Patrick followed the boy’s gaze and there she was-Isabel DuTaureau, his mother and the second of Ashhur’s first children. She and Ahaesarus, the Master Warden of Paradise, were the ones talking. It had been almost a year since Patrick had seen her, yet the sight of that lithe yet powerful figure still disarmed him. His shoulders slumped, and he retreated inward as if no time had passed at all.
As for Ahaesarus, Patrick had not laid eyes on him in nearly twenty years, not since the days when he used to visit Safeway with Bardiya. Just like Patrick, the Master Warden looked exactly the same now as he used to then. That he was in Mordeina was strange, since rumor had it he was supposed to be up in Drake assisting Turock’s sister. Then again, if the grayhorns had wandered south…
Just get it over with.
“Mother, a word,” he said, loudly but respectfully.
Ahaesarus glanced in his direction, but Isabel didn’t even turn her head. She continued laying into the Master Warden, calling Ahaesarus a traitor for freeing some child whom she saw was “a danger to us all,” telling him he would be punished severely for his crime. Ahaesarus shot back that he did not care. Isabel never once registered Patrick’s presence.
“MOTHER!” he screamed.
Isabel wheeled around, rage burning in her green eyes. Patrick was glad for it. At least her anger made her human.
“Can you not see I am speaking here?” she shrieked.
He scowled, disobedience rising to the top of his mixed emotions.
“It is good to see you too, Mother,” he said calmly, “and it brightens my heart to receive such a warm reception.”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“You summoned me, didn’t you?”
She nodded, still seething.
“Did you receive my letters?”
“I received them.”
“That’s all? You received them? You aren’t worried about your daughter, your youngest, the jewel of the family?”
Isabel shrugged. “No. Nessa went off with you to the delta without my permission. She is your responsibility, not mine. I do not know why you expect me to help find her.”
His anger churned. “Oh, Mother, there is no need. I have already found her.”
“Is that so?” Isabel shook her head. “Bring her here, then, so I might discipline her.”
“I would if I could, Mother, but that would entail marching through the enemy’s army, crossing a few bridges, and traveling deep into Karak’s land. And even if I did all that, I don’t think there is much you could teach a corpse.” Those last words were choked with tears.
Isabel opened her mouth, shut it again, and then backed up a step.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your daughter’s dead, O great Lady Isabel,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “I’m saying she was murdered in Neldar and now hangs from the walls of the castle there.”
“You…you lie.”
“He speaks no falsehood,” said Ahaesarus in an undertone.
Tears rolled down Patrick’s cheeks. “Yes, Mother, your daughter is dead. My sister is dead. Is that lesson enough for you?”
Isabel’s legs wobbled, then folded under her, and she sat clumsily on the floor.
Patrick sobbed and laughed at the same time. “I want you to remember that, Mother. I want you to remember how little you cared until it was too late. And then I want…I want…I want you to look at the rest of the people inside these walls and wonder what it would be like if they all perished. Just like Nessa.”
Knowing he would be unable to say anything more without breaking down completely, Patrick wheeled around and stormed toward the door. From the corner of his tear-blurred vision, he caught sight of the boy king, who looked so young, feeble, and powerless in his chair. He paused by the door, gathered his nerve, and then made a final statement before leaving the makeshift throne room.
“You’d best find someone to care for Father,” he called out over his shoulder, without turning around. “He seems to have thumped his head quite badly.”
With that he walked away as fast as he could, listening to a sound he had never before heard in his life, one that filled him with despair and joy and fright and loathing, all at once.
Isabel DuTaureau was crying.
With those howls of despair fresh in his memory, he hurried out of the manse and into the open air once more. Incessant chatter and the bleating of the grayhorns greeted him. He headed forcefully down the hill, ignoring the faces of those he passed. The crowd parted for him, giving him ample space as he headed east, toward the staircase that led to the wide rampart atop the inner wall. He ignored any and all who called out to him. Only one entity in all of Dezrel could cure his pain, and that entity happened to be standing sixty feet overhead.
It was nearly a half mile from the manse to the wall through terrain packed with people, and by the time he reached the staircase, he felt drained beyond belief. Still, he climbed those wide, steep stairs, placing one foot dutifully over the other, his uneven legs sending shooting pain through his rump and up his back with each step. Though it tormented him, it was still a feeling he appreciated. As long as he focused on the physical pain, he could forget, if only for a moment, the pain that seared his soul.
It was seventy steps to the top of the wall, and by the time he reached the rampart, he felt close to passing out. He stopped there, hands on knees, and panted, listening still to the obnoxious trumpeting of the grayhorns.
When he finally felt strong enough to move, he straightened up. Ashhur was just a few hundred feet away from him, sitting cross-legged on the wide walk, gazing up at the sky. Patrick didn’t need to be told what his god was looking at, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before spanning the distance between them. The walls lining the wide walk were low. On one side, he could see the broad expanse outside Mordeina, all rolling, hilly grasslands and thick forests, and on the other, the whole of the enclosed settlement. The vastness of both sights made him feel dizzy.
Ashhur did not look at him when he approached. Patrick stopped a few feet away, keeping silent, watching Ashhur’s godly mouth move up in down in a silent plea to the heavens. That was when Patrick noticed how unwell his deity appeared. Ashhur’s flesh had lost its luster, and there were deep bags under his eyes. He had never seen him this way before, even when he had awoken him from his slumber the day of his arrival in Mordeina. It was even more frightening than seeing his mother cry.
Patrick cleared his throat. “My Grace,” he said, dropping to one knee.
“Yes, my child?” the god replied. He sounded as tired as he looked.
“Did she respond this time?”
Ashhur closed his glowing golden eyes. “She did.”
“And what did she say?”
“That she loves me.”
“That’s all?”
“That is all.”
“Oh.”
The god turned, looking him over with compassion. “Something troubles you.”
He nodded.
“What is it?”
Patrick fell into his creator’s ample lap and started blubbering. “Nessa…she’s dead. I know…I know about my father. I hit him…might have hurt him terribly. I miss her, Ashhur, and I hate my mother, I hate this place…I think I’m becoming a monster.…”