Wrath of Lions (80 page)

“Keep your mouth shut,” he said. “Or I will end you.”

“You won’t,” her uncle said, his quavering voice revealing his fear. “You
need me
.”

“For now,” Carskel said. “For now. However,
you
do not need that finger.”

Carskel’s movements were so quick that Aully could barely track them. He swung his leg behind Detrick, dropping him to the floor with a thud. He tackled him and reached into his belt, yanking out a dagger with one hand while pinning Detrick’s wrist to the floor with the other. In one swift motion he plunged the tip of the dagger into the cherrywood floor, pressing down on the handle the way one would when slicing a carrot. Aully watched in horror as her
uncle’s index finger was severed. Blood sprayed from the stump as Detrick shrieked helplessly.

Carskel turned to her, grinning, hands wet with their uncle’s blood.

“
I
have ruled this kingdom since our dear parents left for your betrothal,” he said. “
I
ordered the execution of the giant and his parents. Our uncle is only acting as Lord until our people learn to love me once more…which they will.”

“They will fear you, as indeed, they already do…but never love you,” wheezed Detrick.

“Oh, they will. Once they learn what we have been promised, they will love me very, very much.”

“You are…a pathetic and needy child…and you always have been…no matter how long you have lived.”

Carskel stood, wiped the blood off his hands with a cloth, and tossed the soiled fabric at Detrick, who wrapped it around the still squirting stump of his finger. The exiled brother then looked down at Aully, his calm demeanor returning once more. A sly smile crossed his lips, and he dropped down to one knee before her.

“Our beloved uncle is correct in one regard,” he said softly. “I am needy. Very, very needy. I need to be adored—it is what makes me strong. The Quellan are not the most tender of races. I have not known family—
true
family—for a long, long time. I want it back.”

Aully cringed inwardly. “Brienna is dead,” she said.

“I know, Sister.” He reached out and brushed a stray hair from her eyes. “But Bree was not alone in her beauty. You are very similar to her. You have her hair, her eyes, her temperament. Given that our uncle is intent on insulting me, you are the only family I require.”

“You bastard,” said Detrick.

“I will never love you,” said Aully, slowly backing away. “You are no brother of mine.”

“Even if I promise not to hurt you?” asked Carskel with a frown.

“You will not lay a finger on her in that way!” her uncle shouted.

The slender elf stood swiftly and stormed across the room, planting a fist firmly in Detrick’s face. Her uncle fell flat on his back and moaned.

“Do you think me a monster?” Carskel asked, sarcasm leaking into his tone. He turned back to Aully. “A hundred years spent roaming this land with no true home has changed me, Uncle. I have no desire at all to soil my only sibling, nor injure her in any way. All I wish is for my people to reclaim what is rightfully theirs, as Father should have done long ago.”

“But what do you want from
me
?” Aully asked.

He grinned. “You are well loved here. You will trumpet my return, shouting it from the treetops, and you will make the people love me as they love you.”

“I won’t,” she said, shaking her head vehemently.

“Oh, you will, sister of mine. Or I will slaughter everyone you love, starting with that little shit to whom you’re betrothed. And I will make you watch every agonizing moment, until each of them stops breathing. But not you.” He grinned, showing his teeth. “As I said, I have no desire to harm my new favorite sister.”

Aully broke down. She crumpled to the floor and rocked back and forth, sobbing. Carskel looked down at her, and something that resembled real concern washed over his features. Turning on his heels, he strode elegantly to the chamber door.

“Think it over,” her long-lost brother said. “But not too much. Events are moving quickly, and if we are to present our reunited family to all of Stonewood, we must do so soon. I will send Ethir to gather up you and our uncle in an hour.”

With that, he swept out of the room. Aully glanced at her unconscious uncle, then stared at the plain wood of the door, her fists clenching, her mind reeling. She wished she had the power to knock that door down with her mind, to burn her bastard brother to a crisp with flames from her fingers, but she knew she was not strong enough.

She felt, in a word, helpless.

C
HAPTER

44

H
aving grown up in the northwest of Paradise, Patrick recognized the sonorous bleating immediately. The only place in all of Dezrel where the great grayhorns roamed was a hundred miles or so to the north, in the area between the Craghills and the Gihon. His elder sister, Abigail, had loved the North Country, and in his youth he had often been guilted into joining her on her expeditions there. During those trips he had spent many a night lying under heavy blankets, with his hands over his ears, trying to block out the colossal tusked beasts’ constant bellows. If there were one noise he hated more than a woman’s counterfeit moaning, that was it.

Now he was hearing them during his morning walk in Mordeina for some odd reason, while he was fighting off a nasty hangover to boot. Strangely, the way the sound was muted made it even worse, like the constant hum between one’s ears after a solid thump on the head. He climbed atop a nearby rock and scanned the area. All he could see from his location, halfway up the high hill that was crowned with Manse DuTaureau, was a never ending sea of people and Ashhur, perched atop the wall, gazing east.
Of course you
wouldn’t see them, you dolt,
he thought, shaking his head. Even if a pack of grayhorns had wandered south of their grazing area, they would never be able to make it inside the new double walls. The gate simply wasn’t big enough for them.

He sighed and hopped off the boulder, wincing when his feet hit the ground, the headache that tormented him doubling with the impact. Rubbing the heel of his hand on his temples, he promised himself he would make sure to snatch up one of the more talented Wardens before speaking with his mother.

Speaking with Mother.
He cringed at the thought of it. He had been home for five days, and it had taken her that long to come calling. He did not cherish the thought of her disapproving looks or the inevitable roll of her eyes when he told her what he had been doing in the interim.

That’s not why you delayed and you know it.…

“Shut up,” he muttered.

He put his head down and continued up the hill once more. The crowds seemed larger than usual on this day, but still there was a feeling of good humor in the air that bothered him to no end. In fact, only in the somber camp on the other side of the hill, where he had spent much of his time since returning, did any of the people seem prepared for the coming attack. The corner of his lip rose slightly as he thought of the previous day, when he’d trained a group of young men and women as Corton had trained him, teaching parries, thrusts, and defensive stances. It almost felt like he was in Haven again, among friends, among people who actually
cared
.

The land flattened out, and he had almost reached the congested walkway leading into the manse when someone tapped on his shoulder.

“Patrick?” a tentative voice asked. He sighed and turned to see a skinny, sandy-haired youth standing there, nervously fidgeting with his hands. For a moment Patrick didn’t recognize the young man,
for he had no dirt on his face and was wearing smallclothes in the place of armor.

“Tristan,” he said with a nod. “You look…well.”

“You look like shit,” the youth replied.

“Thanks. Never heard that before.”

“No, I mean you’re pale,” Tristan said, his voice cracking with nerves. “And you got big bags under your eyes. You sick?”

“Yes. No. I’m just…forget it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Patrick sighed. “It’s fine.”

Tristan stayed silent, but would not stop staring at him. Finally, Patrick couldn’t take it anymore.

“Tristan, did you stop me to gaze lovingly into my eyes, or do you have a purpose?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

The youth swallowed hard. “I know. But…listen, this is hard for me.”

“What is?”

“Well…you see…I have something to tell you.”

“Very well. So tell me.”

“I…well…um…it’s like this.…”

Patrick jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the manse. “I have business to attend to now. How about you tell me when I get back?”

“No, this is important.”

“Then spit it out.”

“All right, all right…we were given a place to pitch out tents, down by the wall, with the Wardens,” Tristan said timidly. “Preston’s been teaching them about swordplay, and a few regular folk too.”

“Yes…”

“Wait, I’m getting to the point. A man with black hair wearing a bed sheet came to watch us work, and he started asking us a bunch
of questions. Seemed nice enough, though now that I think about it, I don’t remember him smiling.”

“That would probably be mother’s steward, Howard Baedan,” said Patrick. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t smile.”

“Oh. Okay. So anyhow, when Preston asked him where you were, and he said you were off looking for your sister—well, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just…I just…”

He stopped there, his gaze dropping to his feet.

Patrick’s heart began racing.

“Tristan, what does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m sorry we haven’t told you,” the youth said in a low voice.

“Haven’t told me
what
, Tristan?” Patrick’s heart picked up its pace some more. “Why are you being so cryptic?”

Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it just quickly. He wouldn’t look Patrick in the eye, which was maddening. Patrick’s edginess won out. He grabbed Tristan by his shoulders and shook him. Hard.

“Out with it, boy!” he yelled, drawing the attention of a group chatting nearby.

“I…I don’t know if I can,” he whined.

Patrick shook him harder. “Just fucking tell me!”

“Nessa’s dead!” the youth blurted out.

Patrick froze in place, his fists still squeezing the youth’s shoulders. The entirety of his being went numb, and his powerful hands opened, slipping off the youth who stumbled backward. He stared at Tristan, entranced by the tears rolling down the young man’s cheeks.

“I was born in Veldaren,” Tristan said softly, as if in a dream. “Father served as a squire for Joseph Crestwell when he was a boy, and I was to follow in his footsteps. My brother Leonard squired for Crian. My father’s dead now, and I…I don’t know where my brother is.…” He cleared his throat, looked at the sky, and continued. “One night, a couple months after Karak returned from his absence, Leonard called on me. ‘Something exciting going on,’ he said. ‘You
must come to the fountain.’ So Father and I went with him, and we watched as this little redheaded girl was baptized by the Divinity himself. Crian was there too, and the looks they gave each other…”

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.