“What's your plan, Terrance?” The Royal Mage stared at the small black orb Mage Whitesands had given him as he spoke to himself. He was alone in his room of the Golden Scale. Late at night, he had tried to get to sleep, but had found himself unable to. Now he sat on the edge of his bed, talking to himself. He sighed. Pathetic.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Michael?” he muttered. He never minded talking to himself. It helped him think. He refused to do it when anyone was around to hear him, or if there was a possibility of anyone eavesdropping; he often called himself by his own name, to make sure the name wasn't lost. Names had power, he had always known that. He had always been the master of his own name. Not even King Everin had known it. But now...
Maya had admitted to telling June. The little girl had kept it from them, but eventually had to confess. No one had scolded her or been mad in any way. The little girl knew she made a mistake. Michael Westwind was disappointed in her though: he always thought his daughter to be smarter than that. It felt like a betrayal. Maybe she had felt what he thought of her, because Maya had refused to sleep with him. Instead, she had chosen Terrance's room. That had stung as well, he had to admit.
“We haven't got a way of dealing with this. Yet we are here. Why?” he wondered out loud. “Are we waiting for anything to happen? Do we really think we can figure out a way to stop June without killing her? Or are we waiting for Terrance to see that we can't?” He shook his head and added, “We don't even know if we can kill June...”
He glanced at the other bed in the room; his sword lay on the covers, alongside his other apparel. He looked at the sword. He had carried the beautiful weapon with him for many a year. As long as he had been chasing Terrance. He had killed his wife with it.
For some reason, he could not get himself to admire the object. He knew of the craftsmanship that went into making it. He knew the perfect balance, and the precision with which the weapon could be used. The speed and strength of it. It was a weapon fit for a King. And yet... tonight, he resented it.
In the back of his mind, he heard Terrance's voice. It talked to him. “You killed Hera with that thing—your own wife! She pleaded, she begged, but you stabbed her and burned her on a stake for all to see. Because you figured she was what? A monster?”
He said nothing, but let these dark thoughts wash over him. She had made him a saint; even when he had imprisoned her, and had taken all precautions to make sure Hera could not use her magic or escape, his wife had managed this amazing feat of bloodmagic. He had always thought she did it to spite him. If he ever touched anything demonic ever again, he'd burn. Never again had he begun a hunt, left his wing of the Royal Palace, without his gloves.
He sighed. Terrance had been right this morning: he had never touched Maya. Not even once. What kind of father was he?
He first saw the child when he ambushed Hera and Terrance in the forest. She had been missing for years. He had suspected Terrance of having an affair with her—he had thought that was the reason why she left, why she hid. He had been wrong. When he first laid eyes on hid daughter, he immediately knew this to be false: he was obviously her father. Her hair color, her face; she looked as much like him as she did like Hera. Still, that first moment, he had thought her vile.
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Water's Reflection or Hero's Guilt
Fantasy[Part Four of the Travelling with a Wolf series]