Pool of Dreams by Sam Burns & W.M. Fawkes

Author:Sam Burns & W.M. Fawkes [Burns, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: FlickerFox Books
Published: 2022-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 42

Audric

The sound of the door opening behind me made my jaw clench.

There was no doubt in my mind what I would see when I turned around. In fact, he didn’t even let me turn before making himself known.

“This serves no one in Aranthe, Audric.” Uncle Pen’s voice was gravelly and slow, and strangely, it held a note of apology.

I wrapped my arms around Syren’s waist, bringing him with me as I moved to face the man who had raised me.

His eyes were sad and didn’t quite meet mine, but his jaw was set in its usual stubborn way. “I do understand, you know. You cannot think I married Marvella because I loved her.”

And indeed, his wife was a cold, hate-filled woman who disliked me more than most anyone else, but who’d never seemed to hold her own husband in particularly high regard either. The only person I’d ever seen her act kindly toward, in fact, was her spoiled brat of a son.

The thought of him suffering in a loveless marriage pained me. “I’m sorry for that, Uncle Pen. I wouldn’t wish your wife on anyone.”

He sighed and shrugged, a sort of “what can you do?” gesture. Perhaps there was nothing I could do for Uncle Pen. For all I knew, he’d once had a love and given them up to do his duty and marry Marvella. Pepin would be a less onerous fate by far, but I was not Uncle Pen, and I had no intention of becoming him.

“We may not have much time, Audric. I would hate for you to have regrets about the state in which you leave Aranthe.” With his soft tone and the slump of his shoulders, I thought perhaps his watery blue eyes might actually have been watering, and not just the same shade as the nearest lake.

A stable future for Aranthe was his concern, of course. It was my biggest concern as well. But even if I married and impregnated Pepin this very night—a strange and unpleasant thought—it would do Aranthe very little good in a year. In a decade, even. No child of mine would be fit to take the throne for many years yet.

Given the state of the Breaking, no human should be worrying about what might happen in twenty years. They should be worrying about tomorrow, or next week, or a month from now.

“I’m not going to marry Pepin, Uncle Pen. Or Lady Sofia, or . . . or any woman.” I pulled Syren against my body, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek when he ducked his head to stare at the cobblestones. “If I survive the unBreaking, then we can worry about children and the future, but for now, we need to worry most about surviving to see that future.”

“And if you die?” His voice sounded oddly pained at the idea, and it reminded me of what Pepin had said: he was the man who had raised me. Practically my father.

My father in every way except by blood.

So

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