Soleh curtseyed. “I understand, my Lord.”
“Now go from this place, child, and sing my name.”
Soleh turned to leave but paused, casting a hopeful glance over her shoulder. She trembled like a schoolgirl, even though she had never once been that young in all her god-crafted life.
“My Lord?” she said.
“What is it, child?”
“Please tell me you love me.”
The god laughed sweetly then and strode across the short distance between them. He took her in his arms, lifted her off the monastery floor as if she weighed nothing, and kissed her cheek. Soleh felt the blood rush through her body.
“I love you, sweet Soleh. More than any who have ever come before.”
She was crying again when he put her down, but by the time she arrived back at the wagon and rejoined her escort, her cheeks were dry.
There was much work ahead, and she had to be strong. As strong as the title of Minister of Justice deserved.
CHAPTER 13
“I heard that the whippoorwills in the delta have begun tweeting incessantly at night. Morgan told me so. She said they perch outside the windows of the old and dying, singing in tune with the last breaths the people take. It’s quite strange, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Who in the deep, dark underworld is Morgan?”
“Silly,” replied Nessa, playfully punching his arm. “We were guests in her home for nearly three weeks. How could you not remember?”
“Forgive me. It’s difficult when your head aches like rotten fruit that’s been popped. And in my defense, I was asleep for most of those three weeks.”
His horse trotted to the side to avoid a depression in the road, jostling Patrick in his saddle. He uttered a pained yelp and grabbed at his knobby forehead. The pain was less than it had been, but its echo still tormented him like the remnants of a bad dream. They had barely stepped foot in Lerder, the easternmost township on the Gods’ Road before the delta, when the sickness set in. Patrick’s fever rose uncontrollably, coupled with vomiting and a case of the shakes that rattled his teeth. His mind had become so clouded, it was difficult to separate reality from delusion. He remembered Nessa sitting by his bed, holding his hand while she gazed down at him with concern, but also a cloaked man in black who came to him in the night, watching over him from the shadows as he writhed and moaned.
The sickness was made all the worse by the fact that neither the Wardens nor Ashhur’s healers seemed able to quell it. Patrick had fallen ill before, but usually all it took to cure him was a healing touch from one of his siblings or the city elders who led the prayers in Mordeina. Whatever had stricken him this time had baffled everyone, and he was left bedridden. Two conclusions entered his mind: either the sickness was so powerful that only time could cure it, or the faith in Ashhur that facilitated the healing touch was waning as he got closer to the Rigon. Neither scenario was pleasant, but the latter frightened him more than anything else.
His fever had finally broken three days ago. He’d awoken, frightened and sweaty, in a stranger’s bed. His panicked voice had been so weak, it barely echoed off the bare walls. Nessa didn’t come to him until much later, when the sun was painting the horizon with deep reds and purples. She’d seemed distracted and far away while comforting him. But the next day she’d been more attentive and had helped him gather the strength he needed to continue on his journey.
The current state of his aching brain made him wonder if he should have taken more time to rest.
“Patrick, are you all right?”
He turned to his sister and tried to smile. The glare of the sun forced him to avert his eyes, and he caught his reflection in the mirrored crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle. Carrying the sword on his back made him unstable in the saddle, so it was strapped to the side of his horse, its scabbard tucked beneath his left knee. Snatching a handkerchief from the pocket of his light coat, he dropped the fabric over the hideous likeness, wanting to banish his reflection. Even on a good day he was a sorry sight, but after a lengthy bout of illness? It was a wonder that passersby didn’t lunge for whatever weapons they could find and vow to Ashhur to send this escaped demon of the underworld back to its hole. At least that’s the way he felt.
Nessa gave him a queer look and nudged her horse closer. Her hand fell on his leg, the pressure of her touch changing with each bob created by the horses’ strides.
“Seriously, are you all right?”
Patrick sighed and gazed into his sister’s eyes. There was concern in them, and innocence as well, and he knew that she did not look on his physical deformities the way he did. For the millionth time in his life, he was thankful for that.
“I am, Ness. I’m just hurting.”
“Is it bad?”
He waved his hand in front of him. “Manageable.”
“Good,” she said with a grin. “Because Ashhur’s Bridge is coming up soon. I can see it now. Race you there?”
Nessa kicked her horse and took off at a gallop, flying away from him without even waiting for his agreement. His sister’s red hair whipped out behind her like a comet’s tail. Patrick moaned, the ache in his head persistent, and tried to match her speed. It was no use, for the minute his steed began to pick up its pace, the wind and motion filled his skull with agony. He pulled back on the reins and tried to call out for Nessa to stop, but his throat was dry, and the words died just as they started to emerge.
Defeated, he slumped in his saddle and gazed straight ahead. He watched Nessa and her horse grow smaller and smaller as they approached Ashhur’s Bridge over the western spine of the Rigon River. In the distance he could see the misty rise of the Clubfoot Mountains, the small collection of mounts that split the river and formed the delta. There was a strange fog in the air, even though there were no clouds in the sky, but Patrick was in too much agony to think about what that might mean.
Nessa went up and over the bridge, disappearing on the other side. Patrick hoped she wouldn’t get too eager and go off exploring on her own. She could be so impatient sometimes-and quick on her feet to boot. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the rest of the day trudging through swamps and wetlands, screaming out her name, while she sat on a rock, splashing her bare feet in the water as tiny fish nibbled at her toes.
Yes, that had happened once before. No, he wasn’t bitter about it.
“PATRICK!”
Her voice came to him like a flash of lightning from on high, full of panic and terror. Patrick bolted upright, the pain in his head swallowed by his sister’s distress. He urged his horse onward, slowly picking up speed. He squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out what was going on. He saw nothing, only the tall grasses that swayed like water on the other side of the bridge. Closer and closer he rode, each bump horrible, but at last he finally did see something-the strange dark fog he had noticed before, except it wasn’t fog. It was smoke.
A great fire burned beyond the bridge.
He rode faster.
Moments later he reached Ashhur’s Bridge, a wide overpass made from pearly white marble and reinforced with tall, elegant arches, a complex structure that had been created by divine hands before the dawn of humanity. The horse’s hooves hit the marble with a series of weighty thunks. Patrick could hear the river scuttling below him, rushing out toward the Thulon Ocean.