Chapter 29 #2
The door is locked when I twist the knob.
“Let me in, Haven,” I say.
I expect her to refuse, but the lock switches and she steps out. Her eyes are red and swollen.
I pull her back inside and lock the door. The wallpaper is a soothing wash of green, and a wide-eyed doe watches us between the slender stalks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly. “Who cares about Warrick and his stupid taunts?”
“I just…I hate him so much,” she says. Her lips tremble. “Every day, I wish it were him and not her. How is it fair that he gets to live while she doesn’t?”
She speaks of her mother. The memory of her father killing her must haunt her. Haven ran up on that stage to stop her. I remember thinking she was young. Younger than me. And she didn’t deserve to lose a parent so viciously.
“You can’t let him get to you,” I say gently.
She takes a deep breath. “I know.”
It seems insensitive to bring up her and Sullivan’s relationship. So, I let it drop. For now.
I offer her my hand.
“Come on. Let me introduce you to my father. Fair warning, I don’t think he’s any better than yours.”
She places her hand in mine, steeling her shoulders.
I dread presenting Haven to my father. If he criticizes her, I won’t be able to resist defending her, and I know how he feels about being weak. He will see her as a flaw. A distraction.
In politics, wives are used as tools to perfect one’s image. They aren’t to be cherished or adored. The Supreme Director is much like Orson Warrick, stony-hearted, cunning, and cold, except he holds far more power than Warrick.
I lead Haven towards him, my hand steady on her lower back. My father stands with a few members of the Council. When his abyss-black eyes reach mine, he waves a hand dismissing them, and they scurry like ants.
Even though the Council of the Director was established to ensure that one person didn’t run the country, and that power was distributed evenly, the truth of it is that my father rules them. Every vote turns in his favor. Every legislation is passed by his will alone.
The Council is nothing but a bunch of lazy Gifted who hang onto his words and, in return, are rewarded with wealth and land.
“Endymion,” my father says by way of greeting.
I flinch at my full name. I haven’t heard it in a long time. Not since I changed it at the Civil Center.
“Ender,” I correct.
He ignores me and turns to face Haven.
“Supreme Director,” I say formally. “May I present Haven Warrick?”
His gaze slides to her, hard and unyielding. It is the stare he uses to make people quake in their boots. It usually works, but Haven does not flinch, and I resist the urge to smile down at her.
“So,” he says. His voice is as smooth as a honed blade. “You are Warrick’s daughter.”
Haven inclines her head and presses a fist to her chest.
“Yes, sir.”
“It is a shame that you are not a Gifted, but it was to be expected when Orson coupled with a lowly Common,” he says.
“Powers are often passed down through bloodlines. I expected someone stronger to stand by Ender. A woman who could provide him with Gifted offspring worthy of carrying the Vale name. An equal.”
I reach for Haven’s hand and tighten my hold. She stiffened when he insulted her mother, and I know how she reacts under pressure. That quick tongue of hers races before her mind can catch up. My father will not appreciate her smart words as I do.
“She is stronger than she looks,” I say, the edge in my voice unmistakable.
He doesn’t know. He wasn’t there on the training field, watching her spit blood into the dirt and square her shoulders to fight her opponents. He didn’t see the glint in her eyes as she fought men twice her size. Or watch her kill to survive.
She possesses the kind of courage even seasoned soldiers do not bear. She is the strongest person I know, and nobody should dare to tell her otherwise. Not when she stands by my side.
My father’s attention shifts to me. Cold and appraising. He isn’t impressed by my words or by the defiance in my eyes. He will never understand why I just defended her, because to him, emotions are a weakness.
He steps closer. Too close. I resist the urge to move Haven behind me.
That would be a mistake. My father would read it as confirmation that I care.
He doesn’t understand that I am protecting him from her.
Haven is not the weak creature he assumes she is, and I won’t let her temper damn her.
He won’t hesitate to lock her up if he thinks she is a bad influence on me.
I am his only child. His legacy. His future.
And he won’t fail to punish me if he thinks that I’ve lost sight of the prize.
“Standing beside my son is an honor,” he says, staring down at her. His coal-black eyes dare her to defy him. “Remember your place.”
“I’m aware,” Haven says. She surprises me next when she adds. “I know how special he is.”
His gaze drops to our joined hands, and a cold fist settles in my gut.
“Endymion, walk with me,” he says.
I release Haven’s hand with great reluctance. I can feel the guest’s eyes on us as the Supreme Director wraps an arm around my shoulder. It feels fatherly, but I can feel the grip of his fingers, sinking into my flesh like talons. It aches, but I grit my teeth and weather his touch.
“Do you remember when you received your Bind?” he asks calmly.
My eyes flick to his, surprised that he wants to speak about that day. It is a memory I’ve tucked deep in my mind. One that is covered in cobwebs and dust.
“You were always emotional,” he says in a clipped tone. “Weak.”
My mind drifts back to the first time my powers appeared. I had just turned four, and I hadn’t understood them.
I painted illusions for myself: a lush, green field, a small bone-white cottage, a playground with looping slides that curled like the number eight. I had plenty of friends, a wild horse named Lady, and even my parents were different. My mother wasn’t abrasive, and my father wasn’t cold.
I called it the Betterworld.
I would spend hours lost there until the servants told my parents about how I would sit in silence, for hours at a time, just staring at the wall. The staff never saw what I did. Maybe if they had, they would have understood why I remained there and why I never wanted to come back.
They tested me early, and once I was labeled a Class Two Gifted, an Illusionist, it made sense to everyone. I had never seen my father so pleased before.
“You will use your illusions on our enemies, but not on yourself,” my father warned.
The message was clear. I was never to return to the world I built. My safe place. I was to remain in our house under my father’s strict rules and never know a lick of happiness.
“Listen to your father, Endymion,” my mother added. “He knows best.”
“I don’t want to leave the Betterworld,” I shook my head. “You can’t make me.”
“You’re acting like a child,” Father said.
“What is the Betterworld?” Mother asked.
She didn’t care, not really; she just wanted this conversation to end so she could go visit her friends for tea.
“It’s my home,” I said. “Everyone is nice, and we play games, and nobody hurts in the Betterworld. We are happy.”
“Listen to yourself,” Father snapped. “You are an Illusionist who cannot differentiate between what is real and fake. You are a disappointment.”
“My real father loves me!” I shouted. “And I’m never coming back.”
I closed my eyes, and I was in the meadow again.
Far away from my parents and the stark, white walls of my bedroom.
In the distance, my father sat on the porch, a warm smile on his face.
I raced across the distance, reaching for him.
He would hug me and tell me that everything would be okay.
I was so close. I could feel his hands grazing mine.
That was when a painful jab hit my arm, and I woke up to a nightmare. Bright lights flashed above my head. My mother stood in the corner, lips pursed in impatience, while my father hovered above me.
“Welcome back, Endymion,” he said.
Dread crept down my spine. My wrists were shackled to the rail of the bed. I was in a hospital.
“No.” I moaned.
I closed my eyes, but I felt nothing. My powers were gone.
“Your powers were disabled,” he said.
My neck stung, where they placed the implant. The Bind. My skin crawled as I began to thrash. The doctors ran toward me, struggling to contain me. They held a needle. A sedative to put me under.
I hated needles.
“No!”
“Enough,” Mother snapped. “This tantrum is unbecoming. You’ve wasted our valuable time.”
My father grabbed my face, his ring nicked my jaw, and I whimpered at the sudden flash of pain. He wanted to slap me, but there were staff around. So, he squeezed really hard, until my teeth ached.
“Shut it off,” Father barked. “All of it. His emotions, his delusions, his inadequacy. Erase it.”
“He’s young, we recommend waiting until he’s older, this model version is new and sti—”
“Now,” his father roared.
“I’m sorry,” I cried. “I won’t go back there. I promise.”
He leaned down close enough for me to see his eyes. As dark as a moonless night. I felt dizzy looking at him.
“It is too late for promises.”
The memory fades, but the tight knot in my chest doesn’t. I blink, returning to the room and back to him.
He watches me carefully, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s odd how much he looks like me. The same ebony hair, the same face devoid of emotions. The only difference is our eyes. My blue eyes are a gift from my mother.
“You remember how easily you broke before I fixed you,” he says.
I stiffen, instinctively touching the base of my neck, the spot where the Bind rests. I got a prototype one that was never put into production. It was supposed to ‘fix me,’ as my father says, but it didn’t. I am still everything he despises.
“I taught you to always put duty over love, yet you embarrass yourself fawning over that Common.”
“If she is so unworthy of me, why set the engagement?” I ask.
His jaw clenches. I know the answer without him even speaking. It’s Warrick. He has something over him. His silence is confirmation enough.
“Do not question me,” he says. “I will handle this.”
His words make me uneasy. I swallow hard, my hand folding into a fist. The memory of my childhood, the Betterworld, and my freedom haunt me. I don’t want to lose everything again. Not that I have much to cling to this time around.
I was different after. It was hard to picture in what ways because I was so young, but I don’t think I was always like this. Cold, hard, indifferent.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He walks away from me, pasting a bright smile on for a few of his acquaintances, as if he didn’t spend the last five minutes berating and threatening me. And now, it seems he plans to ignore me.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I tense. I glance back to see Haven; her brows are creased.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “That looked intense.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“He seems worse than Warrick,” she says with a wry smile. “I guess you win the award for ‘Worst Father’.”
Her smile eases the tension in my shoulder and wipes away the sting of my father’s harsh words.
“Do you always use your humor as a coping mechanism?”
“Only on days that end in a y.”
My mouth twitches, but I clamp down on it. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she is funny.
A bell tolls, signaling the beginning of dinner.
It’s going to be a long night.