True to the janissary’s word, the guard on duty walked by my block of cells a few minutes later. The clomping of his boots and off-tune whistle jolted me from my thoughts, and I immediately sprang to action once his back was turned. I approached the large window and pulled hard on my Air Magic, relieved when more than a trickle responded to my call.
In quick fashion, I climbed onto the sill before draping my legs outside, relishing in the way the fevered wind pulled at my hair and clothes. With a “whoop” I was certain could be heard for miles, I pushed off the windowsill and let myself fall for three terrifying heartbeats before conjuring a pocket of air beneath my feet.
With a laugh that made me feel years younger, I shot upward, propelled by the gusts of air in my hands.
Floating on the breeze for a few moments, I relished in the freedom that oozed into my pores, at the lack of responsibility I felt in this moment, in the way the sun warmed my face.
All too soon, the burden of responsibility came crashing back down, my limbs growing heavy with both the proverbial weight and use of my magic under duress of the cuffs. I turned my back on the sun, gazing at the palace and seeking my father’s balcony.
It was easy to spot as it was the only one to face the sea from this side of the cliff. I pulled harder on my Air Magic, enough to propel me forward so I landed hard on my father’s exposed balcony.
My knee connected with solid sandstone, and I cursed lowly at the inevitable bruise that would follow.
Quiet as a mouse, I stood from my crouch and softly padded into my father’s room, hoping to surprise him with my visit.
That plan was instantly squashed as his warm, familiar voice floated through the space with the pang of home.
“Hello, my son.”
Chapter Sixty
Torin
Iblanched, frozen at the sound of my father’s voice. One uttered command once carried so much authority that it stopped bickering viziers without much more than a whisper. In my memories, he was as tall as a house and thick as a warhorse. I expected grey to infiltrate his oil-black hair and age to show in the weathering of his skin and the wrinkles around his eyes, but nothing,nothing, could have prepared me for this current reality.
My father sat on the low couch, turned away from me and the open-air balcony, allowing only a view of the back of his head. While his rooms remained unchanged from when I called Iluul home—blue and white mosaic tiles still dominated the space while white gauzy curtains hung loosely, separating the balcony from the rest of the room—my father’s hair was completely white. His shoulders were hunched, and, even from this distance, he appeared thin and frail.
“Are you going to stand there and stare, or are you going to come in?” While the undertone of command was still there, his voice was thin and reedy. A hacking cough and a rattle in his chest had me moving from the balcony to enter his suite fully. Subconsciously, I inhaled deeply and felt a pang of longing and homesickness as the incense that my father always burned when he prayed to gods long dead tickled my nose.
Cautiously, I circled the couch until I stood in front of my father. Shock and despair rolled over me in waves as I gazed at the man who I once thought held up the world by sheer will alone. His head bent forward as if pulled by gravity while the plain blue kaftan hung loosely around his brittle frame.
My gaze flicked to his gnarled hands as one rested atop a cane whilethe other pressed a white handkerchief against his mouth. I held my hands out hesitantly, unsure of what to do. Eventually, as my father’s coughing subsided, I let them fall to rest against my thighs. The handkerchief came away stained pink with blood-tinged spittle, and I felt my heart break in two.
The vizier at the gates of Iluul wasn’t lying—my fatherwassick, incredibly sick.
But the worst thing of all was when my father raised his head, fixing me with a milky-white, unseeing stare.
He was blind.
Twenty years away from home, and my dying father wouldn’t be able to look upon me again.
Why did I leave? What have I done?
My heart cracked in half, and I sat heavily back on the low tea table in front of my father’s couch.
“Come now, it’s not that bad,” he said with a grimace in my general direction.
I simply shook my head mutely, dumbly.
“You’re dying.” A strangled whisper worked its way out of my throat and past my lips. The first time seeing my father and my first words to him were about his own mortality. The back of my eyes burned, and I blinked rapidly, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.
“Torin,” my father barked, pulling me from my thoughts. “This is not your fault. Staying here would not have delayed my disease, it only would have allowed Elyria to fall quicker.”
“So it’s hopeless then,” I asked numbly.
My father shook his head in irritation.
“That’s not what I said, son.”
