Dawn of Swords by David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre Page B

childhood.
    “Thank you for saving me the trouble of actually
reading
the note addressed to me.”
    His mother’s expression didn’t change. It rarely did. The only time that look of stern consternation dropped from her face was when she was staring at her husband. He thought again of the story of his parents’ creation, and shuddered.
    “This is important, Patrick. I am trying to make you understand that.”
    “I understood it when I read
This is important
, spelled out right here. Look.”
    “Don’t mock me.”
    “No. Don’t mock
me
.”
    Isabel fixed him with a venomous stare. His father averted his eyes, avoiding any involvement in the scene. Unlike Patrick’s sisters, his mother had never doted on him. She’d acted like he was a burden for as long as he could remember. It struck him as humorous, in a very sad way, that a timeless woman who preached Ashhur’s sermons of love and forgiveness should treat her own child with such coldness. But at least coldness was
something
. His father hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade, even though they lived beneath the same roof. It was as if, in Richard’s eyes, it would be better if Patrick didn’t exist.
    Without another word, Isabel returned to her position in the straight-backed chair. Her husband started rubbing her feet again, and she picked up her knitting from beneath the dais and began clicking away with her needles. Patrick rolled his eyes at them both. Apparently their business with him was done.
    “What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with irritation, “is why Jacob doesn’t go there himself. It’s only a three-day journey to the Tinderlands from here. If I write him and ask what he’s seeking, I would be more than happy to look for it myself. As it is, we will likely pass each other on the way, which seems impractical.”
    “Jacob speaks for Ashhur,” his mother said without lifting her head from her knitting. “Do not question the orders of your god.”
    “But, Mother, if—”
    “Enough. The decision is made. Leave us.”
    “Fine.”
    Patrick wheeled around and stumbled out of the atrium. Brigid and Keela moved to follow him, their faces awash with pity, but he brushed away their consoling hands. He heard the sound of Cara weeping softly behind him, followed by his mother’s scolding. Disgust roiled in his midsection, and it struck him that only a few minutes earlier there had been something much more pleasant churning down there. He wished Brittany were still around. Another roll with the young temptress would have done wonders for his morale.
    He slammed the double doors of the atrium shut behind him. When he turned, he was startled to see Nessa, her hands clenched just below her mouth. She had been listening in at the door. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping into the collar of the heavy white nightdress she wore. Her strawberry hair was a tangled mess. Though she was over thirty, she still looked like the same innocent babe she’d been when she was but a teen. Even her stature, shortest of the DuTaureaus, hinted at incredible youth. It seemed as though Nessa’s development had been irrevocably arrested in almost every way.
    “I’m sorry, Patrick,” she whispered, throwing herself into his arms.
    Patrick huffed when she rammed her head into his chest. He embraced her, feeling her warmth. When he leaned her back and kissed her cheek, he could taste the salt of her tears.
    “It’s all right, Ness,” he whispered. “I’m used to it by now.”
    “But why is Mother so
mean
?”
    He shrugged. “Guess she doesn’t like having a monster for a son.”
    She punched him in the shoulder. He was surprised by how much it hurt.
    “You’re not a monster.”
    Patrick laughed. “So you keep telling me, sister. You almost make me believe it.”
    He blew out the candles closest to the atrium door and, throwing one huge arm over his sister, escorted her down the hall.
    “You know,” he said, “we should run off