by Trish Mercer
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Salem’s amphitheater was packed that night, which meant over thirty-thousand people came to remember Dormin, last in the line of the kings.
Rector Yung spoke, as did Asrar Hifadhi, Guide Gleace, and Shem. Songs were sung. Stories were told. Even gentle laughter filled the air on occasion.
But seated as far back and inconspicuously as possible, Salem’s five newest refugees were miserable. Sure, they smiled at appropriate moments, pretended to know the words when everyone else sang, and bowed their heads during the prayers.
But Perrin could barely move. Although he’d been invited to address Salem, he couldn’t. He’d said that he didn’t want to detract from the focus on Dormin, but the hard truth was that in the pit of his stomach he felt that Dormin’s death was his fault. It was the same churning he felt when he learned his father had ordered the execution of King Oren, a sense that being able to put someone to death was far too much power for any man, and one of the many reasons Perrin never wanted to be High General.
But this was even worse. Dormin wasn’t forced to die. Perrin had a suspicion—perhaps whispered to him by Dormin himself—that he had willingly given himself up.
And that act was far braver than Perrin Shin would ever be. He didn’t belong in Salem. He didn’t deserve this city to regard him as their general. He was wholly inadequate and nowhere near to being the man they hoped he’d be.
But he had to become that man, in honor of the bravest one they’d already lost.
Chapter 20--“Seems . . . there was a lot more going on than any of us realized.”