“Fornax?”
“Caer Áras.” He pauses. Takes a deep breath. “You cannot go, Diago.”
I murmur a half laugh. Sure he must be joking, but the hope fades as I see his expression. That, too, is familiar. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” He gives me a sad smile. “I have just told you that you may be the key to preventing a world from dying. I’ve told you that I have been brought back from the dead in order to protect you. You are marching toward not just a war—awar, Diago—but the very men who are hunting you! And from all I have seen along the path here, they are going to win. If you do not fall in battle then they will capture you and they will sacrifice you to their gods, and either way, an entire world will be lost.”
I stare at him. “I have already given my word that I will be there. They are my friends. I have to go.”
“No, you don’t. If they are your friends, Diago, and they knew what we know—they would surely tell you the same.” Gentle. I feel the weight of his expectation all the same.
“It’s not their decision.”
“You have a greater responsibility.” An edge to his voice. Perhaps not expecting resistance, here. “A prince should—”
“I amno longer a prince.”
The silence lingers, after that. The anguish of the statement in his expression as much as burning in my chest. I said it with anger but it is loss that leadens it, grinds the conversation to a halt from which neither of us seem to know how to recover.
Eventually, I stir. “I ran, five years ago. Did you know that? Cari died and I made it out and I ran, while you and Mother and Ysa were still prisoners. I made a choice and I survived the ones I loved.” I look up. Ignore the welling in my eyes and put all of my determination into my words. “Never again.”
My father’s eyes mirror my sadness and he smiles through the pain at me. “That was the choice the ones you loved wanted you to make. Are so, so glad you made. Believe me.” He crouches in front of me and wraps me fiercely. “I would not ask this of you if there was anyone else.”
“But therecouldbe. It doesn’t have to beme. It’s just … poor luck, that I’m in this situation!”
“Poor luck?” He holds me back to take me in once again. “No. Poor luck is being the Octavus who sees the truth of the Hierarchy. It is being the farmer, or soldier, or merchant who comprehends the absurd power of those above them, but has no way of convincing them to act. It is being those of us who know these great and terrible dangers are coming and cannot do anything about them. Poor luck? Poor luck is being powerless, Diago. Poor luck is being without choice. So many of us are aware of these currents, but are able only to drown in them. Millions upon millions of people havepoor luck. Butyou are not one of them.”
He finishes with stern emphasis, and I say nothing. Gut-punched by his firm, calm belief, and perhaps more tellingly, the truth I know is behind it.
My father retreats to his seat on the other side of the fire, and sighs.
“Do you remember about … I don’t know. Six months before the invasion, maybe,” he says suddenly. “When you and Ysa were learning about the political structures of Cymr?”
“Um. Vaguely?” I’m thrown by the turn in conversation.
“She was waiting for me one afternoon. I finished in the Great Hall, and we went into the dining room, and as soon as we were alone she burst into tears. You just picked up things so much moreeasilythan her. She would struggle and you would barely blink.”
My brow crinkles. “I … didn’t know,” I say softly.
“I know. And I know if you had, you would have played it down. Made it less obvious to her. Found a way to make her feel better. I am not telling you this to hang it around your neck, Diago. You are empathetic in many things and when you are, you are one of the most kind-hearted people I know.” He exhales. “But sometimes, talent and empathy fight for the same air. You always found things so easy that your expectations of others got skewed. You never reallyunderstoodwhat they can and cannot do.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “This is all to say, Son—it has to be you.You. Not just because you find yourself in this situation, not just because you are lucky. But because you are one of the very few whocould. You have always been a marvel. And that gift, that talent, isn’t costless.”
I don’t respond for a long time. Turning over the words. I don’t want to fight with my father. Never did. He was always so sure. Alwaysright.
“But you don’tknow.” I say it quietly. Not quite willing to meet his eye. “You don’t know Fiachra will win. You cannot be certain I am delivering myself into Ruarc’s hands. It is a risk, but so was training at Loch Traenala every day. So was the voyage here. So was walking through the forest at night. I could die this evening from tripping on a stone. Youdon’t know.” I do meet his gaze, now. “I don’t either but it is my decision, Father. No matter whether you think it is the right one.”
He gazes at me for a long time, the fire between us. Not angry, to my relief.
“You asked me why I didn’t speak to you before tonight.” He chews his lip. “I found you a month after you got here. You were with that family. Working on the farm. I nearly came to you then, but … I have spent the last year hoping that in this world, you would have a second chance. A chance at a life that I would want for you. The one you deserve. One where you are happy, and free.” He pauses. Thinks. “Freedom is as much about leaving things behind as it is about not being chained. I am a part of you, Diago. I always will be and I am indescribably proud of that fact. But I am a ghost, and what I bring with me, this thing that we have been tangled up in, is pain. All this time, even knowing what I know, I have been hoping that was something I could spare you.” He rubs his chin. “And the time I have been able to spare you, I do not regret. The fact is, if I had told you earlier, it would have been to my benefit and not yours. It would have been selfish.”
“But I am so glad to know you are alive. If you had just told me—”
“And asked you to live a life of deceit again? Holding secrets you cannottell your closest friends?” He smiles. “I have watched you, Diago, and you have grown, this past year. You have come to trust and love in a way that I was not sure you would be able to again. You have found a joy and peace here that I thought would be forever lost to you. And though that time may be at an end, it has helped shape you into the man I always hoped you would be. Not just in your achievements—I was always proud of those. But in your happiness. In your outlook on life. You have taken these scars, these horrible scars, and you have learned not to let them define you.” A crack in his voice. “You were never alone here, Diago. And it was not because I watched over you.”
He embraces me and I return it. “So you … you won’t stop me?”
He laughs. Holds me close. “I could not even if I wanted to. Which is how it should be. I may not agree with you, but this is still the man I always wanted you to be, above all others,” he whispers. “Your own.”
And like that, some of the unease lifts. Not because I am getting my own way. Not because my father thinks it is the right choice. But because he is willing to let it be mine.
