Ahaesarus felt himself growing envious of his friend. Judarius had spent humanity’s first fifty years in Mordeina, so he already had the confidence of the populace. Ahaesarus remained somewhat of an outsider. It didn’t help matters that Ben Maryll, Judarius’s adopted student after the death of kingling Martin Harrow, had been named king, while Ahaesarus’s student, Geris, was an attempted murderer and raving lunatic who now spent his days bound in darkness.
Thoughts of Geris caused him to touch his scarred ear once more and steer himself toward the road. He was thankful once his feet hit the packed dirt, no longer sinking into the muck with every other step. It was approaching noon, and there were people everywhere. Men and women dressed for warmth strolled blithely along the road, laughing as they watched their children play. Others gathered in large groups, hands clasped, praying to Ashhur to continue their good fortune. To each side of him was a landscape of sprawling, hilly terrain covered with the tents and huts that had been erected by the citizens. The smell of meat and vegetables roasting over cookfires filled the air. It was just another day in Paradise. No one seemed concerned that an enemy force was on its way to reduce all they knew and loved to rubble and ash.
He moved toward the looming Manse DuTaureau, a rambling one-story construction of stone, brick, and elm, elegantly painted with gold, greens, and oranges. The vast courtyard atop the hill on which it sat was teeming with as many people as were gathered below. A cart path split from the main throughway, and he pivoted onto it. The mansion disappeared from view
On either side of the cart path were tall, shoddily constructed storehouses. They had been hastily slapped together with the trunks of fallen trees and hemp rope. The people who’d built them hadn’t even bothered to strip the trunks of bark, so a thick layer of moss climbed up the sides of each edifice. It was in these structures that the fruits of summer labor were stored in anticipation of the rough northern winters. At this time of year, they were all virtually empty, ready to be filled again once harvest season was upon them.
Ahaesarus cared nothing for the barns or what was inside them. His goal was the covered stone hollow at the far end of the cart path. The hollow had been the access point of the settlement’s original well, but the spring that once fed it had gone dry several years before. Over the past six months it had been modified to serve a different purpose, one that filled Ahaesarus with shame.
He grabbed the edge of the tied-together logs that served to shield the hollow’s entrance and lifted it from the hole. He descended a set of rickety stairs between walls made of stacked stone-gray, black, red, and brown. The chamber the staircase ended in was rather large, twenty feet across and just as wide, though the ceiling was short enough that Ahaesarus needed to stoop so he wouldn’t strike his head on the dirt-hewn ceiling.
Seven dying torches filled the chamber with faint light. Ahaesarus heard soft breathing and gazed toward the far corner, where the light didn’t reach. He saw a pair of slender feet sprawled out on the dirt floor, the rest of the boy’s body hidden in darkness. The room stank, as the wooden pisspot had been knocked over, its rancid contents leaking all over the ground. A bowl of half-eaten soup had been tipped over as well.
Grabbing one of the torches off the wall, Ahaesarus slowly approached the chamber’s lone, unmoving occupant. The light spread across the floor, revealing the face of Geris Felhorn.
The boy who had tried to murder Ben Maryll scooted backward like a cornered beast, soft-slippered feet kicking until he was pressed tight against the uneven stone wall. The boy yanked on his restraints, which were made of the same tightly woven ropes that were being used to hoist the stones for the great wall. Geris was fourteen now, his birthday come and gone without celebration while he remained locked away in this chamber that never saw the sun. Ahaesarus knelt down before him, frowning as tiny whimpering sounds left the boy’s throat.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Geris had been a strong and capable boy, and Ahaesarus had been certain he would be the first king of Paradise. Yet sanity had fled him when the Wasting struck him; the tumor that had grown in the boy’s spine had poisoned his mind to such an extent that he’d become a danger to all around him, even after the removal of the tumor itself. Geris had nearly killed young Ben, ranting and raving nonsense about demons, witches, and imposters. That single act had sealed both of their fates: Ben became king; Geris, a prisoner.
Not that the boy’s imprisonment was supposed to have lasted this long. He should have been freed after a few short days, once Ben had been crowned. The greatest healers in all the north arrived at Ahaesarus’s behest, laying hands on the ranting child, trying to cleanse him of whatever monster lurked within the dark recesses of his poisoned mind, but he had continued to rage day and night, shouting his delusions for all to hear. Once he had even attempted to bite off Ahaesarus’s ear, resulting in the scar the Warden habitually touched. All who examined Geris were convinced that only Ashhur could cure him of his madness, and it was decided by Isabel that he would remain locked in the chamber above the old well until the god arrived.
Though he hadn’t told anyone, Ahaesarus was doubtful that even Ashhur could save the boy. Geris’s delusions were fierce, his belief in them absolute. Whenever he launched into one of his rants, Ahaesarus would stay until it passed, listening to every word that spat from his lips. The boy did not lie; in fact, Ahaesarus, blessed with Ashhur’s talent for detecting truth from falsehood, had never sensed more truthful proclamations in all his life than those that issued from Geris’s mouth. He could only conclude that the boy’s mind was broken, so broken that not even a god could fix him.
His eyes welled up with tears as he reached forward, running one of his long fingers down Geris’s cheek. The boy turned away from him, filthy blond locks slapping against his wrist, leaving a layer of grime on his white flesh. Ahaesarus retracted his arm and wiped the soot on his breeches, his eyes never leaving the boy. Geris’s disdain was the final proof he required. Ahaesarus was unworthy of his title, his responsibilities, and of the second chance he’d been given at life. Finally the tears ran down his cheeks.
“I am so sorry,” he said while Geris continued to push himself against the stone wall as if he were trying to force his way through it. “Please, Geris,” he whispered, placing a hand on his leg. “Please, I just wish to be forgiven.”
The moment his fingers touched the grimy material, Geris ceased his thrashing. The boy drew his knees to his chest, gazing at him with blue eyes that seemed clear for the first time since they’d left Safeway.
“It’s not your fault,” Geris said.
Ahaesarus drew back, astonished, and lost his balance. He collapsed on his side, striking his elbow hard on the packed dirt. He hardly felt the pain.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“I said it’s not your fault.”
“You’re speaking without screaming. Geris, how do you feel? Do you see the creatures that haunt you?”
“What creatures?”
“The shadow lion, the demon, the witch, the imposter-you have ranted about all of these. Are you saying you no longer see them?”