Inside the dining room, Father sits at the head of the table, and there are three other people sitting to his left. One of them is my Uncle Iberik. His land shares a border with ours, and he’s older than my father. The two of them do business together a lot, though I’m not sure exactly what kind. I know my father owns ships at the harbor, and I hear them talking about blacksmiths a lot, but other than that, I don’t know. Yet unlike my father, Iberik lives alone and never had any heirs.
The other two people sitting at the table aren’t familiar. It’s a male and female, both of them with the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen. The female has red hair and eyes that look like bricks, nearly the same color as the empty fireplace at the left of the room. The male has a brown beard like my father but with slightly bucked teeth. Both of them have piercings through the pointed tips of their ears, jewelry dripping down them like teardrops and chains.
My mother sits to the right of my father, while I help Ryatt into his chair before I take my place between them. There’s a set of red flowers in a centerpiece in front of us, but it partially blocks the people, so I’m glad one of the servants put it there. It makes me feel a little more hidden.
The talking at the table doesn’t stop as we sit, and I’m glad about that too, because the last time Uncle Iberik was here for dinner, all he did was talk about how I should already be going out on hunting trips by myself and that it didn’t do well to raise a soft son.
Uncle Iberik eyes me and my brother with his usual scowl. I want to scowl right back, but there’s a prickling sensation between my shoulder blades that distracts me before I can get in trouble for being disrespectful.
As soon as we’re settled, a servant comes over and sets plates in front of us, and I see Ryatt scrunching his face. I reach over and put his napkin on his lap so I can catch his eye. When he sees the look on my face, he quickly loses his scowl and picks up his fork. He’s a picky eater, and when Father is gone, Mother lets us choose what to eat. But he can’t be picky now.
Ryatt takes his first bite of boiled spinach and doesn’t make a word of argument, and I let out a little sigh of relief before I pick up my own fork. I was so worried about my brother getting into trouble that I didn’t pay any attention to what anyone was saying until my mother goes stiff beside me.
“I understand, of course,” the unfamiliar male says, fork and knife held in either hand as he speaks and eats at the same time. “It’s a valid argument.”
“Of course it is, Tobir,” Uncle Iberik says to the male. “It’s what the loyalists maintained for decades and why, ultimately, we won the war. I for one am glad that we put a stop to Oreans coming and going into Annwyn and for the old king’s campaign to destroy the bridge. It needed to be done.”
I can’t help but glance over at my mother to see how she’s reacting to this conversation. Her eyes are on her plate, the grip on her fork tight.
I’ve had history lessons about the war and the breaking of the bridge, but those are mostly boring, and my tutor always talks about how bad Oreans were. He talks about how they were using up all of Annwyn’s resources and starting fights, and how they wanted to take land here for themselves so they could have long life.
I much prefer it when my mother talks about Orea. She is Orean, after all. She was one of the last to come through on the bridge. Sometimes, when she’s putting Ryatt and me to bed, we can get her to tell us stories about it. She always looks different when she’s talking about her world. Softer and sadder.
I know she misses it.
“To be sure,” the red-haired female says. “And the Oreans that are still here are very lucky in my opinion. They were waived from the law and are allowed to stay and given long life in the process. Not to mention the fact that some Oreans have magic because they bred with us for hundreds of years. They should be thankful.”
“Quite right, Netala,” Tobir says next to her before shoving a thick piece of meat into his mouth, his fork clanging against his tooth.
Netala tilts her head, mean eyes cutting across the table, and I see how her gaze lingers on my mother’s blunt, rounded ears. Ryatt inherited that from her. I used to be so glad that mine were pointed like my father’s. It was just one less thing for him to pick on.
“You have magic,” Netala says.
I see my mother glance at my father. He doesn’t usually like for her to talk about her magic. I don’t know why. Her magic is the best.
“She does,” my father answers, adjusting in his chair. “My Elore is remarkable.”