Fourteen years and more.
Daymonde gulped down another
swallow of wine and stared at the folded missive on the table next to
him, its seal broken.
Altnik, his fellow Son of the
Gift, had certainly not broken his silence of so long for naught.
“Papa, may I come in?”
At Finmarr’s repeated knocking
on the door, Daymonde set his cup on the table, shoved both it and the
flask aside. He was sick of wine. Even more sick of the drunken swirl
of his thoughts over the past hours.
Would you truly want to
see your papa if you knew the truth?
Daymonde aimed the thought at
the boy, hoping against hope—but as he already knew, no response came.
No sign of an awakening Gift in
his eldest. By Fiona, his traitorous mind amended.
With a sigh, he opened the door.
Long dark hair framed the tall
lad’s sober face, his eyes glinting blue, a youthful reflection of
Daymonde himself. Concern, affection, and apprehension pulsed from
Finmarr as he stepped into the chamber. “Papa, are you well?”
I will never be well
again, Daymonde wanted to say.