Bardiya extended his arms to the sky in supplication. “Do you not see, Patrick? Karak pursues Ashhur because Ashhur violated his own edicts. He succumbed to violence, he assailed when he should have stood idle. It is our god’s fault that his Paradise is threatened.”
“Wait! Hold on,” said Patrick, his jaw dropping open. “You’re mad that Ashhur refused to keep his vow of nonviolence, yet you won’t condemn Karak for bringing a whole fucking army into our nation to slaughter thousands of those innocent people?” The man took a step back, looking thoroughly defeated. “My god, Bardiya…you’ve lost it. Truly lost it.”
Bardiya’s pride felt wounded, and he hated the look he saw on his friend’s face.
“Karak’s beliefs have nothing to do with me,” he said quietly. “And when a child wanders into the forest only to be attacked by a wolf, you do not blame the wolf. For myself, I choose to remain impartial, just as our beliefs have always dictated.”
“Beliefs change. Circumstances change. Even Ashhur can see that.”
“Mine do not.”
Patrick’s horse whinnied, and he placed his hand on its cheek, stilling the beast. The mismatched armor he wore was dull and scratched, and he seemed weighted down by the massive sword strapped to his back, a weapon whose presence in Paradise Bardiya had long loathed. His old friend looked like a sad imitation of the noble warriors from the Wardens’ stories, and Bardiya felt pity for him. Perhaps Patrick DuTaureau was the one who was truly lost.
“There is still time,” Bardiya said, picking up the helmet and handing it to him. “Decry violence. Turn your back on this war, and convince Ashhur to do the same. Even if you perish, you shall do so nobly. The gates of the golden eternity will swing open wide for you, and you will be greeted as a hero.”
“There you go again,” Patrick said with a sigh. “Sometimes I think you’d rather be up in the heavens than here in the flesh.”
“I wish to have both, my friend. One cannot enter the heavens if the flesh is not pure.”
That elicited a chuckle. “Then I have no chance either way. My flesh hasn’t been pure for a long, long time.” His smile faltered, and he bent down, brushing the sand with his fingertips. “All of Ker buries their dead under these sands, correct?” he asked.
“Yes, we do.”
“How many now? How many have you buried?”
“Four hundred and eighty-seven.”
“And your parents are under here as well?”
“Yes.”
Patrick stood to his full height, looking somehow both noble and ridiculous at the same time.
“I’d prepare, if I were you,” he said. “You’ll soon to have a lot more dead to bury.”
Patrick took two steps away and then froze as thunder echoed in their ears. A blood-curdling scream ripped through the afternoon sky a moment later. Bardiya felt his heart leap into his throat.
“What the fuck?” his misshapen friend said.
Bardiya whirled around. The Black Spire rested in one of the more desolate areas of the Kerrian desert, the landscape a white wilderness as far as the eye could see. The only exception was the majestic rock formations along the path leading from Ang, which were the same shade as the sand and virtually invisible. That was where he looked now. He swore he saw movement there, the juxtaposition of dark beige against light, like a tiny cape flapping in the breeze. Then came another scream, and a chill flowed through his veins.
“Up there!” he shouted to Patrick as he began sprinting. His strides were longer, his progress faster. He heard Patrick’s mare huffing as its four hooves stomped along the sandy terrain. Bardiya surged ahead like a man possessed, every fiber of his being in a panic. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to whatever torment the poor creature was experiencing at the top of the rise.
Though the wind blew past his ears with the force of a hurricane, he could still make out the sounds of tormented crying as he drew nearer. Images of broken bodies painted his vision, memories of his parents in the grove, their bodies bleeding from a dozen wounds. And then he crested the rise, and all his fears proved true.
The elf girl Aullienna leaned over the body of Kindren, the young prince of Dezerea. Deep gouges crisscrossed the pale skin on her back, and the elf boy’s body was mangled, his flesh slashed in repetitious four-pronged patterns. Punctures dotted his body too, large half circles, and the flesh of his right forearm had been shorn away, leaving behind a glistening mess of muscle and sinew. The elf girl did not look up as Bardiya approached, but kept her forehead pressed against Kindren’s chest, bathing his body in her tears.
“What in the bloody underworld…?” he heard Patrick gasp from behind him. Sand kicked up as the horse he was riding skittered to a stop.
Bardiya slid to the ground, his massive knees digging into the desert floor. Only when he placed his giant hand on the unmoving chest of the elf prince did Aullienna acknowledge his presence. Her gaze lifted to him, eyes bloodshot, tears forming thick rivulets down her face. She opened her mouth to speak, a pleading look coming over her beautifully innocent features, but only a shrill moan came out.
Reaching out, Bardiya placed a finger to her lips, quieting her. He then leaned over Kindren, placed both hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.
“Please help him,” he heard the girl say, her voice a whisper.
The young elf was perilously close to the end. Bardiya prayed and prayed, knowing his lips were moving, though he could not feel them. At first there was nothing, and it took all his carefully trained willpower to tamp down his panic. His mind was full of questions and doubt, but he had to push all of it away. Taking in a deep breath, Bardiya continued to pray, forgetting his role as a leader of men, forgetting the power he wielded, the decisions that lay on his shoulders, the future shrouded in danger. He was here, now, with a life in peril…and through him, that life could be saved. That was what mattered. That was all that mattered.
Ashhur, grant me strength, his mind whispered.
The damage to the elf’s body became clear to him: the severed muscle, the torn fibers in the boy’s flesh, the gouged stomach, the snapped bones. Each wound struck him as if it were his own, and the burning sensation in his hands was as if he’d plunged them into the heart of a star. Much like when he’d healed Davishon-his would-be elven assassin-the pain lessened as Kindren’s body mended itself, fractured bones binding with their broken halves, burst blood vessels closing, skin knitting itself shut. A final burst of energy flowed from his palms into the elf’s chest, shocking his stilled heart back to beating. A gasp reached Bardiya’s ears, and his mind returned to the physical realm.
He fell back, his energy drained. It took great effort just to lift his hand and wipe sweat from his brow. He opened his tired eyes and looked on as Aullienna cradled her mate’s head in her lap, her tears of sorrow replaced by ones of relief. Kindren’s eyes were open, but he looked like he did not understand what was happening.
“You are hurt, child,” Bardiya told Aullienna wearily. “Come, let me heal you.”
“Rest a moment,” he heard Patrick say as Aullienna continued to hold Kindren. Bardiya twisted his head around. His friend was sitting atop his horse, staring at him and shaking his head.
“Her back is bleeding,” Bardiya said.
Patrick shrugged.
“Let the nymph have her moment. The boy almost died.”
“He should have,” Bardiya whispered, and he heard wonder in his own voice.
“Yet you brought him back,” said Patrick. “Good job, big guy. I just hope you learn your lesson.”
“And what might that be?”
The redhead pointed to the couple on the ground.