Chapter 29
I take a lurching step forward, not even sure what I’m planning to do.
Ivander grabs my arm just as Alana shrieks.
Bodies race from the hallways off the main staircase and entryway.
Men and women, maybe seven of them, rush past my father and toward us.
I don’t recognize any of them, but their tunics and trousers are frayed and dirty.
Their lips are cracked and their hair is brittle and half-washed.
I can’t imagine any of these people are guests.
Ivander draws his knife just as Gray draws his own. I fumble inside my coat for the dagger Ivander gave me. My fingers close around the hilt as Alana screams again. This time it’s a raw, unrestrained, gasping scream that rattles my core. She falls to her knees, hitting the wood floor with a thunk.
Her voice cuts off. I look over my shoulder at her, watching her face go blank. She must have tried to alter their emotions. Her hands shake, but her lips move as she tries to speak. “In pain…” she gasps. “Don’t hurt them.”
I don’t know if she’s talking to us or the group of people rushing us, but I don’t have time to figure it out. At first, I assumed they weren’t armed, but now I see they’re better armed than we are. They have pistols on their belts, ready to use if their bare fists aren’t enough.
Ivander shouts, ducking between me and a shifter woman’s claws.
Her exposed skin has transformed into some type of armor, and lethal spikes protrude from her joints, her entire body a weapon.
The resounding crack of her bones as she shifts echoes through the entry room.
Ivander can’t seem to puncture her armored skin with his knife, and with Alana on her knees and more of these raging Morphics racing toward us, it’s clear we aren’t going to escape.
How do we protect ourselves if we can’t hurt them?
Ivander finally draws blood from one of the girl’s nostrils, and she howls in pain.
A man swings his fist at Ivander, but Ivander ducks easily, spine as flexible as water. He whirls behind the man and lands a kick squarely between his kidneys. But there are too many of them, and Alana’s warning flashes in my mind.
Gray drops his knife, perhaps unwilling to use a blade against flesh.
Why isn’t he fighting? With a sense of foreboding crawling up my spine, I turn my palms face up, willing a spirit to come to our aid. The silvery tendrils of glowing mist spring from my fingertips as a low voice rumbles, “Don’t let her summon!”
Cuffs clamp around my wrists, the engraved symbols blocking my gift like a physical wall.
We’re overrun. There must be ten of them now. Two women haul Alana to her feet. Alana blinks hard, regaining the panic she lost from her Morphia. “What … What’s going on?”
“Stay calm,” Ivander cautions. He doesn’t struggle against his own cuffs and the men holding him in place. The trembling of his fingers is the only thing that gives away his fear.
With all four of us cuffed now, held by men and women who smell of damp earth and soiled clothes, I stand rigid and powerless. My father looks back at me, hands jammed into the pockets of his oversized coat.
Despite my repulsion at the sticky, lukewarm skin touching mine, I stop struggling.
This man holding me captive and taking my only ability to defend myself is still my father.
I want to understand him. So, I wait. We’re at his mercy, even if we don’t know why.
Gray shifts beside me. Three men hold him in place, but he isn’t going anywhere either.
Right now, we all want answers more than freedom.
Father sighs. “I knew this day would come,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s so much harder than I thought it would be. So much harder.”
I take a deep breath. “Why don’t you start with the biggest lie you told me?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Maybe Eliza could stand here with her lips pressed in a tight frown, but that’s not me. She was always good at holding her ground with our parents, composed and regal. But I fight even when I have nothing but words to fight with.
Father inclines his head to me. He holds up his hand and motions for one of our captors to step forward. He whispers in the man’s ear, and the man retreats down the hall in the direction of Father’s study.
I exchange a look with Ivander, unease pulling my gaze to his.
His eyes reflect the same cautious curiosity in mine.
The man returns with Father’s cauldron, fire-building materials, and bottles of ingredients clutched in his arms. The smell of ground herbs, earthy insects, and pungent liquids singes my nostrils.
“I can show you,” Father says.“It would be best for you to see the truth. Then, you’ll understand why. ”
He drags a nearby chair in front of us and positions himself before the cauldron. I used to sit in that chair on rainy days and watch through the window as Hawks trekked through the mud. The memory feels so far away now.
The man who carried the materials builds a small, contained fire beneath the cauldron.
My eyes burn when I think of how many times I’ve watched my father work with complete trust and admiration.
Fear holds me tighter than my captors as I wait for his next words.
“I think I’ll begin with the lie I’ve been telling the longest. You deserve to hear the truth before you see it.
” Father draws a breath but meets my eyes as he continues, “What you know about our family—what the world knows—most of it’s a lie.
The Celestial cruise ship had a purpose, just not the one we shared with Tamarynth at the time. ”
Father’s eyes drop from mine and fall to his potion.
He sprinkles herbs, thyme and sage, into the base liquid.
He pours a vial of deep purple liquid into the cauldron and stirs with his hand.
He clears his throat as steam rises. “We Morphics were never going to win the war the first time. The conflict brewing between Morphics and non-Morphics was too great. Two centuries ago, they’d killed too many of us.
We didn’t have the numbers nor a unifying leader to overcome that.
So, my great-grandfather put a stop to it. ”
So far, the story sounds the same. Mostly.
A Damarcus put a stop to the war, but I always thought it was because he didn’t want it.
Not because the Morphics couldn’t win. It’s like someone’s pressed a cube of ice to the back of my neck, letting the freezing trail of water slide down my spine.
But I continue to hold my head high. Just the way I’ve been taught.
Father continues but dumps crushed bone into the cauldron as he speaks.
There’s something ominous about the off-white powder as it plinks into the boiling liquid.
“He came up with an idea that allowed his home realm of Tamarynth to keep Morphics for society’s use but didn’t let us get too powerful.
The council saw his invention of the trials and the work sentence on the Celestial as the perfect way to keep Morphics in line.
The ship he funded would entertain people with magic and keep Morphia contained, away from the land of Tamarynth.
After all, what harm is a keg of magic floating on the sea? ”
He chuckles without true mirth. His eyes dart to mine and away again, as if he wants to gauge my reaction but is too afraid of what he’ll find.
“Spokesman Armeris knew he needed menders and crafters. Even saw uses for emotives and enhancers. The council especially saw the need for alchemers—the need to keep them close.”
“We know this. So what was the real purpose for it?” Gray asks, voice low and cold.
Gray never talks to Father this way. Father’s brows raise, but he inclines his head.
He continues to stir the boiling potion, faster now.
“The Celestial wasn’t supposed to contain Morphia and Morphics forever.
Only for a time. Only until someone from our family—a Morphic—was strong enough to use it. ”
Use it? I’ve never heard anything about using the ship. If my great-grandfather didn’t want Morphia contained, what was he storing it for?
Father motions with his free hand to me.
“Our ancestor decided we would play their game for a time, until we were ready to wage our own war. One we would be certain to win. This time, we would have an army and so much Morphia at our disposal that we couldn’t lose.
That ship is a powder keg ready to explode. ”
My head’s spinning. “You want a war. Our family legacy is creating some massive weapon for a war we only pretended to stop? I thought we wanted peace.”
Father shakes his head, anger in his voice for the first time. “This wasn’t peace, Roe.”
Ivander clears his throat, voice placatingly calm. “You mentioned an army. What army?”
My father’s black brows knit together as he stirs.
He plucks a few loose strands from his own hair and sprinkles them into the liquid.
“Malachite Prison has become more than a holding cell for Morphics. It’s become my army.
When the Hawks deliver Morphic prisoners, I keep them there.
They’ll be my soldiers—my generals—for the next war.
My ancestors continued this tradition for centuries, waiting for enough time to pass, for a Damarcus strong enough to use that army to come along.
Regrettably, too many died waiting for that fateful day. I’m not going to wait any longer.”
Gray throws himself against the men holding him in place.
He strains against his cuffs, gritting his teeth hard as he tries to get to Lord Damarcus.
I’ve never seen Gray this temple-throbbing, red-faced angry.
“You didn’t forbid Hawks from entering for their own safety.
You’re using the prisoners. Hurting them. ”
Lord Damarcus shakes his head fiercely. “No, none of them are hurt. I use a potion to keep them … calm. In a sort of trance.”
That’s when I realize who our attackers are. The ragged people holding us in place are prisoners, Morphic prisoners. Their glassy-eyed stares and mindless obedience … Father’s potion. I wonder if that’s the potion he’s brewing now, one he intends to use on us.
“You’re using them without giving them a choice,” Ivander says, coming to the same conclusion. “How does that make you better than anyone else on the council?”
Lord Damarcus flexes the fingers of his free hand, examining a black opal ring on his pinky finger.
It’s an heirloom from one of his grandparents.
I was always proud to see him wear it. Proud of our legacy.
Every day since I arrived at the Celestial has chipped away at that pride, leaving nothing more than a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Yes,” Father admits, then goes on without answering the second question.
“But it will be worth it when the world looks different. Morphics should be the highest in society. We should make the council.” A tear trickles down his cheek, and he lets it fall into the potion.
He blinks several times and more fall. I’ve rarely seen my father’s tears, but seeing them now disgusts me.
As if hearing the thoughts in my mind, his eyes flick to me.
He holds my gaze. “Making that happen became more important than anything. Than anyone.”
Than me. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking it.
“I believed in this enough to make my son part of it.”
Father pauses, and every nerve in my body tingles like my skin’s on fire. He can’t mean—
“Leith’s going to be my general.”