CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Our heritage we can recite until our breath

runs low and tongues go dry.

The ancestors are not deaf to our plight.

But we must craft a legacy worthy of

their scrutiny.

—THE HARMONY OF BEING

The rumbling of the vehicle’s wheels over the pockmarked street jarred Varten’s bones. His father sat across from him on a bench, Elsiran Royal Guardsmen boxing him in on either side. The auto, a wagon-like contraption, seated eight and drove down the steep inclines from the palace to the city’s center.

After he’d fled from Zeli and the obelisk, Varten moped for a day until Papa had finally insisted he do something useful. Accompanying his father in his post-attack clean-up efforts seemed like a better idea than sitting in their apartment all day trying not to remember the look on Zeli’s face when he ran away.

The truck rumbled to a stop across from a grassy square bordered by benches. In the city, things were slowly getting back to normal. People were out walking, shops were open, autocars peppered the street along with carts and horses. This section hadn’t been hit as hard as the Portside neighborhood. But on the corner, the windows of a bank were boarded up, showing it hadn’t been spared, either. Was that damage from the wraiths or from looters? There had been reports of thievery during the panic of the attack and its aftermath.

Now, Papa and other Earthsinger volunteers were already planning for the True Father’s next blitz. As Varten climbed out of the wagon, a flatbed truck came around the corner with several young men standing up in back.

“Be a helper, get to shelter! We can win if you go in! Be a helper, get to shelter!” The lads shouted in unison, holding painted signs echoing the message. One rang a handbell, punctuating their words.

With the electricity in most of the city still out, newspapers and radio broadcasts remained unavailable, so the message was being spread the old-fashioned way.

“Those are Zann Biddel’s men?” Varten asked as the truck passed by.

“It seems so,” his father said.

“He’s holding up his end, then.”

“Hmm,” was Papa’s only reply. He stood pensive until the truck disappeared from view, then shook himself and turned toward the building they stood in front of. The massive, three-story structure took up the whole block, a sign reading OLIVESSE’S written in decorative script over the wide entry.

“What are we doing here?” Varten asked.

“They’ve applied to be an emergency shelter. Some of the existing ones in this area were damaged yesterday. Apparently, this department store has a large basement space and the owner is willing to accommodate people. I’ve been asked to review the location and meet some new volunteers, Earthsingers willing to protect non-Singers.”

Varten had never been inside such a large store, he hadn’t had to do much shopping since arriving in Rosira—clothes seemed to appear in his closet as if by magic. Though logic told him that Usher, the valet, and his staff must have been responsible. The store was closed for lack of power, but a uniformed guard at the door let them in without a word. A harried-looking woman rushed over to them.

“Master ol-Sarifor? You’re the Singer they sent, right? Oh dear, do you speak Elsiran?” She turned to Varten and raised her voice, slowing her speech. “Does he understand me?”

Papa and Varten shared a look. “I speak Elsiran,” Papa replied.

“Oh, thank the Sovereign.” She placed a hand on her chest, her relief almost comical. “Our owner is eager to join the safety effort. He especially wants to meet you Master ol-Sarifor.” Papa’s brows rose.

They followed the woman who carried an electric flashlight to light the way through the darkened store. She never bothered to introduce herself and led them down row after row of clothes on racks and then past a wall displaying kitchen appliances, the purpose of most of which Varten couldn’t begin to imagine. Finally they went down an aisle that led to a hallway, impenetrable by the light’s weak beam.

“Sir?” the woman called out into the darkness.

“Thank you, that will be all,” a deep voice replied. A buzzing sound preceded a bright flash of light that illuminated the space. A work light on a stand was attached to a battery pack of some kind. It took a moment for Varten’s eyes to adjust, but the woman’s footsteps were already heading away.

Standing before them was a tall Elsiran man, quite a bit older than Papa. Varten had never seen him before, but he seemed somehow familiar.

“Do you know who I am?” the man intoned.

Varten shook his head; Papa didn’t respond at all.

“My name is Marvus Zinadeel.” He peered down his nose at them, obviously expecting a reaction.

Varten swallowed and nearly took a step back. But he stood his ground next to his father as his grandfather scrutinized them, the man’s expression appraising.

“What do you want?” Papa asked slowly.

Zinadeel took a step forward, but Papa raised a hand, holding him off. The older man chuckled and halted. A swarm of banked fury rushed through Varten’s veins. This was the man who had abandoned his mother, ignored his sister when she was left alone to fend for herself. Tried to steal their home out from under her. Varten fisted his hands to stop their shaking.

His grandfather peered at them carefully in turn before rocking back on his heels. “I find it fascinating what a crisis will do to men. Times like these, times of trial tend to put certain things into perspective.” He crossed his arms and tapped fingers against his biceps. Varten recognized the mannerism as one he did all the time. He vowed then and there to never do it again.

“I have made … mistakes,” Zinadeel continued. “I can admit to that. I had two beautiful daughters and wanted only the best for them. As any father would.”

Papa’s nostrils flared and he snorted, but didn’t speak.

“Eminette was such a bright light. I had high hopes for her life.”

Varten couldn’t hold himself back. “She had a good life,” he said. “She was happy and she loved us and she should have had better parents.”

Zinadeel raised a brow. “Maybe you’re right, child. Which one are you?”

“Varten,” he said through clenched teeth.

His grandfather’s gaze skated over him. “Well, Varten, this store represents just a fraction of my life’s work. I have built a small empire. I intended to give it to my children and for them to give it to theirs. Sadly, it appears there will be no more grandchildren. Vanesse does not seem inclined. So I have only you.”

He looked meaningfully at Varten, who shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“You are my heir, child. You and your brother. I have amassed wealth, businesses, investments, properties. I need someone to leave them to. Your sister wants me to have no contact with you, but you are my flesh and blood.”

“You talked to Jasminda?”

“I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. But you are a grown man now, Varten. You don’t need protecting, do you? You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

Next to him, Papa had turned to stone. Zinadeel seemed content to ignore him. So much for being eager to meet him, as his employee had stated.

“And I should accept this, this generosity of yours?” An inappropriate chuckle bubbled up from within him. “These mistakes you’ve made, the ones you haven’t even bothered to apologize for? You expect me to just forget about them? Pretend they never happened?”

Zinadeel sighed as if the questions were greatly disappointing to him. “I did the best I knew how to do at the time. I could not have known how the outcome would … feel.”

Varten shook his head in disbelief.

“What I’m offering you,” the older man continued, “is freedom. Financial freedom and power and independence.”

“I’m a prince of Elsira, haven’t you heard?” Varten replied wryly.

“Purpose then. You’re a prince in name only, but every man needs a purpose, do they not?”

That stopped him short. He felt like he’d been slapped in the face, like somehow his grandfather had seen into his heart and noticed the splinter wedged inside it.

“You could learn to run the business—any of them. All of them. Do with them as you see fit. Is that something that would appeal to you?”

A traitorous part of his heart was tempted. Something of his own, a way to have an impact. He didn’t have magic or wisdom or any particular skill set that was useful, but he could learn, couldn’t he?

Then the reality of what that would truly mean hit. He’d be responsible for countless others, for employees and merchandise and cashflow—people’s livelihoods—all dependent upon him. His shoulders sagged.

Papa placed a hand on his arm and spoke to him in Lagrimari. “You know that I would never keep you from your mother’s family if that is what you want.”

“No, it isn’t what I want. I wouldn’t betray you and Jasminda like that.”

His father’s large hand squeezed him gently. “It isn’t betrayal you’re feeling. It isn’t even anger at him for what he’s done.” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, son.”

“All of that is in there. Somewhere. But he’s only offering this because I’m not a Singer. Because I don’t look like you.”

“Yes, but that’s not why you want to tell him no.” His father’s ability to read emotions had always been alternately a comfort and a curse. He couldn’t decide which one it was at this moment.

“If it weren’t because you thought it would disappoint us, would you say yes?” Papa asked.

Varten’s jaw trembled. “I don’t think so,” he whispered. “It’s too much responsibility. I can’t … I wouldn’t…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to fail all those people.”

“Why do you think you would fail?”

“Because it’s what I do.”

Papa’s brows descended and he leaned in closer. “What are you talking about? You haven’t ever truly failed at something you’ve set your mind to.”

Feelings he’d pushed back for a long time were very close to the surface. Zeli’s face, hurt and disappointed, flashed through his mind. “Yes, I have.”

“No, son. I don’t know what you think—”

“It was my fault!” The words burst out of him. “I wandered away on the mountain the day we were captured. They lured me first. If I hadn’t gone off…” He struggled to get the words out. “Neither you nor Roshon would have fallen for the trap. It was my fault. We were kidnapped and then ended up in a Yalyish prison. How can I think about taking responsibility for strangers, how can I truly accomplish anything, when I failed my own family so badly?” His throat ached from saying the words. His stomach clenched painfully.

Papa closed his eyes on a long blink. When he opened them, he grabbed Varten’s other arm and held him in place. “It was not your fault. It was no one’s fault but those who took us. Blame them. Blame the Goddess for Her interference. Blame me for being in the Goddess’s debt in the first place. You can go on up the chain, trying to find those to hold accountable.”

Varten shook his head and tried to look away, but his father forced him to hold his gaze with gentle pressure on his chin. “You chose to try to help when you heard a voice calling in distress. You didn’t know it was a trap.”

“I should have,” Varten spat.

Papa breathed deeply. “Guilt and shame are like cancers. They multiply and destroy everything in their path. Anger, too. Resentment. That’s why I would not blame you if you wanted to take your grandfather up on his offer. Regardless of all he’s done. Apology or not, when you do a wrong you should try to make it right if you can. If you can’t, you pay it forward. That is what I believe and how I’ve tried to live my life.”

His father’s steadying hands and calm voice made it easier for Varten to breathe deeply. He tried to ingest his words. “We all make mistakes,” Papa continued. “That’s part of being human. But letting the cancer of the past eat away at you hurts you the most.” He tapped a finger on Varten’s chest, over his heart. “Right here.”

Varten nodded, feeling the ache in that organ more acutely now.

“You know what will help?”

“What?”

“Forgiveness. I can sense a man’s heart and his intentions. And the most powerful act that someone can take is to forgive.”

Varten sniffed. “Is that why you didn’t punch my grandfather on sight?”

Papa snorted. “I don’t want Jasminda to have to grant me a royal pardon.” He smiled sadly. “Do you think you can forgive yourself? Because I never blamed you. Roshon never blamed you. It was just you holding on to this sickness, which has only done you harm.”

His limbs felt heavy. He was cognizant of his grandfather just a few paces away, unable to understand their words, but listening with growing impatience. He put the man from his mind again. “How do I forgive myself?”

“You let it go.” Papa raised his hands, fingers spread wide and waggling.

Varten froze. “Let it go,” he whispered. “Lay down your burdens.” It was what Gilmer had told Zeli about sacrificing her fear.

Papa nodded. “Yes, your guilt is a burden. You need to release it.”

Zinadeel cleared his throat. “You realize I’m a very busy man.”

Varten held up a hand absently to stop him.

“Now see here, you—” His voice cut off with a strangle. When Varten looked up, his grandfather was gripping his throat, moving his mouth without anything coming out.

Papa looked smug. “Forgiveness doesn’t have to be immediate, and I don’t think we need to hear any more from him do we?”

“No,” Varten said. “I don’t think we do.” His mind was racing, making connections that he wasn’t fully conscious of yet, but something was forming—an idea. Gilmer’s words, Zeli’s face, his own guilt. It all meshed together in a swirl in his head, but was formulating into something more solid.

“I need to go back to the palace.”

“All right,” Papa said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, stay and do what you came for. I think … I think I have an idea.”

He turned to Zinadeel, whose face was turning purple with frustration at not being able to speak. Whatever Papa had done to silence him was obviously enraging the man. Varten spoke to his grandfather in Elsiran.

“I think one day I will try to forgive you. I don’t know if you’ll deserve it or not. But I do. My sister and my father and my brother deserve to be free of the weight you left us with. I think Mama would want that, too—for us to forgive you. One day.”

He stepped closer to the man. “If you need to leave your wealth and businesses to someone, leave it to the poor. Leave it to people who need it. I don’t want it. My brother doesn’t, either. We don’t want anything to do with you.” His chest was heaving and he felt like he’d just run up a hundred flights of stairs.

“Eminette deserved better,” Papa said quietly. “I did my best to give her everything, so she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out, choosing us over you. Choosing me over you. And I have no doubt that I would do it again.”

With a final nod, Varten turned to leave with Papa right behind him. As they reached the front doors of the store, they heard Zinadeel’s voice bellowing, Papa’s spell now lifted. Varten didn’t catch the words, but it didn’t matter. He never needed to hear his grandfather’s voice again.

Outside, the street seemed quieter than it had been a half hour before. He needed to get back to the palace, back to Zeli, where he should have been all along. He was just figuring out how to do that when the emergency alarm began to blare.