Dawn of Swords (52 page)

“Wait,” Geris said, trying to think through the murky swamp that was his dreaming mind. “What do you mean? It doesn’t matter which of us is named king?”

“It will not matter whether you or the imposter is named king. With the assistance of the witch, the imposter will sow seeds of discontent in the people. Panic will race across the land, bringing about the death of the deity who created all that is good and holy. The only way to stop it is to kill them both. This is why you are the
Chosen One, Geris Felhorn. You are the only one who knows the truth. You are the only one who can stop the destruction of everything you know and love.”

He shivered at the thought of killing anyone, nevermind a boy like Ben. Yes, Ben had changed, but was he truly possessed? His mind returned to the Temple of the Flesh, to the blood pouring over Martin’s hands as he clutched the arrow embedded in his chest. His dream-self shivered, yet even as a large part of him rejected the notion of murder, another smaller part—a part for which the act seemed natural, as if he had been born to do it—pressed further.

“Who’s the witch?” he asked.

The lion seemed to grin, something powerful sparkling in its eyes. Geris retreated, only to be stilled by stone Ashhur’s giant hand on his back.

“She is the mother of a nation, a would-be murderer of her own children. Her eyes reflect the glimmer of the western sea, her cheeks are spotted with the stars above, and around her head is a ring of fire.”

“Where is she?”

“She is where you are headed, at the center of the place called Mordeina.”

Geris exhaled deeply and gazed up at the granite likeness of his creator. “Is it all true, my Lord?”

Grimly, stone Ashhur nodded.

The lion rose on its legs and skulked toward him, its yellow eyes burning with ethereal fire, its image wavering like a lie on the tongue of an unsure child.

“If it is proof you desire, then I shall give it to you.”

Without thinking, Geris extended his hand. The lion placed a monstrous paw in his palm, the claws digging into his wrist, burning him. Then the creature lost solidity and the darkness returned, swirling about him like a million black flies. Visions assaulted Geris’s mind, boiling his eyes, piercing the fabric of his thoughts. He saw
fields running red with blood, strange men with the heads of wolves, hyenas, vultures, and lizards. He watched as Ashhur was devoured by a huge creature with blazing red eyes, whose face shifted from one moment to the next, never the same, never constant, always horrific. And then the god bled, and the heavens wept, and stars burst from his sternum to fill the sky with flames that rained sulfur to the ground, melting flesh, scorching the grass, smoldering the gardens of Haven, Safeway, Ker, Mordeina, and everywhere else in the land.

Lastly he saw his family, his parents and siblings, hanging by their wrists from the gallows, slit from chest to belly, their insides piled beneath them like mounds of raw sausage. Their eyes had been plucked out, and their empty sockets stared outward in agony, their faces forever frozen in the terror and pain they’d felt as they died. Behind them, lurking in the shadows, was Ben the Imposter and the nameless, faceless witch, laughing, laughing, laughing.…

Geris awoke screaming, thrashing about on the floor of the carriage, lashing out blindly as the vision continued to torment him. He saw only the images, heard only the laughter. As if from another world he sensed Ahaesarus trying to calm him, felt the touch of his mother. But her fingers were rotted, her throat slit. The night passed, his throat raw from his cries, but still he thrashed and howled.

When the convoy entered Mordeina a few hours later, he was still screaming.

His eyes felt crusty when he opened them, and his head pounded.

“Nice of you to join us,” he heard Ahaesarus say.

Geris lifted himself up and looked around. He was on a bed in a round room of some sort, the curved walls of pale clay brick pressing in on him. It was unlike anything he had seen—beautiful paintings hung from the walls, the candelabras that lit the space
were heavy with gold and silver, and the bed itself was the softest he had ever rested his body upon. He swallowed hard to still his nerves, and when he slid his legs over the side of the bed, he was amazed to feel the plushness of the carpet beneath his feet.

Ahaesarus was in the room with him. The Warden’s back was turned as he sat at a desk a few feet to his right—a desk that was far too small for him. His long, angular body was contorted at odd angles as he scratched his quill across a piece of parchment. Geris began to say something but kept his mouth shut. His thoughts were muddy, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to be where he was. For all he knew, he was in trouble, and when it came to his mentor, if he were in trouble, the best thing to do was sit and await punishment.

Ahaesarus finished his scrawling and swiveled in his much too tiny seat. The Warden’s long hair was pulled back from his face, fastened in a knot at the top of his head, forming a golden tail that draped over one shoulder. He wore a tailored cerulean smock—Ahaesarus’s favorite color—the breast embroidered with silken thread in a looping, regal floral pattern. The being who sat before him now seemed to be entirely different from the one who had mentored him for years. The itch of memory made Geris’s eye flutter, but whatever the sensation was trying to tell him, he didn’t know. All he
did
know was that his entire body felt like it had been stuffed with the fluffy white seedpods that floated through the plains during spring, looking like a billion whimsical fairies.

The Warden leaned forward, resting a slender hand on Geris’s knee. His eyes brimmed with compassion and understanding, two sentiments that Ahaesarus usually had in rather short supply.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Geris swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat once more.

“Thirsty.”

Ahaesarus nodded. “That can occur with nightwing root,” he replied, grabbing a waterskin from beneath the desk and handing it
over. Geris snatched the skin and guzzled down its contents, his thirst overriding the fact he had never heard of this
nightwing root
before.

When he finished drinking, he wiped spittle from his chin, and dropped the waterskin beside him on the bed. He reeled back, his head suddenly wobbly. Ahaesarus was up in a flash, holding him steady so he wouldn’t topple headfirst off the bed.

“Easy, young lordling,” the Warden said. “Mustn’t drink so quickly.”

The strange sensation of vertigo caused a cyclone of fear to emerge from the dark corners of his mind. He thought again of how he had no memory of arriving in this strange and windowless round room. The last thing he remembered was riding with Ben in the carriage, bouncing along in the night while unable to sleep. The darkness of his memories frightened him, and the more he tried to restore them, the more a strange anxiety filled the pit of his stomach. Ahaesarus held him closer and gently rubbed his back.

“It will be fine, boy. Calm yourself. Shush now.”

Eventually, the trembling fit ended. Geris leaned back and stared up into his mentor’s twinkling green eyes. Ahaesarus bent over and—in an act that shocked young Geris to his core—placed a tender kiss on the boy’s forehead.

“What was that for?” Geris whispered.

“You deserve it,” replied the Warden.

“For what?”

“For being strong.”

Geris, still locked in his mentor’s caring embrace, felt his jaw drop. Ahaesarus, whose favorite words seemed to be
lazy, inept, spoiled, indignant
, and
foolhardy
, had told him he was strong. He would have been overjoyed if he weren’t so stunned. He tilted his head to the side, felt a crick in the back of his neck, and once more a wave of dizziness washed over him.

“Warden,” he murmured, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, “what’s happening to me? How did I get here?”

Ahaesarus’s fingers began playing a staccato beat along his spine, easing the pressure in his head. “You do not remember?”

Geris shook his head slowly, so as to not incur more pain in his head.

“You suffered a fit of madness three days ago. You began screaming and crying in the middle of the night, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Even your mother could not calm you down. We tried every healing spell we knew, all for naught. When we entered Mordeina and were greeted by our hosts, you finally fell into a black sleep. You were slick with fever, your breath shallow. Thankfully, Lady DuTaureau saw to your care and brought you to Daniel Nefram, one of her sons-in-law. He found a lump at the base of your skull”—the Warden reached out and tapped the sore spot on the back of Geris’s neck—“and immediately began to pray.”

“What was it?” Geris asked. The tale intrigued him, though he felt detached, as if it were the story of someone else’s life.

“You were stricken with the Wasting. Very much so, actually. You were blessed that Daniel is such a powerful healer, for had it been anyone else caring for you, you would have died within the day. But Daniel’s faith eradicated the poisonous growth.” Ahaesarus removed from beneath his shirt the pouch that always hung from a string around his neck. “I fed you a pinch of nightwing root—a powerful herb from my world that thins the blood and increases circulation—and then waited.”

“Thank you,” said Geris. He felt truly honored.

Ahaesarus’s voice shifted tone, becoming even softer, yet somehow more serious. His eyes never left Geris’s.

“I also owe you an apology, boy. I have been rather rough on you of late. I took you for a miscreant; you seemed at times to be a frightened weakling, and at others, a cocky fool so confident of victory that he stopped trying. However, given the size of the growth, the Wasting has been with you for quite some time. That
explains many things—your lethargy, your forgetfulness, the forcefulness of your nightmares.…”

“You know of them?” Geris asked, shocked.

“Do not look so surprised,” the Warden said, chuckling. “My tent is beside yours when we train. Many a night I felt like slapping you awake, both to spare you the dreams and allow me some rest.”

Geris smiled weakly. “Thank you for not doing so.”

“I am very glad I did not. It would have been a…most regrettable action, given what I know now.”

Geris leaned into his mentor, wrapping his spindly, thirteen-year-old arms around him. He wanted no more words, only for this newfound comfort and compassion to continue.

“Why don’t we bring your family in?” Ahaesarus said after a time. “I am sure they are desperate to know you’ve awoken. And then, if you feel up to it, later this evening we can all meet our hosts for dinner. Is that agreeable to you?”

So shocked was Geris at Ahaesarus’s words—his mentor was actually
asking permission
and treating him
like an equal
, which was a very Jacob Eveningstar way of behaving—that he could only nod dumbly in response.

The gathering was long, filled with desperate embraces and a multitude of frantic kisses from his mother. Even his father, who usually carried himself with an air of disinterest in regards to his kingling son, seemed touched. There were tears in the man’s eyes, and his lower lip quivered when he told Geris he was glad he’d made it through the ordeal unscathed.

With each passing moment, Geris felt better and better. His sluggishness dissipated, his thoughts became less muddled, and he no longer became dizzy each time he turned his head. The smile he wore almost never left his face; it was so persistent that the muscles in his cheeks began to feel sore. The nightmares that had plagued him for weeks seemed like distant childhood memories. By the end
of it all he was refreshed and reinvigorated, feeling better than he had since the day Martin had been killed.

That thought of the nightmares caused a bit of the darkness to resurface in him, but he shrugged the feeling aside, especially because Ahaesarus was so intent on spending nearly every moment by his pupil’s side. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the Warden’s approval.

I will be a good king
, he thought, and his smile grew all the wider.

When it was time for dinner, Ahaesarus left the room, leaving Geris’s mother and two of his sisters to assist in cleaning and dressing him. They fitted him with a delicately crafted red undertunic, a black doublet, and a tight-fitting pair of tan, spun-cotton breeches. The clothes were uncomfortable—much more constricting than the loose rags and animal hides he was used to wearing—yet he did not once complain.
A king needs to look stately
, he thought, remembering the regal lords and ladies in the swashbuckling tales that Ahaesarus, Judarius, Azariah, and the other Wardens often told. So instead of whining, he stood up straight, flexed himself to loosen his clothing, and allowed his sister Margo to brush the kinks from his overly long golden locks. All the while his mother looked on, smiling.

A rapping sounded at the door, followed by a gruff voice announcing that dinner was about to be served. A powerful-looking young man dressed in a draping pallium entered. His hair was close-cropped and black, a highly unusual color in the light-haired north. The beard on his face was neatly trimmed, with a zigzag pattern along his sideburns. Around his waist was a belt, fastened to which was the second blade Geris had ever laid eyes on in his life, the first being the sharp knife Jacob always carried with him. It was half a foot long, with a simple ivory handle. The steel, visible through gaps in the scabbard that contained the blade, shimmered in the candlelight. The man introduced himself as Howard Phillip Baedan, master steward and counselor of Lady DuTaureau. Ahaesarus
noticed him eyeing the blade and pulled him aside. Baedan had once been a steward in Lerder, he told him, and the blade had been a gift from a merchant from Neldar who used the riverside town as a way station on his journeys to the north and south of his kingdom. “It is a rarity that Howard thinks heightens his image,” the Warden whispered, before guiding Geris back into place.