Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


27


As he strolled into the solarium of the Gemcroft Mansion, the first thing Patrick thought when his eyes came to rest on Peytr Gemcroft was that he was a beautiful man. He hadn’t seen the merchant since Peytr’s arrival in the delta four days earlier, but now that he did, he could see that he and Rachida were well matched. The man’s hair was close-cropped and black with a few flecks of white, his skin the lightest shade of peach, his eyes a deep, soulful brown, his features delicate but strong. Just beautiful, through and through. And strong of voice as well.

“I do not agree,” said the merchant. “It is folly.”

“Says the man who has spent perhaps five days in Haven over the past year,” snapped Deacon.

There were three of them sitting around the table—Peytr, Lord Coldmine, and Moira. None of them lifted their eyes to him as he approached the table. It was clear that their argument was all that mattered to them.

“You don’t understand, Peytr,” said Moira. “Must we turn our back on our ideals, on our way of life? And for what?”

“It seems to me it is pride you speak of, not ideals,” replied the merchant.

Deacon growled. “What do you know of pride? We are protecting our freedom, nothing more.”

“Yet you do not wish to protect your lives,” said Peytr.

“No, obviously our lives are important.” Moira placed her hand on his arm. “But if we give up our homes and our beliefs, we go back to being slaves. What are our lives worth then? Did we not leave Neldar for that very purpose? Why give it all back now?”

“Because the fight is hopeless. You all know this. You need to either tear down the temple or flee. There is no other choice.”

“There is always a choice!” shouted Deacon.

Sighing, Patrick closed his eyes and began tapping his foot on the marble floor. Still no one looked at him. It was as though he were invisible again.

Impatience grew in his belly, a tight knot slowly unwinding, fraying his nerves. He was getting too used to feeling this way. Ever since Nessa had left Haven eleven days ago, it had become his natural state of being. He had spent his days penning letter after letter. He wrote to his mother, the Warden Pontius, Master Clegman, and anyone else he knew in the west who might assure him of his sister’s safe arrival. He had received no answer to his queries. Of course, eleven days was hardly enough time for a letter to return to him, but that did nothing to quell his anxiety.

He knew he was being foolish. Nessa was with Crian, the very man who had handed him Winterbone so many years before. Crian was a good man with a good heart who loved Nessa entirely, at least according to Moira. So long as they made it out of the delta, Patrick knew no harm would come to them. It was irrational to be as worried as he was, but he was worried nonetheless. No one had gone with them when they left Lord Coldmine’s estate, and no one had escorted them to Ashhur’s Bridge. Anything might have happened between here and there.

That isn’t all, and you know it, he thought, feeling pathetic.

What bothered him more than anything was how much of Nessa’s life had been hidden from him. She and Crian had been carrying on a secret love affair for more than a decade, according to Moira. She told him how Crian had courted her, taking leave of his duties to both god and kingdom to spend a few fleeting moments with her in the soggy bog of the delta. It made for a beautiful, tragic story, but it also made Patrick jealous. No matter how loyal and dedicated Crian was, no matter how much the eastern deserter loved his sister, the one person Patrick loved almost as much as his god had been stolen away…and he hadn’t even had the chance to say good-bye. His darker half insisted that all of Nessa’s sweet talk about how important he was to her had been lies. It was silly and childish, but Patrick had to find out for certain that she was all right. He needed confirmation.

The argument between the three seated at the table grew louder. Patrick placed Winterbone on the floor, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Still nary an eye turned to him. He drummed his fingers on the table, but still they did not address him.

“Then what of the young?” shouted Peytr. “An honorable man would at the least protect the innocent.”

That statement brought a pause to the conversation, and Patrick leaned forward, sensing an opening for his voice to be heard, but then Deacon thumped his fist against the table.

“Honor,” Deacon grumbled. “Will honor fill our bellies? Will honor slay the army that threatens us, that will chase us wherever we flee? What of preserving what is right?”

Frustrated, Patrick slumped, his hunched spine pressing against the hard back of his chair. Moira joined in, making the same argument as Deacon. Peytr rolled his eyes as their voices assaulted him, but he didn’t back down. His posture remained rigid, his gaze strong.

Finally, Patrick had had enough. He reached down and picked Winterbone up off the floor. Without removing the heavy sword from its scabbard, he slammed the iron-plated tip against the solarium’s marble tiles. The ensuing clang stopped the argument mid-complaint, all eyes turning to him.

“Aaaah, silence,” he muttered, and returned the sword to its resting position.

Peytr eyed him queerly, the attractive man’s expression impossible to interpret. Moira’s gaze dropped while she picked up her wooden mug in shaking hands and took a sip. Deacon fumed silently, his shoulders rising and falling, his cheeks red with frustration. He stared at Patrick as if he’d just levied a vile insult against his mother.

“What?” Deacon growled.

“So you’re finally acknowledging my presence,” Patrick said. “Good to know that I’m not f*cking invisible.”

Peytr cocked his head to the side, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his plump lips.

“Patrick DuTaureau, I presume?” he said. “Your reputation—and your language—precedes you.”

Patrick nodded and offered his hand, which Peytr accepted.

“State your business, man,” said Deacon, impatience burning in his eyes. “Can you not see that we have much to discuss?”

“I see no discussion,” Patrick replied. “I see three people screaming at each other.”

Deacon leaned forward, his face beet red, his knuckles white as he gripped the table. He looked as though he were ready to leap over the top and crash into him head on. It was Moira who calmed him, placing her slender, waifish fingers on the older man’s back. She leaned over and whispered into Deacon’s ear, and he grunted and sat back.

Patrick hadn’t moved during Deacon’s outburst and was still slouched in his chair, his heavy arms dangling by his sides. Of the many things Corton Ender had taught him during their daily training sessions—sessions that had been on hold since Nessa’s departure—the one that had stuck with him most was that his oddly powerful upper body gave him a marked advantage in hand-to-hand combat. Deacon was strong and athletic despite his age, but Patrick was stronger.


Peytr turned to fully face him. Patrick took in the man’s expression, which was remarkably similar to the one he and Bardiya would have as they studied odd-looking insects during their formative years.

“Please,” Peytr said, “there is no need for sarcasm or accusations. We might not agree with each other, but I assure you that every man at this table—I apologize for the designation, Moira, dear—holds the utmost respect for the others. Many apologies if it seemed otherwise to you.”

Patrick grunted.

Deacon shook his head and exhaled loudly. Moira shot him a look, and he straightened his posture.

“Yes, yes, that is true,” he said, his voice calmer now. “I’m sorry for not greeting you sooner. Please, tell me why you’ve come.”

“My sister,” said Patrick. Peytr developed a confused expression, but Moira offered him a sympathetic nod. Deacon, meanwhile, shuffled his feet beneath the table, blinking rapidly.

“And?” the older man said, strangely nervous.

Patrick hesitated, taken aback by the sudden change in Deacon’s attitude.

“I…well, I think it is time for me to leave,” he finally said. “I wish to head west to look for her. I fear for her safety.”

Deacon let out a long sigh.

“You are being rash, young DuTaureau. Crian is a capable young man. They love each other. Nessa will be safe with him. Whatever in Ashhur’s Paradise could harm them?”

“Even so, I would like to see her one last time. I was never given the chance, due to…well…other activities.”

Other activities being his glorious night with Rachida, which he didn’t dare mention with her husband, Peytr, in the room. He felt his neck flush; it hurt him to know that his little rendezvous had cost him the chance to bid farewell to his beloved little sister.

“So be it, then,” Deacon said. “You don’t need my permission to run off to find her. You aren’t a prisoner here. You can leave any time you wish.”

Patrick shrugged. “That is true, I suppose. However, my horse is locked in your stables, Deacon, and she is the only mare accustomed to my condition.” He stood up and leaned forward, bowing in respect. “I just wish to have her returned to me, and your new stable hand refused me when I asked. Odd of him to do so, considering I have been a guest in your home for some time.”

Deacon nodded.

“I apologize, that was my fault. The old stable hand decided to run off to Corton and be a soldier. Johan just came into my employ yesterday, and he knows you not. The mare is all yours again if you wish to retrieve her. I will make sure of that once I return home. You can depart this evening if you wish, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Thank you,” Patrick replied.

Moira leapt up from her chair, knocking it backward with a sudden clatter that made Patrick flinch. Her pale cheeks were flushed when she said, “But you cannot leave, Patrick. We need you here.”

“Let the man go,” said Deacon dismissively, tugging on her sleeve.

“I will not,” she replied, and pulled away from the older man’s grip. She faced Patrick once more. “Why would you choose to leave now, Patrick? It’s less than a month away from the next full moon, when Karak’s Army promised to return. Corton has said you are his best pupil, the most natural with a sword he has ever seen. We need you. And besides, were you not instructed to come here? Is this not where your god wishes you to be?”

Patrick shrugged. “To be honest, Moira, I’m not sure why I am here. I haven’t spoken with Ashhur in years. It was Eveningstar who sent me here, under instructions to convince you all to tear down that temple, though I’ve struggled with that task since I arrived. It seems as though I’ve joined you instead. The temple still stands, and none of you have any intention of tearing it down anytime soon. I’ve clearly failed at what I was sent here to do.” He glanced at Peytr, who now held a glum expression. “I apologize, but in all honesty, I have no horse in this fight. I am no soldier, and though Corton may say I am good at it, I have no desire for violence. All I wish to do, beyond making sure that my sister and Crian made it home safely, is to return to Paradise. What I do not desire is to lose my life protecting a temple dedicated to f*cking.”

Patrick bent over, picked up Winterbone, and offered Peytr a cursory nod before turning on his heels and strolling awkwardly out of the room. He heard footsteps follow after him as he walked down the hallway. He anticipated that it would be Moira, pleading with him to stay, but when he turned, ready to offer his best dismissive words, Peytr was the one standing there. Patrick expected him to be angry, but he seemed appreciative instead.

“Yes?” Patrick asked.

Peytr’s hand came up, soft, powdered fingers stroking the knotted flesh on the side of Patrick’s face. His touch was as delicate as a lover’s, which made Patrick feel somewhat uncomfortable. As if sensing this, Peytr pulled his hand away.

“I understand your decision,” the merchant said. “And I do not wish to change your mind. In fact, I wish you had convinced my people to tear down that monstrosity. I do not know why it was constructed in the first place. At times it seems as though Deacon is trying to test Karak’s patience.”

“He obviously succeeded.”

“That he did,” said Peytr with a nod. “And I will not be here to reap what he has sown. I will be gathering my wife and some…others who are important to me…and heading to the Pebble Islands. I have another estate there, and the ocean will keep us safe for a time.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Patrick asked hesitantly.

Peytr shrugged. “I suppose I just wish to thank you. I understand that Rachida holds the utmost respect for you, and you are very special to her. It means a great deal to me that you have been a companion for her. I know how lonely it can be for a wife when her husband is gone for months at a time.”

Peytr smiled then, and it was sincere. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not a problem,” he said. “Not in the slightest.”

“I thought not,” replied Peytr with a wink. “She is a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in all the land. Even someone like me can admit that.”

After saying his piece, the merchant turned to leave.

“And by the way, Master DuTaureau,” he called out over his shoulder before disappearing into one of the adjacent hallways. “I know you think yourself ugly, but you are not. You are simply different. Remember that.”

And then he was gone. Patrick shook his head, looked to make sure no one else was coming to stall him, and exited through the mansion’s back door. The early afternoon air kissed his flesh, pricking his neck. It was a cool day, the humidity bearable for once. It will get much colder soon, he thought, and the memory of Mordeina’s frigid winter nights made him wrap his oversized arms around himself.

He strolled through the rear courtyard until he found Rachida sitting on a wooden bench, tossing bits of bread into the stream that lolled along lazily behind the Gemcroft mansion. Gulls, geese, and whippoorwills—the latter of which were thankfully silent, as their incessant nightly tweeting had brought him close to insanity on many an evening—swooped down, snatching the bits of bread from the water, swallowing each in a single gulp.

Rachida was, of course, a vision of splendor. On this day she wore a simple white dress that flowed around her body like the water in the stream below, hinting ever so slightly at the exquisite shape hidden beneath. Her dark hair draped lazily over her shoulders, and a stray sunray pierced the canopy above, shining only on her shoulder, turning the wisp of hair that rested there a brilliant gold.


She didn’t look up as he approached, keeping her focus on feeding the birds. Patrick dropped his sword onto the grass, slid onto the bench beside her, and sat back. It was amazing that he still felt comfortable around her after their excursion to the temple, but it was true. Every other woman he had lain with had treated him differently afterward, whereas Rachida acted as if nothing had changed. He appreciated that, but sometimes he wondered if it were truly better. It was as if their time together was so unmemorable that it had been wiped from her memory altogether. And seeing the way she acted with Moira, the way the two women brushed up against each other, their gazes lingering far too long, made her lack of interest in him all the more painful.

Some things are for the best, he thought.

Patrick shivered and leaned forward, waiting for her to make the first move. She did, slowly turning her head toward him, gazing on him as if she were busy contemplating one of life’s grand mysteries.

“What did they say?” she asked.

“Deacon told me to meet him later,” he replied. “I will fetch the mare this evening and be on my way.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “I will miss you.”

“All my ladies claim that,” Patrick said with a chuckle. “I never believe them.”

Rachida paused for a moment and began rubbing her stomach.

“You do understand that we will likely never see each other again?” she said, her alluring eyes staring blankly ahead. “You will go and live your life in Paradise, and I will die here, defending my home from whatever may come.”

“That’s…that’s nonsense,” Patrick said, a lump rising in his throat. “You aren’t staying here. You aren’t fighting. Your husband is bringing you to his estate in the Pebble Islands. He told me as much only a few minutes ago.”

She laughed, though it was a humorless sound.

“Yes, Peytr tries to play the nobleman. He will demand I come, but when I decline, he will go off with his lover, Bryce, leaving me behind with only a token argument.”

Patrick shook his head. “But why are you staying?” he asked, incredulous. “And why were you in such a rush to get pregnant if you were planning to simply throw it all away a month later?”

She shrugged. “I am an idealist. I never thought it would come to this.”

“But what will you gain from your obstinacy? You owe these people nothing!”

“Oh, but I do. I owe Moira my love, and I refuse to leave her to die.” She glanced down at her hand, which still rubbed the satiny fabric over her belly. “And I refuse to run from my home, and the home of my child. Should I die protecting Haven, at least he will die with me without having to exist in a world where men and women are slaves to the ones that created them.”

Patrick froze.

“Your child?”

She looked at him then, and her eyes blazed with compassion. “Yes, my child, Patrick. The one you gave to me.”

“You mean…it actually worked?”

Grabbing his hand, she guided it until it rested atop her stomach. His fingers slid over the fabric, feeling the hint of flesh underneath.

“Yes, Patrick. The spell worked. Your seed found purchase, and now a life is growing inside me. Here, let me show you.”

She reached up with her free hand and gently touched him on his right temple. She closed her eyes and began breathing heavily, muttering words he didn’t understand.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered as bright light assaulted Patrick’s vision. “And see.”

He did, and he saw what was inside of her, a tiny, beating heart within a clump of matter the shape of a bean. The bean rested within a nest of fluid, surrounded by a clear wall that contained an interconnected web of pulsing red lines. The image overwhelmed him. Never before had he seen life in the way he was seeing it now, and his heart filled with joy.

A child, he thought. A son. I have been granted a son.

Rachida pulled her fingers away from him, and the image shattered. He was once more in the rear of the courtyard, sitting on the bench before the stream. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he looked blindly at the splendor all around them. He reached out for her, but she backed away. His hand fell from her stomach, whacking against the wooden bench with a thud.

“The child is yours, but it is not,” Rachida said, and he sensed she was trying to remain firm for some reason.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

She glanced down and began to rub her stomach again.

“This child, this miracle, is to be the only one of his kind, the offspring of two opposite yet equally perfect bloodlines. He will be a great leader of men, and he will carry Peytr’s name. Should we prevail when Karak comes for us, should we win our freedom, my son will be the one who leads humankind to greatness. It will be his destiny.” She looked at him then, and her front teeth bit into her plump lower lip. “I mean no disrespect, Patrick. You must understand. Peytr knows of our tryst, and he knows of my pregnancy, and he is at peace with it. Given his desires, he never wished to put a child in me, but he is more than happy to have an heir. However, only the three of us—you, my husband, and myself—know what actually transpired, and it must stay that way, for the good of the people our son will one day lead. Do you understand?”

Patrick shook his head. In truth, he didn’t. It tore him up inside. The impossible had happened, and he’d sired a child. Two of the different First Families had intermixed to create a life. Yet now, when he could finally have a son of his own, he was being told he must not have anything to do with it? Was this his lot in life, to remain a timeless freak who would forever be alone? Not even his child would know him. And if Rachida insisted on following the path she had chosen, the boy would never reach the light of day. He looked at her, saw the determination in her eyes, and knew he could never deny her what she wished. If it was to be his destiny to be immortal and lonesome, then so be it.

Unless…

“I don’t care what you say,” he said. “You’re leaving.”

“What?”

“The only thing that matters is that this child lives. You will leave with Peytr, you will find safety on the islands, and you will only return if and when it is safe to do so.”

She squinted at him. “Is that so? And what of you?”

He thought of his sister, who had ridden off to Paradise with the man she loved. He had been foolish to worry, selfish for her company. She had left because she could, because it was her choice, just as it was his choice to do what he wanted. His actions had saved Crian’s life and allowed their love to blossom. Maybe, just maybe, he could help foster something that good again by saving his son.

“I will stay here,” he said, “and fight in your place, should it come to that.”

“You will?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Patrick nodded.

“But who will keep Moira safe?” she asked.

Patrick laughed.

“You really think Moira needs someone to keep her safe? She’s a better fighter than I am, but if it comforts you, I promise to protect her life with my own.”

“I…” Rachida looked flattered, and somewhat satisfied, by his offer. Yet still she protested.

“No,” she said. “No, I can’t leave Moira. I won’t. I love her too much.”

Grunting, Patrick tried one last gamble to get her to listen.

“Is that so?” he asked. “You say you love Moira too much to leave her…but what does she say? Does she wish you to stay or go?”


Rachida tossed another scrap of bread into the stream.

“She wants me to leave,” she said. “She wants me to be safe.”

Patrick put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. His head leaned against hers, and he enjoyed the gentle embrace, which lacked any sexual tension.

“If you love her, then perhaps you should listen to her,” he said. “Go, and feel no guilt. We live in a world where the gods walk among us. Perhaps we can forge ourselves a miracle. And if we fall, well…” He looked into her eyes. “You said your son will be a great leader. Perhaps he’ll be the one to make Karak regret his decision to ever come here.”

Rachida leaned into him, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said with a sly smile. “I think you’re manipulating me and just trying to spare me unhappiness…but at least you’re good at it.”

Patrick laughed.

“Now go pack your things,” he said. “I have a sneaking suspicion your phony husband is going to want to leave soon, and you will not be left behind.”

“You are one of the most wonderful creations in this world, or any,” she said, offering him one last kiss on the lips. “I will never forget this. Never.”

“I know,” he replied a second later, watching her as she walked away. He leaned back and threw his hands over the back of the wide bench.

“So,” he said to himself. “You’ve just volunteered to give your life fighting for a land you’ve barely lived in for a month, to protect a temple you would rather see torn to the ground, all because of your love for a woman who only used you for your seed. Patrick, you devil, I fear you’re getting dumber by the hour.”

He then thought of her words about manipulation and realized that he had most likely been the one who had been manipulated. Dumber indeed.

The funny thing was, he really didn’t mind all that much.