Book II. Chapter 111 - Brothers

Chapter 111

Ardi was sitting in the front row and looking at the iconostasis that had two wings. The left wing was the Wing of the Prophets. These were the Prophets recognized by the Orthodox Churches of Gales and the Holy Emirates of Al’Zafir. However, it was the Theocracy of Enario that really insisted it was “Orthodox,” but only because it followed the very earliest scripture, which contained some things that were difficult for an enlightened society to stomach.

In the end, the Church, unlike the philosophy within the religion itself, was bound, in one way or another, to the state. And so, the progress of culture—including legislation—couldn’t help but affect the postulates of the Church. And the same was true in reverse as well. No one was denying the fact that without the religion of the Face of Light, modern society might not exist at all. And even if, by some miracle, it had somehow developed to its present scale, it would look entirely different now.

Entirely different…

As for the right wing, it mainly depicted the Face of Light, and usually had additional scenes of a most ethereal kind. Angels coming down to aid those who were suffering, for instance, or maybe miracles belonging to the mythology of the Church. There was a tree, for example, that had grown in the scorched sands of Zafir, or water that had broken through to save a believer dying of thirst in the mountains of what was now Selkado.

There were always many icons on the wings of the iconostasis. They would usually be painted in gold and set in frames made from the most expensive types of wood. Not that the Church particularly strove to display its wealth nowadays. The times of early feudal society were long gone. Back then, the churches of the Face of Light had held the largest and most fertile of land grants. Rather, the opulence was for the sake of the parishioners themselves.

As for the altar, it looked modest. It was a wooden pyramid with a chalice of water standing atop it, and nothing more. The religion of the Face of Light preached restraint in every aspect of life, which, on the whole, aligned with the teachings of the Aean’Hane. Still, the theological and historical theories about the mutual exchange of philosophy and culture during the migrations of peoples didn’t really interest Ardan.

He turned toward the statue. Carved from cedar and almost five meters tall, one of the Prophets gazed down at him. In every temple, in every wayside chapel, however small, the Wings of the Prophets and the Face of Light were always accompanied by a statue of one of the Prophets. Luckily, after thousands of years, enough Prophets had appeared that one would be hard pressed to find churches that had identical statues. At least not within a single week of travel.

In this church, they had chosen to honor one of the most forgotten Prophets—the Prophet Nashias. He’d been a native of the sands. He was depicted as a thin man, with long hair, wounded and broken, wearing a simple, torn toga and holding a cracked chalice in his outstretched hands. He also had a necklace made of wolf claws, and the skin on his chest hung in tatters after he’d been flayed by whips tipped with blades.

According to the legends, Nashias had heard the voice of one of the Eternal Angels and had then set out to bring the Light to the distant north. Sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, sometimes receiving the help of believers, sometimes overcoming the savage fury of nature itself, he’d reached lands that now lay on the border between Urdavan and Scaidavin. This had been the northernmost point of dry land.

Back then, a very different nation had stood there—a small principality. Upon entering its capital and finding himself behind the palisade, among huts and hovels, Nashias had begun to preach about the Face of Light to the hard-bitten inhabitants of lands that had known no seasons save for winter and summer. They’d had half a year of darkness and half a year of sun. No man there had ever seen a leafy tree, and the towering conifers had sought the cloudy skies like aggressive spears.

The ruler of the principality, upon hearing about this visitor from the distant sands, had ordered him brought to his home. He’d spoken with him and discussed the gods. Plural. The men of the north at that time, and practically every other society on the planet (except for the sands of Al’Zafir and those whom the men of those sands had successfully taught the faith of the Face of Light), had been polytheists. And some of the Firstborn, like in the case of the Matabar, had not yet moved past totemism. In fairness to them, the Firstborn religion had been tightly intertwined with empirical experience. Still, all of this was just the noise of his History lectures in Ardi’s head.

Let us return to the story of Nashias. The chieftain hadn’t much liked the idea of a single god whose face one could not see, and whose essence was only light. And so, the chieftain had ordered the messenger of this god seized, and then he’d told him that, if he didn’t bow down before the gods of the north, he would be executed.

Nashias had refused.

Then the chieftain had commanded him to take a wooden chalice filled with water and carry it across the entire capital. He’d said that if the altar of such a cowardly god like the Face of Light was a chalice of water, then this god would surely preserve his messenger. Nashias had walked across the settlement, and as he’d done so, they’d hit him with whips tipped with blades. They’d flayed his skin, exposing his very bones, and the thin, weak Prophet had walked on, without falling or faltering. With a cracked chalice in his hands, he’d reached the square full of stone idols despite his wounds.

The laughing chieftain had then asked where the holy water of the Face of Light was. And the Prophet had covered the bottom of the chalice with his left hand, and with his right, he’d filled it with his own blood. And so he’d died, standing among the stone idols of a foreign religion. A living altar.

In that story, no wondrous miracle was described. No feats, no great accomplishments. It was simply the story of one man who hadn’t yielded in spite of everything that fate had thrown at him. But, as is often the case, history remembered either the great heroes or the monstrous villains. And Nashias, in the public mind, was neither of those.

“A strange choice,” Ardan said honestly.

He was sitting beside the priest. According to the traditions of Gales, after the end of the ceremony, the husband was supposed to spend an hour talking with the priest. There was some religious reasoning behind this rite, but from the historical perspective, all of it could be explained far more simply.

Because of the endless war between Ectassus and Gales, too many sons had reached marriageable age after losing their fathers. And so, there’d been no one to offer them counsel, or to give them some useful, seemingly simple, but still vital instructions. By degrees, this duty had passed on to priests, and eventually, a religious justification had been created for this tradition.

“Why?” The priest asked while eating the remains of the pie Plamena had left on the table.

It had been made with preserved apples, of course. Din had an incredible passion for apples. This was why Milar and Alexander would sometimes joke that there was surely a horse somewhere in Din’s family tree. Or, in a pinch, a centaur—but those had died out a couple of thousand years ago.

“In all honesty,” Ardan shrugged, “I don’t really know.”

The priest smiled and looked at the right breast of Ardi’s cloak, where his two Orders still sat.

“The louder the swords ring, the worse one hears the words, Mr. Egobar,” the priest quoted one of the sayings of the Scripture. “This phrase may be interpreted in different ways, but I prefer to think that it’s talking about how those who are used to achieving everything with their own two hands sometimes forget the price they pay for that.”

“What do you mean?” Ardan asked.

He had no wish to spoil his wedding by refusing to participate in all of the Galessian rites (especially since one half of his blood belonged to Gales), but the last fifteen minutes had been spent in silence. Only the clinking of the fork and the priest’s grunts of pleasure had marred it.

The priest sighed and, with obvious reluctance, set the pie aside.

“When, in your opinion, Mr. Egobar, can one truly be sure that a man does indeed believe in his cause?”

Ardan, just like during their last conversation, wanted to bare his fangs again. Figuratively, of course. He could’ve claimed that he was able to look into a person’s eyes and turn their soul and mind inside out, but he did not.

“In truth, there is really only one way,” the priest went on after the pause had stretched on. “You can be sure if a man is ready to give his life for the cause, whatever that cause may be. Would you agree?”

Ardan shrugged. He’d never given such high matters much thought. His other troubles had been enough.

“Let us consider your friend with the most eloquent of tusks,” the priest allowed himself a thin smile. “He is dressed in a very expensive suit, and on his wrist, he wears a watch that could pay to build two churches like this. Do you suppose your friend is fond of exes?”

Ardan grinned.

“Arkar adores them, priest. Beyond all reason.”

“Ah, yes,” the priest drawled. “And now think about this, Mr. Egobar—think carefully, and answer me. Would Mr. Arkar give his life for all the exes in the world, if he knew that, upon receiving them, he would die at once?”

Ardi didn’t even need to think about it.

“Of course not.”

“There’s your answer,” the priest smiled. “It turns out that, despite everything, despite all his earthly goods and his wonderful watch, Mr. Arkar does not, in fact, believe in money.”

Ardan considered this. It sounded logical enough, but it was not yet clear where the priest was going with this.

“Nashias,” the Holy Father blessed himself with the sacred sign and turned his gaze to the wooden figure, “was neither a great sage nor a wizard. He didn’t commune with angels and he didn’t bestow knowledge on others. He did not heal the sick. He did not walk upon the clouds, and he didn’t bend flame and blood to his will. Nashias was a simple believer with no special powers and no special knowledge. He was just a man. And because of that, in my opinion, he is the greatest Prophet of them all, Mr. Egobar. He believed so honestly and so brightly that, without hesitation, he gave his life. Not for the good of the Church, nor the religion, but in an effort to share a fragment of the Light with those who were still in the Darkness. And that’s why his words rang louder than any swords, Mr. Egobar.”

“And yet, the northern lands didn’t institute religious freedom for several centuries after his death,” Ardan reminded him.

“Such is the will of the Light,” the priest answered calmly. “History cares not for ‘what ifs,’ but it’s possible that, if it hadn’t been for Nashias, the north would never have turned to the Light. And had the north not turned to the Light, then-”

“The religion of the Face of Light might not have reached the western continent,” Ardan finished the thought.

The priest gave him a small shrug and adjusted his cassock.

“Perhaps it would’ve reached it—but only with the rise of seafaring, and that would’ve taken many more centuries.”

They fell silent again. Ardan once more lifted his gaze to look at the wounded and exhausted Prophet who was holding out the cracked wooden chalice to him, a half-blood of the Firstborn and a descendant of Aror Egobar.

“We, too, are slowly becoming history, Mr. Egobar,” the priest said and blessed himself again. “Just like the sages of the Aean’Hane and those who knew the paths of the Sleeping Spirits, just like the priests of the Old Gods… we, too, are slowly being lost amid the pages of history. It’s not happening too quickly, of course, and perhaps we shall not be lost altogether. Either way, the Church is far less influential than it once was. Life changes. Technology changes. The people themselves change. They turn to the Face of Light more rarely these days. And more often than not, they see Him as a symbol of peace and comfort, rather than a guide.”

Ardan couldn’t help saying:

“Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits.”

The priest smiled.

“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Egobar,” the Holy Father said with a bit of nostalgia. “But you know, on the field of battle, there is no soldier who has not turned to the Face of Light. Before the charge, every set of lips—in a whisper or aloud—utters a prayer. And when all is still, beneath the shroud of settling gunpowder, everyone calls for their mothers and fathers, for their beloved and children. Nothing else. And so, it turns out that every one of us truly, openly, and with no pretense, believes in very few things indeed.”

“In God and in love?” Ardan asked.

“If there’s any difference at all between the two,” the priest spread his hands out and looked at his plain wristwatch. “Perhaps you and I have spent enough time here, and I do prefer to take my meals alone. Here are my regular admonitions. Do not take your wife for granted. Do not get frightened, nor blame her, if you should suddenly feel alone even though you are lying together in one bed. Give one another happiness simply, not because of coercion or some timetable. Remember that your love for your parents is unconditional and pleasing to God, but for your children, you yourselves will be the parents, and there will be no one closer to them than the two of you. And also,” the priest rose to his feet, grabbed his plate, and headed toward his room, “be happy together to the very last of your days, Mr. Egobar, just as you have been happy today.”

Ardan rose and gave a small nod.

“Thank you, priest.”

The priest, without turning around, lifted his hand above his shoulder and offered him a small wave. At the threshold, he stopped and added:

“And do not forget what I said last time. If things grow hard, come see me. You will always be welcome here, mister wizard. And should things grow very hard—past your ability to bear them—then you should definitely come seek my aid.”

“Thank you,” Ardan repeated, nodding once more.

The priest withdrew, and Ardi looked at the mournful statue again.

In spite of himself, he had to ask…

In what, then, did he truly believe?

***

She held his hand and looked into his eyes softly and warmly. And Ardi wrapped himself in her soft hazel gaze. It was like a cool blanket only just brought in from the clothesline. One that still remembered the breath of a chill wind, and was, paradoxically, only the more inviting for it, with the comforts of its gentle whispers.

That was his mother’s gaze.

They looked at each other and conversed without words. There was so much they wanted to say. So much they wanted to ask.

“How are the flowers in your garden, Mother?”

“How are your studies at the Grand, my son?”

“Do your knees and your back not trouble you, Mother?”

“Do you remember to eat your dinner, my son?”

“Is everything going well with you and Kelly, Mother?”

“Are you and Tess managing your household, my son?”

But they were silent and only looked into each other’s eyes, smiling the way only a son and a mother can smile when they get to see one another only a few times a year. And, by the Sleeping Spirits, how quickly those five days had passed.

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The Orman family, because of the situation in the north, had already left the capital on the evening of the second day after their ceremony. Tess had spent both days with them while they’d been in the city, heading out to meet them right after their wedding night. Ardan hadn’t minded, and she was back now.

As for Anastasia… The Grand Princess, looking very troubled, had vanished in the company of Madam Atura and her husband. They’d gone inside an unremarkable but very large automobile right after the ceremony. This had somewhat frustrated Erti. However, he’d soon gotten over it, and for good reason, but more on that later…

While Tess had been spending time with her family, Ardan had done the same with his own. They’d gone out to see all the sights they’d planned on visiting, including the Avenue of Heroes. There, Erti had spent some time at the monument to Major Hec Abar, where a new commemorative plaque now stood:

“Major Hector Egobar.”

Ardan hadn’t understood just how impactful the revelations that the Empress-Consort had shared in her interview would end up being. To Ardi, it was basically old news, but to the rest of the Empire, however… In fact, never mind the Empire. The article had probably meant a great deal more to Erti than it had to Ardan.

After all, he’d never met their father…

As for Kelly, he’d been completely understanding during the visit to the monument, and had shown no jealousy or any other negative emotions. More than that—he hadn’t been hiding them. He simply hadn’t felt any.

Paradoxically, Ardan would, in some ways, have been glad if it had been the other way around. If Kelly had shown his worst side, maybe Ardi would’ve found it easier to justify his still rather cool—though by comparison less so—feelings toward the former Sheriff of Evergale.

For several days, Boris and Elena had kept them company, but then they’d left to go to the Tears of the Martyrs Hospital. Elena was due to give birth any day now, and the nervous young couple had more pressing concerns than spending time with the family of their friend.

As for Shaia, she would most likely not give birth before the end of the Month of Stars—the second month of the year. This once again made Ardi feel a certain sense of discomfort. The Month of Stars was, after all, his and Erti’s birthday month. And for some reason, the thought that the second child Shaia and Kelly would have together would also be born in the Month of Stars pricked at his heart painfully.

“All the same, it’s beautiful here,” Kelly remarked and took a draw on his cigarette. “But very loud. Bustling, even.”

“You should see the city in spring,” Tess smiled, rocking the dozing Kena on her knees.

The little one hadn’t parted with her toy bear, but all the sightseeing had really worn her out. Right now, the girl was making up for all her lost sleep.

“And Old Town really is more pleasing to the eye,” Kelly went on. “Thank you, Arkar.”

The half-orc had come back from behind the bar with their fifth kettle of the evening. Their mugs were soon filled with the tart aroma of Kargaamian leaf tea.

Strangely, Kelly and Shaia—to say nothing of Erti—had found common ground with Arkar surprisingly quickly. And he had likewise kept them company this entire time without a word of complaint. And for some reason, Ardi had not, in all that time, seen the other members of the Orcish Jackets come to the bar, nor anyone else involved in the gangster business. This was very strange indeed, but Ardan was in no hurry to question Arkar. When the time came, he would tell him about it himself. If he wanted to…

“It’s a pity we didn’t make it to the Firstborn Quarter,” Arkar settled in beside Ardan and winked. “There truly is a fine pharmacy there.”

Shaia was still holding Ardi’s hand and was now running her thumb across the back of it. Kelly simply grinned and turned to Ardan.

“I’d have never thought that you’ve got a commercial streak in you, big man.”

“He doesn’t,” Bazhen waved a hand. He’d shown up at “Bruce’s” yesterday morning, and was now lingering well into a second day. “If not for my scrupulous oversight, this commercial pharmacy would’ve turned into a charitable one very quickly indeed.”

Kelly laughed and saluted with his cup.

“Tess, if I were in your shoes, I would begin to worry about your family budget,” Kelly narrowed his eyes a little.

“We have enough, Mr. Brian,” Tess replied without any barbs or unnecessary coolness. “And if we stop having enough, then we, Ardi and I, will think of something together. As a family.”

Kelly only smiled broadly into his trimmed moustache and went back to his tea. Shaia, who was sitting across the table, gave Tess a sidelong look. It was the kind of look women gave other women when they were expressing, without a single word, their thanks and approval. Tess answered in kind.

“Very well, my dears,” Kelly clapped a hand on the table and looked at his watch. “We need to start getting ready. It is good here in the capital with you, but Delpas, I must confess, is also not bad.”

“And this coming from the man who grumbled at the fact we’d moved for half a year?” Shaia teased her… husband a little.

“I spent a long time getting used to it, but now I have gotten used to it,” the former sheriff shrugged. Then he got up and went over to Tess. “Come on, dear.”

He lifted Kena gently and carefully—the way one might lift a porcelain statuette—into his arms and headed toward the door leading to the stairs. Shaia ran her hand across Ardan’s face, barely touched her lips to his forehead, and went after them. Erti, too, got up to join the others and help with the packing, but Ardan caught him by the forearm.

“We need to talk,” Ardan said in the tongue of the Matabar.

Both Kelly and Shaia noticed this, but they pretended that they’d heard nothing. And then Arkar, Bazhen and Tess also got up and withdrew behind the bar, where they began discussing Tess’ future performances at “Bruce’s.” Arkar was ready to pay her, too. And the trouble wasn’t that Tess was asking for too much, but that she was refusing to accept any payment at all.

It almost seemed like “charity” was a familial trait of theirs. Though Tess’ reasons for refusing Arkar’s money were most likely quite different from Ardi’s at the pharmacy. They had everything to do with the origin of those exes, and nothing else.

“You knowing I bad speaking father tongue,” Erti said brokenly.

Ardan waited until Kelly and Shaia were entirely behind the door, then switched to Galessian.

Ertan, who’d sat down opposite his brother, looked tense. Ardan assumed that his younger brother could hear his heart as clearly as Ardan himself could hear the slightly-broken rhythm of Erti’s.

“How are things in Delpas?”

Erti frowned a little.

“Not bad. But we have spoken about it before, in our letters. I’m not sure I can tell you anything more.”

Ardan spent some time gathering his courage. He knew what this conversation was leading to, and he could put it off no longer. As it was, too much time had already passed.

“I’m asking about your gang.”

Arkar let out a small grunt at the counter. The conversation, which wasn’t reaching Tess’ ears, was fully audible to the half-orc.

“It’s not a gang, Ardi,” Erti shook his head. His hair, which had grown out during the trip, fell over his brow in a comical fringe. “We are simply, you could say, brothers in misfortune.”

“Misfortune?” Ardi echoed.

“You understand what I mean, brother,” Erti’s upper lip twitched a little, baring his fangs. They weren’t as long as Ardan’s just yet, but already quite inhuman. “Half-bloods and descendants of the Firstborn are not a group whom everyone in Delpas welcomes.”

“And is that why you decided to seize a whole street?”

“We didn’t seize anything,” Erti hissed. “We are just ensuring that we have work. So we can help our families.”

“I’m not sure Shaia and Kelly need that help, Erti,” Ardan shook his head. “The Crown has kept its word, and it provides for our family.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear that from you?” His younger brother snapped back.

Ardan lifted an eyebrow slightly.

“What do you mean by that?”

Ertan only turned away and waved him off, making it clear that he didn’t plan to elaborate on his outburst.

“What is even the point of this conversation, Ardi?” Erti asked, turning back. “I’m sure that Cloak gardener of yours, the one who reeks of cigarettes and a military base from a kilometer away, told you all about this during your visit a year ago. And I don’t remember you interrogating me before. Not in person, or in our letters. What’s changed?”

Ardan inwardly gritted his teeth. Despite Erti’s youth, he had lived through enough to have come by an adult gaze for very good reasons. At times, it was more adult than the gazes of some of Ardi’s fellow students at the Grand.

“You’ve changed, Erti.”

“I noticed,” his brother nodded. “It seems like our great-grandfather was mistaken, was he not? And maybe you were as well, when you chose not to share the secrets of our family with me. If you’d done that, then…”

Erti broke off sharply and shook his head.

“Never mind, Ardi. Never mind…”

“Why are you attacking me, Erti?” Ardan asked with genuine puzzlement.

“Maybe because you’re doing the same thing?” Ertan spread his hands out.

“I only want to-”

“Want? What do you want?!” Ertan couldn’t hold himself back. “You want to help? The way you’ve been helping for a year and a half now?”

Ardan frowned.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Since you are such a genius, you should’ve figured it out on your own by now,” Erti’s hiss turned into a growl. “It was not I, but you who ran off to the capital, away from every trouble and worry. It is not I, but you who are building your perfect life on the other end of the continent while the rest of us must live in the shadow of your decisions, Ardan! Have you ever, for even a single second, given any thought to what it’s like to open a newspaper and see something there about you, my own brother, who tells me nothing? And then it’s something about Great-grandfather, and then about Father? Do you have any idea about what I—to say nothing of Mother—have to bear in Delpas? Have you ever once asked why we don’t speak with the neighbors? Why Kelly is in an eternal standoff with his colleagues at the academy? Why Kena has no friends and spends all her time with her toys?”

Ardan found it hard to breathe.

“I don’t-”

“You don’t!” Erti barked. “And that’s the problem, Ardan. I’ve seen your Orders. And I heard you whispering with the Cloak. You serve the Crown, do you not? In the Black House? It’s a life full of adventure, yes? A life of friends and Star Magic? That’s why you left, no? For your stupid, thrice-cursed Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane? That’s why you left us in a strange city, in a strange land, far from the mountains of our home? You just left us, like we were unwanted ballast pulling you down. I am not supposed to help my parents… Only you could have said such a thing, Ardan. Because only you, out of everyone I know, parted so easily with everything that was dear to you. And that assumes any of it is dear to you at all,” Erti gestured at the staff resting against the table. “That sure is, though.”

“I’ve already said that-”

“Said what?” Ertan once again didn’t let him finish. “That you were going to the capital to look into the massacre of our father’s people? And how is that going, Ardan? Have you looked into it? Hm? Perhaps you will even share some incredible piece of information that will, once again, find its way into the newspapers, and I will, again, have to somehow live with that?”

“Erti, I-”

“I! I! I! I!” Ertan cut him off angrily. “I’m tired of hearing that from you, Ardan. Do you know any other words in Galessian—‘we,’ for instance? Or ‘family,’ maybe? In a year and a half, we have seen you three times. Three times, Ardan!”

Ardan was slowly getting past the initial shock and he could feel a fire unfurling in his chest.

“Erti, listen,” Ardi tried to speak calmly. “The matter I am dealing with is very important.”

“More important than we are?!” Erti sprang to his feet, knocking his chair back. “Why am I not even surprised, brother? Why am I not surprised that there is always something more important? More important than your friends in Evergale, in fact. You even asked me to invent stories about why you were busy while you were experimenting with your bloody magic!”

Ardan rose to his feet as well.

“You think you know something, Erti, but you do not,” this time, it was Ardan’s turn to let out a growl.

“Oh, of course, Ardan! Of course!” Erti narrowed his eyes at him, and his pupils seemed to shift and lengthen slightly. “Only you, in our entire family, know everything. The all-knowing Star Mage. The heir of Aror Egobar! A fine inheritance, don’t you think?”

“Think before you say anything else,” Ardan warned him.

“And you should think before you do anything,” Ertan replied. “Or, in your case, before you don’t do anything. Every time, Ardan. Every time I needed your help in the last year and a half, you weren’t there.”

“You never wrote to me about it.”

“What would’ve been the point?” Erti laughed sharply. “You are here, in the capital. How will you help me? How will you help Mother? By sending a couple of exes? You’re right about that—the Crown finances us enough that we don’t want for money. Or what? Will you maybe share some incredible piece of wisdom in a letter? Ah, yes. And you write only twice a month. You probably do that when you have time to take a break from studying your seals, eh?”

“Erti-”

“To the demons with you, Ardan!” Ertan snapped. “Enough! You are not my father, so it’s not like you should be teaching me anything. Just admit it. Right here. Right now. Last winter, when you left our home even though you had every chance to stay, you felt free, didn’t you? You felt like nothing was weighing you down any longer.”

Ardan’s heart skipped a beat. His own thoughts came back to haunt him.

And yet…

Ardi tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. He inhaled the cold air, letting out small clouds of vapor that faded into the darkness.

How easy it was to breathe here. How light his spirit felt—though tinged with the sorrow of parting, it was still free. He even thought that he might lift off the ground, the weight on his shoulders having suddenly vanished.

Ertan laughed. It was a hollow, deep rumble.

“I can hear it, brother. I can hear that I am right,” he turned suddenly toward Tess. “One day, he will leave you too, Tess. You’ll see. The moment something new and interesting tied to his accursed magic appears on the horizon, he will leave you and-”

Ardan seized his brother’s wrist and, twisting it sharply, pulled him toward himself. His fingernails lengthened and long claws scratched at his brother’s skin as his fangs grew.

“Do not speak like that to my wife, Ertan,” Ardan said in the tongue of the Matabar.

“Don’t you pretend like you can tell me what to do!” Ertan, even though Ardan was holding him down with all his might, freed his hand from his brother’s grip with no effort at all.

The seams of Erti’s clothing let out a faint creak, and the features of his face slowly took on a feline cast.

“From the moment you came back from the mountains, you have lived for yourself alone, Ardan,” Erti’s fingers curled a little, and claws that were just like Ardan’s sprang out.

Or maybe… they weren’t the same. These looked to be longer. Stronger. And far sharper.

“Everything I did, I did-”

“For yourself!” Erti cut him off. “Only for yourself! Or for whatever you’re currently obsessing over. The fate of the Matabar? I don’t give a damn about them, Ardan! I don’t even remember Father! I did not recognize his face on the monument! Do you think I care whether or not you find out what happened there? I don’t care! I don’t care ten times over! And do you know what I do care about? About the fact that every time—every time—things were hard for us, you weren’t there to help! Because you are here! In the Metropolis! And because, on the scales of your interests, we have, all of us— in a big, happy heap—lost to the Imperial Magical University!”

Ardan watched Erti’s hair grow thicker and stiffer, becoming more like fur. His eyebrows knit together. His cheekbones lengthened. Erti might not have remembered his father, but right now, he looked like the spitting image of Hector in his snow leopard form.

The Egobars had always studied under Ergar, after all…

“Don’t talk to her,” Ardan repeated.

Erti shrugged and turned to Tess.

“Please forgive me, Tess. I got carried away. You know that you’re like an older sister to me, and I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me.”

“I wasn’t talking about Tess,” Ardan reached out again and turned over Ertan’s left hand, where a barely-visible thread shimmered. “A talking cat came to you and took a drop of your blood so that you could write letters to An… Asya.”

“And what of it?!” Erti once again pulled his hand free of his grip without even noticing his older brother’s resistance. “I will say it again, Ardan. Don’t tell me how to live and what to do. Unlike you, I don’t think the word ‘family’ is just noise. So do not worry, brother. You can keep on rotting away here in your foul capital, with your no less foul magic, the Black House, and all the rest of it. In the end, I know it matters more to you than we do.”

“It really is an important matter, Erti. I have no choice-”

“To the demons with that!” Ertan cut him off once more. “Of course you don’t have a choice… I am sure that even Tess has urged you to leave this place. To come back to us. But no. You know better! You won’t tell anyone anything. And do you know why that is? Because there is nothing to tell.”

Ardan barely held back something that was tearing its way out of him. It was no longer coming out of his chest, but out of his gut.

“I am warning you for the last time, Erti. For your own sake. For the sake of everyone around you. For the sake of our family and your friends. Do not correspond with Asya. Simply forget that she exists and live on. Trust me. It will be better for all of us.”

“Trust? Trust you?” Ertan’s face had at last settled somewhere between the visage of a leopard and a human one. “Maybe you will tell me why, then? Explain what’s wrong with Asya? Why I shouldn’t write to her? Right now, it seems like nothing is stopping you from doing just that. Or is only the genius, all-powerful Speaker allowed to know?”

Ardan gathered himself.

“It’s because-”

“Because her name is Anastasia Agrov?” Erti’s voice struck like thunder. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know? You see, Ardi, unlike you, not everyone is obsessed with secrets! Some people can actually share what’s in their souls! And not only-”

“If you know who she is, then you understand why I’m asking you to avoid talking to her.”

Ertan suddenly drew himself up a little. His cheeks swelled, and from under his upper lip, his strong, massive fangs at last came fully into view. They were far bigger than Ardan’s.

“And what you doing, Ardan?” Ertan asked in the tongue of the Matabar. “You not telling me, brother. I deciding myself what doing and how living.”

Ardan could no longer hold back that strange, new, deeply-unfamiliar feeling tearing its way up from the depths of his gut. He gave it free rein, and a deep, animalistic growl came out of his throat. The same sort of growl came from Ertan’s throat in response.

Ardan wasn’t sure how exactly the table between him and Ertan had been reduced to splinters. He was even less sure about who had thrust out a claw first. But what Ardi was sure about was that neither Guta’s holds nor Shali’s lessons could help him.

He was standing face to face with his own younger brother, whose form reminded him to an aching degree of Hector’s before his duel with the chieftain of the Shanti’Ra. Right now, Ardan felt like he’d swapped places with everyone he had fought before.

His claws passed a centimeter from Ertan’s chest—he hadn’t managed to snag his shirt, draw him in, and… do what? Ardan didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure that, right now, he was acting consciously and not simply yielding to instincts that he hadn’t even suspected he had.

Ertan caught his hand and, bending his whole body, lifted Ardan into the air with ease, then he just as easily threw him across the whole room.

Ardan’s back slammed against his staff. He rolled with it along the floor and, ignoring a flash of unfamiliar and jarring pain in his ribs and back, he sprang back to his feet. With his staff in one hand, he was already stepping forward. He was coming toward the silver-furred Erti, who seemed just as eager to meet him halfway.

And who knows what might’ve happened had it not been for a third growl. It was a little different: far deeper, far more threatening, and unwilling to engage in anything save the language of pain and broken bones.

Stepping between the brothers, Arkar seized each of them by the arm and yanked them apart.

“If two Matabar have decided to tear down my bar, then know this—I am enough to handle both of you,” his inhuman eyes flashed.

His bared tusks and fangs, to say nothing of his straining muscles, had a most sobering effect on the brothers.

A moment later, they once more looked like men. Well, if one ignored the fact that they were too tall, and had rather long fangs.

Ardan looked at Erti.

Sleeping Spirits…

He had honestly never given any thought to how his actions might shape the life of his family. He’d simply wished to defend them. To provide for them. To turn every trouble away from them. But the consequences…

“Erti, I-”

“It doesn’t matter, brother,” Erti sniffed and turned away from Tess and Bazhen. He didn’t want them to see his hot, furious tears that were also full of pain. Whatever his gaze might’ve looked like, this was still a boy who was two weeks short of turning thirteen.

“Just stop pretending that I matter more to you than your stupid magic,” Erti wiped his face with a sharp gesture and turned back. “Don’t lie. Not to yourself. Or to us. And don’t worry. I have enough strength to look after myself, and after Mother, and after my sister. I’m not even sure that you consider her your sister… Don’t. Let’s just, like before, write to each other about nothing and pretend that all is well.”

With these parting words, Erti—giving him no time to answer—turned, stepped over the wreckage of the table, and made for the door that led to the stairs.

Ardan stood there, leaning on his staff. He was stunned and lost.

He was looking at his brother’s back, but in his mind’s eye, it wasn’t Ertan who was leaving. It was Hector. And in his ears, what Hector had said to Aror rang out.

He’d almost quoted their father…

Sleeping Spirits…