“I care not for his right,” snapped Ahaesarus, flinging his wet cloth at the man. Howard backed out of the way, and the cloth slapped against the side of the young king’s face, making him bawl all the harder. The master steward made to step out from behind the wicker throne, his hand on the hilt of his belted knife. In return Ahaesarus glanced to his sword, which was propped against the wall in the corner. At that look, “Sir” Howard abruptly wedged his hands beneath King Benjamin’s armpits and lifted the king off his throne. He led the sniveling boy away, straightening his white pallium in the process.
The door slammed shut, leaving Ahaesarus in blessed silence with his unconscious god. The Master Warden leaned back, closed his eyes, and let out a deep breath as he snatched his mug from the table beside him. Tipping the mug back, a scant few drops of water dripped into his mouth. He glanced at the large bucket he’d been using to bathe his deity, saw that it was nearly empty as well. Sighing, he grasped the bucket by its handle and left the room.
When the door closed behind him, he felt a sort of lessening, as if the vitality were being sucked from every fiber of his being. Over the last eleven days, he had experienced a similar feeling each time he left Ashhur’s side. He wondered if the others who frequented the makeshift throne room felt the same thing; if they did, that begged the question why more people didn’t remain in the god’s presence, whether he was conscious or not.
The hallway of Manse DuTaureau was long and straight, the carpet underfoot as red and fiery as the hair of the children of the First Family who lived within it. There was a definite gloom to the corridor; none of the candles lining the walls were lit, and the narrow windows that opened up to the outside world revealed a sky bathed with clouds and murk. Autumn is here and it is angry. Ahaesarus could hear traces of the untold thousands outside, but the thick stone and wood of the walls deadened the racket to a vague murmur.
Isabel DuTaureau’s children and grandchildren passed him in the hall, their lithe frames draped with crumpled cotton dresses. Cara offered him a slight bow as he walked by, and Keela and her husband stopped him in the hall to ask of Ashhur’s state. Brigid and her husband ushered a battalion of children, four of their own and one of their absent sister Abigail’s, toward the western wing where the bedrooms resided. He even happened upon Richard DuTaureau, the created husband of Isabel, who was escorted by two more of Abigail’s elder sons. Although the two young men gave him a friendly wave, Richard refused to look him in the eye. The left side of his face was swollen and covered with an ugly purple bruise, a gift from his deformed son Patrick on the very day that Karak had attacked Mordeina. Ahaesarus ignored the man and kept on walking. He had never spoken it aloud, but inside he applauded Patrick for striking his father. If any citizen of Paradise deserved to have violence heaped upon him, it was Richard DuTaureau.
The one individual he did not see was the lady of the house, Isabel. Ever since Patrick had told her of her youngest daughter’s death, she had remained locked away inside her bedchamber, allowing visits only by her husband and children. Sometimes in the night he could hear the immortal woman wailing, a disconcerting sound to be sure, especially given the strength and stoicism Isabel had displayed for almost a century as she led her people out of their infancy. Ahaesarus found himself wondering if that strength had ever truly been real.
Finally, he reached the atrium and stepped outside. He was struck by a brisk wind that carried with it the clamor of all those who now called Mordeina home. Placing the bucket down, he gazed out over the courtyard that progressed down the high hill the manse sat upon. People covered nearly every square inch of grass, pale-skinned, dirty, and frightened, their mass stretching out as far as Ahaesarus could see. The reek of so many in such a relatively small area assaulted his keen nostrils. Warden Leviticus had guessed that two hundred and ten thousand human souls now resided within the sixteen square miles of Mordeina surrounded by the double walls. To Ahaesarus, it looked eerily similar to the pens he and his people were gathered into when the winged demons invaded his home world, albeit on a much larger scale.
He pushed aside the memory of that horror and weaved through those camping on the courtyard, stepping around lean-tos, tents, and cookfires where scared women prepared food for the evening. When he reached the large ring of stones marking the manse’s well, he yanked the rope up from the depths. Water sloshed from the pail as it rose, and he dumped the contents into his bucket despite its insufferable smell. Ahaesarus sighed. The liquid inside the bucket was a murky tan color, the result of the combined piss and shit of those two hundred thousand people sinking into the earth and contaminating the ample spring that flowed beneath the settlement. The last time he had gone to retrieve water was three days ago, and though the water had been somewhat soiled then, it was far worse now. Azariah would need to purify the water again, though the solution was always a temporary fix. Ahaesarus watched scared humans drink from their own cups and wondered if they knew the danger. Humanity in Paradise had lived so long without a risk to their health, and yet now, everywhere they turned, it seemed there was danger, even from something so simple as a cup of water.
Finding Azariah should not have been difficult, for though the short Warden spent his evenings camping outside the small thatch of forest in the northwest corner of the settlement, his days were usually spent within the sacristy inside the manse, teaching both Ashhur’s words of love and forgiveness and the spells he had learned during his time in Dezrel. However, as Ahaesarus wandered from room to room, the pail of stinking water swinging in his grip, he could find no trace of him. Perhaps he decided to preach among the populace, he thought. Ahaesarus had first been a farmer and priest, then a Warden, then a tutor to a potential king, and finally a warrior protecting an infant people from annihilation. Even though he had been blessed with Ashhur’s ability to heal most all ills, the less practical study of magic had always escaped him, and curing such a massive stream deep below the earth was far beyond him. That meant his only recourse was to boil the water over the fires in the kitchens behind the throne room, a slow and irritating process.
Much to his surprise, when he entered the throne room, he found Azariah there, with Denton Noonan and his son Barclay as well as two other teen boys who had fallen under the shortest Warden’s tutelage. Denton and all three youths were tall and tan, with unkempt, sandy hair, marking them with the look of the far east of Paradise, where they once had resided on the outskirts of the Kerrian Desert, near the western deity’s old home of Safeway.
They were gathered around the slab on which Ashhur lay. All had their hands on the god’s bare chest, their eyes pressed closed as they mouthed prayers to their unconscious creator. The hall was the largest room in the manse, nearly twenty feet tall, and their pleading voices reverberated off the vaulted ceiling. Ahaesarus watched for a few moments in silence, bathing in their pure, songlike tones, before placing his bucket down on the stone floor with a thump.
The prayers ceased and all eyes lifted to him. “Master Warden,” said Denton, offering a bow. The other young men did the same.
“Praying with Ashhur is truly a humbling experience,” Ahaesarus said. “I applaud you, Azariah, for teaching his children humility.”
“We weren’t praying with Ashhur,” said Barclay.
One of the other youths smiled proudly and added, “We were praying for him.”
Ahaesarus furrowed his brow, confused. “For him?”
Azariah stepped out from behind the prone deity, hands held out in supplication. Gone were his usual deep brown leather breeches and jerkin, replaced by a white, flowing ensemble spun from fine cotton, made for him by Denton’s wife. The outfit was very similar to those the priests of Rana had worn back on the Wardens’ home world before it was destroyed. It was odd that Azariah had taken to wearing such a thing, as of all the Wardens he was the most carefree and adventurous, often disregarding prayer as unnecessary. Judarius had often guessed this was because Azariah’s stature was closer to that of the humans than his fellow Wardens. “Ashhur gave us his healing gifts when we were brought here,” Azariah said. “And he gave it to his children as well, if they are strong enough to access it. What better way to thank the god we owe so much to than to try and mend his wounds?”