Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


4


Crowds packed the streets of the far-eastern city of Veldaren, swarming the walkways on either side of the cobbled streets filled with horses pulling carts of merchandise. Soleh Mori walked among the people, buildings of gray stone on either side of her. The entirety of the developed sections of the city looked the same to her—cold, gray, and lifeless. She felt out of place among the unwashed hordes as she made her way to the castle. She wore an elegant, lime-colored dress of woven cotton and silk. The bodice of the dress was embroidered with miniature Gemcroft pearls cultivated off the coast of the Pebble Islands, and the hemline was rounded with stylish lace. The rest of those around her were dressed in sullied leathers and burlap, their faces streaked with grime as they perused the markets. Many of them were common laborers on their midday break, drawn in by the catcalls of vendors selling fruit, vegetables, and freshly butchered or salted meats. On occasion, Soleh would spot a covered wagon and see the occupants through the netting that hid them from view. These were the lords and ladies of the city, the high merchants, dressed in their expensive silks and satins, fanning themselves as they sat atop feather-filled pillows.


Soleh wished she could join them in their luxury, but as Minister of Justice in the capital city of Neldar, she needed the people to see her face, to know that she walked among them. They had to believe she existed in the same world as they did, even if it wasn’t true. Even if she felt dirty in their presence. So badly she wished to be back in Erznia, in her courtyard on the border of the forest, sitting beside the spring eating apples, drinking wine, and teaching her children the lessons of Karak. Only rarely had she gone back to visit over the forty years since she had been handed the mantle of Minister, and she missed it more than anything.

But this is my life now, as it has been for a long while, she thought. It had been Karak’s will for her to sit in judgment of the crimes of the populace, and Soleh Mori never questioned the will of her god.

The afternoon crowd steadily thickened as more and more laborers—bricklayers, smiths, gardeners, tailors, caterers, and house servants—exited their places of employ and joined the torrent of human flesh in Veldaren’s southern district. She knew she had to stay wary, for within the midst of the honest men and women were the liars and beggars and thieves. It was the price of a free economy. Though every man could readily earn himself a silver coin for a day’s labor, there were just as many for whom the concept of earning was a five-fingered proposition. That was why the men of the City Watch were stationed on every street corner, standing rigid in their dull, mailed armor. Their spears held high and their shortswords sheathed at their waists, they held a constant vigil. It was because of them that Soleh declined protection on her journey to the castle each day. There was plenty of protection around already.

The City Watch had once been her son’s responsibility. Thinking of Vulfram caused her heart to patter. She missed him terribly, missed his assuredness and sense of honor. Soleh fell into dreary bouts of loneliness far more often since her eldest boy had been granted the title of Lord Commander by King Vaelor five years ago and put in charge of the newly created military. She loved Vulfram entirely; none of her other four children came close, not even Rachida, her youngest, the legendary beauty who had fled Neldar at the age of eighteen. His visits were almost as rare as her journeys back to Erznia. And so Soleh’s dreariness grew, and only by gazing upon the many statues of her beloved god could she hold her depression at bay.

She passed by one of those statues, a nine-foot-tall likeness of Karak wearing his plate armor, the sigil of a lion emblazoned on his chest, a great flaming sword held skyward in his hand. Her hands reached out, her fingers caressing the smooth marble foot perched atop the base. A fluttering filled her belly, flushing her cheeks. Her husband Ibis had carved this statue and many others situated around the city proper. His workmanship was exquisite; he was a man with gifted hands. She would do well to return to his workshop in the Tower Keep when her workday was finished, so he could prove once more just how gifted those hands were.

The crowd parted slightly and the presence of the City Watch became more pronounced as the gates to the Castle of the Lion came into view. It was a majestic creation, built by the hands of Karak in the year before he disappeared. The wall of the castle stood thirty feet high, and the three towers behind it stood higher than that. The first was Tower Honor, the residence of King Eldrich Vaelor I. Tower Servitude housed the large royal staff, and Tower Justice was where the High Court was held. The dungeons were tucked away beneath it. The wall itself was constructed from giant hunks of stone wrestled down from the Crestwell Mountains, polished to a crystalline sheen at the top and engraved with drawings by the greatest artists of the nation. The sight of it took Soleh’s breath away, just as it did every time her eyes fell on it. The images of the unwashed masses fled her mind. Seeing the Castle of the Lion in all its glory only confirmed the heights humanity could reach when its passion for righteousness was strong. They had already accomplished so much in a scant ninety-three years, and for nearly half that time Karak, their guiding light in the darkness, had left them on their own. It only made their achievements all the more impressive.

Our achievements, Soleh corrected herself. You may be timeless, but do not forget you are one of them.

The portcullis was open, framed on either side by a pair of leaping lions carved from onyx. Their claws stretched out, their mouths frozen open in a primal roar. Civilians drifted in and out of the gate, some carrying goods for the king, some bringing food for the granaries. A few entered with heads held high, while others did so with the downcast gaze of the timorous. Still others exited the portcullis with tears streaming down their faces. Guards bordered either side of the entrance, ushering them all to move along.

Soleh approached the wide aperture, stroking the nose of the soaring lion on her left. The Palace Guard recognized her immediately, and the sound of plated boots clomping together rang out as they came to attention. She called out their names one by one, causing smiles to stretch across their faces. “Hoster, Jericho, Luddard, Smithson, Bardot, Crillson.” The men appreciated it when members of the First Families remembered their names, though Soleh knew she was one of the few who did.

She crossed the courtyard, passing through the crowd of jugglers, poets, puppeteers, and salesmen who made every day a bazaar on the castle lawn. She greeted as many as she could, whether she knew them or not, offering them broad smiles and good tidings. For a moment she reconsidered her longing to be back in Erzia, but then she came on the ominous oak door of Tower Justice, where she would be spending the rest of her day, and realized that the smiles and good tidings ended there.

Pushing open the door—it was tall, quite heavy, and creaked on its iron hinges—she strode into the vestibule. The tower was immensely wide, and the lower chamber was round, with a short ceiling. A staircase wound up the northern curve of the wall leading to the main courthouse above. Guards stood at attention, safeguarding the sixteen doors that lined the interior. Each of those sixteen doors led to holding cells that held up to thirty prisoners. Those prisoners would be her responsibility for the day.

“Minister,” said Malcolm Gregorian, Captain of the Palace Guard. He was a solidly built man dressed in a dyed black leather overcoat over a vest of chainmail. The golden half helm he wore was adorned with catlike ears at the top, whereas the rest of the guards’ helms were plain silver and without decoration. His face was marred by four ugly scars that ran diagonally from his milky left eye, over his nose, and down to the lower right corner of his jaw. He stepped forward and handed Soleh a folded piece of parchment.

She unfolded it and read it line by line. It was the day’s docket, and from the looks of it, the day would be a long one.

“My cloak please, Captain,” she said.

Malcolm snapped his heels together, marched to the alcove on the far side of the circular room, and brought out a black woolen cloak emblazoned with a red lion. He draped it over her shoulders, fastening the silver buckles around her neck, taking care not to brush her breasts. It was considered sacrilege to touch the most sensitive areas of the Minister, even by accident—though Soleh never let anyone know that should it happen, she would not create a fuss. She grabbed the corners of the cloak, pulled the hood over her head, and wrapped the heavy material around herself.

With the cloak all but covering her extravagant green dress, she climbed the stairs. It was late summer, and the heat outside the castle walls was intense, but inside the tower was a permanent chill. She placed one foot over the other and ascended into the Hall of Judgment.


Two women were waiting for her in the antechamber The first was Thessaly Crestwell, possessed of gently flowing hair that tread the line between white and chrome. She looked regal in an elegantly woven suit of crushed velvet leggings and leather chemise. Beside her was Soleh’s daughter, Adeline. Deep, gouge-like wrinkles surrounded her eyes, her hair was gray and thinning, and an ill-fitting dress wrapped around her slender frame. Each day Soleh witnessed the two of them standing side by side, and each day the sight caused her mood to plummet. Thessaly looked the same as she had in her youth, stately and smooth, whereas Adeline, born eight months before her, showed every day of her sixty-three years. Adeline had married the love of her life at twenty, whereas Thessaly, like all the Crestwells, had remained single. Soleh’s sorrow grew, for she herself had not aged a day in ninety-three years, and each of her children was slowly withering away before her. In accordance with the law of the First Families, the first generation brought forth by the original four remained timeless until the day someone other than their god took primacy in their hearts, until they felt a love so completely that they might crumble without their beloved. Each of her children had fallen in love and started families, sealing their fates, and Soleh was plagued by the knowledge that they would perish while she would go on. It gave her no solace that their memories would be kept alive through her grandchildren and beyond, and she had no desire to continue bringing forth children.

An unbalanced grin stretched across Adeline’s face, and she dropped to one knee.

“Mother,” she said, her voice reedy and wavering. “Welcome, welcome! I’ve been told there will be many beheadings this fine day!”

Soleh sighed, placed a gentle hand on her daughter’s forehead, and said, “Get up, child.” Adeline did as she was told, a stifled cackle leaking from between her tightly clenched teeth. Adeline’s husband had died of the Wasting eleven years prior. Every day since, her sanity had diminished, an agonizingly slow devolution that had left a crowing madwoman in place of a once beautiful and competent girl. Adeline had taken to wandering the streets, shouting at peasants and attacking the City Watch in fits of madness. Soleh had named her Mistress of Punishment, if for no other reason than to give the girl something to focus on, but in the end her appointment had been fruitless. Adeline suggested beheading for every offense, even for something as minor as stealing a loaf of bread. She only kept her title because of Soleh’s insistence.

Thessaly bowed and stepped forward. She was Mistress of the Treasury, a necessary advisor when it came to crimes in gold and trade. “The court is ready for you, Minister,” she said. “Shall we begin?”

“We shall,” replied Soleh. She breezed past the two women and through the arched portal. The courthouse was immense, every bit as wide as the foyer below, but there was no ceiling. The area above rose up and up, the tip of the tower spire a mere pie plate from the vantage point of those standing in the Place of Judgment. The room was lit by hundreds of candelabras, coupled with the sunlight that streamed in through the slatted windows. It was a barren, depressing place, bereft of any furniture other than the three massive chairs sitting atop a rostrum opposite the antechamber. Soleh strode across the empty courthouse floor, climbed the short staircase on the raised platform, and sat in the Seat of the Minister. It was a tall-backed, white marble throne just as large as King Vaelor’s throne in Tower Honor, though much less extravagant. Above the throne hung a tapestry. Written in elegant calligraphy on it were the Laws of Karak.

Do not kill without reason. Do not murder the unborn. Do not take what is not yours. Do not defile the temple of worship. Do not turn away from Karak.

Adeline sat below her to the left and Thessaly, to the right. Moments later, the sound of marching footfalls sheathed in steel echoed through the room, and Captain Gregorian appeared. He saluted his Minister with a fist over his heart and clomped into the center of the circular common floor.

“Court is in session,” he bellowed.

One by one, guards led prisoners up the winding staircase to stand in judgment before the Minister. They were brought in order of the severity of their crimes, beginning with those accused of minor theft or uttering offensive language in a public place. For every accusation Captain Gregorian read off, Adeline would yell, “Take off their head!”—a proclamation Soleh politely ignored. Thessaly proved much more useful, doling out the charges and collecting fines from the convicted to be placed in the coffers and used for the betterment of the realm. The charges grew steeper as the day went on, each prisoner groveling at Soleh’s feet, begging clemency. Sometimes she granted it; often she did not. The City Watch did not tend to detain the innocent, and their evidence was often ironclad.

It was past the high point of the day, after an hour break for lunch, when the most severe crimes were heard. Arsonists, rapists, murderers, organized thieves, and blasphemers all stood before her. This was when Adeline’s constant calls for death might be acted upon. No man or woman guilty of such offenses was set free, in accordance to the Law of the Divinity. The guilty could either accept the sentence handed down—death or a lifetime of servitude in the Sisters of the Cloth for women of birthing age—or attempt to prove their repentance to Karak by standing before the Final Judges.

Soleh’s head pounded as she sent yet another man to his grave. The day couldn’t end soon enough. The final and most egregious of the offenders was hauled before the Seat of the Minister. He was a thick, brutish thug with a black beard filled with lice and a head of long, unkempt hair. Blood covered his face and clothes, and he panted out streams of red spittle while staring up at Soleh. His arms and legs were shackled, like those of all major offenders. Two members of the Palace Guard forced him to his knees with heavy knocks from hollow rods. Joining the accused in the room were Romeo and Cleo Connington, a pair of fat, bald brothers, dressed in elegant silk shifts, whose fingers were adorned with expensive jewels. Soleh couldn’t have been less happy to see them. The Conningtons were high merchants specializing in luxurious textiles, but more recently they had branched out to supply armor and weapons to the City Watch. The family was close to King Vaelor and had been granted special amnesty by Clovis Crestwell himself. The brothers stood off to the side, smirks on their waxed and powdered faces. Their house guard surrounded them.

“Why are you here?” asked Soleh.

Romeo, the older, stepped forward. “This man, Gronk Hordan of Thettletown, stands accused of raping and murdering my brother’s daughter, Pricilla. Her body now lies in the crypt below our holdfast in Riverrun. She had been defiled so grievously that we had to hide her from her mother.”

“The man is scum,” said Cleo. “We’ve come to ensure that retribution is swift and brutal, and that those who paid him to do it are equally punished.”

Soleh was disgusted by the lack of emotion on Cleo Connington’s rotund face and the amused expression on Romeo’s, but she kept her feelings to herself.

“Paid? What do you mean by that?”

“If it would please the Minister,” said Captain Gregorian, bowing low. “It is claimed by some that Matthew Brennan ordered the attack.”

“And have you investigated the matter, Captain?”

“I have.”


“What are your findings?”

“Inconsequential, as of the moment.”

Soleh had suspected as much. The Brennans, who had built a shipping empire out of Port Lancaster, had long been at odds with the Conningtons. Matthew Brennan often violated palace trade regulations and willingly paid his fines on the rare occasions when the local magistrate came calling. Soleh knew that the Conningtons would do anything to dishonor their rivals. This was not the first time they had tried to connect Matthew with a heinous crime. The possibility of his involvement seemed remote at best. He was a good man, despite his penchant for bending the rules in his favor.

“And you,” said Soleh, turning her attention to the prisoner. “What do you have to say on the matter?”

Gronk Hordan fixed her with a brutal stare.

“I weren’t paid by no man,” he growled. “And I didn’t attack no girl, either. Lies, all of it.”

The denial meant nothing to Soleh. The accused always proclaimed their innocence, no matter how heavy the proof against them.

“Is that so?” she said.

“It is, Minister.”

Soleh looked to Captain Gregorian. The soldier straightened up and said in his gravelly voice, “Milady, the bite marks on her abdomen match the dentition of the accused.”

“Castration!” shouted Adeline, spittle flying from her lips. It was the only other punishment she ever demanded. “Cut off his cock and make him choke on it!”

“Shush, dear,” Soleh whispered out the corner of her mouth. She regarded the men standing before her. “Masters Connington, Karak appreciates your concerns, and they are duly noted. Please exit the court at once.”

“And what of my retribution?” asked Cleo, finally showing some emotion. “You’re going to let that Matthew bastard get away with this forever?”

Soleh shuddered at the sight of the sickening man.

“Escort these men from the court,” she told her guards, who immediately laid their hands on the brothers and pushed them into the antechamber. Their house guard followed, mindful not to oppose those in authority.

“Karak’s justice is Karak’s justice,” Soleh called after them as they disappeared into the porthole. “It is not for you to demand retribution, but him.”

“The prisoner awaits sentencing,” announced Captain Gregorian once they were gone, his grip tight around Gronk’s chains.

“Very well,” replied Soleh. “By the power of this court, handed down by Karak, the Divinity of the East and father to us all, I hereby sentence you to death by beheading. Do you accept this judgment with an open heart, knowing that Afram awaits if you are repentant, or do you wish to prove your faithfulness before the Final Judges?”

“I done no wrong,” muttered Gronk Hordan. “I’ll prove my faithfulness.”

“So be it,” sighed Soleh. She wasn’t surprised, as at least one prisoner a day thought himself or herself worthy of Karak’s forgiveness. The existence of the Final Judges was no secret, but none seemed to understand what it meant to face them and how few lived to tell the tale. “Captain, escort the prisoner to the arena.”

Adeline opened her mouth again, but Soleh silenced her daughter with a glare. She glanced down at Thessaly, who stood from her minor seat and curtsied before taking her leave. The silver-haired Crestwell grabbed Adeline’s wrist, yanking the aged woman to a standing position before dragging her along the wall to the antechamber. As Mistresses, the two were not allowed to observe the decision of the Final Judges. Her daughter struggled and swayed on failing old knees, and Soleh was again pummeled with shame and guilt. It wasn’t until both women were out of sight that she rose from her throne, lifted the corners of her cloak, and descended the staircase. She strode past the prisoner, who was snatched by two guards, and crossed the courthouse floor, stopping to rinse her dry face at the washbasin, before taking the winding stairwell down. Captain Gregorian followed behind her, the prisoner with his rough escorts after him.

They did not stop when they reached the vestibule, instead continuing down into the depths below the castle. With each step they took, the air grew colder and wetter, and the rough gray walls were slick with moisture. The clanking of plated feet on stone echoed throughout the chamber, the only sound other than the prisoner’s labored breathing.

The stairwell finally came to an end, the path branching in two directions. The left led to the dungeons, and the right was a plain door lit by a single torch. Here Awaits the Final Judgment was carved into the old, moldy wood. Soleh gripped the door’s brass ring and pulled. It slid open, emitting a waft of air that was pungent with refuse and rot. She had to hold her hand in front of her face to shield herself from the intense brightness on the other side.

The stairwell emptied out onto a raised platform overlooking a circular ring of tall boulders, with another set of stairs leading down to the arena’s gate. The underground hollow was lit by a thousand torches that were never extinguished, the combined flames as bright as the sun on a brutal summer day. Soleh drew back her hood for the first time in hours, approached the barrier of smooth sandstone, and placed her hands on it. The surface was warm from the heat of the torches. After a tilt of her head, the guards shoved their prisoner down the second set of stairs, tossed him unceremoniously into the middle of the ring, and then beat a hasty retreat. They tossed a key at him before slamming and locking the tall iron gate behind them. Gronk stood, spit out a glob of blood and dirt, and jangled his manacles. He picked up the key, and a few turns later the chains on his wrists and ankles fell to the ground with a heavy clank.

“You have requested audience with the Final Judges,” Soleh said. “We shall bear witness to their decision. If you live, you are a forgiven man. If you perish, you have been deemed unworthy, and your soul awaits eternal damnation.”

She nodded to her Captain.

Gregorian pulled a lever, raising a pair of metal gates from the walls of the arena below. Gronk faced the now opened portals, rubbing his hands together, breathing heavily. A soft, staccato-like purr filled the air, followed by an ear-splitting roar. The prisoner’s knees began to shake as he struggled to hide his fear.

The judges stalked out of their cages like deadly shadows, and Soleh watched a puddle of liquid leak from the cuff of Gronk’s filthy pants.

The two lions, Kayne and Lilah, Karak’s Final Judges, stepped fully into the lighted arena. They were massive beasts, almost the height of a man on their four legs. Their golden fur shone with streaks of white, and their pale yellow eyes glistened in the torchlight. Kayne opened his mouth, exposing his lethal fangs while letting out a low, guttural snarl. Lilah strode alongside him, her tongue flicking her nose.

The lions paced a circle around the whimpering prisoner, growing ever closer with each revolution. They were toying with the man, goading him into histrionics and madness. Finally, Gronk snapped. He shot to his feet, shouting obscenities as he attempted to dart through the gap between the two lions. Kayne seemed to tilt his head and smirk as Gronk leapt onto the smooth stone that served as the arena wall. The man’s hands could find no purchase, and he slid back down until his feet touched ground.

That was when Lilah charged, letting loose a throaty bellow as her gigantic paws kicked up dirt and dust. It took mere seconds for her to close the gap and leap onto Gronk’s back. Her claws raked down to the spine, opening four gaping maws that spat crimson blood. Then the lioness’s jaws closed around the man’s skull. She pulled him down, shook him twice, and then whipped her head to the side. Gronk Hordan tumbled through the air, landing in a heap, just inches from Kayne’s enormous feet.


“You have been judged,” whispered Soleh.

The man was not dead. He lifted his head as if lost in a dream. Blood poured from the incisions where Lilah’s teeth had pierced his face and neck. He swayed and rocked, swayed and rocked, moaning, unable to get to his feet. Kayne watched him for a moment before lashing out. His right paw raked across the prisoner’s chest, opening four gashes that mirrored the ones on his back. Gronk collapsed belly-up, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Lilah sauntered over to stand beside her brother, and the two lions exchanged a momentary glance before they began to feed. One of the guards standing on the platform doubled over as the prisoner’s screams filled the air. Coils of intestines slithered out of the man like so many eels, spraying all over the dirt-covered ground. The lions devoured Gronk where he lay, and his shrieks and wails slowly ebbed until all that could be heard was the smacking of the judges’ tongues as they lapped up every last ounce of blood.

“Leave me,” Soleh told Captain Gregorian, who ushered his two guards up the stairwell and out of the arena.

Kayne and Lilah were the only lions in all of Dezrel—and perhaps the only two that had ever existed. They’d been discovered on the doorstep of the Mori homestead sixty-seven years ago, on the day Soleh’s precious Vulfram was born. They were but cubs then, gifts from Karak, and Soleh’s family raised them as their own kin. The lions ate the food Soleh prepared for her family, slept in Vulfram’s room, and ran and played with him and the rest of the children, even when they grew so large that they dwarfed the girls. Soleh didn’t consider them pets; to her, they were another son and daughter. Unlike her flesh-and-blood children, however, Kayne and Lilah did not age. They simply grew larger with each passing year. Sometimes she wondered if they would grow to the size of horses.

It was Karak himself who had informed Soleh of their true reason for existence. Kayne and Lilah could sense a person’s faithfulness, could understand the depths of his or her beliefs and loyalty. When the Castle of the Lion was built, and the first king was named to assist in governing their burgeoning society, the lions were brought north to Veldaren to fulfill this purpose. If any accused wished to prove their loyalty to the one true god of the land, he or she could face the lions in the arena.

In all her years as Minister, of all the hundreds of men and women she had escorted down into the bowels of the castle, only one man had passed the test. He still bore the four wicked scars running across his face to prove it. That man was Malcolm Gregorian, who now served beside her as Captain of the Palace Guard. A man who, even when the lions bore down upon him, refused to show fear.

She stood there for a long while, listening to Kayne and Lilah finish their meal. When they were done and had returned to their lavish pens, she pushed back the lever. The two gates slowly lowered, the winches squealing as thick ropes rubbed against them.

“Do you not like watching your children fulfill their duties?” asked a commanding yet familiar voice from behind her.

Soleh whirled around, eyes frantically scanning the darkness behind the torches’ powerful glare. Her heart began to beat excitedly, and she feared she might faint.

“Of course not,” she replied, her voice high and innocent, like a child’s. “But I do so because it is my duty, just as it is theirs to punish the guilty.”

The torches before her extinguished—the first time they had gone dark in more than forty years—and a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared at her from the new darkness. The eyes came closer, and a colossal figure stepped into the light of the remaining torches on the far wall. He was a picture of beauty, with hair a deep shade of earthy brown, eyes rich with wisdom, and thick and powerful arms and legs. He towered over her, wearing an outfit of woven black and a silver breastplate embellished with his sigil, the roaring lion. Soleh dropped to her knees as he offered her his hand.

“Karak, my Divinity, my Lord, my Father,” she whispered. She began to weep.

“Stand, child,” said Karak, his voice as soothing as hot milk on a chilly evening. “Stand and do not cry.”

Soleh rose to her feet, and with a racing heart, brushed aside the large hand before her and threw herself at him. She collided with her god’s belly, just below his metal breastplate, and wrapped her arms as far around his waist as she could. She buried her face into his clothes. He had the smell of winter about him, of snow and pines and smoke.

“You have been gone for so long,” she said into his clothing. “I feared you wouldn’t return.”

“Forty years is not long, child,” her god replied. He brushed back her hair, his touch warm and comforting. “Not to those like us.”

“It seemed like a long time to me.”

Karak laughed, and the sound filled the arena. Kayne and Lilah bellowed in their cages.

“You were always such a sweet girl, Soleh. So beautiful and innocent, so pure.” He slipped a huge knuckle beneath her chin and lifted her head. “And those eyes, still like a babe filled with wonderment. The most beautiful thing I have ever created. I could gaze into them forever.”

“So why did you leave me, my Lord?” she asked.

“I did not leave you, child. I have been near. I have heard your prayers, uttered every night by your bedside. I have watched as you dutifully fulfilled your promise to help the people learn to serve their own justice. You have helped our society grow strong, yet it cannot stand on your shoulders alone. You make me proud. You are one of the few who do.”

Soleh took a step back. Doubt began to infiltrate her pure thoughts.

“I don’t understand, my Lord,” she said. “If you have been watching, then you know of the ugliness that has been spreading across our lands. The sickness, the greed, the violence. Years ago we had riots over the price of wheat. You are the God of Order, my Lord, and yet all I see is chaos.”

Karak shook his head and smiled softly.

“You do not understand, my child. There is order in all things, eventually. I stepped away because you, my children, needed to grow up. You needed to learn to exist on your own, without me lording over you day and night. My children need to make their own decisions, to build their own destinies, to maintain their own order. If that does not happen, you will never be free. You will be slaves, just as the children of my brother are. You deserve freedom. I have given all of you the framework for success, and I leave it up to you to carry those lessons forward, to improve, to thrive.”

Soleh gazed once more into those beautiful eyes, larger than life itself, and saw the kindness and honesty in them. She could not help but smile. She stepped back and bowed, sweeping her arms out wide so that her cloak flowed over her like the cascade of a waterfall.

“You have, my Lord, and we are trying.”

“That is all I can ask of you, sweet Soleh,” replied the god. “Now if it pleases you, I should like to visit my temple and rest. The journey home has been a long one.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Will you walk with me for a while?”

“I would never think to do otherwise.”

Soleh led Karak up the stairwell and out of Tower Justice. The god-made-flesh needed to stoop beneath the doorframe, even though it stood over ten feet tall. It was early evening, the half-moon low on the horizon, and yet the castle courtyard was teeming with people. All activity stopped when Karak emerged, and in an instant the crowd was dropping to their knees and singing his praises. Karak waved to his children, most of whom had never before seen him, a smile still painted across his large, handsome face. He bestowed his graces on them before guiding Soleh out of the main portcullis, leaving the people groveling and praying on the castle lawn.


All across Veldaren the same scene repeated itself over and over again. The evening crowd parted, and guards and commoners and thieves alike all chanted the name of their god. There was no violence to be seen, only reverence, and amidst this sudden outpouring of peace and togetherness, Soleh dared question Karak’s decision to be gone for so long.

But Karak talked to her and only her, as if the multitudes around them didn’t exist, and she forgot all of her doubts. He spoke of the sunset over Mount Hailen, of projecting his form from his body and soaring through the heavens. He told her of touching the constellations that lit up the northern sky, of the worlds that existed within each burning star, of lives beginning and lives coming to a close. All of these words he spoke in a velvety and intimate voice, luring her closer with each step, wrapping her body in the comforting embrace of his voice, until they reached the hub of the southern end of the city, where four roads met at a roundabout. At its center was a great fountain, on which stood a statue of the god that was taller than he was in real life, a regal work of art, created by Soleh’s husband, showing the divinity on one knee, handing a child a spear. Karak stopped there, staring at the effigy, and the heavy weight of his arm fell on Soleh’s shoulders. She leaned her head into his side, feeling the rumblings in her belly, the excitement that caused her legs to quiver.

It was then Karak left her, kissing her lightly on the forehead before stepping into the darkness of the northern road, no doubt riding the shadows to his temple far across the city. Soleh whirled around when he disappeared, her feet light as feathers. She danced through the worshiping populace, down the boulevard and across the cobbled walk. Her soft-soled shoes barely touched ground. She didn’t notice the people around her, exiting pubs and closing their shops for the evening. All recollection of the day’s docket left her mind, as did the memory of Gronk Hordan and his ugly demise. She didn’t care that she’d forgotten to remove her Minister’s cloak. Only one thought circled in her mind, and she whispered it again and again while she danced.

He is back! My Lord is back! Karak has returned to me.

She danced all the way to the Tower Keep in the center of the city, the place she had called home for the last forty years. It was a solemn building, designed by Jacob Eveningstar, the First Man, before he took up residence on the western side of the Rigon River. The tower had originally been intended to serve as the inner sanctum of the palace of the king, but Karak had built only half of it before deciding it was not lavish enough to inspire awe and obedience in the populace. Its cold gray walls were unwelcoming; its height and angularity, strangely dour; and the spire that rose into the night sky was like a fist constantly shaking at the city in anger. But Soleh didn’t care, for her Lord was back. Karak had returned to her.

She threw open the door to the keep and slipped inside, spinning and singing and stomping her feet. The sound of clanking reached her ears, and she knew immediately what it meant. When she stepped into her husband’s studio, the candles were lit on the walls, and the space was filled with the smell of the oils and acids used for curing stone. She tiptoed around chunks of discarded rock and sediment, and dozens of statues of her god, exacting replicas carved from mica, onyx, and marble. A few of the statues showed Karak flanked by Kayne and Lilah. On the wall beyond the main workstation, resting on a slightly raised platform, hung a huge painting crafted with unmatched skill and detail. At the center of an elaborate landscape swirled a giant portal, a great fire burning within it. Standing before the portal were the brother gods, one blond and the other brown-haired. Perched on the clouds above was a woman with hair as black as coal and eyes that were empty orbs of shadow. The painting had been created by the brother gods as a way of commemorating their arrival on Dezrel. It showed them with Celestia in front of the gateway that had brought them into this world. The painting had hung on that very wall since Karak began building the Tower Keep decades ago. It was the only work in the entire studio that had not been created by the sculptor who resided there.

At the center of it all was that sculptor, hacking away at a tall block of jet with his hammer and chisel. Soleh tiptoed up behind Ibis and slid her hands around his waist.

“Soleh, darling, you’re home,” said her husband.

She stepped back, giving him room to turn around. His eyes, jaw, hair, and physique were all perfect imitations of the statues he carved and installed throughout the city. He was Karak’s absolute likeness, albeit in a smaller body. In the days after Karak and Ashhur created humanity, they gave each of the First Four a clay ewer with which to forge their mate. It was the first and only time a human had been granted the power of a god. Soleh, who had loved her creator since the moment she opened her eyes and saw his face, chose to make Ibis in his image. In a way, she told herself, he was like Karak made flesh, made flesh yet again.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, coyly.

“What is it?” asked Ibis.

Soleh backed away, beckoning him with her finger.

“In time,” she purred. “But first, you must catch me.”

It was a game they’d played since the very beginning of their ninety-three years of marriage. She tore off her cloak, spun around, and darted up three flights of stairs, heading for their chambers. By the time she reached their bed, she was already naked and soaked with sweat. And when Ibis leapt atop her, she took him into her arms and held him close, smelling his sweat, feeling his strength, allowing herself to pretend that he was the god he’d been molded to resemble.

My Lord is back, she thought as he kissed lines across her neck. Karak has returned to me.