Two men gathered up his cart and Deacon’s and pushed them into the temple, most likely to be stored for emergency rations. The gates swung shut and a low thud could be heard as the people inside dropped the heavy wooden crossbar into place. Deacon strolled over to him, smiling broadly, though his good cheer seemed to be forced. He chuckled, as artificial a sound as Patrick had ever heard, and ran his fingers through his beard. They began walking back toward the forest’s edge, where their makeshift army awaited. Deacon threw an arm over his shoulder.
“Have I told you how glad I am you decided to stay?” he asked.
Patrick sighed. “Relentlessly.”
“And have I told you how sorry I was for the way I treated you that day at the estate?”
“Again, more often than you should.”
Deacon swallowed hard and glanced at him sideways, as if uncertain.
“It’s just that I am impressed with your resolve,” he said hesitantly. “Giving yourself so freely to others is truly a gift. You are a god among men, Patrick DuTaureau, no matter what your father thinks.”
Patrick stopped in his tracks, allowing Deacon’s arm to slip off him.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“If you don’t know,” said Deacon, “then I’d much rather act as though I’d said nothing.”
Patrick stood baffled. Deacon appeared to regret his words, but at the same time, he’d been the one to clumsily bring up the subject in the first place. His father? What did the Lord of Haven know about his father?
“Just speak, man,” he said, grunting in frustration. “You can’t say something like that and then fall silent.”
Deacon opened his mouth, shut it, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then grimaced. Patrick rolled his head back.
“Forget it,” he said. “I’m getting some wine.”
“Wait.”
Patrick stopped and tapped his foot, gesturing for the man to get on with it.
“It’s just…I have heard stories. The Paradise has long been intriguing to those of us who grew up in Neldar. The song, the dance, the simplicity of existence. We hear of your freedom to do whatever you wish, whenever you wish it, living free of sickness and early death…none of us had any of that growing up. When Antar Hoonen arrived, he fed us all the tales we so desired. You must understand, we fled our land because we were either destitute or criminals. We downtrodden lived under constant fear of hanging or the executioner’s ax. So to hear him say how Ashhur forgave all sins so long as the sinner was truly repentant…how could I not be intrigued?”
Patrick shook his head. “Do they often execute those who swipe an apple from a farmer’s field? Because to be honest, that’s about the most major sin I witnessed while growing up. Antar is telling tales, alright, and tall ones at that.”
“According to Antar, there was at least one man in Paradise guilty of more than petty theft,” said Deacon, lowering his voice. “He told me the story of your parents.”
That got Patrick’s attention. “Go on,” he said, his lips curling inward.
“According to the story, your mother was so vain that when Ashhur granted his First Children the ability to craft a mate, she chose to make one who was nearly her twin, simply so she could look on her own image at nearly all times…”
He paused, and Patrick motioned for him to continue.
“Because of the vanity Isabel put into the vat of creation, the being she created-your father-emerged just as vain and conceited as she was. He wanted your mother for himself, to be with her night and day, and for no other man to come between them. When your sister Abigail was born, she looked just like your mother, and your father was pleased. But when Isabel became pregnant a second time, she was convinced she was to have a son. Rumors abound of your father’s anger and of how he supposedly took it out on those around him. Antar is convinced he feared you would come between him and his lover, no matter how mad, how nonsensical it was for him to feel that way. He didn’t want you to be born, and he told your mother so. Your mother refused.
“It was in her seventh month of pregnancy, when the stars said the child would be born soon, that your father dropped a vial of crim oil into her milk. How he got his hands on the drug, Antar didn’t know. All he did know was that your mother was ill for days afterward. She suffered from high fevers and night bleeds, and cried often for fear of losing the baby. Neither the Wardens nor those with Ashhur’s gift of healing could mend her. They didn’t know what was wrong. But Ashhur did. He traveled north on hearing the news of your mother’s illness, placed his hands on her stomach, and removed the poison from her system, saving you. But it was too late. The poison had altered your form, and you ended up being born…the way you are now.”
Patrick crossed his arms, refusing to look at Deacon as he let the story settle into his mind. When he stayed silent, Deacon continued.
“Ashhur confronted your father, told him he knew what had been done. Your father fell to his knees, groveling before the deity, begging for his life. Now, in Neldar perhaps the greatest sin one could commit is to murder-or attempt to murder-an unborn child. Yet Ashhur decreed that your father was truthful in his contrition and absolved him of all sins.”
Patrick lowered his head, looking at Deacon from beneath his distended brow.
“Is that it?”
Deacon shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“Interesting story.”
“Are you sorry I told you? Do you wish I had stayed silent?”
“No. And no.”
He sighed. “It is but a story, however horrible it may be. I would understand if you wished to depart now and confront your parents.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well,” said Deacon, his cheeks growing redder by the second, his fingers nervously playing with the hem of his doublet. “I figured you might want to be…certain?”
At that, Patrick laughed. Hearty, true laughter that rattled his crooked spine.
“Are you trying to be rid of me?” he asked. “To be honest with you, Deacon, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if it were true. To be even more honest, I couldn’t give two shits and a piss. None of that matters. What was done was done a long, long time ago, in a place where I never felt true belonging. Nessa has gone to live her fabulous life with her little renegade. She was my last remaining tie to Paradise other than my god. I belong here now, among these people, and I feel that truly. Besides, I’ve never liked my father much.” He winked. “I guess now I know why. Perhaps I still carry a few old, old memories from floating around in the womb, eh?”
He slapped Deacon on the back hard enough that the man began coughing, which brought on another fit of laughter.
“Come on, man, it was only a tap!” he exclaimed, and away he ambled across the wide, soggy field, heading for Corton and the soldiers who were waiting by the forest’s edge.
He had been honest in his reaction to the story and honest in the words he’d spoken to Deacon afterward. Strange as it seemed to his waking mind, he really didn’t care, no matter how disturbing the tale was or how true it rang. Richard DuTaureau could shove a goose egg up his own ass, and Isabel too. Patrick had come on people who viewed him as more than his deformities or his lineage. Here he had friends, even if his relationships with a few of them might be awkward, to say the least. What mattered was that his last name had no bearing on the impressions he made here. Something just seemed right in Haven, even with that atrocious temple rearing over everything. As far as Patrick could tell, living a life free of sickness, fear, and disagreement was not the best way to go. He offered a silent apology to Ashhur for thinking thus, but he’d never been happier than he was here. Perhaps humanity had been meant to battle through, to learn to live in harmony through strife, through hardship. It was the people of Haven who had taught him this, people he would die for if need be-which he had to admit wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, how many times had he moaned and groaned like a spoiled little child about his desire for a mortal life?