Page 21 of The Cruel Dawn
“Please, Lady Megidrail,” he says, wheezing as my hands press down on his windpipe. “It’s me. Avish.”
Avish? He’s the lyricist who wrote my favorite song.The dawn will find you as my love draws near…
I squeeze his neck one last time before releasing him. “You weren’t at the Sanctum when I arrived last night.”
He grimaces as he rubs the new welts forming on his skin and stands, swaying still on his feet. One of the slighter Mera, Avish still towers over all mortals. The color of his eyes looks closer to hazel than gold, and his chest is covered with markings of the three realms he’s helped to destroy under my command.
But all he really wants is to write.
I’ve supported that desire by letting him write the speech I gave at Yoffa in defense of the realm’s destruction. He wrote the blessing I recited at Separi and Ridget Eleweg’s wedding. The proclamations of kings and queens of Vallendor—all were Avish’s words.
“Why are you following me now?” I ask, leaning against a boulder, my hands prepared to resume strangulation if needed. “You need help penning another song? And I thought you’d abandoned us.”
“Not abandoned,” he says. “I’ve simply…relocated. I see folly in Zephar’s path, but you are clear-minded.”
“Folly?”I tilt my head and peer at him. “That’s a dangerous word to choose when speaking of Lord Itikin, your commander, my partner, my betrothed. Thought you knew words better than this.” My hands burn—his disrespect would’ve taken him to Anathema’s porch, yet he still stands before me.
Avish’s face flushes so much that he blends into the red dirt of the desert. “Itisfolly, Lady, but please know that I still believe inyouand in the pathyou’vechosen.”
“And what path has Lord Itikin taken?” I ask.
“Ignoring the peril of the realm and focusing on this small town that, ultimately, won’t matter,” Avish says.
I squint at him. “And what path do you think thatI’vechosen?”
Avish meets my gaze. “Danar Rrivae is a threat. Shelezadd is not. What’s the point of destroying a stupid city if Vallendor falls? You know that. And so does Malik.”
I blink at the man before me. “Who?”
“Malik—remember him? He has a temple on the other side of this hill erected by his believers,” Avish says. “He wishes to see you again. He agrees with your reasoning: Danar Rrivae must be eliminated so that Vallendor may prosper.”
I study the poet, searching for any signs of deceit. He has spun words into beautiful song and powerful speech. He can wield that same gift—no,weapon—to also spin beautiful lies. If I find out that he’s lying, he’ll meet my hands again. I should trust him, but just yesterday, my own warriors held their swords to my neck. For now, I’m questioningeverything.
Avish and I travel quickly through the mountain pass. The pathway grows stonier the higher and farther east we walk. We finally reach a plateau—it’s hard to imagine that believers climbed this high, like goats, to erect a temple.
We move beneath the pines, and a sprawling low temple emerges from the mist. The sleek dwelling’s white stone-and-glass walls gleam in the new morning light. Lush gardens of yellow, white, and red flowers surround the structure. All of it is a stark contrast to the oaks and buckeyes, sagebrush and wild grape growing around the sleekest damned building I’ve ever seen. No fussy parapets or colonnades. Just a series of white-washed, hollowed-out boxes stretched across the clearing. There is more glass than stone, and a rectangle-shaped pool in the courtyard. Single story, open-hearted. No mosaics. No domes.
“Is this a house or a temple?” I ask Avish.
The poet grins. “It is whatever you need it to be.”
As Avish and I approach the dwelling, a tall Mera warrior with long brown braids and a battle-ax emerges. She gazes at me, stern but respectful. Then her eyes flicker with recognition, and the edges of her lips lift into a smile.
“Dyotila?” I ask, surprised.
She bows and takes a knee. “Lady.”
“What are you doing here?”
Just standing here instead of flanking Zephar or me is treason—and by the way her eyes bounce from me to the ground to Avish, she knows this is true.
But something is happening here.
“Lord Malik Sindire,” she says. “He is raising a new army that can challenge the traitor and win. And he wants you to lead that army to victory.”
I keep my gaze moving as I follow Avish and Dyotila through large walnut double doors. I spot no other Mera or Eserime, or mortals. No one lounges beside the glistening pools. No one sips wine beneath the towering oaks. No one sits on the sofas.
This temple feels more like a country estate, and I like it.
