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Bertram pushed his lips to the side, very obviously hiding a grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. How would I have gotten in touch with him to arrange such a thing? We took no technology with us, and it’s not as though I, your wonderfully personable and winsome mate, would ever dare charm our prickly brother-in-law Misha into leaving his very expensive satellite phone behind.”
The way he said it told Sorin that was, with utmost certainty, exactly what had happened.
“For the record,” said Piers, “I did find out quite a bit about what was happening through the family grapevine, but even had I not, and even had Father not called, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I would have found out anyway, as something else has happened—something neither of you are aware of.”
Some of the easiness left Bertram’s posture. “What do you mean?”
“Grandfather called me in to see him about matters pertaining to the council,” said Piers. “After hearing about what happened to Papa when he was living in his cloister, he took it upon himself to investigate the dragons involved and, in collaboration with a few of our allied clans, assembled a team of agents who have been tasked with collecting evidence of their alleged wrongdoings. He asked me if I would be part of the investigation, and I readily accepted. By the time I’m through, no one will believe there was anything ‘alleged’ about what those dragons did. I will not stop until they receive the justice they deserve. I swear it.”
“Matters of the council are confidential,” Bertram said in a warning tone. “While I understand why you felt you needed to share, I must remind you to be careful, Piers. I do not want you in trouble. Our family has been through enough of it already.”
“I am aware, Father,” Piers said rather dutifully. “I know I should not have disclosed what I did, and under ordinary circumstances, I never would have revealed the truth until the arrests were made, but I was given special permission by Grandfather himself to reveal—just this once—what I am up to.”
“Why?”
“Because in addition to confirming the culpability of the guilty parties, Grandfather has asked me to look into something else.” Piers shifted his gaze from Bertram onto Sorin, and his face took on a meaningful look. “Papa… I found your missing children. All of them. I know who they are, and where they are, and if you want, I can put you in touch with them… but only if that’s what you want. All you need to do is let me know.”
The news knocked the bottom out of Sorin’s stomach.
His babies.
He never thought he’d see them again.
But what should have been a joyful moment twisted inside of him in an ugly way. His heart began to pound, and his head—once so blissfully silent—was overcome all at once by a chorus of piercing screams.
Then Piers’s nose began to bleed.
Piers didn’t notice, but Bertram was there in a flash, his hands on Sorin, tugging him to his chest and away from the children like he was a bomb about to detonate—and maybe he was. He knew what his magic felt like now, and it was going wild inside of him, tendrils of it lashing out, beating at the insides of his ribs, his stomach, his spinal cord. It ripped through him like he was made of paper, tearing up the restraints he’d put in place until he had truly lost control, no longer the keeper of his own magic, but its prisoner.
A minnow at the whims of an angry ocean.
A baby bird caught in a hurricane.
“Papa?” Piers asked in alarm. “Papa, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Get back,” Bertram barked, but it was Frederich who spoke—cold and authoritative, leaving no room for discussion. “You are in danger. All of you, back.”
Hurried footsteps followed.
Panicked, hushed words came from afar.
But Sorin saw nothing. He buried his head against Bertram’s chest, trying to keep the waves from crashing over him, trying to tame the storm, but it was no use. All he could think of were his babies. Babies who had grown into men—into strangers—who didn’t know he existed. Who didn’t know he loved them. Who believed him so long dead that even his bones had turned to dust.
“Sorin,” said Bertram, and it was Bertram now. Tender. Kind. Concerned. He clutched Sorin to him, one hand on the back of his head, and spoke into his hair. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re here with me. Focus. Feel the beating of my heart and the love within our bond. Push back the magic rising up inside you and breathe. Breathe with me. Are you ready?”
Sorin clutched Bertram’s shirt tightly. He couldn’t speak, but he managed a nod.
“Good,” Bertram praised. “You’re doing so well already. Take a deep breath in and hold it, and we’ll count down from seven together before we exhale.”
It shouldn’t have made a difference. Sorin had tried every meditation and breathing exercise he could find during his days in the Vanguard, hoping he’d find the one that would make him better, but as Bertram counted him in and coached him through one slow breath at a time, the screaming quieted and the frenzied magic inside of him began to settle until neither felt so overwhelming. With his focus somewhat restored, he reined what was left of his magic back into place, then slumped, exhausted, onto Bertram’s chest.
“There you are,” Bertram whispered lovingly as he ran his fingers through Sorin’s hair. “You did so well, love. Better than I could have done. No one has been injured—not me, and not the children. You have come so far in such a short time, and I know it will only get easier from here. You are powerful, and I am so, so proud.”
Sorin did not feel powerful—what power was there in losing control and endangering his own son?—but he let the praise wash over him and tried to accept it for what it was. Yes, he had lost control, but he had also regained it before the worst came to pass.
He had talked himself out of his panic.
He was weak in some ways, but he persevered regardless, and that was power. Even if he never got better, he had fought hard to get to where he was, and he deserved to be proud.
