Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


5


The girl moaned and thrashed her head while she rode him, her hair a sweat-soaked mess that whipped from side to side. Her young, slender body glistened in the candlelight, and her breasts bounded with each seductive motion. She couldn’t be more than sixteen. She kept her eyes closed the entire time, shouting his name as she traced the outline of his body with tense hands. That alone convinced Patrick DuTaureau she was faking it. He’d experienced sincere lovemaking a few times before, most recently with a blind woman during a fishing trip to the seaside town of Conch. Not that this girl’s fakery mattered much to him. The illusion did its job, and he felt his gut tighten. He shot his seed deep inside her, grinding his teeth and groaning as the girl let out a wild screech and threw back her head.

When it was over, the girl slid off him and lay on her back, giggling into her fists. She began singing a quiet tune, one her mother had most likely sung to her when she was just a babe. The innocence in her voice was enough to remind Patrick of how youthful she really was, forty-nine years his junior. He rolled away from her, slipping his feet over the side of the bed. The elation of the lovemaking faded quickly, his constant physical torment seeping back into the hidden chambers of his body. He dropped his head into his hands, stroked the knobbiness of his eyebrows, and abruptly stood. His sudden ascent from the downy mattress brought a surprised yelp from the girl, but she went right on singing a moment later.

Patrick wandered across the room, eyes downcast and gait lurching, and poured himself a glass of wine. He reached for the water pitcher next and splashed some water over his face. It was warm and not at all refreshing. He wiped the water off his flesh with an old tunic that was draped over the side of the basin. His fingers brushed the lumps above his eyes, his wide jaw, and the nonexistent slope of his sunken chin. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to Ashhur before finally lifting his gaze to the silver mirror hanging above the basin.


He stared at his ugliness head-on, ignoring his misshapen face, the welts covering his mottled skin, and the hideous, fang-like appearance of the crooked teeth in his much-too-wide mouth. What mattered was atop his head, the thatch of blood-red hair that coiled at odd angles like the tentacles of a sea beast. He leaned in closer, observing every strand as he worked his fingers through the untidy mop.

“Come on,” he muttered, turning his head from one side to the other, frantically searching for a single strand of gray. His younger sister Brigid had told him she’d found her first silver mere moments after lying with her husband for the first time. Patrick didn’t know how many times he had lain with a woman, but it had to be over a hundred by now.

Perhaps you simply haven’t met the perfect someone, a girl who will love you completely in return.

Brigid was fond of saying that each time he complained about his dilemma. Patrick glanced over his knotted shoulder, watching the young, naked girl roll back and forth on the bed, knees held to her chest. She was certainly beautiful, but Brigid was right. She wasn’t the perfect one for him. How long will I need to search? he wondered. How long will this go on?

Forever was the answer that trickled into his head, for he knew no girl could truly love him, not with his twisted spine, hunched back, monstrous hands, uneven legs, and repulsive face. He was an immortal monster who wished for mortality, who loved his family and his god and wished to experience life, not the repetitive droll of agelessness that had beleaguered him ever since his eighteenth birthday, the day his body had stopped growing. The way he understood it, only the love of someone other than Ashhur could cure him of this plague called forever. He wanted to grow old, to grow wise, and eventually to die a natural death. It was all he dreamed about.

The girl on the bed continued her repetitive swaying, the song on her lips much louder now. Patrick turned away from the mirror and faced her, and the expanse of the stone floor between them seemed like a thousand miles.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The girl stopped her rocking and sat up on the bed. She caught sight of him in the flickering light of the candelabra and grimaced for the briefest moment. It was a look she smoothed away as fast as she could, with a quick shake of her head. The smile that stretched across her face was genuine, but he sensed the repulsion hidden beneath it. She deliberately slid her legs downward, parting them somewhat, and arched back her shoulders.

“I was quickening the seed,” she replied almost sheepishly, which sounded outlandish given her pose. “I’m going to have a child of a First Family.” She stroked her stomach, which shimmered with moisture. “I can feel it working already. In here.”

Patrick laughed, holding his deformed face in his hand.

“What you’re feeling is most likely indigestion from the shrimp we ate earlier, or maybe a bit too much of wine. Either way, you aren’t with child. Not mine, anyway.”

The girl looked confused. “Why is that, sir?”

“My seed is as ruined as myself, I fear. I can have no children.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m sixty-five years old. I have bedded many women, and none of them have quickened.”

“Oh.” The girl’s lower lip quivered. She looked like someone who had just stepped in a pile of manure. “I didn’t know.”

Patrick limped toward her and hunched down, getting on one knee and taking her hand in his. She recoiled once more but did an admirable job of keeping her composure.

“Was that why you came here?” he asked. “To beget a child?”

The girl nodded.

He frowned. “You might have told me so. I would have been honest with you.”

“But I thought,” she said, her voice shaky, “I thought you’d be insulted, sir.”

“Ha! Look at me, girl. Take a good look. I’d have bedded you even if you were only doing it to take revenge on a jilted lover. Trust me; in matters of sex, I’m not picky.” He leaned back and held his arms out wide to prove his point. “I can’t afford to be.”

That elicited a laugh from the girl. She brought her fist to her mouth and sucked on her knuckle for a moment before saying, “I apologize for exploiting you, sir.”

Patrick guffawed. “Really, there was nothing to exploit. I enjoyed myself. Did you?”

The girl shrugged. “I suppose so, sir.”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Fantastic. Glad I could be of service, Bethany. And stop calling me sir. That is a knight’s title, and in this world knights only exist in the Wardens’ stories. Just one person here calls himself that, and if I’m being honest, that man is something of a prick.”

“Um, my name’s Brittany, sir…sorry…what do I call you?”

“Patrick is fine. It is my name, after all. And I apologize for forgetting yours.”

“’Tis all right, sir. I mean Patrick.”

Patrick rose unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the gray hemp shift the girl had been wearing off the floor. He tossed it to her. “You should get dressed. I’m sure your father is quite worried about you by now.”

Brittany slipped the shift over her head, gradually covering up that wonderful body of hers. She seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave.

“You’re right, I should be getting home. But don’t worry about Father. He’s most likely at temple praying. He and Mother do that every night. It’s only just dark, and they don’t usually get home until later in the evening.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Patrick.

Hurriedly, Brittany gathered up her sandals, slinging them over her shoulder. She breezed past him, but Patrick seized her arm lightly, stopping her in her tracks.

“Do you think you could ever love someone like me?” he asked. He knew how pathetic the question sounded, but he needed to ask it.

Brittany lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“I thought not. Good night, Brittany.”

“Good night, Patrick,” she replied, and hastened for the exit. Her footfalls were already halfway down the hall when the door to his room slammed shut.

“By Ashhur,” he muttered. “At least she was a good lay.”

He immediately regretted his words and offered a silent apology to his god. A chill came over his naked body as he thought again of how the girl had called him sir. He was a good man—Ashhur insisted he was—but was he truly noble? Could he be noble? He had his doubts.

With this in mind he walked across the room and reached for the sword leaning against his bedpost—a long, gleaming, silver mammoth of a blade that had been given to him twelve years before, when he had escorted his sister Nessa through the southern marshlands on the other side of Ashhur’s Bridge. She’d been nineteen at the time, the youngest DuTaureau by nearly three decades. Obsessed with wildlife, Nessa had wanted to look at the giant water lizards that congregated on the banks of the tributaries, warming their bellies beneath the intense southern sun.

It was during their journey home with a disappointed Nessa—the water lizards had been chased out of the area by the burgeoning township of Haven—that they stumbled upon a pack of bandits attacking a horse and carriage bearing the banners of Karak. The bandits were chopping at the wooden cart with their swords and daggers as someone shouted desperately from inside. Patrick left Nessa sitting astride her horse and rushed to the aid of the helpless occupant of the carriage, moving much more quickly than anyone would have believed him capable. Though he had no fighting experience other than wrestling Bardiya Gorgoros—the other freak of Ashhur’s First Families—he’d been able to hold off the bandits until a beautiful and strong young man leapt from within the wagon, a huge sword in his hands. Together they fended off the thieves, leaving them to flee, bloodied and beaten, into the swamp. The tip of the young man’s sword still dripped blood when Patrick approached him. The stranger introduced himself as Crian Crestwell, son of Clovis and Lanike of House Crestwell, one of Karak’s First Families. Crian had dropped to his knees, thanked Patrick for his help, and handed him his sword as a token of appreciation. “The smith calls it Winterbone, as it was forged in the snows of the northern mountains that bear the name of my family,” the young man had said. “It is a good blade. It will never dull.” And with that young Crian Crestwell departed, leaving a kiss on the back of Nessa’s hand as his final parting gift. The girl had blushed for weeks afterward.


Patrick cocked his head and stared at the weapon. From what he could tell, Winterbone was the only sword that existed in all of Ashhur’s Paradise. There was simply no practical need for swords. But Patrick needed Winterbone. His possession of the massive blade impressed many of the ladies who would have normally offered him looks of disgust. They were drawn in by the long and slender cutting edge, the golden pommel cast to look like a femur, and the strange, reflective crystal that jutted from the base of the handle. Possession of the blade made him attractive when he was by all rights ugly, made him interesting when he was anything but.

He drew the sword from its scabbard and lifted it. Crian had been correct; the blade never dulled. It whistled through the air with even the gentlest of movements. At over four feet long, it was a heavy sword. Even with his oversized shoulders, Patrick had a difficult time keeping it steady. He braced his feet apart, unbalanced given the unevenness of his legs, and a familiar shooting pain charged up his mangled spine. He pushed himself through it, flinging his free arm out wide and gradually bringing his sword arm up, flexing his muscles to steady them both. He held Winterbone parallel to the ground, its tip aimed at the mirror that mocked him from across the room.

There was a knock at his bedroom door, and Patrick’s first thought was that Brittany had forgotten something and returned.

“Come in,” he shouted, keeping his pose even though his right arm began to tremble. Perhaps this show of strength, holding a two-handed broadsword out straight with one hand, might impress her.

“Patrick, put your clothes on.”

His concentration broken, his sword arm faltered, sending agony into his forearm, and the blade came crashing down. He leapt out of the way on his too small feet just as the cutting edge swung close to his toes. Winterbone rattled against the stone floor. Shaking his hand, he turned toward the door. His sister Cara stood there, hands on her hips. A single streak of gray weaved its way through her strawberry-colored hair, taunting him.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“You almost cut off your toe.”

Patrick grabbed a pair of pants from atop his bureau and sat down on the bed to pull them on. “I was fine,” he mumbled.

Cara gestured to his bed and the mussed sheets atop it. “Your guest seemed nice,” she said.

“She was.”

“She left in a hurry.”

“They always do.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

Patrick slapped his knees and glared at his sister. “Do you have a reason for being here, Cara?”

His sister frowned. “Mother wants to see you in the atrium.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

“Fantastic.”

Cara slipped out the doorway without another word, leaving Patrick alone with his guilt. He knew his sister cared for him—all of his sisters did. But Patrick had long tired of their constant attention. They treated him like he was a child, despite the fact that he was the second oldest of their parents’ children and a ripe old sixty-five. Despite their love, he knew only Nessa saw him as an equal. And if he was being honest with himself, he often believed himself inferior to the others as well.

He picked up Winterbone with care and slid the sword back into its scabbard, then stepped out into the candlelit hallway. The corridor of Manse DuTaureau, the bastion of House DuTaureau, was so long that when he was younger, he used to pretend it could stretch across the Rigon and into the land of Karak. Soft rugs sewn by the elder women from the first generation decorated the hall. They tickled the bottoms of his bare feet with their swooping lines and giant ovals colored red, green, and gold. He passed bedroom after empty bedroom before seeing soft flickering light from Nessa’s billet. He stopped at her doorway, looking in on her. The youngest DuTaureau was huddled in the corner at her desk, her back to him, scribbling away on a piece of parchment. He thought about asking her to join him, but decided against it.

He threw open the double doors to the atrium and limped inside. His eyes widened when he took in the fact that the rest of his family was gathered inside. His mother sat in her large chair by the window, her eyes fixed on the scroll in her lap, as his father crouched on the floor in front of her, rubbing her feet. Cara stood behind her mother, directing an unsure glance in Patrick’s direction, and Brigid and Keela, two of his younger sisters, played blocks with Patrick’s nephews. Besides Nessa, the only sibling missing was Abigail, who lived with her husband, Turock Escheton, in a northern village where the western half of the Gods’ Road reached its end.

The window behind his mother was open, and a hawk was perched before it. The bird’s crest had been plucked of feathers and a red stripe had been painted on its pale flesh, identifying the creature as a herald from Safeway.

“Someone sent a bird,” Patrick said, uncomfortable with the hushed gathering.

“Someone did,” replied his mother.

Isabel and Richard DuTaureau turned their attention to him. His parents were shockingly similar in appearance, both of them possessing the same fiery red hair and willowy frame. They also shared high cheekbones, slender jaw lines, slightly upturned noses, and a spattering of starburst-like speckles on their faces. The braver commoners whispered that Isabel had fallen in love with her own image so that when Ashhur granted her the power to create her lifetime companion, she had made him look just like herself. There were even those in Mordeina who whispered that Isabel’s act of vanity had been the cause of Patrick’s deformity. Patrick wasn’t sure if the story had any truth to it, but it seemed odd that he would be the one singled out and not his sisters, who were all near perfect replicas of their mother and father. Still, he had never explored the matter or asked Ashhur about it. Honestly, he didn’t want to experience the pain that would come with knowing the truth, whatever that truth might be.

“I assume the message is for me?” he asked.

“It is,” said Isabel.

Richard backed up a few paces, allowing his wife and matriarch the space to rise from her chair. She approached her son and handed him the bowed scroll. He took it in his knobby fingers and flattened it against the wall.

“It’s from Jacob,” he said, his eyes flashing over the tight scrawl of the First Man of Dezrel. “He’s heading north, passing by Mordeina to go on a scouting mission to the Tinderlands. It seems—”

“I know what is in the letter,” said Isabel abruptly.

“So you’ve read it? It is good to know my privacy means so much to you.”

“This is no laughing matter, Patrick. An army of Karak attacked the township of Haven, killing Martin Harrow. You remember Martin, correct? The youth Judarius chose as a kingling? Jacob wants you to ride to the delta in the hopes that you can convince Deacon Coldmine to tear down his temple. Apparently, he sees more use in you than I do.”

Patrick leaned his head back as far as it would go, so that it was resting against the bulge of his humped back. It was a gesture of frustration that he had perfected since childhood.

“Thank you for saving me the trouble of actually reading the note addressed to me.”

His mother’s expression didn’t change. It rarely did. The only time that look of stern consternation dropped from her face was when she was staring at her husband. He thought again of the story of his parents’ creation, and shuddered.


“This is important, Patrick. I am trying to make you understand that.”

“I understood it when I read This is important, spelled out right here. Look.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“No. Don’t mock me.”

Isabel fixed him with a venomous stare. His father averted his eyes, avoiding any involvement in the scene. Unlike Patrick’s sisters, his mother had never doted on him. She’d acted like he was a burden for as long as he could remember. It struck him as humorous, in a very sad way, that a timeless woman who preached Ashhur’s sermons of love and forgiveness should treat her own child with such coldness. But at least coldness was something. His father hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade, even though they lived beneath the same roof. It was as if, in Richard’s eyes, it would be better if Patrick didn’t exist.

Without another word, Isabel returned to her position in the straight-backed chair. Her husband started rubbing her feet again, and she picked up her knitting from beneath the dais and began clicking away with her needles. Patrick rolled his eyes at them both. Apparently their business with him was done.

“What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with irritation, “is why Jacob doesn’t go there himself. It’s only a three-day journey to the Tinderlands from here. If I write him and ask what he’s seeking, I would be more than happy to look for it myself. As it is, we will likely pass each other on the way, which seems impractical.”

“Jacob speaks for Ashhur,” his mother said without lifting her head from her knitting. “Do not question the orders of your god.”

“But, Mother, if—”

“Enough. The decision is made. Leave us.”

“Fine.”

Patrick wheeled around and stumbled out of the atrium. Brigid and Keela moved to follow him, their faces awash with pity, but he brushed away their consoling hands. He heard the sound of Cara weeping softly behind him, followed by his mother’s scolding. Disgust roiled in his midsection, and it struck him that only a few minutes earlier there had been something much more pleasant churning down there. He wished Brittany were still around. Another roll with the young temptress would have done wonders for his morale.

He slammed the double doors of the atrium shut behind him. When he turned, he was startled to see Nessa, her hands clenched just below her mouth. She had been listening in at the door. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping into the collar of the heavy white nightdress she wore. Her strawberry hair was a tangled mess. Though she was over thirty, she still looked like the same innocent babe she’d been when she was but a teen. Even her stature, shortest of the DuTaureaus, hinted at incredible youth. It seemed as though Nessa’s development had been irrevocably arrested in almost every way.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” she whispered, throwing herself into his arms.

Patrick huffed when she rammed her head into his chest. He embraced her, feeling her warmth. When he leaned her back and kissed her cheek, he could taste the salt of her tears.

“It’s all right, Ness,” he whispered. “I’m used to it by now.”

“But why is Mother so mean?”

He shrugged. “Guess she doesn’t like having a monster for a son.”

She punched him in the shoulder. He was surprised by how much it hurt.

“You’re not a monster.”

Patrick laughed. “So you keep telling me, sister. You almost make me believe it.”

He blew out the candles closest to the atrium door and, throwing one huge arm over his sister, escorted her down the hall.

“You know,” he said, “we should run off together. You and I. You with your shortness, me with my freakishness—we could take the south by storm. Maybe in Karak’s lands we could establish ourselves a career as performers. We could learn about money, and how quickly it vanishes. It could be fun!”

Nessa passed him a hopeful look. “Or we could simply go to the delta.”

Patrick laughed. “And why would you choose to go with me? Didn’t you visit there just last month?”

“Yes, but it’s late summer, and the barking cranes are migrating. I’ve heard they gather in such great numbers that the marshlands look like they’re covered with writhing maggots for miles.”

“That’s a pleasant image.”

“They’re not gross maggots. They’re…feathery maggots. Please, Patrick, take me with you.”

Patrick laughed.

“Very well. Just make sure you’re the one who tells Mother you’re coming. I don’t think I have the stomach to speak to her for a few years, maybe even a decade.”

“I imagine not,” she replied with a tinkling laugh. “When will we be leaving?”

Patrick let out a grunt. “Let me get some sleep, and we’ll go first thing tomorrow.”

“That’s good, actually,” said Nessa. Her eyes brightened and she wiped the last vestiges of tears from her speckled, rosebud cheeks. “Make sure to wake me at dawn. I must go feed the birds.”

She spun around and ran down the hall, her tiny feet making no impression on the thick rug.

“Feed the birds?” he shouted after her. “Now? But it’s dark.”

“I forgot earlier,” he heard her reply as she disappeared around the bend in the hall. Patrick shrugged his shoulders.

“Strange little girl,” he said and then chuckled. Who was he to talk?

He returned to his room and flopped down on his bed, which still smelled of Brittany. Pulling the covers up and nestling them beneath his nose, he let the smell of femininity carry him off into a very much needed and dreamless sleep.