Tristan wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Go on,” said Patrick. His voice sounded alien to his ears.
“Two days later Leonard called on me again, distraught. He said he’d heard that Crian and Nessa had been murdered, and by Lord Commander Vulfram, of all people. He said it was a lie, that the Lord Commander wouldn’t have done that. I thought he was joking, because he never mentioned it again, not even when he was sent back to Omnmount. I almost forgot about it…until Karak returned from his assault on Haven. Three days later, there were corpses hanging from the walls of the castle in Veldaren. For some reason Nessa was too. The only way I could tell was her curly red hair, because the rest of her-”
Patrick raised his hand. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more.” He gulped down bile, feeling dizzy. “Did all of you know about this?”
“We did,” Tristan said with a hesitant nod. “Everyone did. The story became a legend throughout all of Karak’s Army. Please believe me, Patrick, we never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to tell you when I first learned your name, but Preston said no. He told us in private that if you truly loved your sister, you might lose control; you might kill us just because we’re from Neldar. Even if you didn’t, he said if we wanted to live, we needed you focused, that having you brood over your sister would make us all dead men.”
Patrick found it difficult to form words.
Tristan swallowed hard. “We are your friends, Patrick. We all love you. And it isn’t a lie. I wish I could take it all away, make her okay again, just so you wouldn’t hurt. Preston does too. Please don’t be mad at us.”
“I know. I’m not,” he replied, and it was true. Though every part of him railed against the story, he felt something during the telling that confirmed its validity. In some ways, a part of him had known it all along. “Thank you for telling me, Tristan. I know that must have been hard.”
Tristan nodded, sniveling. “I’m sorry. Is there anything…?”
Patrick patted him on the shoulder. “There isn’t. Go join your friends. I have something to do.”
The youth turned tail and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Patrick to stew over what he’d just learned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, but in the darkness behind his eyelids he saw Nessa’s face, blackened with rot, empty eye sockets staring blankly ahead while crows pecked at her flesh. His breath began to come in ragged bursts as a lethal combination of rage and sadness built up inside him. He squeezed his hand into a fist and clouted himself in the head once, twice, three times, bringing red flashes into his vision. Through the percussive sound of his heartbeat, he heard a few people shriek. This made him all the angrier. He threw his head back, screamed at the blue morning sky.
In the back of his mind, the inappropriate part of him thought, At least the headache is gone.
His oversized arms swinging wildly, he stormed the rest of the way up the walk and entered Manse DuTaureau. All who saw him gave him a wide berth, and he stared down everyone he passed. A few he even pretended to charge, just to watch them shrink in fear. He felt like the monster he had long been accused of resembling, the Ogre of Haven made flesh.
Howard Baedan was turning the people in the hall away, telling them that King Benjamin was busy at the moment. He did not try to stop Patrick, though; in fact, he left his post when he saw him approaching. Patrick continued down the now empty hall until he reached the central junction. He then veered north, toward the old dining hall, which his mother had reportedly turned into their new king’s throne room. His mind already in a dark place, he scoffed at the notion. A king of Paradise! What a fucking laugh that was. With the way things were going, that king would soon rule a heap of bones.
Without any focus for his rage, his anger turned to a sorrow so sweeping that it was as if the entirety of his being was sinking into a pit of oil. Feeling sick with grief, he ducked into the nearest empty room, slamming the door behind him. There he wept, his bulk quivering uncontrollably. He pictured Nessa as she had been, as she would have become; the youthful vigor in her eyes, the way her every movement seemed to be part of some secret dance, her childlike wonder, her caring and loyalty and capacity for love. It began to sink in that he would never see her again, and he spiraled even deeper.
Pull yourself together. You must tell Mother.
Patrick dug his uneven teeth into his lip hard enough to make it bleed, then stood up as straight as he could. He looked down at himself, at the plain breeches and drab brown tunic he was wearing, and wished he had put on his armor instead. He felt naked without it, vulnerable.
After taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and stepped back into the hall. There was still no one about, though he could hear voices. He placed one foot in front of the other, making his way toward the dining hall, and then he appeared: the one whose presence Patrick desired even less than Karak’s.
His father.
Richard DuTaureau skulked along the wall, his face twisted into a scowl, his hands clasped before him. His shock of red hair was oiled and brushed straight, bobbing just above his shoulders. He was short and willowy, just like his wife and their daughters, though he carried himself with an air of superiority. His face, a close reflection of Isabel’s, had no lines or creases, no blemishes save the freckles sprinkling his cheeks. He did not look up as his son approached.
In an instant Patrick was transported back to Haven, to the moments before Karak’s Army marched over the bridge and a fireball fell from the sky. He heard Deacon Coldmine’s voice in his head as the would-be Lord of Haven told him the story of Patrick’s own birth, of how his father had poisoned him while he was still in his mother’s womb, cursing him with the deformities that would shape his life. At the time he had said he didn’t care.
Only now he did.
Just before they passed each other, Patrick charged his father, his meaty fingers gripping Richard’s gem-encrusted surcoat as he slammed the smaller man against the wall. A surprised yelp left his father’s throat, and the man’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Patrick braced his legs and drove his shoulder into his father’s breast. Richard DuTaureau offered a pathetic whine in protest, spit flying from his lips. His cheeks reddened, his nose flared, and he stared at Patrick with surprise and disgust.
“You made me like this,” Patrick growled. “Did you ever once feel regret for it?”
Richard sneered and opened his mouth as if to offer a biting retort, but Patrick didn’t allow him the chance. In one swift motion he drove his fist into the side of his father’s head. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as he watched his knuckles connect with Richard’s cheek, his father’s flesh rippling outward from the impact of the blow. He heard a pop as the man’s neck shot to the side and his head collided with the stone wall. His father stood there a moment, tottering, his cold eyes vacant, until he collapsed backward, landing on the carpet with a thump.
Patrick loomed over him, breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. He watched his father’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and then turned away, sorrow threatening to overtake him once again. He had dreamed of laying his father out like that even before Coldmine told him the sordid truth. So why did he not feel any better?
When he reached the dining hall, he grasped both handles and threw the double doors open with such strength, they bounced against the solid walls. He expected a surprised reaction from all inside, but the only one who looked his way was a plump young boy who wore an odd looking wooden ring around his head. King Benjamin, I presume, he thought. He had known the Maryls, who were from Conch, most of his life, and seeing Benjamin with that silly wooden crown on his head made him want to laugh. The boy was all the way on the other side of the room, yet his eyes still widened at the sight of Patrick. He rose slightly from a high-backed wicker and ivory chair that was just as odd a choice as his headgear. The boy king seemed to think better of it, however, for he sat back down, staring with equal parts fear and awe at the huffing creature before him. He turned his head to the right, where a pair of individuals were locked in a heated debate.