Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


26


Night had fallen, which filled Geris with fear. Chilled to the bone, he slumped in the back of the carriage as it lumbered up the rough-hewn Gods’ Road. Ben Maryll lay beside him, peacefully snoring away. Geris both envied and hated him for it. The caravan had left Safeway more than two weeks ago, after Ashhur—with ample input from Ahaesarus and Judarius, surely—had decided that the lordship would be brought to a close and a king would be named. Ben had been excited by the news, and Geris felt he should be too, but his original nightmare had begun to return each night, and it just wouldn’t let him be.

The carriage hit a bump, vaulting him off the rough wooden slats. On landing, he jarred his elbow and let out a pained cry. The curtain at the front of the carriage was swept aside, and Ahaesarus poked his head through.

“What’s going on, boy?” the Warden asked. His blond hair looked like the tendrils of a phantasm in the eerie moonlight that seeped through the carriage’s thin canvas covering. “Why did you yelp?”


Geris rubbed his sore arm. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “Just hurt myself when the cart jostled.”

“Very well,” said Ahaesarus. “You shouldn’t be awake. Close your eyes and get some sleep. You won’t have that chance tomorrow, once we arrive in Mordeina.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ahaesarus disappeared back into the front of the carriage, taking his ghost-like halo of hair with him. Geris wrapped himself in his blanket once more, shivered against the cold, and closed his eyes. He wished he were in the carriage with his parents. They were traveling in a separate carriage along with his brothers and sisters. Mother always had a way of comforting him when he felt restless or frightened. She would gather him to her ample bosom, sing a sweet lullaby to him, and gently rock him until he drifted off. She smelled so lovely, like rosemary and sage with a dash of mint. He longed to be in her lap right then.

It was with her in mind that he finally fell asleep.

That sleep was far from peaceful, however. The nightmare returned, the demon chasing him through the shadows once again. He bolted through an empty forest, plunged into a freezing river, climbed a rocky slope, but still he could not lose the beast. His terror reached its apex. The backdrop of the dream rushed all around him, flashes of red and black, green and brown, mixing and twirling, spiraling all around him. He knelt down and screamed and screamed until his lungs burned, his head filled with nothing but his own wailing. That was when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

Geris leapt up, the scream dying in his throat. The world had stopped spinning, and he found himself standing atop a weather-beaten crest, staring down at the twinkling fires that dotted the town below. The giant stone Ashhur stood before him, benevolent in gray, the moon dancing off his smooth, granite flesh. The stone god smiled, and the gravel that made up his cheeks grinded as it shifted. He noticed that the star carved into his chest, the symbol of Celestia, had been rubbed away so that it was barely visible. This made him smile.

The demon hissed behind him, then roared like a lion underwater. Geris jumped forward, wrapping his arms around the legs of the stone god. A stiff, cold hand brushed through his hair.

“Fear not, my child,” stone Ashhur said. “He does not wish to harm you.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No.”

Geris watched the demon stalk up the side of the cliff, like blackness within blackness, ringlets of shadow pluming from its thickly rendered form. It sat down across from him, gathering solidity with each passing moment. Before long the blackness had faded away like the shed skin of a snake, disappearing into the atmosphere with a barely detectable whoosh. Revealed beneath was a lion with yellow fur whose eyes shone with familiar, golden intensity.

“Sit,” stone Ashhur said, and Geris did. The stone god took a seat beside him.

“Why are you here?” Geris asked the demon. The lion dipped its head forward, staring at him intently. It seemed to blink in and out of reality, fading into a smoky apparition one instant, then returning to solidity the next. Thin wisps of shadow still thrashed around behind it.

“You are in grave danger,” the lion said.

Geris looked at stone Ashhur. “Is that true?”

The god’s granite visage nodded.

“What kind of danger?” he asked, turning back to the lion.

“The darkness follows you, for all is not as it seems. The family collapses from within. Witchcraft spoils the will of mere mortals, leaving dust in its wake.”

Geris shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“My messenger speaks the truth,” said stone Ashhur’s gritty voice. “He always has.”

“He does?” asked Geris, confused. “Then why is he always chasing me?”

“I chase you because you run,” the lion answered. “If you had stopped to listen, you would have known the truth sooner.”

It was all too much for him to take.

“Please,” he whispered. “Leave me alone. I just want to sleep.”

“There is no sleep for the Chosen One,” said the lion.

“Chosen one? Me?”

“Yes, you. The future king of humanity, the champion of its people.”

“But…I’m not special. It was Martin who was special. I’m just…me.”

“But you are special,” said stone Ashhur. “Those who aren’t special do not receive portentous visions.”

“Yours is the most important role to play,” said the lion. “The fate of Paradise lies in your hands.”

The lion inched forward and sprawled out in front of him, its body shifting this way and that, becoming transparent, solidifying again. Geris stared at it, unable to form words.

“The family collapses from within,” the lion said once more.

“I don’t understand,” said Geris, frustration bringing an edge to his dream voice.

The lion sighed. “The lordship is not what it seems to be. There are two enemies in your midst, a witch and an imposter, unleashed upon this land by the lord of darkness who tries to control me. The witch is a whisperer of falsehoods. She thinks me her pet, a thing set upon this land to do her bidding, but I lurk in the shadows, the thing on the doorstep that is heard but never seen. I bow to none but my creator.”

“But you’re bowing now.”

And then it hit him. Geris stared up at stone Ashhur, who inclined his head in his boulder-crunching nod. Geris thought of his conversation with Ashhur—the real Ashhur—back in Safeway. The god hadn’t seemed surprised by his story of the shadow-lion, or by the accusations leveled against him. That could only mean that Ashhur himself had a hand in the visions.

“I understand.”

“Now think,” said the lion. “Think of the imposter. Is there any among you who is different now from before? Is there any who has become a new person altogether?”

Geris mulled it over, and realization struck him like a reed to the backside. He thought of a timid boy, a tubby weakling who had once been afraid of his own shadow. A boy who had emerged as a bastion of strength and cunning since Martin’s death. Although Geris had always bested him in the past, the rapidly improving Benjamin Maryll now won more than half the time, in everything from arithmetic to footraces, to reciting the names of the landmarks and towns. Geris glanced at the lion, the images in his mind projecting through his eyes and into the dreamscape, and the lion nodded.

“Ben.”

It made perfect sense. In his exhaustion, his weary mind could not fully explain why Ben had been constantly outdoing him of late. He almost kicked himself for not realizing it sooner.

“The boy that was once Benjamin Maryll is no more,” said the lion. “The imposter has taken his place.”

“But why?”

“The Lord of Shadows is a cunning, vile beast. It hates the beauty my creator has forged in this land. It wants to raze Paradise, to cast all of Dezrel into the darkness in which it thrives. The witch will use all her power to realize this depraved vision, whether or not the imposter succeeds in becoming ruler of the west.”

“Wait,” Geris said, trying to think through the murky swamp that was his dreaming mind. “What do you mean? It doesn’t matter which of us is named king?”

“It will not matter whether you or the imposter is named king. With the assistance of the witch, the imposter will sow seeds of discontent in the people. Panic will race across the land, bringing about the death of the deity who created all that is good and holy. The only way to stop it is to kill them both. This is why you are the Chosen One, Geris Felhorn. You are the only one who knows the truth. You are the only one who can stop the destruction of everything you know and love.”


He shivered at the thought of killing anyone, nevermind a boy like Ben. Yes, Ben had changed, but was he truly possessed? His mind returned to the Temple of the Flesh, to the blood pouring over Martin’s hands as he clutched the arrow embedded in his chest. His dream-self shivered, yet even as a large part of him rejected the notion of murder, another smaller part—a part for which the act seemed natural, as if he had been born to do it—pressed further.

“Who’s the witch?” he asked.

The lion seemed to grin, something powerful sparkling in its eyes. Geris retreated, only to be stilled by stone Ashhur’s giant hand on his back.

“She is the mother of a nation, a would-be murderer of her own children. Her eyes reflect the glimmer of the western sea, her cheeks are spotted with the stars above, and around her head is a ring of fire.”

“Where is she?”

“She is where you are headed, at the center of the place called Mordeina.”

Geris exhaled deeply and gazed up at the granite likeness of his creator. “Is it all true, my Lord?”

Grimly, stone Ashhur nodded.

The lion rose on its legs and skulked toward him, its yellow eyes burning with ethereal fire, its image wavering like a lie on the tongue of an unsure child.

“If it is proof you desire, then I shall give it to you.”

Without thinking, Geris extended his hand. The lion placed a monstrous paw in his palm, the claws digging into his wrist, burning him. Then the creature lost solidity and the darkness returned, swirling about him like a million black flies. Visions assaulted Geris’s mind, boiling his eyes, piercing the fabric of his thoughts. He saw fields running red with blood, strange men with the heads of wolves, hyenas, vultures, and lizards. He watched as Ashhur was devoured by a huge creature with blazing red eyes, whose face shifted from one moment to the next, never the same, never constant, always horrific. And then the god bled, and the heavens wept, and stars burst from his sternum to fill the sky with flames that rained sulfur to the ground, melting flesh, scorching the grass, smoldering the gardens of Haven, Safeway, Ker, Mordeina, and everywhere else in the land.

Lastly he saw his family, his parents and siblings, hanging by their wrists from the gallows, slit from chest to belly, their insides piled beneath them like mounds of raw sausage. Their eyes had been plucked out, and their empty sockets stared outward in agony, their faces forever frozen in the terror and pain they’d felt as they died. Behind them, lurking in the shadows, was Ben the Imposter and the nameless, faceless witch, laughing, laughing, laughing.…

Geris awoke screaming, thrashing about on the floor of the carriage, lashing out blindly as the vision continued to torment him. He saw only the images, heard only the laughter. As if from another world he sensed Ahaesarus trying to calm him, felt the touch of his mother. But her fingers were rotted, her throat slit. The night passed, his throat raw from his cries, but still he thrashed and howled.

When the convoy entered Mordeina a few hours later, he was still screaming.





His eyes felt crusty when he opened them, and his head pounded.

“Nice of you to join us,” he heard Ahaesarus say.

Geris lifted himself up and looked around. He was on a bed in a round room of some sort, the curved walls of pale clay brick pressing in on him. It was unlike anything he had seen—beautiful paintings hung from the walls, the candelabras that lit the space were heavy with gold and silver, and the bed itself was the softest he had ever rested his body upon. He swallowed hard to still his nerves, and when he slid his legs over the side of the bed, he was amazed to feel the plushness of the carpet beneath his feet.

Ahaesarus was in the room with him. The Warden’s back was turned as he sat at a desk a few feet to his right—a desk that was far too small for him. His long, angular body was contorted at odd angles as he scratched his quill across a piece of parchment. Geris began to say something but kept his mouth shut. His thoughts were muddy, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to be where he was. For all he knew, he was in trouble, and when it came to his mentor, if he were in trouble, the best thing to do was sit and await punishment.

Ahaesarus finished his scrawling and swiveled in his much too tiny seat. The Warden’s long hair was pulled back from his face, fastened in a knot at the top of his head, forming a golden tail that draped over one shoulder. He wore a tailored cerulean smock—Ahaesarus’s favorite color—the breast embroidered with silken thread in a looping, regal floral pattern. The being who sat before him now seemed to be entirely different from the one who had mentored him for years. The itch of memory made Geris’s eye flutter, but whatever the sensation was trying to tell him, he didn’t know. All he did know was that his entire body felt like it had been stuffed with the fluffy white seedpods that floated through the plains during spring, looking like a billion whimsical fairies.

The Warden leaned forward, resting a slender hand on Geris’s knee. His eyes brimmed with compassion and understanding, two sentiments that Ahaesarus usually had in rather short supply.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Geris swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat once more.

“Thirsty.”

Ahaesarus nodded. “That can occur with nightwing root,” he replied, grabbing a waterskin from beneath the desk and handing it over. Geris snatched the skin and guzzled down its contents, his thirst overriding the fact he had never heard of this nightwing root before.

When he finished drinking, he wiped spittle from his chin, and dropped the waterskin beside him on the bed. He reeled back, his head suddenly wobbly. Ahaesarus was up in a flash, holding him steady so he wouldn’t topple headfirst off the bed.

“Easy, young lordling,” the Warden said. “Mustn’t drink so quickly.”

The strange sensation of vertigo caused a cyclone of fear to emerge from the dark corners of his mind. He thought again of how he had no memory of arriving in this strange and windowless round room. The last thing he remembered was riding with Ben in the carriage, bouncing along in the night while unable to sleep. The darkness of his memories frightened him, and the more he tried to restore them, the more a strange anxiety filled the pit of his stomach. Ahaesarus held him closer and gently rubbed his back.

“It will be fine, boy. Calm yourself. Shush now.”

Eventually, the trembling fit ended. Geris leaned back and stared up into his mentor’s twinkling green eyes. Ahaesarus bent over and—in an act that shocked young Geris to his core—placed a tender kiss on the boy’s forehead.

“What was that for?” Geris whispered.

“You deserve it,” replied the Warden.

“For what?”

“For being strong.”

Geris, still locked in his mentor’s caring embrace, felt his jaw drop. Ahaesarus, whose favorite words seemed to be lazy, inept, spoiled, indignant, and foolhardy, had told him he was strong. He would have been overjoyed if he weren’t so stunned. He tilted his head to the side, felt a crick in the back of his neck, and once more a wave of dizziness washed over him.

“Warden,” he murmured, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, “what’s happening to me? How did I get here?”

Ahaesarus’s fingers began playing a staccato beat along his spine, easing the pressure in his head. “You do not remember?”

Geris shook his head slowly, so as to not incur more pain in his head.

“You suffered a fit of madness three days ago. You began screaming and crying in the middle of the night, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Even your mother could not calm you down. We tried every healing spell we knew, all for naught. When we entered Mordeina and were greeted by our hosts, you finally fell into a black sleep. You were slick with fever, your breath shallow. Thankfully, Lady DuTaureau saw to your care and brought you to Daniel Nefram, one of her sons-in-law. He found a lump at the base of your skull”—the Warden reached out and tapped the sore spot on the back of Geris’s neck—“and immediately began to pray.”

“What was it?” Geris asked. The tale intrigued him, though he felt detached, as if it were the story of someone else’s life.

“You were stricken with the Wasting. Very much so, actually. You were blessed that Daniel is such a powerful healer, for had it been anyone else caring for you, you would have died within the day. But Daniel’s faith eradicated the poisonous growth.” Ahaesarus removed from beneath his shirt the pouch that always hung from a string around his neck. “I fed you a pinch of nightwing root—a powerful herb from my world that thins the blood and increases circulation—and then waited.”

“Thank you,” said Geris. He felt truly honored.

Ahaesarus’s voice shifted tone, becoming even softer, yet somehow more serious. His eyes never left Geris’s.

“I also owe you an apology, boy. I have been rather rough on you of late. I took you for a miscreant; you seemed at times to be a frightened weakling, and at others, a cocky fool so confident of victory that he stopped trying. However, given the size of the growth, the Wasting has been with you for quite some time. That explains many things—your lethargy, your forgetfulness, the forcefulness of your nightmares.…”

“You know of them?” Geris asked, shocked.

“Do not look so surprised,” the Warden said, chuckling. “My tent is beside yours when we train. Many a night I felt like slapping you awake, both to spare you the dreams and allow me some rest.”

Geris smiled weakly. “Thank you for not doing so.”

“I am very glad I did not. It would have been a…most regrettable action, given what I know now.”

Geris leaned into his mentor, wrapping his spindly, thirteen-year-old arms around him. He wanted no more words, only for this newfound comfort and compassion to continue.

“Why don’t we bring your family in?” Ahaesarus said after a time. “I am sure they are desperate to know you’ve awoken. And then, if you feel up to it, later this evening we can all meet our hosts for dinner. Is that agreeable to you?”

So shocked was Geris at Ahaesarus’s words—his mentor was actually asking permission and treating him like an equal, which was a very Jacob Eveningstar way of behaving—that he could only nod dumbly in response.

The gathering was long, filled with desperate embraces and a multitude of frantic kisses from his mother. Even his father, who usually carried himself with an air of disinterest in regards to his kingling son, seemed touched. There were tears in the man’s eyes, and his lower lip quivered when he told Geris he was glad he’d made it through the ordeal unscathed.

With each passing moment, Geris felt better and better. His sluggishness dissipated, his thoughts became less muddled, and he no longer became dizzy each time he turned his head. The smile he wore almost never left his face; it was so persistent that the muscles in his cheeks began to feel sore. The nightmares that had plagued him for weeks seemed like distant childhood memories. By the end of it all he was refreshed and reinvigorated, feeling better than he had since the day Martin had been killed.

That thought of the nightmares caused a bit of the darkness to resurface in him, but he shrugged the feeling aside, especially because Ahaesarus was so intent on spending nearly every moment by his pupil’s side. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the Warden’s approval.

I will be a good king, he thought, and his smile grew all the wider.

When it was time for dinner, Ahaesarus left the room, leaving Geris’s mother and two of his sisters to assist in cleaning and dressing him. They fitted him with a delicately crafted red undertunic, a black doublet, and a tight-fitting pair of tan, spun-cotton breeches. The clothes were uncomfortable—much more constricting than the loose rags and animal hides he was used to wearing—yet he did not once complain. A king needs to look stately, he thought, remembering the regal lords and ladies in the swashbuckling tales that Ahaesarus, Judarius, Azariah, and the other Wardens often told. So instead of whining, he stood up straight, flexed himself to loosen his clothing, and allowed his sister Margo to brush the kinks from his overly long golden locks. All the while his mother looked on, smiling.

A rapping sounded at the door, followed by a gruff voice announcing that dinner was about to be served. A powerful-looking young man dressed in a draping pallium entered. His hair was close-cropped and black, a highly unusual color in the light-haired north. The beard on his face was neatly trimmed, with a zigzag pattern along his sideburns. Around his waist was a belt, fastened to which was the second blade Geris had ever laid eyes on in his life, the first being the sharp knife Jacob always carried with him. It was half a foot long, with a simple ivory handle. The steel, visible through gaps in the scabbard that contained the blade, shimmered in the candlelight. The man introduced himself as Howard Phillip Baedan, master steward and counselor of Lady DuTaureau. Ahaesarus noticed him eyeing the blade and pulled him aside. Baedan had once been a steward in Lerder, he told him, and the blade had been a gift from a merchant from Neldar who used the riverside town as a way station on his journeys to the north and south of his kingdom. “It is a rarity that Howard thinks heightens his image,” the Warden whispered, before guiding Geris back into place.

“As the Lady’s most trusted servant, I will advise the new king, whomever that may be,” Baedan said. “But for now, my duty is simply to escort you to the hall.”

With Howard Baedan leading, Geris and his mother and sisters made their way through the wide, lavish, and strangely empty hallways of Manse DuTaureau. This was about as different from the Sanctuary as possible; even Ashhur’s home and cathedral did not hold a candle to the elegance of this residence. Geris closed his eyes as he walked, remembering the Wardens’ stories once more, and imagined a sprawling city outside the walls of this giant stone structure. The image excited him.

That excitement was somewhat tempered when they passed through a windowed corridor. Outside the slender portholes he saw a familiar scene—tents and crude huts, in front of which people and Wardens huddled, rubbing their hands over blazing firepits. Only the setting differed from Safeway; instead of tall, swaying grass, they were surrounded by gently rolling hills dotted with pine trees.

He noticed that the people seemed to be highly agitated, however. They gathered close to the manse, their eyes flicking toward the monstrous building as if they expected Ashhur himself to appear at any moment. A palpable sort of nervous exhilaration clung to their every move.

“They are awaiting the presentation of the kinglings,” Sir Baedan said, as if reading his mind. “They have been waiting for days to see you and young Maryll, and after dinner tonight they will get what they have been seeking.”


“I see,” said Geris. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his doublet, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of being paraded before such a large throng.

“Will the First Man be in attendance?” he asked, thinking it would do wonders for his nervousness just to see Jacob’s face in the crowd.

Sir Baedan shook his head.

“Not to my knowledge. Eveningstar has not graced the north with his presence in near a full year, and I do not expect that to end this night.”

“I see,” replied Geris, disappointed.

Their journey ended at the entrance to the dining hall. Sir Baedan pulled open the double doors, standing aside to let his charge enter first.

“Stand straight,” Geris’s mother whispered, and he did. She then offered him her hand, which he took. He gazed up into her warm blue eyes and then at her flowing hair, which was a darker shade of blond than his own. She appeared nervous but strong, and Geris tossed aside any of the misgivings he’d felt on hearing the rumble of voices echoing from inside the foyer. Instead of waiting for her to lead him, he took the first step, entering the huge dining hall.

“I present Kingling Geris Felhorn!” shouted Sir Baedan, and a sudden hush overtook the crowd. All eyes turned to the entrance.

Geris stepped confidently, even though his stomach rumbled from the combination of nerves and the palatable scents of roasting meat. There were simply dressed people and tall Wardens everywhere. He made sure to look each person in the eye, offering him or her a slight bow as he passed. Almost everyone returned his bows. He and his mother strolled down the center aisle, surrounded on all sides by gawking people, heading for the large table at the back of the room and the throng of regal-looking people that stood before it.

As Geris gazed at them and their features registered in his mind, his confidence shattered into a million pieces.

The final dream struck him like a deadly poison that had waited patiently before bursting forth and infecting every part of him at once. The gathered diners gasped as he stumbled backward. His hand slipped from his mother’s as he fell, breathing heavily and staring at those who awaited his company. There was Ahaesarus on one side, his proud expression quickly replaced with concern. With him was Judarius, dressed in an ensemble similar to Ahaesarus’s, his dark hair flowing down his wide shoulders, his mouth locked into a scowl that never seemed to leave his face.

But it was the pair who stood between them that had caused the dream to roar back into memory. They were a man and woman, similar to the point of being nearly identical. The man appeared disinterested with the whole affair, never taking his gaze off the woman beside him, but the woman stared intently at Geris with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. It seemed as though the light that suffused the dining hall refused to shine on her fully.

Her eyes reflect the glimmer of the western sea, her cheeks are spotted with the stars above, and around her head is a ring of fire, the lion had said, and before him stood a woman with blazing green eyes, skin dotted with ruby freckles, and the reddest hair Geris had ever seen. Even her clothing seemed wrong—much too tightly fit, displaying her womanly form in a way more appropriate to the Temple of the Flesh.

Ahaesarus turned to face the woman. “I am sorry, Lady DuTaureau,” he said frantically. He seemed to be afraid of her, even though he stood more than a full head taller. “I fear we have pressed Kingling Felhorn too much given his recent illness.”

Shock filled Geris, making his elbows quaver. One of Ashhur’s first creations was the witch of whom the dream-lion spoke? It didn’t seem possible, not until he gazed back into her hardened expression, which had not changed even after Ahaesarus’s plea for understanding. She looked at him not as a person to be cared for, but as a thing to be tolerated, perhaps even loathed. It reminded him of the way his father looked at the rake beside the door to their hut when it came time to clean out the firepit. Geris began to mutter to himself, strange words even he didn’t understand, unintelligible sounds like those of a wild beast. And still his heart beat out of control. Not even his mother, who knelt beside him, anxiously swiping the hair from his forehead, could do anything to stop it.

“What’s wrong with him?” another voice asked, and then Ben Maryll appeared, strolling past Geris with Sir Baedan by his side. The crowd remained hushed, looking on with curious dread. Geris glanced at his friend and fellow kingling, taking in his coldly inquiring expression. It was then Geris noticed how slender his old friend had become: where once Ben Maryll had tended toward plumpness, now he possessed the lean body of an athlete. The well-developed muscles in his neck flexed when he bent his head downward.

All that change in two months? It didn’t seem possible. The lion was right. Ben wasn’t Ben. He was the imposter.

The visions of death and destruction that had been imparted to him filled his mind, and Geris screamed. He scrambled to his feet, tossing aside the restraining grasp of his mother, and ran full bore into Sir Baedan’s hip. His sudden actions caught the head steward off guard, knocking him backward. Senses overridden by terror and desperation, Geris gripped the ivory handle of Sir Baedan’s dagger and ripped it from its sheath. A shriek tore out from the crowd, followed by another, but everyone was too shocked to actually do anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geris knew that violence was not expected. This was Ashhur’s land, the land of healers and Wardens and forgiveness. No one would know how to react, which would give him the time he needed to do what he had been chosen to do—save Paradise from the witch and her deceiving bastard child.

Ben was closest to him, his eyes wide with shock, and Geris charged. He held Sir Baedan’s blade out wide, the handle fitting snugly in his grip, as if he had always been destined to hold it. Ben backed away, exhibiting some of his newfound athleticism, until he clumsily bumped into a chair and nearly fell over. Geris was there to break his fall, grabbing his false friend by the hair and pulling him upright.

His blade pressed against a now sobbing Ben Maryll’s throat, drawing a sliver of blood that trickled down the boy’s neck and saturated the front of his white tunic.

“He’s an imposter!” Geris yelled, his voice cracking. He wanted them to see this, needed everyone gathered in the hall to bear witness as he exposed the charlatan for what he—or it—truly was. He bore down harder, sliding the dagger across flesh, opening a tiny mouth that yawned when Ben thrust his head back, trying to escape Geris’s grip. But Geris was fueled by something different now, something meaningful. He was fueled by destiny, by duty, by the need to be the savior.

Strong hands gripped him from behind. They yanked him off the screeching boy and lifted him into the air. The dagger clanked on the dining hall floor, covered with slick, red wetness. Ben collapsed to his knees, covering his neck with both hands as blood spilled between his fingers. Others—including Sir Baedan, the witch, and her look-alike lover—rushed to the imposter’s aid. Geris grinded his teeth, growled, and tried to free himself from his captor’s grasp, but their hands were too strong.

“Are you mad!” he heard Ahaesarus shout. “What have you done?”

His body was thrown to the floor and then spun around. He faced the two Wardens, the normally pallid flesh of their cheeks flushed red. Ahaesarus reared back and backhanded him across the face, causing one of his teeth to puncture his tongue, drawing blood. All the while his mother sobbed in the background, comforting his sisters while she watched Ben’s parents join those who were trying to save their son’s life. The white linens they pressed against the imposter’s neck quickly turned a deep crimson.


“Someone get Daniel!” the witch shouted, frantic now that her imposter was dying. “Get him quickly!”

“There is no time!” shouted Ahaesarus. “I will do it. Judarius, handle this…this boy.”

Ahaesarus flung him into Judarius’s arms, then rushed to the Ben’s side. Judarius dragged him out the door by the throat. Geris protested, trying to warn them of what the dreams had told him, to convince them to let him finish the job he had started, but Judarius’s grip was too strong. He could not form words of any kind, he could only thrash and wail and scream.