Read Online The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1) by Matt Gilbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Gilbert
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“Aiul is no lovesick boy in
the grip of youthful madness. He’s is a man in the full of his
career, a respected physician, and the heir to House Amrath.”
He tapped the cane against the ground to underscore his point. “If
it is his image you are concerned with, how do you think it will
seem to others that he is treated as a child?”
“Is it not also unseemly
to question the judgment of a House Leader under their own roof?”
Narelki snapped.
“Aye, it is,”
Maranath shot back. “But we Aswan are troublemakers, eh?”
“I think we can blame
your troublemaking on another name besides that of Aswan.”
Maranath’s face grew dark
and his gaze cold. “Be careful with your words, Narelki.”
“And you with yours.”
Her stare was just as icy as his.
He held her gaze a moment
longer, grinding his teeth, then turned and strode back to the
couch. He plopped down in a huff, arms folded across his chest,
glowering at the fire. Aiul almost laughed to see the old man so
angry that he seemed to have forgotten, for the moment, the pain in
his joints.
“Don’t be upset,”
Ariano begged. “We are all practically family here.” She
smiled sweetly at Narelki. “Do you remember playing those
wonderful games right here in this room with your father and me? And
with Aiul, too!”
Narelki was in no mood to be
soothed by reminiscing. “I remember missing my mother, and
being angry at you for taking her place, if you want to know the
truth.”
Ariano sat back, mouth open in
shock, and gave a slight moan of dismay. At just that moment, a
great cracking shot echoed from the fireplace as a knot of timber
exploded, sending a stream of sparks and several large embers to
land on the carpet.
Narelki jumped in shock, eyes
wide and face even more pale.
“Fetch water, Aiul!”
Ariano cried. “Oh, hurry, dear, hurry!”
With a nod, Aiul quickly
stepped into the foyer. He barely registered the doors closing
behind him. Water! He needed it, and it occurred to him that he had
never seen it fetched. That was slave work. But where did the slaves
keep water? The kitchen, surely? Near panic, he tore down the
hallway, his boots pounding on the polished hardwood, and banged a
knee on a table, upsetting a vase perched upon it. The vase fell to
the floor with a crash, sending shards of pottery and water all over
the floor, followed by the table. Aiul grabbed at a tapestry,
tearing it loose from the wall to keep his own balance.
“Mei! Fool! It was right
there before you!” he cursed.
The shattering vase had,
fortunately, drawn the attention of the slaves. Unfortunately, that
attention was from Slat, the Chief Slave, whose duties included
administering whippings to the children of the household, noble and
slave alike. Aiul himself had been quite unruly as a boy, and had
become something of a connoisseur of beatings by the time he reached
manhood. Grandfather Lothrian had handled discipline before his
passing, and Aiul considered his technique quite good, but once
Narelki had placed Slat in charge, Aiul had begun to understand the
true nature of superior quality and craftsmanship.
Slat came stalking down the
hall on spindly legs, his black tunic fluttering, a scowl on his
long, hairless face. His once black hair was still shoulder length,
but gray now, and receding in a widow’s peak. “Master
Aiul, what have you done?” he called out, his deep, accusing
voice sending fingers of terror up Aiul’s spine, even now
these long years past. “That vase was priceless!”
Part
of Aiul felt compelled to shout out his innocence and flee, but it
was foolish. Slat always caught runners. The truth would be best. “There’s a fire in the library! I need water! Now !”
Slat’s eyebrows rose in
appreciation, and he nodded and spun on his heel. “Come with
me,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried back the way he
had come.
Slat led him at a jog into the
areas of the manse normally reserved for slaves. Even here, the
place was
the grip of youthful madness. He’s is a man in the full of his
career, a respected physician, and the heir to House Amrath.”
He tapped the cane against the ground to underscore his point. “If
it is his image you are concerned with, how do you think it will
seem to others that he is treated as a child?”
“Is it not also unseemly
to question the judgment of a House Leader under their own roof?”
Narelki snapped.
“Aye, it is,”
Maranath shot back. “But we Aswan are troublemakers, eh?”
“I think we can blame
your troublemaking on another name besides that of Aswan.”
Maranath’s face grew dark
and his gaze cold. “Be careful with your words, Narelki.”
“And you with yours.”
Her stare was just as icy as his.
He held her gaze a moment
longer, grinding his teeth, then turned and strode back to the
couch. He plopped down in a huff, arms folded across his chest,
glowering at the fire. Aiul almost laughed to see the old man so
angry that he seemed to have forgotten, for the moment, the pain in
his joints.
“Don’t be upset,”
Ariano begged. “We are all practically family here.” She
smiled sweetly at Narelki. “Do you remember playing those
wonderful games right here in this room with your father and me? And
with Aiul, too!”
Narelki was in no mood to be
soothed by reminiscing. “I remember missing my mother, and
being angry at you for taking her place, if you want to know the
truth.”
Ariano sat back, mouth open in
shock, and gave a slight moan of dismay. At just that moment, a
great cracking shot echoed from the fireplace as a knot of timber
exploded, sending a stream of sparks and several large embers to
land on the carpet.
Narelki jumped in shock, eyes
wide and face even more pale.
“Fetch water, Aiul!”
Ariano cried. “Oh, hurry, dear, hurry!”
With a nod, Aiul quickly
stepped into the foyer. He barely registered the doors closing
behind him. Water! He needed it, and it occurred to him that he had
never seen it fetched. That was slave work. But where did the slaves
keep water? The kitchen, surely? Near panic, he tore down the
hallway, his boots pounding on the polished hardwood, and banged a
knee on a table, upsetting a vase perched upon it. The vase fell to
the floor with a crash, sending shards of pottery and water all over
the floor, followed by the table. Aiul grabbed at a tapestry,
tearing it loose from the wall to keep his own balance.
“Mei! Fool! It was right
there before you!” he cursed.
The shattering vase had,
fortunately, drawn the attention of the slaves. Unfortunately, that
attention was from Slat, the Chief Slave, whose duties included
administering whippings to the children of the household, noble and
slave alike. Aiul himself had been quite unruly as a boy, and had
become something of a connoisseur of beatings by the time he reached
manhood. Grandfather Lothrian had handled discipline before his
passing, and Aiul considered his technique quite good, but once
Narelki had placed Slat in charge, Aiul had begun to understand the
true nature of superior quality and craftsmanship.
Slat came stalking down the
hall on spindly legs, his black tunic fluttering, a scowl on his
long, hairless face. His once black hair was still shoulder length,
but gray now, and receding in a widow’s peak. “Master
Aiul, what have you done?” he called out, his deep, accusing
voice sending fingers of terror up Aiul’s spine, even now
these long years past. “That vase was priceless!”
Part
of Aiul felt compelled to shout out his innocence and flee, but it
was foolish. Slat always caught runners. The truth would be best. “There’s a fire in the library! I need water! Now !”
Slat’s eyebrows rose in
appreciation, and he nodded and spun on his heel. “Come with
me,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried back the way he
had come.
Slat led him at a jog into the
areas of the manse normally reserved for slaves. Even here, the
place was
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