Chapter 84

Harold sighed deeply, the mask slipping for a moment to reveal the depth of his concern. He looked into his glass, as if searching for the right words within the amber liquid.

"Your father...he's been missing for longer than he said he would be. We've had no word from him, no communication at all. It's not like him, you know that. He's always kept us informed of his whereabouts."

I stood there, absorbing this. I don't know how to express my feelings, even after all those long years, the memory of that moment isn't clear to me. The corporeal elements are crisp: Harold, his sincerity, the fire crackling quietly, the smells of flowers, the hint of smoke. That is all very crystal to me.

You'll judge me, I'm sure, and I won't blame you, but my emotions weren't clear. I know it should have been a deep spear of worry, but it was more nuanced than that. It's hateful to say it, but I don't know how much I loved my father. He had barely been a presence in my life, and when he had been, it had been to drive me, direct me, scold, scorn me, use me. The only version of love I ever remember from my father was a reward for succeeding—when my tutors reported favorably, when I won a sparring contest, when he could see me progressing in line with his goals. He was important to me; for most of my existence, his approval had been the focus of my existence, the quest to acquire it, the impossible task of retaining it.

Harold mistook my expression for shock, I think. He rose and breached the curtain of formality, a rarity for him. He put his free hand on my shoulder and looked into my face. "I'm sorry, Tiberius. I shouldn't have said anything. Your father is resourceful beyond measure. He has achieved more in a lifetime than many noble lines will ever manage."

I said, "Could the Horde have come back?"

Harold hesitated, then said, "The Horde only comes with a storm, and a storm comes with warnings. It might be impossible for common people to escape the path of a storm moving quickly, but you know what he's like—contingencies upon contingencies. He'd always have access to escape, know where Griidlords were in the area, have prearranged contracts to get passage with them."

"And yet, you're still worried," I said.

Harold stuttered for a moment, then smiled softly. "You're more like him than you know."

Harold loved my father. He meant this as a compliment. I thought of the ruthlessness of the man who had sired me and felt no pride at the comment. I thought of what had happened earlier, as I flared my shield and nearly sent Lauren to her death, how I'd ended the Choosing for both her and Katya. Was that the apple not falling far from the uncompromisingly ambitious tree?

I glanced around the parlor, the familiar surroundings offering no comfort. The weight of the day's events, the strain of the competition, and now this uncertainty about my father—all of it pressed down on me. I took a deep breath and looked Harold in the eyes.

He seemed to wake up then, his face becoming horrified. He said, "Young master Tiberius, what happened to you?"

I saw his eyes rake over me, and realized the state I must be in after helping with the aftermath of Magneblade dueling with Danefer. Harold said, "Your clothes, you're covered in soot and ash. What have you been doing?"

I said, "There... there was a fight..."

He said, "A fight? Where? With whom? Are you hurt?"

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"No, I'm not hurt," I replied. "But there was a fight in the city, near the second sector. Magneblade and Danefer... they clashed. It was chaos, Harold. I was caught in the middle of it."

Harold's eyes widened with disbelief. "Danefer?”

The reality of everything that had happened, the unreality, the pressure, the horror, the carnage—it all came crashing down on me. I wanted to weep. I could feel the emotions welling up inside of me like an icy geyser. My body wanted to cry. My face wanted to melt. But that's not how I'd been raised. That's not how I wanted Harold to see me. I held it in check, barely.

With glassy eyes, I said, "THE Danefer... He said he was the actual Danefer."

Harold could see how threatened my psyche was. He said, "But... Tiberius, that can't be..."

I said, "You should have seen the gear he was wearing, Harold... He went toe-to-toe with Magneblade, got licks in even, held him off... There's an entire street in ruins... There were people there... children..."

Harold's brow folded down, his own eyes grew a sheen as he watched me. He reached out and actually put an arm around me. This was an exceptional gesture from the reserved older man. I've described him as the real parental figure in my life, as the only real source of love and warmth I knew growing up, but you need to bear in mind that he has always held himself in perfectly professional detachment, always formal.

When your greatest source of parental affection is a highly reserved and unemotional butler... well, maybe that goes a long way to explaining how fucked up I was... how fucked up I still am... but nonetheless, he held me, however briefly. It did nothing to console me. And it did everything.

Hours later, I was pacing the landing outside my bedroom. I had tried sleeping; I desperately needed to sleep. Not only was I exhausted from, you know, THE CHOOSING, but I was mentally and physically shot from the cascade of events with Danefer. I would be competing again in the morning. I could feel my fatigue building on itself with each sleepless minute, an anxiety rising in me that, after everything I had done, everything the voice had done, the surprises we'd inflicted on our opponents, on the whole city, rising at last to cement myself as THE favorite in the competition... that I could be doomed by sleeplessness, that my fatigue would compile into enough mistakes and failures the next day to bring everything crashing down. But I couldn't sleep. My mind was a whirl. There was always the anxiety of what the next day of the Choosing would bring. But now my mind was a tempest, thoughts of my father and Danefer whipping past behind my eyes, memories of the carnage after Danefer's battle with Magneblade, a mother screaming the name of a child, a baker staring heartbroken at the ruins of his business. And raining on top of all of it were the unbanishable notions Danefer had set seed in my brain, the idea that the fabric of our understanding of the universe might be a lie.

If I didn't sleep, I was going to be toast. The mental interface with the suit would not be kind to a mind addled by lack of sleep. As I stood on the landing, mind burning with all of this, Harold appeared, gliding up the stairs. Well, gliding was his usual modus of movement, but at this point, there was a certain whiskey-induced lack of grace. He wasn't drunk, not by any means—the house could sink into the depths of hell, and Harold still wouldn't let himself be seen that way—but he was a little impaired.

He saw me, his eyes widened minutely in surprise, and he said, "Young master, what are you doing? You need to be asleep... you need to rest."

I shook my head, burning with frustration, and said, "I've tried. I can't. There's too much in here." I tapped my head.

Harold paused for a minute, considering me, then extended a hand. I hadn't noticed, but he had been carrying a laden glass of whiskey with him. He said, "You've been through a lot today, young master. The Choosing itself is enough of a trial that it amazes me you can rest so easily, but everything else that's crossed your path today... Have a nip, young master, to take the edge off."

I looked at the glass, hesitated, and said, "A hangover would be as bad as sleeplessness for the contest."

Harold said, "Just a few nips, enough to ease yourself, to take the sharpness off your mind. You'll see..."

I took the glass and stared into the amber depths. This was my father's medicine. But my brain screamed with fatigue, with the frustration of not having yet found the oblivion of sleep. My chest hammered with the worries of everything that had unfolded, with the worry of what would happen if I didn't find sleep...

I took a sip, felt the ache seeping into my bones and the odd unwinding of the tension in my brain...

So I took another sip...

Using alcohol to soothe a mental ailment, that was never a bad idea, right?