enthusiasm renewed his hope. Best of all, these children lived in safety from him. He’d vowed not to kill any of them before they turned two years old.
But from high above he saw the signs. Not a single mother had children out for a stroll on the boardwalk around the field and lake. No pregnant wives enjoyed the unusually warm day. The serving girls didn’t wait on the porch, ready with platters of food for him.
Instead, dozens of paladins lay about the grass between the expansive building and the lake, on the steps to the nursery, and near the doors. All decapitated. Their swords and pikes lay at their sides. The bodies of three demigods lay near each other in the spring grass in front of the nursery steps. Blood flowed from recent wounds.
Athanaric steeled his heart and commanded his draegon to the ground near the three bloody men. The wind rushed in his hair and the draegon’s fur rippled as they descended. Athanaric hardly waited for his undead mount to settle down before jumping from the saddle and running toward the nursery. He glanced at the three demigods lying there in the grass, newly dead, wounds puncturing their bodies, and knew what had happened.
His children had turned on him.
The three dead demigods, Nathran, Tryle, and Stoct, had recently joined the list of Caretakers conspiring against him. He’d known about their imminent treachery, their desire to dethrone him. But he hadn’t expected them to act so soon.
He leapt up the stairs past them, to the nursery porch, toward doors gilded with the likeness of a many-armed and many-headed man. He grabbed the higher set of door handles, about five feet above the handles meant for most people, and shoved the doors open. He stepped into the foyer.
Here, his paladins had made a stand. Their bodies and limbs and heads lay in disorganized piles where they’d fallen in a struggle against his sons. For all of the carnage, not a drop of blood touched the floor or ceiling. Rather, the room bore the clinical smell of salt; when his priests embalmed the paladins, they drained the blood from the human bodies and filled the body cavities with nitrate to preserve them, to ensure that when Athanaric re-animated the bodies with the souls of dogs, they lived for hundreds of years.
Athanaric swallowed hard to suppress a cry. If his enemies remained nearby, he couldn’t let them know they’d touched his heart. He rushed past the bodies toward the doors at the foyer’s back, inlaid in gold with the symbol of a tree with expansive roots and branches bearing heavy fruit. Rocks of nitrate skittered away beneath his feet. He inadvertently kicked the hand of a paladin.
At the double doors he again closed his hands around the higher set of levered handles, about nine feet off the ground, at the level of his waist. After a moment of hesitation, he turned the handles down. They clicked. He cracked the door open—but not even enough to peer through.
Not a sound came from that place where hungry newborns had always cried and mothers had cooed in comfort, where he’d often heard the reckless laughter of toddlers. Now, he didn’t hear a single whimper. Not one shout for help or wail of pain.
Instead, silence.
Only silence.
His breath came short and shallow. Sweat gathered on his brow. His heart thundered.
He removed his fingers from the door handles. He couldn’t enter. He, god, couldn’t bring himself to look at the slaughter. For although he was god, he was also a husband of hundreds. A father of thousands.
He pulled the doors shut. They clicked, hollow and dead in the foyer.
He fell to his knees and knelt there with his forehead against the cold door, his chest constricting. He wished to hear the wail of an infant or the sob of a woman—anything to indicate that his traitorous children hadn’t acted so thoroughly.
But he heard nothing. Silence lay over the stillness, as if by stepping through the doors he would enter a painting.
His little ones. His beloved
But from high above he saw the signs. Not a single mother had children out for a stroll on the boardwalk around the field and lake. No pregnant wives enjoyed the unusually warm day. The serving girls didn’t wait on the porch, ready with platters of food for him.
Instead, dozens of paladins lay about the grass between the expansive building and the lake, on the steps to the nursery, and near the doors. All decapitated. Their swords and pikes lay at their sides. The bodies of three demigods lay near each other in the spring grass in front of the nursery steps. Blood flowed from recent wounds.
Athanaric steeled his heart and commanded his draegon to the ground near the three bloody men. The wind rushed in his hair and the draegon’s fur rippled as they descended. Athanaric hardly waited for his undead mount to settle down before jumping from the saddle and running toward the nursery. He glanced at the three demigods lying there in the grass, newly dead, wounds puncturing their bodies, and knew what had happened.
His children had turned on him.
The three dead demigods, Nathran, Tryle, and Stoct, had recently joined the list of Caretakers conspiring against him. He’d known about their imminent treachery, their desire to dethrone him. But he hadn’t expected them to act so soon.
He leapt up the stairs past them, to the nursery porch, toward doors gilded with the likeness of a many-armed and many-headed man. He grabbed the higher set of door handles, about five feet above the handles meant for most people, and shoved the doors open. He stepped into the foyer.
Here, his paladins had made a stand. Their bodies and limbs and heads lay in disorganized piles where they’d fallen in a struggle against his sons. For all of the carnage, not a drop of blood touched the floor or ceiling. Rather, the room bore the clinical smell of salt; when his priests embalmed the paladins, they drained the blood from the human bodies and filled the body cavities with nitrate to preserve them, to ensure that when Athanaric re-animated the bodies with the souls of dogs, they lived for hundreds of years.
Athanaric swallowed hard to suppress a cry. If his enemies remained nearby, he couldn’t let them know they’d touched his heart. He rushed past the bodies toward the doors at the foyer’s back, inlaid in gold with the symbol of a tree with expansive roots and branches bearing heavy fruit. Rocks of nitrate skittered away beneath his feet. He inadvertently kicked the hand of a paladin.
At the double doors he again closed his hands around the higher set of levered handles, about nine feet off the ground, at the level of his waist. After a moment of hesitation, he turned the handles down. They clicked. He cracked the door open—but not even enough to peer through.
Not a sound came from that place where hungry newborns had always cried and mothers had cooed in comfort, where he’d often heard the reckless laughter of toddlers. Now, he didn’t hear a single whimper. Not one shout for help or wail of pain.
Instead, silence.
Only silence.
His breath came short and shallow. Sweat gathered on his brow. His heart thundered.
He removed his fingers from the door handles. He couldn’t enter. He, god, couldn’t bring himself to look at the slaughter. For although he was god, he was also a husband of hundreds. A father of thousands.
He pulled the doors shut. They clicked, hollow and dead in the foyer.
He fell to his knees and knelt there with his forehead against the cold door, his chest constricting. He wished to hear the wail of an infant or the sob of a woman—anything to indicate that his traitorous children hadn’t acted so thoroughly.
But he heard nothing. Silence lay over the stillness, as if by stepping through the doors he would enter a painting.
His little ones. His beloved
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