Fireborn

9 ¦ The Dead Arise

Many people might have embraced their long-lost father, crying and spluttering about how much they loved and missed him.

Others might have raced up to the podium and knocked the voice augmenter out of his hand, shouting abuse and obscenities.

Some might have run to the nearest Healer to make sure they hadn't gone insane.

I just stared, transfixed and rooted to the spot, gazing up into the very living face of my father.

I almost didn't want to believe it. But the family resemblance was unmistakable. The man had the same fierce hazel eyes. The same auburn hair sloping across his forehead, tinged with hints of gray. That tall, imposing physique that could twirl Mama or me in the air without a hint of strain.

Father didn't die. He abandoned us. Presumed dead, indeed. 

Why? For this barbarism? To create monsters?

Like all Wizards, he'd dedicated his career--his life--to the pursuit of knowledge for the betterment of society. Yet there he stood, answering questions about demonic beasts like some sort of god. Flagrantly betraying every oath he'd ever taken.

"Your father is going to save us all," Peter murmured in my ear. "He wants you to join him."

My breath caught and bile rose in the back of my throat. "What did you say?" I exclaimed. "No way! I'll never join the Fireborn."

"The Gatál have great power," Peter replied. "Without the Fireborn, the enemy will march all over Paxus. It will be the end of the Free World! Is that what you want?"

"I'll never help Father make those monstrosities," I sneered, blocking out flashbacks from my fiscas. "I'd rather die a thousand deaths."

"Liselle--"

"Never!"

I strode away from him, unable to comprehend my eyes and ears. The Risa lived in harmony with nature. Risan Wizards strove to understand our place in the natural order, not destroy it.

Father defied everything that his class and his people believed. He'd broken his Wizard blood oath, for which the penalty was expulsion from his class and a long term of imprisonment.

Yet he'd committed his crime to the tune of jubilant cheers. I couldn't stand the sight of him. I clenched my fists, willing myself not to go up to the stage and punch him.

I can't believe he abandoned us for this lunacy!

When Peter approached me, I growled at him to go away. He placed his hands on my shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. Mama did that whenever she wanted to console me. 

From him, it just hurt. Peter knew. He must have known about Father being alive. And he kept the truth from me.

"Just give him a chance. It's not what you think."

"You have no idea what he's done," I said, shrugging away from his touch. "How he destroyed our family. If you did, you wouldn't dare say that."

He furrowed his brow. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

My thoughts traveled back a year ago when we'd held Father's funeral. I'd never forgotten Mama's pale, grief-stricken face as she walked aimlessly through the Risan temple in Halden. She looked like a ghost. Bragda and I had to make all the necessary arrangements.

A few days later, she'd disappeared.

The university told us she'd fallen off a cliff on assignment while studying the Healing Arts in Khatán. Some said it was an accident, but Mama was always so careful.