold. The windows were unshuttered, letting in the light of the rising sun as well as buzzing insects that circled the bowl of fruit sitting on Moira’s simple kitchen table. It was the same table they sat around whenever he visited, chatting about loved ones, the taste of the many luscious and exotic soups Moira would set to boil in her inglenook, the beauty of the sunrise over the vast eastern waterways—anything but the life of enforcement and violence he lived outside this peaceful delta.

Moira’s simple three-room cabin, filled lovingly with a lifetime’s worth of trinkets and curiosities, was his own sort of haven. For the first time in his thirty-eight years of life he appreciated the significance of the place’s name. Haven: a place of safety and shelter, a refuge for the unwanted, the outcasts…but this place would be none of those things once his father had his way.


Swatting at a large horsefly that was hovering in front of his face, Crian pivoted on his heels and left the cabin. If his sister wasn’t here, there was only one other place she could be. He strolled out the door, making sure to close it behind him, and veered left down the dirt cart path that passed in front of the property. He walked casually, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. This far south, the delta was sparsely populated. Not twenty years ago it had been a disorganized harbor for miscreants and starving thieves who dwelled in the swamps and survived by assaulting passing wagons en route to the meager docks that bordered the Thulon Ocean. Deacon Coldmine had led the drive to clean the place up, aided by Rachida and Peytr Gemcroft. The scum had scattered in all directions. It was in the delta that Crian’s carriage had been attacked that fateful day he met Nessa and her malformed brother. Crian had given up his sword in thanks for their aid. The thought of the blade put a smile on his face. Winterbone, a beast of a thing he’d had difficulty carrying. Father had been none too pleased to learn he had “lost” it, but of course his reaction would have been far worse if he’d learned the arduous thing had been given to an offspring of Ashhur. Crian knew the mutant DuTaureau still had it, and that thought brought his mind back to Nessa.

Fifteen minutes later, the Gemcroft Estate loomed before him, rising above the surrounding mothertrees and apple blossoms like a mythical stone monster. What had started out as a simple log cottage had, over time, grown into a building whose immensity was only dwarfed by the amount of ardor that had gone into its construction. The stones making up its walls had been extracted from the Pebble Islands and were inlaid with traces of precious gems. The roof was made from the halved logs that had formed Peytr’s original cottage, painted with exotic dyes produced from the ink of a hundred thousand miniature squids farmed off the delta’s shores.

When he rapped on the door, a young servant girl named Una, whom he had met many times, answered it almost immediately. He asked to see the lady of the house, smiling as Una cast a disapproving glance at his muddy, unkempt appearance. She escorted him inside, passing through the vestibule that overlooked the pathway and down a long hall that opened up into the solarium.

There were several people in the room, but Crian saw only one—his beloved Nessa. She lit up with joy the moment he stepped inside, casting aside her knitting so that she could lunge at him. Crian dropped Integrity on the table beside him and wrapped his arms around her, accepting her kisses across his dirty face, letting the tiny pecks wash away all the lingering horror of the Ghostwood.

“You came!” she cried out between kisses. “Atria just arrived two days ago. I wasn’t expecting you for another week!”

“I’m early,” replied Crian, easily supporting her tiny frame.

“What happened to you?” she asked, pulling away. “You’re all a mess.”

“I had to…let me just say I walked here.”

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, not wanting to answer her fully, for he was all right now.

It was Moira’s turn to embrace him. Her blue eyes watered at the edges as she took in the sight of him, and she played nervously with her silver-white hair. Crian was able to pry Nessa off for a warm embrace, although his love still managed to attach herself to his side like a human barnacle.

“It’s good you came,” Moira said. Despite how similar she appeared to Avila, she had none of their sister’s mannerisms. Moira exuded kindness, simplicity, and passion, while Avila had done anything but. When Crian looked into those blue eyes, he saw a woman at peace, a woman who had everything she needed and was more than willing to give it all away for those she loved. It hurt him terribly, knowing the reason he had come, the ill tidings he brought with him.

“Not as good as I would like,” he said, lowering his gaze to the floor.

Nessa circled around in front of him, her curly red hair frizzing up about her head like a crimson halo, hands clasped, eyes wide with sudden concern.

“What’s wrong, my love?” she asked.

Crian cast his gaze aside. “I was discovered, Ness. We were discovered.”

“So?” uttered Nessa, incredulous.

“It’s about time,” Moira interrupted. “If Father has thrown you out, you can come down here and live with me. I have been trying for years to convince you to do so, anyway.”

“It’s not just that,” he said, glancing between them. “Haven is no longer safe.”

Moira took a step back as Nessa began to chew on her knuckles, a nervous habit that he had always found adorable until now.

“Why?” Moira asked.

“It’s Father. In a month he is coming here, with an army at his back.”

“Which only makes him a man of his word,” said a gruff male voice. Crian glanced up at the speaker, who was rising from a reclined position on the divan. He was solidly built and was wearing a thin white robe covered with a long maroon jerkin. His hair was close cropped yet shaggy, his beard thick but well maintained. Wisps of gray suggested he was an older man, but he carried himself with the strength and confidence of youth. His eyes were a deep brown, and they seemed to convey a sort of veiled intelligence that reminded Crian of his father.

“Who are you?” Crian asked.

The man stepped past Moira and extended his hand. “Deacon Coldmine, Lord of Haven.”

“You’re Deacon?”

“The last I heard.”

“Wait, isn’t your brother—”

“On the king’s council, yes.”

“Funny, he never mentioned you.”

“He had no reason to.”

“Oh,” Crian replied, shaking the man’s hand.

He stepped back after the greeting. “Listen, all of you,” he said, glancing in turn at each of the three people standing around him. “Yes, you know my father, the Highest—our father, Morry—is coming here. But his proclamation was dishonest. He doesn’t care whether or not you fall down before Karak and beg forgiveness. To be honest, I’m not sure Karak does, either. This city, your temple—they’re going to make an example of it for the rest of Dezrel. You’ve been pronounced enemies of Neldar, and Clovis will wipe out every man, woman, and child. There is no turning back now, no safety to be found in Haven. We must all flee, all of us.”

The joy that had filled Nessa’s eyes only moments ago slowly faded.

“Is this true?” she asked.

“It is. We haven’t much time. We must go, and soon.”

“And where will we go?” asked Deacon. His arms were crossed over his chest, and Crian could tell there was only one person he had to convince, and then the whole delta would follow.

“To Ashhur’s lands,” Crian said, meeting the hard man’s gaze. “We’ll find shelter there.”

Deacon frowned.

“And what of the four thousand other good people who live deeper in the delta?”

“They can come with us, of course. Why wouldn’t they?”

Deacon let out a laugh so devoid of humor that it reminded Crian once more of his father. A chill ran up his back, making him shiver.

“Is that so?” the man asked. “How easy then, how simple. You have the wisdom of a child—perhaps worse than a child’s. Do you think Ashhur would be brave enough to accept us with open arms?”

“He would!” shouted Nessa. “Ashhur loves and respects all life!”


“Perhaps he does,” the bearded man said, rustling Nessa’s hair. “But Ashhur also knows his place. If the God of Order wishes death upon us, do you really think Ashhur will grant us sovereignty? That would invite open conflict between the two brothers, something they’ve both taken great pains to avoid. By the Abyss, Celestia even split the land with the Rigon to help separate their creations. No, Ashhur will not protect us. He will not risk open warfare for a few of his brother’s miserable failures. He will say he’s sorry and see us back to our fates.”

“That’s not true!” cried Nessa.

“Sometimes I find it hard to believe you’re thirty years old,” Deacon said with a roll of his eyes. He fixed Crian with a hard yet sympathetic stare. “I appreciate the warning, boy, but these contingencies have already been measured. And considering we never had any intention of bowing down, we have been preparing for war.”

Crian opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Did you think us cowards?” Deacon asked. “Haven is my creation. I brought the first settlers into this unclaimed land twenty years ago. I oversaw the taming of the ruffians who called the delta home. Most importantly, I taught the people what it meant to be free. I had the temple built so that they could exercise that freedom to its fullest potential. Never once, not even when your bastard father rained down arrows upon my people, did I consider tearing that temple down.”

Crian threw up his hands. “This is madness!” he exclaimed. “You cannot win. The force my father commands outnumbers your citizens two to one! And you’re fighting more than just a king here; you’re fighting your own god!”

“One man defending his home is worth ten invading soldiers, boy,” Deacon said, his face hardening even more. “Do we sign our own death warrant? Perhaps. But I would rather die a free man than live as a slave to a theocracy, beneath a puppet king who has less faith than I do. Have I made myself clear?”

The air went out of Crian’s lungs. His shoulders sagged and he glanced at Moira, who stood beside the Lord of Haven.

“Morry,” he said, turning to her. “Sister, please say you do not agree with him.”

Moira tilted her head and gently parted her lips.

“I’m sorry, but I do. Father disowned me long ago for the indignity of following my heart. The people of Haven are my people now. I cannot abandon them. I will not abandon them.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Crian. The decision is made, and it is ironclad.”

He felt close to tears. “If you were to perish, I couldn’t.…”

She approached him and cupped his face in her hands.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There is more of Avila in me than you realize. I know how to defend myself. I will be fine…and even if I am not, you can go on knowing that I went out the way I chose.”

He opened his mouth to protest but snapped it shut when he saw the determined look on his sister’s face. Her mind was made up. There was nothing he could say to make her feel otherwise.

“I’ll go with you,” Nessa said, piercing the sudden silence. She pressed herself against him, this time far more subdued. “I’ll never leave your side. Never again.”

“I know,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “And I won’t leave yours either.”

Deacon slapped him on the shoulder, jarring his tired body.

“You know,” he said, “we’re always on the lookout for another good swordsman. As it is, our one lone warrior is a bit…overmatched…given the number of citizens he is saddled with training. You were the Left Hand of the Highest, the instructor of countless troops of Karak’s Army. Your knowledge and skills could aid us in so many ways.”

Crian clutched Nessa tighter.

“I can’t,” he insisted. “My devotion is to Nessa, and she holds precedence over all else. I must get her out as soon as possible and enter Paradise before it’s too late. Her place is not in this battle, and I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

“You needn’t say more,” said Deacon, nodding. “I understand your dilemma, and I’m sure Moira does as well.”

“I do,” said Moira.

“Thank you both for your understanding,” whispered Crian.

He gave Nessa a last, loving embrace and then sent her off to gather her things. He lingered in the solarium with Moira and Lord Coldmine after she left, and an uncomfortable silence spread over them. The bright southern sun shone through the gaps in the solarium dome, gaps that were cutouts of human bodies standing hand in hand, with a hole in the center shaped like a shining star. Sunlight glowed off the sparkling, gem-encrusted edges of the cutouts. Crian clutched his hands behind his back and stared through each opening, admiring the blue autumn sky and wondering how the interior of the room could ever remain dry during the rainy summer months. He shivered, feeling a sudden chill wash over him.

Deacon cleared his throat, looking to him with uncertainty.

“I was wondering,” said Deacon, “how do you intend to reach the western bridge? Does your horse require new shoes? And are you low on food?”

“I have no horse,” Crian replied. “I left him behind when I fled the Ghostwood. As for food…in that I am severely lacking.”

“Do you have any coin? There are a few markets between here and there that offer reasonable options.”

Crian shook his head, eliciting a dry laugh from Deacon.

“No money, no horse, no nourishment—nothing at all but a sword and a will. How very rugged of you.”

“We’ll manage,” Crian muttered.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Come now, boy. Your clothes are filthy and soaked; you’re shivering like a whore standing before a vanguard of angry wives; and there are bags the size of feed sacks beneath your eyes. You are exhausted.”

Crian breathed deeply. “I am.”

“Then stop acting like a fool, rushing into things you’re not prepared for. That’s what put you in this situation in the first place, I’d wager. I have supplies aplenty back at the homestead, including a stable filled with fine young geldings. Come with me, have dinner with my family, and rest your weary bones. I’ll give you a horse and all the provisions you require for your trek through the desert. My home may be more humble than this one, but it is a home nonetheless.”

“Could we not just stay here?”

Deacon shrugged. “You could, I suppose. But if you wish to flee quickly, it would be best for you to stay with me. The Gods’ Road is a few hours’ ride from here, but my home is half that distance. You could leave the stables at first light and cross the bridge before it’s time for breakfast.”

“Take him up on his offer, Crian,” said Moira, placing a warm hand on his cheek. “Do it for Nessa’s sake, if not your own. She’s a sensitive girl, strong in some ways but fragile in many others. Besides…she means a lot to Patrick, who is staying with Deacon. He should get a chance to say good-bye.”

“Very well,” said Crian. The notion of a warm place to rest his head was indeed inviting given his makeshift accommodations the past few nights. He offered Deacon an appreciative bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Coldmine. It is very much appreciated.”

Nessa came running into the room then, lugging a rucksack stuffed to overflowing with clothes. She dropped the bag and embraced Moira, the rose color of her flushed cheeks making her look much younger than her thirty years.


“Thank you. I love you, Miss Moira,” she said, her voice childlike.

Crian slung a heavy arm over Nessa’s shoulder. “Come now, my love. The kind lord here has invited us to his estate this evening for food and a warm bed.”

“He has?” Her face lit up with a smile, and he was surprised by how relieved she seemed to be. “Good. I wanted to say good-bye to Patrick—I really did. And there’s a few more dresses I can pack in here if I fold them tightly.”

She looked him over, poked him.

“And I have every intention of running you ragged tonight,” she said. “So thank Ashhur you’ll get to take a bath beforehand.”

Despite everything, Crian let out a laugh.

“My beloved Nessa,” he said, grinning. “How will you ever survive the journey west?”

“With you,” she said, kissing his nose.





The road to the Coldmine homestead was an arduous one, snaking through perilous swampland, rushing waterways, and knee-deep mud. Crian and Nessa rode on Moira’s horse. Despite the size and apparent amenities of the Gemcroft estate, their stables were extremely lacking. The only saddle they had on hand was fitted to his sister’s measurements, meaning he had to go bareback on the large mare. His tailbone ached and the pressure on his back, where Nessa was resting her head, threatened to warp his spine. The terrain was so treacherous for the horse that on more than one occasion he wished they were simply hiking instead.

Then again, even on horseback it took more than an hour to reach the Coldmine homestead, and the last thing he had wanted was to try to navigate his delicate Nessa through a potentially hazardous bog under the cover of night. They’d wasted enough time chatting with his sister, repacking Nessa’s things for the journey, and getting him cleaned up.

By the time they arrived, the whippoorwills were frantically chanting, filling the dusk with their macabre song. The homestead was indeed more humble than the grand Gemcroft estate, but only to a degree. The home itself was a practical, square construction made of tall logs and carefully placed stone pillars, two stories high and with numerous casements dotting the walls, giving it the look of a garrison. The setting sun silhouetted the dwelling, made it appear like a menacing obelisk rising up between tall, lavish gardens of roses and yellow daylilies.

They left their horses in Deacon’s stables, which were certainly as well stocked as the man had claimed they were, with at least twenty horses stowed away inside. Crian picked out two strong-looking steeds, one of which was very similar to his father’s favorite white mount.

“Good choices,” Deacon said. “They’re all yours.”

The stable boy gave his master a queer look and then quickly turned his head and went about his chores, brushing the horses down and filling their feed bags. Crian chuckled, figuring the boy was confused about why his master would bestow such a handsome gift upon a stranger. Crian figured he should get used to this sort of anonymity. Perhaps he could change his name, lie about his heritage.…

Nessa held his hand as they paraded up the front walk and through the main entrance to the ample home. The inside was brightly lit, with candles placed on every available flat surface. Numerous servants bustled about, dusting the simple country furnishings and scrubbing the floors. They were a quiet lot, and they kept their eyes downcast, politely nodding if they were ever addressed. It reminded Crian of his time among the wealthy in Veldaren. So it seemed as though pieces of the two kingdoms had slowly made their way into the delta.

The scent of food reached his nose, succulent meats and exotic spices cooked over open flames, and Crian’s mouth began to water.

“Dinner will be ready shortly,” Deacon announced almost offhandedly, not bothering to turn around as he continued his way through his vast home. “I should have an open room upstairs where you can spend the night. It isn’t much, but it will suit you fine, I think, given the circumstances.”

They entered a long hallway lined with expertly painted portraits of Deacon and his family. Lady Coldmine was a beauty, Crian thought, pulling his own lady love closer to him. In the paintings, all the children seemed so happy and carefree. Crian hoped he might meet a few of them before he left, perhaps at dinner.

The hallway ended at a large set of double doors. Deacon stopped before them, placing a palm on each and bowing his head as if in prayer. Crian waited patiently behind him while Nessa fidgeted. Finally, the bearded lord of Haven turned around. The strange expression on his face, with narrowed eyes and twitching mouth, revealed a sudden conflict.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve invited company.”

Deacon swung the doors wide.

The dining room was modest, and because it was located in the center of the abode, it was also windowless. Candles lined the center of a long table that was surrounded by chairs. Sitting opposite each other, looking almost bored, waited Clovis and Avila Crestwell.

Nessa yelped beside him, while at the same time something sharp pointed into his back. Crian peered over his shoulder; two servants were behind him, holding a dagger apiece against him and Nessa. A hand reached down and snatched Integrity from his grasp, slipping the sword from its sheath as silently as if it were covered with oil. Nessa looked frightened enough to faint, and though he tried to impart comfort through their clasped hands, she began to cry all the same.

“Please, come in,” said Deacon, standing against the side wall of the dining hall, his once firm voice suddenly unsure.

Crian urged Nessa into the dining hall, trying to remain outwardly calm despite the fact that his entire body was numb with apprehension. The double doors closed behind them, sealing them in the room with Lord Coldmine, Avila, and their father, the Highest.

His father sat back in his chair, eyeing them with the faintest spark of interest. Avila leaned forward, scowling at him, her forehead and the left side of her face an ugly mishmash of pulped flesh and yellowing bruises from where he’d struck her with the candlestick. A person of lesser strength would not have survived. She flexed her fingers, mere inches away from the pommel of her sword, which was lying on the table, the tip facing him. They were both wearing their traditional black riding leathers, the insignia of the Crestwell house outlined in red on their chests. Crian slowly moved Nessa behind him, as if by some miracle he might defend her.

Crian looked at Deacon, torn between pity and fury.

“Why?” he asked, barely able to squeeze the sound from his throat.

The lord of Haven swallowed.

“Some things are more important than others,” he said. “And nothing is more important than the orders of my god, whether or not I understand them. I’m sorry, Crian. The faithful rarely walk an easy path.”

The older lord turned to Crian’s father and bowed.

“If you are done with me, my Highest, I will take my leave.”

His father wagged two fingers toward the door, still silent. Deacon backed away gradually, one tiny step at a time, bent at the waist. Keeping Nessa behind him, Crian slid out of the way so that Coldmine could exit. He had a thought to charge the doors when they opened, but that idea was quashed the moment he saw the servants—no, not servants, he realized, but his own men from Omnmount in disguise—holding their rapiers at the ready. Instead, Crian let the doors shut, sealing him in with his executioners.

“Sit…down,” his father hissed, and Crian immediately pulled out a chair and complied. Nessa lingered behind him, so white she looked ready to fade away completely. Avila slapped her gloved hand on the table, ordering Nessa to sit as well. She obeyed at once, slipping in beside Crian, tears streaming down her cheeks as her tiny chest rose and fell with wheezing sobs.


The Highest placed a curved dagger on the table and started to twirl it, his eyes fixed on the spinning blade.

“I am very, very disappointed in you, son,” he said. His tone was the one he usually reserved for those under his command. He had never used it with Crian before, and right then Crian knew he was going to die.

He hung his head and said nothing.

“Imagine how distressing it was for me, coming to the Omnmount staging grounds to find a recruit dead and my precious daughter beaten beyond recognition. Her beautiful face was smashed, and her hair ran red with blood. We are lucky she is a strong girl, for a mortal woman would have died from the injuries you bestowed on her.”

His finger traced the ugly bruising, the line of cracked and bleeding flesh that ran from the center of his daughter’s formerly pristine forehead, looped around her left eye, and then bulged along her cheek to her ear, which was swollen to twice its normal size.

“She is stronger than you, Crian,” he said. “So much stronger. I now know my mistake. I should have made Avila my Left Hand, not you.”

A defiant streak rose in Crian, and against his better judgment he spat, “Perhaps you should have. After all, you do enjoy f*cking her. If she were on your left, you would be able to do it more often.”

“There is no need for such crudeness,” his father replied, his tone not rising in the slightest. “You are in the wrong here. You have gone against my decree and, by proxy, that of your god.”

“So you speak for Karak now?”

“I always have. If not, why would he have arrived in Omnmount along with me?”

Crian froze.

“Yes, that’s right. The god you turned your back on now stands beside your brother, watching over his army as they prepare for the day they will raze this land into the Abyss. Had you stayed your upheaval, you would have seen it for yourself.”

“I never lost faith in my god,” Crian whispered, his head bowed. “Only in you and your rules.”

Clovis laughed, the sound filling the room and making Nessa cry all the harder.

“Shut her up,” growled Avila, finally gripping her sword and leveling it at him, without budging from her seat. “Or I will shut her up for you.”

Crian placed a hand on Nessa’s chest, silencing her. He knew his sister wasn’t one to make idle threats.

“How did you find us?” he asked, rocking his love in an attempt to ease her fear. “How did you know where I was?”

Clovis regarded him evenly.

“My Whisperer sees much. He said you fled across the bridge, and once I knew that, I knew precisely where to find you.”

“How did he see me cross?” Crian asked, thinking of that horrible night. “Was he one of the soldiers?”

His father shook his head, laughing once more. “Not at all, you impudent whelp. My Whisperer paved the way for you. He was the one who chased the soldiers away, allowing you to cross unmolested. An unfortunate loss of life for those who perished, yes, but you are worth a hundred of them, my dear son. I had to know. I had to be certain.”

Crian’s jaw dropped open. He remembered how fortunate he had felt when the giant beast of smoke had lashed out at the soldiers. But still, the terror that had accompanied it, the bloody spectacle.…

With newfound horror, Crian stared at his father, wondering what manner of monster Clovis called ally.

“So you know,” Clovis said, reaching underneath the table, “I went into the Ghostwood myself to gather your things.” Up came Crian’s dragonglass mirror. He slid it across the flat surface, and Crian stopped it with hands that seemed to move on their own. His father’s gaze seemed to linger on the mirror, and the faintest trace of sadness flashed across his face.

“We only had to wait for you to come to us,” Clovis said, the corner of his lip upturned. “I never imagined you would arrive so quickly.”

“But why?” Nessa murmured so quietly that Crian could barely hear her. But his father did, and to Crian’s shock the man’s expression softened.

“Oh, sweet child,” he said, “if I had caught my son fleeing into the delta by himself, he could have accused his sister of lying and given me any excuse rather than admitting to his sins. I needed to catch him in the act—catch him with you, my sweet—in order to prove how much he has betrayed me.”

His father grinned then, an expression so malicious that Crian flew up from his chair, knocking it back against the double doors, and grabbed Nessa around the shoulders, moving her behind him. Avila lifted her sword and began to rise, but the Highest grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and yanked her back down. Her ruined face sneered at him.

“None of this is Nessa’s doing!” Crian screamed. “You will let her go, and you will let her go now. Take me if you want—execute me—but let her live, or so help me, I will end you both right here and now.”

His father sighed and closed his eyes. He pulled the silver-white hair back from his forehead, a gesture he always used when frustrated.

“I am not going to hurt her,” he said. “And although I would so enjoy hurting you, I will refrain from doing that either. Though you turned your back on your deity, you did so without fully realizing it, which makes you a far different case from your renegade sister.”

Crian’s jaw dropped open. This was a most unexpected answer to receive. The tiniest hint of hope rose in his belly as he listened to his father speak.

“However, you have broken the laws of our family, and that carries a price. Your title of Left Hand is at once rescinded, an honor I now place on Avila’s shoulders.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Avila.

“Silence.” He turned back to Crian. “Also, you will accompany us back to Veldaren and be stripped of the Crestwell name. You are no longer welcome at the family compound on the other side of the Queln. You will no longer regard me as father, and should you ever see your mother again, you shall not look her in the eye. Your room in Tower Servitude is hereby revoked. You will serve as a member of the Watch, living in the Tower Keep alongside the other mongrels who chose to give in to weakness, until you earn enough coin to find a dwelling of your own.”

Crian was shocked. He stepped back, a hand over his heart. I am to live? His blood pumped faster and he glanced behind him at Nessa, who was shaking, her hands clenched in front of her mouth.

“And what of my love?” he asked.

“Her?” said his father. “She’s Ashhur’s concern. What the girl does is up to her. She is free to go home if she chooses, or she can join you in Veldaren. I hold no ill will against her, na?ve and stupid as she is. I expected better from you, Crian, not her.”

Nessa abruptly ceased her crying. Her wide, pleading blue eyes gazed up from beneath the snarled tangle of red hair.

“I am free to choose?” she asked.

The Highest pushed his chair back, stood up, and rounded the table. He knelt down until their faces were level.

“It is your choice,” he said. “Do you love this traitor enough to relinquish your god and fall into the arms of Karak? Do you love him enough to give up your life of ease and simplicity and spend the rest of your days washing clothes, raising babes, and cooking meals for a man who will never earn enough coin for you to live comfortably?”

Nessa gazed up at Crian, and for a moment he thought for sure she would flee from him, flee from the hardships that such a life would entail. Instead she rose from the floor, walked up to him with a confidence he had never seen before in her, rose up on her tiptoes, and planted a kiss on his cheek.


“Always and forever, I choose you,” she said, biting her lower lip. “No matter what hardships we face, comfort will always come if you are by my side.”

“So be it,” said his father.

“You would do this for me?” Crian said to Nessa. “For us? Give up your life, your god?”

“What is a god to someone like me?” she replied. “All the prayer in the world would mean nothing if I never saw you again.”

“The choice is made,” declared the Highest. “You leave with us tonight, and your sentence begins the moment we arrive back on Veldaren soil. And do not even think of trying to rescue Moira. Your sister has made her choice, and she will die with the rest of the blasphemers in this godforsaken swampland.”

His father nodded to Avila, who scowled as she worked her way around the table, giving them both a wide berth. She yanked open one of the double doors and stormed out of the room. The Highest stood and approached him. He leaned in and whispered into Crian’s ear, just loud enough for his son to hear.

“Be glad forces other than myself wish you alive, boy. You tread dangerous ground here. You will be watched.”

With those foreboding words, Clovis left the room, his white hair trailing behind him like the tail of a sea serpent.

Once he and Nessa were alone, Crian tried to put his father’s anger out of his mind. He turned to his love and kissed her lips, softly, slowly. It felt as if she stole the breath from his lungs.

“Are we making the right choice?” he asked. “Deacon is no ally of theirs. Can we really leave them here under his control? He’s the one preparing the defense of Haven, a defense which I’m sure will capitulate the moment the battle begins.”

“What other choice do we have?” Nessa asked.

“I don’t know,” Crian said. “We can still try to flee—maybe run in opposite directions. Something, Nessa, something! They’ll die otherwise.”

“We are the only people we can hope to save,” Nessa whispered, but she didn’t sound confident. She opened her mouth again, but nothing came out. She simply latched onto his arm and didn’t let go.

“We will send a letter to the others once we get to Veldaren,” he said. “They can’t watch us forever.”

She nodded. “That we can do.”

The decision made, Crian let out a sigh and accepted it. He scooped up his mirror from the table, tucked it beneath his elbow, and offered Nessa his arm. Together they walked out of the dining hall, virtually running toward the open door at the end of the corridor, where his father and Avila waited with the horses to bring them to their new lives as hard-working, nameless commoners.