“Sit down, Alexander. I will deal with our . . . guest,” said the voice he heard only in his nightmares for the past four years.
Icarus turned and found his uncle standing beneath the arch that led to the staff’s offices. He knew Cyrus would feel Icarus as soon as his magic touched the school, but even so, he was unprepared for the fear and anxiety that twisted his gut upon seeing the other man.
“Uncle,” Icarus said with a dryness he didn’t feel.
Whispers broke out among the young men as they realized who he was. Whispers of traitor and kin murderer drifted toward him. He withstood it as he had the past ten years, as he would until his dying day.
“Icarus.” His uncle said his name as if the synonym of it truly was traitor. His uncle would never forgive him, but his was not the forgiveness that kept him up at night.
The headmaster of Mistral Hall turned and disappeared down the darkened hallway, but Icarus knew the command well enough. As he followed the familiar wooden floorboards, Eiridis glared at the young wizards who spoke of him. Icarus could almost see the impression the owl’s piercing yellow eyes left on the wizards by the way they quickly looked away and back to their studies, leaving their accusations to take up permanent lodgings in his chest.
When he reached the threshold of his uncle’s office, he felt a rise in the energy of his magic at the panic filtering into his veins. How many times had he been called into this office and berated for not being enough? The countless hours being told he was a waste of potential and the only reason he was tolerated was for his father’s memory. Because that was the part that had left open wounds that would never be filled by magic or success. The knowledge that even after his father had known what he had done, he still asked for Icarus to be protected. Instead of denouncing him and seeing him for what he was, his father had loved him. There could be no worse punishment for his crime.
Forcing his step just as he had all those years, Icarus stepped into a prison of his own making. Cyrus was already sitting at his desk, leaning back with hands folded over his stomach. Dark eyebrows raised in askance. It was almost like nothing had changed in ten years, with the exception of white flecks in his mustache that was cut close to his face. The amber eyes that shot accusations without words were the same as much as the tacky decor of old magic artifacts scattered about the room.
“And to what do I owe this inconvenience? Have the witches finally come to their senses and let you go?” his uncle drawled.
Eiridis flew from his shoulder and landed on the desk, scattering loose papers with the wind carried on his wings. His uncle sneered and threw out his hands, urging the owl from the desk. In response, Eiridis nipped at his finger and Cyrus howled in pain as he sat up and shook his finger.
“Damn bird might as well be untrained. Control your beast, Icarus, or I will see him out myself.”
Icarus held out his hand, catching Eiridis’s eye. He slowly lowered it and let out a low breath. In response, the owl tilted his head before flying to the top of one of the bookcases encasing the room, positioning himself next to an ancient wand not unlike his own Pavor wand.
He could hardly blame Eiridis for his behavior, given the storm that was raging inside him. He knew nothing good would come from coming to Mistral Hall, but for the memory of what once was, he had ignored the warning. Icarus was only glad that Cyrus’ familiar, Mortimer, was blissfully absent. The gigantic eerie looking bird was likely doing ill bidding as usual.
“You ignored my missive,” Icarus said, attempting to regain control of the meeting. “I also would request that my wand be returned, as the tracking spell on it indicates you have it.” Icarus gestured to the right corner of the desk where he knew the wand lay.
Cyrus raised his eyebrows and let out a low chuckle before falling into his high-backed chair that was centuries old. “The wand never belonged to you. Your father gave it to you, thinking you would be his heir, but we both know how that turned out. As for Calder, pray tell, why do you suddenly care for the boy's wellbeing? After all, it's been four years since you left for Calami and as far as I know, you made no attempt to contact him.”
“I thought it was better for him, but after recent events, I am no longer certain of that. I’ve come to ask you to send him to another wizarding school.” Part of Icarus knew he would not get the wand back, but having it in his uncle’s hands left him uneasy. A problem for another day.
The laugh that left Cyrus was crude and full of contempt. “You would have me send the last Darkmore from the best school in all of Lynoria. You must know what a ridiculous request that is. For the last five hundred years, a Darkmore has been headmaster of this school since the days of Atlas Darkmore. It should have been yours, but you were too much of a coward, so now it falls to the younger brother as it did for me.”
Icarus flinched as the words landed the blows Cyrus had intended. Cyrus, ever one to exploit a weakness, continued. “That's right, boy. You may have changed your last name to your mother’s, but don’t forget for a moment that those witches know exactly who you are. Born a Darkmore and their enemy. That they tolerate you is only for Sinclair’s benefit. The day she ceases being headmistress is the day you will be thrown from Calami’s doors.”
There was truth in his uncle’s words, but Icarus hoped that day would be far enough in the future that he would have time to cement his place at Calami. Four years was not long enough to erase the knowledge of his family's legacy.
“Perhaps it’s time Mistral Hall saw a change in regime. After all, we both know what Atlas Darkmore did. Why should his lineage benefit from his misdeeds?”
Cyrus was on his feet in an instant, he unsheathed his silver dagger with ruby gem and slammed it into the ancient oak table. Icarus felt the magic before he saw the tendrils of crimson billow like smoke into every corner of the room. The augere glinted with the use of magic coursing through it.
“You may be a traitor to your blood and this institution, but we both know your survival has been tolerated because it was understood you knew when to shut your mouth, boy. You were entrusted with that knowledge because you, by all rights, should have been the next headmaster, but we both know that you spit on that honor.”
The powerfuleavesspell his uncle had cast clung to the walls, making sure no one would be privy to this conversation. Icarus was hardly surprised. Darkmore’s had protected this knowledge for the last one hundred years.
“It is his fault the vessel fell and the most powerful magic ever seen with her. Our lineage should be cast out, not glorified.”
Cyrus sneered. “You try my patience. Atlas started the process of seeing our people raised to greatness with our family at the head. It has fallen to our line to see his work through.”
“At what cost, Cyrus? My father was obsessed with fulfilling his legacy and look where it led him! He went mad. He was nothing of the great man he had been. It twisted him and corrupted him.”
A dark glint flashed in Cyrus’ amber eyes. “Did it?”
Icarus nearly lost his balance. “Of course, it did! You saw what he did to my mother! You were there when he used dark magic and lashed out, severing her mind and leaving her a shell of a person.”
Icarus hardly recognized his own voice, hoarse and with none of the control he had spent years perfecting. This place and this man were like poison to him.
Cyrus’ sneer vanished for a moment and what Icarus dare not call regret settled on his face. “What happened to Illiana was tragic. She always believed in your father to a fault. She should have walked away long before that.”
