“I’m pleased to be here,” I said in even tones. Be bland, be harmless, I told myself. One of them may be trying to kill me—I wouldn’t let on that I knew. “I hope we’ll all grow to be friends as well as family.”
That got a snort of derision from Locke, which he tried to hide behind a quick cough. I gave him a cool appraisal as if to say: I know your type. You will not get to me.
Dworkin did a quick round of introductions, starting with my half-brothers: Locke, of course, tall and stout, with a full black beard and a brooding expression; Davin, a year or two younger than me and slender as a reed, smooth-cheeked and serious; Titus and Conner, clearly identical twins, both as short as our father and both with his eyes and wary expressions; and Fenn, who was taller than Dworkin but not as tall as me, with blue eyes and a hesitant but honestly welcoming smile, Aber came last; he gave me a quick grin.
I nodded and smiled at each in turn. Be calm and polite, reveal nothing, I reminded myself.
As for my half-sisters, I had already met Freda, Pella, and Blaise. That left Isadora and Syara, as alike as two peas in a pod: reddish hair, pale complexions, broad cheeks and eyes, and the slender figures of goddesses. Clearly both shared the same mother. Had we not been related, I would have lusted after them. As it was, I could now only admire them from afar as objects of feminine perfection.
“I want you at my right hand tonight,” Dworkin said to me, starting for the head of the table. “We have a lot of catching up to do. Locke, slide down for Oberon.”
Locke tried to hide his annoyance as he rose to make room for me. Luckily the seat next to his was vacant. As the eldest son, clearly he was used to the place of honor next to our father, and clearly he resented my taking it. So much for our getting off to a good start. If he truly feared my replacing him, as Aber claimed, this would only feed his paranoia.
I gave a mental sigh; surely he would realize that I couldn’t control our father’s whims. And, I had to admit, it seemed only natural for me to sit next to him tonight, on my first evening in Juniper.
“Locke, you may have my seat,” Freda said, rising. She had the place to Dworkin’s left.
“Are you sure?” he asked. To my surprise, he seemed hesitant. I would have expected him to leap at the chance… though perhaps he knew Freda’s motives too well and expected to pay some later price for her favor.
“You and Father need to talk about military matters,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I will sit next to Oberon tonight. I think it best.”
“All right. If you want it so.”
Locke still looked a bit puzzled, but he traded places with her quickly, before she could change her mind. Being one seat closer to our father seemed important to him. I reminded myself that he had grown up knowing his noble heritage… and playing politics in the Courts of Chaos. Perhaps having the right seat at dinner was important, and I simply didn’t have sense enough to realize it. I definitely would have preferred a spot at the far end of the table next to Aber.
I glanced at my father. Better to sit with a friend, even in exile, than with an enemy. No, I had to correct myself, not an enemy. A tired old man, sad and out of his element. Dworkin wasn’t meant for war, I realized suddenly, thinking of his workshop and all his experiments. He should never have been head of our family… he should have been tinkering and building and playing with his toys.
And I knew, then, why Locke commanded the army instead of him. Everything—our family, our plight—began to make sense in that context. Dworkin was weak, and our enemy had to believe we made easy prey. Weakness had often been the cause of war, I knew from my studies of Ilerium’s history… and the history of the Fifteen Kingdoms, which had once numbered twenty-seven before conquest and consolidation had dwindled their number.
Try as they might, Locke and Davin would not be able to win this war, which clearly had already begun. And from the look of things, we were far outclassed.
I gave Freda a sad little smile as she sat to my right.
“You’re looking particularly lovely this evening,” I told her sincerely.
She all but preened, smoothing her dress and looking entirely pleased. “Thank you, Oberon. You cleaned up rather well yourself.”
“Thanks to you, dear sister. You sent the barber up, didn’t you?”
“Me? No—it was probably Anari.”
“Probably,” I said blandly. I took a glance around the table to see if my mentioning Ivinius’s visit had gotten a reaction, but apparently it hadn’t. Side conversations had sprung up, and only Locke and Freda and our father were paying attention to me—Locke pretending not to, of course, but I could tell he took in every word as a man too long in the desert takes in water.
I chatted amiably enough with all of them over the first course, a cold creamy soup made with some kind of yellow pumpkin, telling one and all a bit about my childhood in Ilerium. And, in turn, I learned more about them.
Dworkin certainly had been busy over his 200 years. Almost all of them had different mothers on different Shadows. Most had been raised with the knowledge that they were children of Chaos, and all had gone through the Logrus in the Courts of Chaos except for me. I felt a pang whenever they mentioned it.
Freda must have sensed it, for she touched my arm and murmured, “Your turn will come,” she murmured. “You must have patience.”
Patience… I’d had too much of that already. So I simply smiled a little sadly and made no reply: little sense in letting them know my bitter news just yet, I thought.
I did find out some interesting facts. Locke turned out to be more than eighty years old—though he looked no more than thirty. Our whole family aged quite slowly, it seemed, which explained not only Dworkin’s condition despite his advanced age, but how he had managed to sire so many offspring. He had left more than a few women—or had them leave him, as with Locke’s mother, a Lady of Chaos—but most had been normal humans found on Shadows such as my own. They had died of old age while he remained young and hearty.
And at least twice Freda hinted that time moved at different speeds in different places. A year in the Courts of Chaos might well be two or five or ten years on other Shadows.
It was Aber who broached the question I had hoped to avoid. “So, Dad,” he said happily, and I could tell he thought he was helping me, which made it all the more painful. “How soon will Oberon go through the Logrus?”
“Never,” Dworkin said flatly. No tact there, just a sharp and unpleasant truth.
I looked down, studying the tablecloth, fingering my napkin. Never. It had a final ring.
“What!” Aber sounded honestly shocked. “But not even King Uthor can deny Oberon his birthright. He must gain power over Shadow!”
Dworkin shook his head. “Though he is my son, Oberon does not carry the Logrus within him. It is so distorted, it has become nearly unrecognizable. He cannot try the Logrus… ever. It would destroy him, as it destroyed my brother Darr.”
Utter silence followed. I took a quick glance down the length of the table. To a one, my every half-brother and half-sister, even Locke, had a look of stunned disbelief on his or her face. They took their magical powers for granted, I realized. That one of their own might be unable to use them—unbelievable!
And yet it was true. Despite my anger and hurt and earlier denial, I could find no reason for Dworkin to lie to me. If anything, he needed me to go through the Logrus… needed another strong son to help defend Juniper. Clearly such a task now lay beyond my meager, mortal abilities.
“How can that be?” Freda finally asked, looking troubled. “Anyone born of Chaos carries the Logrus within. It is a part of our very essence. You have said it yourself many times over, Father.”
Dworkin said, “He does carry it… only it has gone wrong within him.” Slowly shaking his head, he regarded me thoughtfully. “I do not know why or how, but the problems we have all had—except of course you, Locke—with the Logrus are so much the worse in him.”
“But to forbid him from ever trying the Logrus!” Aber protested. “That has never been done before!”
“I did not forbid him,” Dworkin said sharply. “I said it would kill him.”
“It is the same thing,” I said.
“Perhaps the problem is simpler than you realize,” Locke said, leaning back and regarding me with a half taunting, half triumphant smile. He clearly scented my blood and was moving in for the kill, the strong attacking the weak. “Perhaps his mother whored around on you. It wouldn’t be the first time we had a bastard in the family.”
I rose from my chair smoothly and silently. “Take that back,” I said, voice cold as a grave, “while you still can.” If I’d had my sword, I would have drawn it.
“Oberon! Sit!” Dworkin barked. “Locke, apologize.”
My nerves stretched toward their breaking point. Nobody had ever insulted my mother and lived. If not for Dworkin, I would have leaped across the table and twisted Locke’s head off with my bare hands—brother or not.
Instead of responding, my half-brother slowly tilted his chair back on the rear two legs and grinned mockingly at me. “The pup thinks he has teeth.”
My voice was hard. “More than enough to rip your throat out.”
He shrugged, “My apologies, brother.” I noticed how he emphasized the word, like he doubted its truth. “I chose my words with insufficient care. I meant—”
So softly I almost missed it, Freda hissed, “Shut up, Locke, or I will make you wish you had. This is dinner.”
Locke glanced at her, looked away, didn’t finish. Clearly he didn’t fear me. But could he be afraid of Freda?