“Well, he deserved it as the time. He has never been fair with me.”
“You complain too much about it.”
He sighed. “You don't understand.”
I raised my eyebrows, but he didn't elaborate. Probably ashamed of whatever incident brought on this bout of petty annoyance. He certainly had a problem with our father… but wasn't that something all sons worked through? Perhaps in some ways I'd been the lucky one, growing up believing myself an orphan.
“Go on, call him.”
“In good time,” I said. “One bit of advice first. Don't let him see this Trump.”
“Oh, he's already seen it. He found it amusing.”
I just shook my head. Sometimes I thought I'd never understand my new-found family. If someone drew me that way, I'd have his head on a silver platter… not that it mattered now. We had more important work.
Taking a deep breath, I raised Dad's Trump and stared into the jester's intense blue eyes. Almost immediately I sensed a consciousness, and the image stirred slightly, but no direct contact followed. I stared harder, willing a connection between us. I knew he was out there.
Finally I heard a distant, almost petulant voice say: “Not now, my boy.”
“But—” I started. He had to know what had happened for his own safety.
“Not now!”
Contact broke off. My instructions were clear, but I had no intention of following them. This was more important. Holding up the Trump, I tried several times to reach him again, but could not. Something prevented me from reaching him.
Tossing the card onto the table, I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers, thinking. What could be so important he couldn't spare two minutes?
“Well?” Aber demanded.
I glanced over at my brother. For once, he seemed genuinely concerned, so I told him what Dad had said.
“Not now,” I went on, warming to the subject, “has to be the most frustrating phrase ever invented. I hated it as a child, and I hate it more today. 'Not now!'”
He chuckled and gave me an I-told-you-so look.
“'Not now,'“ he repeated. “Is more helpful than you realize. At least we know he's alive.”
“True,” I said.
“Did you hear any screaming while you talked to him?”
“No. Why?”
“The dungeons under the palace are filled with prisoners. If he were locked up inside, I'm sure you'd hear screaming.”
I chuckled. “You don't have to sound so hopeful. No, he isn't being tortured, nor is anyone around him. It's like you said—he's in the middle of something and doesn't want to be disturbed, no matter how important it might be. Arrogant, conceited little—”
He held up a hand for silence, so I ended my tirade before it had really begun.
“What if,” he said, “he's being watched too closely to talk to us right now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. If someone is holding a knife to his throat, he won't be in any position to communicate.”
“True,” I said, conceding his point. “But does he have to be so rude, arrogant, and conceited about it?”
“You're getting a taste of what I went through. And he likes you!”
“I'll count myself lucky to have learned anything,” I said. “Dad's still alive. That's more than we knew before.”
“I suppose,” he said.
Actually, it created more questions than in answered. What had he been doing? Why couldn't he talk? And why hadn't he come back here after his audience with King Uthor?
Sighing, I picked up the deck of Trumps and flipped through them quickly, not letting my attention rest on any single card longer than necessary. Freda… Blaise… Davin… Pella… all my half-brothers and half-sisters were there, plus several other people I didn't recognize. For a second I toyed with the idea of contacting Freda to tell her what had happened and get her advice, but then I decided against it. She had orders not to talk to anyone via Trump to protect her location. I didn't want to endanger her. Considering how many relatives we had already lost, and how determined our enemies seemed to be, leaving her alone seemed like the safest plan for now. For all I knew, that serpent-creature might be spying on us again.
“Is this an extra set of Trumps?” I asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“I'd like to keep it for a few days, if that's all right.”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
We stayed in the library for a few hours longer, talking more like two old friends catching up with each other than brothers. It felt good to sit and take a moment to catch my thoughts.
“How did you come to know so much about magic and Shadows?” I asked him at one point. “Dad doesn't seem to be the best teacher…”
Aber gave a derisive snort. “The only thing I learned from him was how to make Trumps—and I mostly taught myself after watching him make one. I used trial-and-error until I got it to work. It was my Aunt Lanara who taught me the most, though. A true Lady of Chaos. Very strong, though she didn't approve of Shadow worlds, or of Dad. Still doesn't, I suppose.”
“I thought only Locke's mother came from Chaos—”
“That sounds like Locke, all right,” he said sarcastically. “He thought that only his mother was good enough. She is a first cousin to King Uthor, you know. It broke her heart when Locke sided with Dad and ran off to have adventures in Shadow.”
“And your mother?” I asked. “What about her?”
“Not nearly so grand or well connected as Locke's. But she loved Dad, though he tossed her aside and vanished into Shadow shortly after I was born. She's dead now, and I don't remember much of her.”
“What happened?”
“She tried to follow Dad into Shadow, and she couldn't handle it…” His voice broke a little. “They found her dead. Strangled. For a while everyone thought Dad did it, but it turned out to be a cult of volcano-worshippers. They made her a sacrifice.”
“I'm sorry,” I said, nodding sympathetically. Her end must not have been a pretty one. I remembered how, on my first trip to Juniper, Dad had laid traps—ranging from tornadoes to giant carnivorous bats—for anyone following us. If Aber's mother had run into one of those, I didn't wonder that she had lost her life.
He sighed philosophically. “It was a long time ago. Shadows were new back then. People weren't as experienced with them as they are now, nor as wary.”