There, arrayed about the altar, were the treasures that he had sent back as their bounty from the war. The pieces of armor that had been so impressive in their original setting now seemed short and comical when placed at the feet of the elves. One of the suits of armor had been carefully arranged to be holding out the black, onyx shard that Jugar had called the Heart of Aer. Here, in the glorious garden of his master, it seemed like a pitiful offering, and it had nearly cost him his life.
How could his entire world have turned so terribly wrong? The dwarf had prophesied it with frightening, fated accuracy-or possibly caused it. And yet all along the dwarf had insisted that Drakis could know the truth of it for himself, that he didn’t have to take the dwarf’s word or believe in anything but himself.
Drakis stared at the altar.
He didn’t want to know the truth.
He wanted to embrace his ignorance.
Drakis wanted to just forget everything that had happened. There was comfort in that, he thought. The memories of what had happened to him over the last few days-of the senseless slaughter of friends and enemy alike, of the horrific violence done just to capture a crown of a kingdom that had already been conquered, not to even consider the violence done to both his body and his spirit that very afternoon-all these things had caused him to wonder how he could possibly ever sleep again, let alone face Mala. That the altar might offer him blissful forgetfulness of all of that was deeply alluring to him. He knew he could not live with the truth of his memories-so perhaps it was better to live a lie without them.
Lord Timuran had finished his Devotions as had his family. The overseers were passing the altar now, each in turn kneeling and making their Devotion as Timuran looked on. Those who were finished moved up the carefully manicured path out of the bowl of the garden and waited patiently for the rest of the household to join them.
“Drakis,” the dwarf muttered behind him. “All our lives are in your hands! You don’t have to be a slave. . you can be free! You can know the truth. .”
“I don’t want to know the truth,” Drakis said with a shuddering breath. He turned with Belag as the Centurai was preparing to take its turn at the Devotions. “I want to forget the truth.”
“Forget the truth?!” the dwarf sputtered. They began moving forward, slowly. The Free Guardians had already finished their Devotions. The slaves of the subatria were approaching the altar. “I cannot believe I’m hearing this! You, of all humans, giving up your future. . your great destiny. . just to save yourself a little pain?”
Drakis snorted. He looked again to the altar. Mala was kneeling, her bald head bowing down before the altar as her hands pressed down into its surface. A little pain? he thought. You have no idea how much pain I’m giving up.
The dwarf had followed his gaze. “Ah, yes, and what about that girl of yours?”
He watched as Mala walked up the path to join the other House slaves waiting at the base of the garden wall. She turned and her eyes met his.
She looked back at him without expression.
“What or who will they make her forget?” Jugar urged, a vicious edge to his voice. “You could die tomorrow, Drakis, and she would never remember that you existed let alone that you. .”
“SHUT UP!” Drakis shouted, wheeling suddenly on the dwarf. In an instant, he grasped the dwarf by his tunic with his left hand, slamming his right fist into Jugar’s face.
From behind a nose that was bleeding and most probably broken, Jugar smiled.
Drakis looked up. The entire assembly was staring at him in shocked astonishment. Sha-Timuran raised his head slightly and frowned.
Drakis released his grip on the dwarf, his breathing coming heavily. He turned from his astonished comrades and stepped to his right toward the delicately arched opening leading back toward the chakrilya and the Warrior pens beyond. Even as he did, however, a tall elven Guardian stepped in front of him.
“You are disturbing the Devotions,” the Guardian said in a reedy voice. “Calm yourself and return to your place.”
“I. . I’m not well,” Drakis replied. It was true enough; he felt overwhelmingly nauseated. “I just. . I just need a few minutes. . I just need to breathe. .”
The Guardian reached down, his hand fingering the grip on his sheathed sword. “You will feel better after your Devotions, slave. Just return to your place and everything will be better soon.”