Magic Claims by Ilona Andrews

The wind was warm and pleasant. The air smelled like flowers.

In this realm, my father was a god, and this palace, so beautiful it almost floated among the greenery, was the purest expression of his will, his vision come to life without the constraints of reality.

A soft breeze stirred my hair. I walked across the platform to a narrow bridge connecting to a terrace, which bordered my father’s study, a vast chamber with tall arched windows. The doors to the study stood ajar.

“Father?”

Another swirl of the breeze.

“There you are, Blossom.”

Roland appeared in the doorway. He wore formal garments today, a tailored blue tunic that fell to his ankles, fringed with white at the hem, and a long outer garment he called an irrok, a length of snow-white fabric, thin like gossamer. It was secured at his left shoulder and fell in structured, perfect folds across one side of his body. Sometimes, he wrapped it around his hips in spiral folds but today, the irrok hung loose.

Usually, he didn’t bother with formal clothes just for my sake. I got a tunic, sometimes pants and a shirt, and one time, he had shown up in a tracksuit, which made me laugh for five minutes.

The clothes were different, but he was always the same. A man with the face of a prophet or a sage, his dark hair streaked with gray, his handsome features touched by the sun, and his eyes full of wisdom and warmth. My father, who adored me more than he loved any of my long-dead siblings, tried to kill me in the womb, murdered my mother, fought a war against me, and now pouted if I missed a scheduled visit. Complicated, our family did it right.

“It’s been so long since you came to visit me.”

True to form. “Disparaging my husband in front of our son might have something to do with that.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “I didn’t disparage him. I simply pointed out that a man who would sacrifice his position of power under pressure wasn’t fit to rule.”

I waved my hand in front of my nose. “It stinks.”

“What?”

“Your bullshit, Father.”

He chuckled.

“You keep using Conlan to deliver these little jabs at Curran. I realize you find it entertaining, but every time you jab, we unpack what you did. Like all of us, you are only human, Father, and your actions don’t stand up to scrutiny. Soon Conlan will be old enough to see you for who you really are. Let’s not hasten that realization. Let him have his wonderful grandfather for a little longer.”

“And who am I really?”

“Someone who murdered his grandmother, tried to kill his parents, and would have killed him if given the chance.”

A shadow crossed Roland’s face. “Is that how you see me?”

Oy. “We are more than one thing. I still love you, Father. And Conlan will always love you. But he’s his own person, and he’s growing up. Teenagers see the world in black and white. Right now, you are wise, kind, and glorious. Why not stay that way? So few of us can live up to our own legend, but you are, once again, an exception to the rule.”

His expression eased. “I’ll consider it.”

Flattery. It always worked. If I flattered Erra, my aunt would snap and tell me to stop my nonsense. But my father took it as his due. Flattery would be in short supply in a few years. Sooner or later, Conlan would ask uncomfortable questions, and Roland would have to own up. But for now, he was still a beloved grandfather, all-knowing and larger than life.

We crossed the terrace, strolling toward a grouping of couches.

“The boy is here, by the way.”

That explained the formal robes.

My father waved his hand. A section of the wall slid aside silently, revealing his study. Conlan was curled up on a plush couch, hugging his backpack. His eyes were closed. A thin veil glistening with magic separated him from us. A sound ward.

“He’s been here for four hours. He has something to show you and won’t tell me what it is.” He rolled his eyes and smiled. “He finally fell asleep a couple of hours ago.”

It was still almost an hour before sunrise when I left Penderton. If Conlan had come here four hours ago, he hadn’t slept last night. What was so important?

“How are his studies?” I asked.

“He’s brilliant, as expected. Unfortunately, he seems to be focused on the battle arts rather than more refined, academic pursuits. He’s developed an interest in defensive spells. Apparently, there was an incident. I’m not at liberty to discuss it, but you might want to ask your husband about it.”

Yes, the cursed wereboar, knew all about it. “I’m very proud of him.”

“You’re proud because he brawled like an animal?”

“I’m proud because he put himself in harm’s way to shield others.”

Roland sighed. I had to shift this conversation before he went off on a tirade.

“What did you teach him?”

“The pits, the cloak of Ur, the siege shields… All those things you found boring.”

I couldn’t resist. “The best defense is a good offense, Father.”

“That’s idiocy. Who said that?”

“Your sister.” And many other people.

Roland grimaced. “It sounds like her.”

“I don’t sit back during battles. I do my best work up front, with my swords. That’s where I’m most effective.”