Chapter 51
Blade
Blade wondered why people so feared the ghosts of the past when they could just as easily fear the ones already present.
It was clear he was in a vision, a dream. His father had scolded him enough over the years for his lack of attention that Blade had trained himself to fixate on every word, every detail, in case he was asked to repeat something. Anything to avoid the shame he’d feel when he was wrong.
So he was certain now: Moira was no librarian, her game that of the mind, so Blade reminded himself to stay sharp as he watched his father, a grayer version than the last Blade had seen, entering King Benedict’s office, slamming papers down with a fervent cry of, “You’re finished.”
His father was seething in a way Blade had never seen. His stern face was red with anger, his fists clenched, every muscle in his face strained. They strained somehow further when Benedict smiled. “Now, now, Iven. Let us not be hasty. Come, have a drink.”
“You attacked Massacre Manor. Twice. My son could have been in the cross fire, you self-serving bastard.”
His father’s accusation, and the fear in his voice as he said it, forced Blade back a step, his mouth parting, his heart picking up pace at his shock.
He wondered if his father was saying it merely for his benefit…
until Benedict went to open a window and practically walked right through him, and Blade realized the king couldn’t see him.
Meaning neither could his father.
So that fear, that protectiveness was real?
“Rest assured I had my reasons for those attacks.” Benedict folded his arms, staring out at the kingdom.
“I don’t care any longer. When we began this farce, you swore to me it wouldn’t go this far.”
Benedict turned abruptly, grabbing Iven by the neck. On a cry, Blade ran for them, reaching out and touching…nothing. He could only watch.
Horrified, Blade began yelling, “It’s not real. I know it’s not real.”
A voice whispered above, “I do nothing but reveal.”
His father clawed for Benedict’s eyes, but the king held him in place. “It is tiresome for you to grow a conscience this late in the game, Iven.” Then he released the man like he’d just patted him on the back, looking unruffled. “Lest I make your son remember it for you.”
Blade’s chest heaved.
Iven held up the clutched papers. “Keep my son out of this. Or these will find their way into the news pamphlets tomorrow.”
When Benedict reached for the papers, Iven straightened his shoulders, looking prouder than he had a moment ago. “I’ve made copies already. And if anything happens to me or my son, they go to the public.”
Benedict’s face transformed—into amusement. “Very well. Do your worst.”
What?
Had his father found the most useless bit of blackmail in history? Bend to my will, Benedict! Or the world learns the truth about your sock fetish!
“You don’t care if the kingdom finds out you’re putting their tax contributions into a curse?”
Blade gulped. Sorry, Pops. Great blackmail.
Several Valiant Guards filed in just then, but Benedict signaled them to stay at the doors. “It won’t matter much what any of them think soon. Why should I pretend to care any longer?”
It was one thing, Blade thought, to suspect someone in power was evil. It was another entirely to see it plainly and boldly spoken from their mouth. To know the depth of their damage to the world was already done.
Funny. How this moment appeared to be the first thing in recent memory that Blade and his father agreed on.
Just as Iven turned to storm out of the room, everyone froze, and Blade heard a voice calling to him. “Wish for your father’s love and respect. And it shall be yours.”
“What?” Blade looked around for the source of the sound, but there was nothing, just the frozen scene before him.
“If your father truly loved you, he’d be aiding your cause. He would be an ally instead of an enemy adjacent. You could know what it is to have a parent accept you the way you are.”
Ouch. “Was the last part necessary?” Blade yelled with an accusatory finger.
The voice paused for a beat. “You’re right. That was mean.”
Blade snapped his fingers, vindicated. “It was mean!”
“You still have to decide, I’m afraid, Mr. Gushiken.”
“No.” Blade paused. “I don’t need that from my father any longer.”
“You don’t want it?”
Blade rubbed a hand down his face. “Well, of course I want it. How can I expect to have a working heart without a small piece of it always wanting a parent’s love?
But I’m an adult. I have my people. I don’t need to wish for anyone’s love when I’m freely given it.
” He smiled to himself, murmuring, “Rebecka.”
“All right then,” the voice said, sounding lively. “Well done.”
With another whoosh of air, Blade was launched forward, released by a canopy of vines, only to find himself face-first on the office floor.
“Rebecka?” Blade shot up, searching for her immediately. “Tatianna? Clare? Kingsley?”
“Blade!”
“Clare!” Blade shouted when he heard her.
The other three, he realized, were still being held up by the same vines that had confined him, eyes closed, faces pinched as they each seemed to work through their own nightmares.
Clare looked him over like he’d just returned home from battle, a ghastly expression on her face.
“I’m okay. I passed.” Blade put a hand on her arm. He and Clare had never had much cause for deep interactions, but he’d been around her enough to recognize the unrest in her dark eyes. It triggered brotherly protectiveness in him on Trystan’s behalf.
“I know.” Clare was distraught, the words drawn out of her twisting mouth as she returned to watching the others.
Blade was not certain why he was suddenly on the verge of panic, but here he was, leaning over the edge. “How? Did Moira tell you?”
Rebecka, eyes still closed, flinched suddenly from her perch inside the vines’ embrace. Blade reached for her, then yelped when a thorny branch struck him on the arm. “Ouch!”
“I know because Moira told me the truth,” Clare explained, her hand pressed to her mouth, trying to speak between shallow breaths. “If you do not pass, you do not—”
She stopped, and then she looked at Blade with a grimness that could kill hope faster than a knife.
“You do not live.”