Chapter 15 #2
Her eyes flash silver as she looks up from the papers on her desk.
When she notices it’s me, they fade back to brown, though the warning in them doesn't. My gaze drifts to the portrait behind her of a woman in crimson, face buried in a book, enclosed within a bubble, within another bubble, within another still.
Freida painted it years ago and hung it while Mother was away. I still remember the fury in Mother's voice when she discovered it. And yet, she never took it down. I've always wondered what that means. Whether it's a reminder of something she wants to remember, or something she refuses to forget.
"Close the door."
I do, then cross the room and stop on the opposite side of her desk.
A supplicant's position. You’d think I’d be used to it by now considering how often I’ve stood here over the years, but I hate it.
I hate that every time I stand before her I feel like a scared little girl.
Mother likes to say she’s respected, not feared, by the residents in Veritas, but I don’t think she can differentiate the two.
"Sit."
"No, thank you." I clasp my hands in front of me to keep them from shaking. "Where is Jordi?"
She sets down her pen with the same deliberate calm she uses for everything, the calm that says she has all the time in the world and you have none.
"You know how I feel about stupid questions."
"And you know how I feel about being lied to." I hold her gaze even as her eyes flash silver, even as every instinct screams at me to look away, to bow, to apologize. I swallow and force my shoulders back. "Did you know they were going to take him?"
"I knew they would want to question him."
"And you allowed it?"
Something flickers across her face, too fast to read. "Jordan is exactly where he needs to be."
"Did you know they took him in manacles?" My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "That's a violation of the treaty. They sent silent guards, not legion, not anyone the Order could recognize. They did it while the city was distracted. That's not questioning, that's an abduction."
"The treaty," she says, folding her hands on the desk, "is more nuanced than you understand."
My sigil flares, heat spreading across my chest like a brand. I breathe through it. Shove the anger down the way she taught me, the way all Veritas women are taught.
"When will he come home?"
"When it's time."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your brother is safe." Her voice is perfectly even. Perfectly controlled. "The situation is being handled. That is all you need to know."
I close my eyes. Breathe. When I open them, she's already returned to her papers, as if the matter is settled. As if I've been dismissed.
"Fine." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Then tell me about the laborers. Why are they dying the way they are? Why are they remembering things they traded away?"
Her jaw tightens. The movement is subtle, barely there, but I've spent my whole life learning to read her.
"That is none of your concern."
I stare at her. "How can you say that? I've seen them. I've watched them scream for families they were never supposed to remember."
She looks up, and her eyes flash silver. "Weren't you the one who refused to continue making the elixirs?" Her voice could cut glass. "I think it's a little late to start caring about those laborers now. Don't you?"
I knew she would say it. I've been waiting for it since I walked through the door. It still lands like a knife between my ribs. Without thinking, I reach for the bond. Malachi's presence flickers at the edge of my awareness, warm and steady, and I breathe a little easier.
"So, to be clear,” I say, keeping my voice controlled.
The way she taught me. "You won't tell me where Jordi is.
You won't acknowledge that the Council violated the treaty.
You won't explain why they sent silent guards instead of legion, or why they did it while the city was looking the other way, or why my brother was dragged off in chains like a criminal. "
I study her the way Malachi studies me, searching for cracks in the stone. Her eyes are hard. Her jaw is clenched. But she doesn't look away, and she doesn't answer. Fine. If she won't give me answers, I'll give her truths.
"Come to think of it," I continue, "you've always been good at diverting our attention when something important is happening. The Council learned that trick from someone."
Her eyes flash silver. A warning.
I don't stop.
"Perhaps you taught them. Or perhaps you learned it together."
"It seems to me," she says, her voice dangerously soft, "that you came here with all the answers already in hand. You merely wanted to give me a piece of your mind."
"No." My voice cracks, and I hate it. "I came here hoping I was wrong.
Hoping you didn't know about Jordi. Hoping you would be as outraged as I am that the Council broke the treaty, that they took one of us, that they—" I have to stop.
Swallow the knot forming in my throat. "I came here for help, Mother.
The way I've always come to you for help. "
She says nothing.
"But I see now that was foolish of me."
She rises from her chair with the slow deliberateness of a predator.
She's only a few inches taller than me, but at this moment, she seems to fill the entire room.
The power radiating off her is almost visible, silver flickering at the edges of her irises.
I release my clasped hands and lift my chin.
Hold my ground. Even as every instinct tells me to kneel.
"Everything I have done," she says, "and everything I do, is to protect you. To keep you safe."
"From what?"
"From things you do not need to know about."
I lower my gaze to the desk between us. The papers covered in her elegant script. The seal of Veritas pressed into wax. I think about what Malachi said about gods treating mortals like pawns.
About games that never end. It clicks, then.
The thing I've always known but never let myself name.
To Mother, we will always be children. Pieces to be moved.
Minds to be shaped. She calls it protection, but protection and control wear the same face when you're the one being protected.
We obey because she raised us to believe we have no choice.
This isn't a new realization. The seven of us have whispered about it in dark corners since we were old enough to question anything. But it's never felt this sharp. This urgent.
Mother was never warm like Anala, never gentle like Freida. But she was the one who claimed us. Named herself our guardian. Taught us to embrace our gifts, pushed us to reach our full potential. But what is potential, really, when you're only allowed to grow in the shape of a cage?
It takes everything I have to lift my head again. When I do, I find her seated once more, reading a foreign newspaper as if I've already left. As if this conversation is finished. As if I'm finished. My sigil burns. I’m not.
"I have done everything you asked of me." My voice shakes despite my efforts to steady it. "We all have. We followed your rules. We stayed in our territory. We kept your secrets and swallowed your lies and pretended this cage was a home."
Her eyes lift to mine. Cold. Assessing. I don't stop.
"You promise outsiders safety and acceptance. You tell us to honor the treaty, to stay away from the Council, to trust that you know what's best. And yet when they take one of us, when they drag one of your own to the Keep in chains, you sit behind this desk and do nothing."
My voice breaks. I hate it. I keep going anyway.
"When someone you raised, someone you claimed as family, disappears for three days without a word, you do nothing.
You know nothing. You say nothing." I take a breath that feels like swallowing glass.
"What else will you allow, Mother? How much more will you let them take before you decide it matters? "
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is softer than I've heard it in years. "You have to trust that I have your best interests at heart. That everything I do, I do for you." She meets my eyes. "Your brother is safe. I give you my word. Is that not enough?"
Her word. The same word she's given us a thousand times. The word we were taught to treat as law. I laugh. The sound is shaky, cracked, nothing like humor.
"Not anymore."
I turn away from her. My pulse roars in my ears as I cross to the door, every step feeling like a small rebellion. The Council's doctrine echoes in my head, painted in red letters across the walls of the Keep. Curiosity is a poison.
I pull the door open. If curiosity is poison, then truth is the only antidote. And I intend to find it, no matter what it costs me.