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“No. Mother knowsall.”
“Where is Father?”
“In his chambers. He has arranged a visit from Bishop Venable.”
“For what purpose?”
“It is for me. The bishop seems to think he can cure what ails me with his useless prayer and magic tricks.”
“And what is it that ails you, Mother?”
Wearing a solemn smile, she lifted their clasped hands to her lips for a kiss. “Let us not talk of this now. I want to bask in the joy of your return, my son.”
As they entered the foyer, Lord Praecepsia stood just outside of his library, his eyes scrutinizing and emotionless, as the baron had expected. “I would like a word.Son.”
Although her expression pulled to a concerned frown, his mother patted the baron’s arm and gave a nod. She unhooked her arm from his and planted a kiss to his cheek. “I shall see you at suppertime.”
Two years of being away from his father had momentarily caused the baron to forget the unnerving tensing of his muscles whenever his father paid him any attention. As the older man turned his back and entered the library, the boy felt a tightness in his neck on trailing after him.
Once inside, Lord Praecepsia closed the door and took a seat at a wooden table, where a number of books lay strewn about its surface. “Welcome home,” his father said in an unwelcoming tone. “I was not aware that you were due to return. And what illuminating things have you learned while away?”
“Is that why you called me in here, Father? To inquire of my studies?”
The mirthless smile on his face faded. “Of course not.” From a pitcher on the table, he poured a red, bubbly fluid into a golden goblet and pushed it toward the boy, who kept his hands at his side, away from the proffered drink. “Do you not trust me?”
Of course he didn’t.
The older man poured himself a drink, and tipped back a sip. Brows quirked, he held up the goblet for the baron to see it was empty. “You see? It is not poisoned.”
The baron reached for the drink and, keeping his eyes on his father, took a sip. A sharp burn hit the back of his throat like a blast of flames, and the baron coughed, splashing red fluid across the tabletop in front of him.
Lord Praecepsia let out a hearty laugh and poured himself another glass. “And I thought you’d have returned from Cavendale a man.”
Rubbing his throat where the burn still lingered, the baron coughed again. “Perhaps you might enlighten me as to the nature of this meeting.”
Drumming his fingers against the desk, the elder man stared back at him. “Since you’ve returned to my domain, you will resume your sessions with Bishop Venable once a week in the undercroft.”
“What for? What purpose do these sessions with the bishop serve, aside from your own amusement?”
He slammed his fist on the table, his lips curled in contempt. “You will not speak to me that way! And you will certainly not question Bishop Venable, or his methods.” Face red with anger, he unfurled his fist for another sip of drink and cleared his throat. “Further, you will train with the Pentacrux, as before. There will be no more frivolous studies. There are forces moving against us, and you will fight for Praecepsia, as well as Eradye.”
“The barren lands?”
“Yes. You have no awareness of threats, beyond this realm, which would love nothing more than to enslave me and turn me into a pawn. While you may be contented with such a thought, know that there are others, far worse, who have no care for humans.”
“If you wish to make me an ally, to fight on your behalf, then why subject me to Bishop Venable?”
His father’s lips curved to a grin. “You were correct when you said that I gleaned amusement from your punishments. I enjoy watching you suffer, for no other reason than I cannot stand to look upon you.”
Rage simmered beneath the baron’s skin, and choking back tears, he shot up from the table. “What loyalties would you ask of a son you seek to harm.”
Lord Praecepsia smirked up at him. “I did notaskfor your loyalty. You will fight on my behalf simply because you have no choice.”
The baron strode from the library, out of the manor, and across the yard toward the forest, where he’d often hidden away since the time he was a boy.
Deep into the forest, he came upon the abandoned cabin, where he’d left his dogs to fend for themselves while away at Cavendale. The cabin appeared even more dilapidated than before, the weathered clay and wood scarcely holding the walls together. The roof had caved in. Grass grown nearly as tall as the boy.
He whistled, hoping the three of them might have stayed in what had become their home for a number of years. There was no movement. No stirring.
