The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

every few minutes,
to prod at him like a mean child with a wooden sword might torment a
caged beast.
    Still, he had little choice,
and so he continued to wait, the seconds slouching by, shuffling and
dragging their feet in the sand instead of marching onward with
precision and grace. He stared out of the single, tiny window.
Below, the city of Bagdreme sprawled before him like a jewel, its
minarets gleaming in the bright sun, and beyond, the burning desert.
He tried to see things as a visitor might, to trick himself into
being fascinated by the solid, stoic architecture that had stood
against the sands of centuries, impressed by the solidity of their
fortifications, but it was useless. He was a native, and no amount
of clever thought would change that.
    For a while, he passed the time
examining the few decorations in the room, but there were precious
few to take in. The Rock of Xanthia was a fine fortress, but it was
short on aesthetics, as it should be. Who could see a king who lived
in opulence as anything but a weakling who should be overthrown?
Yazid admired a well crafted sword that hung on one wall above a
long, wooden bench, noting with satisfaction that it was no simple
showpiece, but had seen actual combat. He tried searching for
inspiration in a painting of Xanthius that hung on the opposite
wall, telling himself that surely that proud warrior would have
stood here for a month, if that was what was necessary.
    At last, he turned to examining
himself, cataloging the origins of the various dents and marks on
his own armor and sword, and the scars that he had earned over the
years. He was surprised, as he always was when he stopped to
consider them, at just how many there were, remembering how he had
received this one fighting a Laurean somewhere in Gruppenwald, and
that one when he had fallen under the heels of a horse and had
barely survived. There were hours of tales in those blemishes.
    Hours, in fact, were just what
he needed. He waited three before he was finally rewarded. He broke
from his reminiscing at the sound of the latch, and shifted himself
to a parade rest stance, forcing his face to take on a passive,
disinterested expression, one more suitable for meeting with a
prince.
    Michael entered without
ceremony. He was a fairly tall man, though not as tall as Yazid, and
rail thin, with the hawkish features and dark, brooding stare that
all his family bore. He was dressed only in simple black pants and
shirt, unarmed, his long dark hair loose and flowing halfway down
his back. His pointed, well trimmed beard fairly bristled as he
glared at Yazid with undisguised annoyance.
    “You’re a tenacious
bastard, Yazid,” he said by way of greeting, and extended a
dark, calloused hand.
    Yazid extended his own even
darker and larger hand, and gripped Michael’s firmly. “Ilaweh
teaches us patience through frustration,” he said with a
smile, pleased with his victory
    Michael withdrew his hand with
a nod, and took up his own parade rest stance. “What is it you
want, Prelate?”
    “You are avoiding me.”
    “So I am. But only
because I have no time, and your wild fantasies take away from more
important things.”
    Yazid nodded toward Michael
with a scowl. “That much is clear from your dress. What could
be more pressing that my ‘fantasy’, as you would call
it? Is not warfare a matter of import with you, these days?”
    “Aye, warfare is of
greatest import. Real warfare, not this half-baked prophesy of dead gods and emperors
walking the earth again.” Micheal’s gaze shifted to the
window a moment, his eyes scanning the burning sands as if searching
for hidden enemies. “You know damned well that the Jacynth
issue is at a boiling point. If my father does not act soon—“
    “It is a matter of
proportion, surely.”
    “Proportion?”
Michael snapped his attention back to Yazid. “I’ll tell
you about proportion. The women are in revolt! My own wife has
banned me from our marriage bed as a coward.