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Idris is among the soldiers who follow us through the maze of passages deeper into the heart of the palace. Blood stains the sash now tied around his arm, but he still wears it as a badge of honor as the guards part in our path and salute us with deep bows.
My father has been ready for our arrival, and now that the trap has been strung shut and The King of Rebels has been caught, they’ve resumed their routines.
All throughout our walk, old paintings of oil on canvas offer glimpses into the world before The Cataclysm. Fields of flowers brighter than those in real life flourish in endless fields next to roaring beasts in verdant forests right after surging waves of deep blue foaming with white crests.
We only stop when silver doors rise ahead of us. Six soldiers stand guard next to floral patterns creeping over the metal surface. They eye me up, but only for a second. My father motions for them to move, and they open the doors to reveal a passage filled with bright light. The surge of energy is so strong, I’m knocked off my feet, and it’s Idris who catches me and holds me up until I can stand on my own again.
“I’ll wait for you ahead,” Magnar says, stepping into the light.
I look up at Idris—who makes a considerable effort not to meet my gaze—and wrench my arm free. None of the guards follow my father inside. Instead, they’re assessing if I’ll run away or rather how soon.
They don’t have to worry. Drawn by the energy lapping on my feet, I take the first step. And then another. Before I know it, I’m bathed in light. My headache fades as ethera shrouds my body, licks my skin, and I can breathe again.
I walk forward, careful to put one foot in front of the other, unable to break the pull of energy. When I finally emerge on the other side, I have to bring my hands up to shield my face from the setting sun.
“If you’ve had your gift since you were five, you must have felt this place,” my father’s voice comes from somewhere ahead of me.
Through the searing light I can guess the contours of an endless sea of greenery that spreads until old willows shield the rest from view. The sweet aroma of flowers intoxicates me to the point I’m not sure I can stand straight on my own two feet.
“I don’t think you’ll need these anymore,” Magnar says, unlocking my manacles and grabbing my arm when another wave of energy hits me.
I recognize a tingle on my skin and look up to see my lemon tree blooming in great abundance.
“Your first accomplishment,” my father says. “I brought it here as soon as I heard about it. The desert is too harsh of a place for something of such beauty.”
I close my eyes, willing the tears away. “It was mine.”
“It still is,” my father murmurs. “But what would the folk of this desert do if they had discovered it?”
I can’t manage a coherent word. He doesn’t know how much the rebels helped me. He can’t even begin to understand.
“It would have withered and died out there,” Magnar puts his hands on my cheeks, and for a moment I let myself believe he’s nothing other than a loving father. “It’s only here that we can work on rebuilding this world. You know that, right?”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to scream at him, but despite hate and anger, despite all the hurt and suffering, despite what he had done to me, I can’t. He has built a wonder.
“This is not all,” he says. “Come.”
My hand feels so small nestled in his big one, and I allow him to guide me deeper into the garden.
I’ve always felt this place. I’ve always been curious about ethera pulsing in the heart of the palace, but no matter which route I took, walls scraping the sky and silver spikes sharpened to a gleam bared any passage that wasn’t through those doors we’ve just walked.
As we walk through the branches of the willows, I can’t see a single speck of sand dance through the air. Not a tang of metal meets my tongue. Everything about this garden feels like the world before The Cataclysm. Only the forest I’ve seen in my dreams could overshadow it, but for once, the path below my feet is real, even if I don’t know where it will lead me.
“You’ve built this,” I murmur, not a question, but a statement, and I don’t even try to hide the awe affecting my voice.
“It took me fifty years.”
I gawk at him until another wave of energy hits me, and I stumble.
My father gently lifts me up and supports me until I can stand straight under the blooming cheery trees. Soft pink petals drift around us, piling at our feet, sailing down the translucent surface of the rushing stream.
“Sometimes I forget the toll this place can have on those who had lived for too long in the barren world outside,” my father says. “Do you want to rest?”
I shake my head, sensing another wave of energy. It’s different in so many ways I can’t even define. Somewhere ahead of us there’s something that makes my father who he is, and I’m not leaving until I see it.
When we break through the last line of trees, I stop in my tracks.
“Breathe,” my father reminds me, and I force my lungs to obey when they seem to have forgotten how to.
