I much prefer it when my mother talks about Orea. She is Orean, after all. She was one of the last to come through on the bridge. Sometimes, when she’s putting Ryatt and me to bed, we can get her to tell us stories about it. She always looks different when she’s talking about her world. Softer and sadder.
I know she misses it.
“To be sure,” the red-haired female says. “And the Oreans that are still here are very lucky in my opinion. They were waived from the law and are allowed to stay and given long life in the process. Not to mention the fact that some Oreans have magic because they bred with us for hundreds of years. They should be thankful.”
“Quite right, Netala,” Tobir says next to her before shoving a thick piece of meat into his mouth, his fork clanging against his tooth.
Netala tilts her head, mean eyes cutting across the table, and I see how her gaze lingers on my mother’s blunt, rounded ears. Ryatt inherited that from her. I used to be so glad that mine were pointed like my father’s. It was just one less thing for him to pick on.
“You have magic,” Netala says.
I see my mother glance at my father. He doesn’t usually like for her to talk about her magic. I don’t know why. Her magic is the best.
“She does,” my father answers, adjusting in his chair. “My Elore is remarkable.”
“What is it she can do?” Tobir asks, watching her curiously.
My father looks over. “Show them, Elore.”
Beneath the table, I see my mother’s knees lock together. “I’m not sure if I have the calling for that right now…”
The look on my father’s face makes her words dry up like dew in the desert. She casts her gaze back to Tobir, and my brother and I watch in awe as her eyelids flutter closed. When she opens them again, the green of her eyes is gone, and in its place, pale irises churn with some type of ancient scrawl, the letters so tiny they’re impossible to read.
Across the table, Netala gasps. “Her eyes…”
“Elore is a diviner,” my father says smugly. “She divines words from the gods and goddesses.”
Netala’s and Tobir’s eyes widen in surprise. I personally have only seen Mother do this a couple dozen times over the years, but I know my father makes her use it when we aren’t around.
I watch her face, watch the way the scrawl spins in her eyes, the way the rest of her face has gone calm and relaxed. Ryatt is watching just as closely as I am, and excitement leaps in my belly. I love watching her do her magic, but I know it tires her out. Soon, the words stop spinning, and her strange gaze sharpens on Tobir. I hear the fae male suck in a breath.
“The red-cloaked bearer shall give you two truths and a lie. You will believe the wrong one.” Her voice is deeper, not her normal speaking voice, and just like the other times I’ve heard her make her foretellings, goose bumps go up and down my arms.
Then, Mother blinks quickly, and the strange words disappear from her eyes, the green in her irises fading back into view.
Tobir’s brown brows are knotted deep into his skin. He stares at her for a second, like the words are replaying in his head. “What is that supposed to mean?” he demands.
“Elore’s foretellings are not always clear to us at the time of speech,” my father says.
“Sothisis why you took an Orean for yourself, Stanton,” Netala says. “Was she able to predict the outcome of the war?”
Father shakes his head. “Elore’s magic only works on people, not worldly events. Some foretellings can be as inconsequential as buying a bushel of spoiled apples, and some…more significant.”
“Ooh, I am curious what she predicted about you,” she says to my father, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.
Beside me, my mother goes stiff.
Anger slides over my father’s features like slime under a slug, but he wipes it away quickly. “She has not made one for me as of yet,” he says lightly, but I’m not tricked by it. He might try to sound calm, but there’s something sharp underneath that makes me squirm.
Netala nods, taking another bite of her meal. As she swallows, her eyes lift. “It is a very impressive power, Elore. Your ancestors must have bred with very powerful fae. Tell me, you were one of the last Oreans to come into Annwyn, is that right?”
My mother tips her head. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Part of the agreement for my support in the war was that I was able to bring in a last batch of Oreans,” my father explains. “They make up all of my groundskeepers and servants. Very efficient. They get long life, and I get a long-lasting staff.”
I try not to scrunch my nose up. I hate it when he talks about my mother and the others like this. I scratch the back of my forearm, trying my best not to let my anger show up on my face.
My mother’s lips go thin, so I reach over and place my hand on her leg under the table and pat her like she does for me sometimes when my father is making me upset. She glances over at me, and her face softens for a second.
