She had worked herself up to the point of hysteria with her terrifying theories anyway. This had just triggered some old, old resentments. “You just want to be rid of me!” The words were distorted by sobbing. “You think I don’t know, that I’ve never figured it out? You’ve always been angry because I lived and mother died! And you’ve always been guilty because you weren’t there! You’ve always resented me because you have to take care of me, and that’s a burden on you that the King’s Own doesn’t need! And you’ve always been disappointed in me because I wasn’t the son you wanted and I was never Chosen!”
And Nikolas wanted to say, no—no—but he couldn’t. Because that would be a lie. Amily had poured out the bitter truth. It wasn’t all the truth, how could it be? He loved his daughter. He was proud of her, prouder than ever after she willingly made bait of herself, even though she was terrified. But every word she said was also true... how could it not be? He had adored his wife, and her loss was an ache inside him that would never heal. How could he not but feel guilt that he was not there? And... at the times when the ache was the worst, how could he not look at Amily and think, why was it you and not her?
As for Amily being a burden—she was. There was nothing she could do about that. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was not just a Herald, he was the King’s Own, and that brought with it an entire load of additional responsibilities. And he knew, because he winced when he thought about it, that there had been so many times when he had been laden down already and she had needed something, and he had thought, Oh, if only you were not here . . .
As for not being a son... every man wants a son. Every man is filled with fear and unease, along with delight, at being presented with a daughter instead. Daughters belong to that strange, delightful, but incomprehensible woman-tribe, but a son... ah, a son is a member of the man-tribe. A man can understand a son. A man doesn’t have to be afraid for a son . . .
And not being Chosen? Oh, that opened up a world of mingled relief and disappointment—what father doesn’t want the best for his child? And there was nothing better than having that perfect friend, that perfect support, that was a Companion. But relief that she would never know the endless self-sacrifice required of a Herald, never have to look at someone she loved, and think If only you were not here . . .
Mags pulled away from the fight, feeling queasy. That wasn’t anything he wanted to know... and how in hell was Nikolas going to reconcile all of that? How could anyone? Suddenly, Mags felt a lot more sympathy with Jakyr, who fled any hint of connection, much less commitment.
Maybe that was why Nikolas had practically thrown Amily at Mags when he realized the two were attracted to each other. Mags... could take her, take the burden onto himself and leave Nikolas free to only be the King’s Own, and not Amily’s father. Mags could protect her, when Nikolas could not—as Nikolas had not been able to protect her and her mother. Mags would shoulder the burden, and Mags certainly wasn’t disappointed with her . . .
No, Mags didn’t want to know any of this.
Not when he had felt that burden, felt Amily desperately clinging to him, trying to infect him with her crazy theories so that he would make protecting her and being with her his priority.
And he felt the same frantic smothering that Nikolas did. The same desperate bewilderment as he faced two duties with only enough time, energy, and attention for one.
He blocked out the fight. He didn’t want to know any more, didn’t want to hear any more. And somewhere deep inside him a little voice whispered that this might not be so bad... he would miss her company if he used this as an excuse to break off the never-official betrothal... but would he miss the burden?
But in turning away from one quarrel, he was drawn to another.
Lena was sitting in a little wilted heap in the herb garden, talking, while Bear tried to get cuttings. From the look of things, she had started talking when she sat down, and had not paused since.
“Will you stop whining!” Bear snapped. “For Cernos’ sake, Lena! You’re not a little girl anymore! If you don’t like what your precious father is doing, tell him, tell Lita, tell both of them to their faces! Tell that little rat Farris how he’s being used! If you don’t like how you’re being treated, say something. Get up on your hind legs and have it out with them, for once in your life!
Lena stared at him, tears starting up in her eyes.
“And stop crying!” Bear spat. “That was cute when you were a little girl and passable when you first got here, but hiding in your room and sulking and weeping until you’re sick are just... .juvenile! Grow up!”
The tears dried up as if a desert wind had sprung up. Lena glared at Bear with her fists clenched at her sides. “Grow up? Say what I feel? Have a confrontation? GROW UP AND FACE MY FATHER JUST LIKE YOU DID?”
Bear froze, lenses slipping down on his nose, mouth half open.
“Just like you? Just like you stood up to your father? Because you make such a shining example to follow!”
Mags winced frantically away from that fight as well. What was wrong with them all? Why were they ripping into each other?
The stone stirred at his unhappiness. It sensed his question.
It had an answer.
Stagnation equals death.
Well, that “answer” had come right out of nowhere and made just about as much sense. What was that supposed to mean, anyway?
They are not dying.
Mags felt a stab of irritation. Of course they weren’t dying. That was pretty obvious. What exactly was the stone trying to get at?
Change is painful. Birth is painful. Creatures in pain lash out without knowing why, and often without caring what they strike.
What are you, anyway? he thought at it, resentfully. The storage room for every cliche and worn-out motto that was ever spoken in this Kingdom?
Yes.
Uh... what?
Among many other things.
Right. Now it was having a philosophical dialogue with him. He was talking philosophy with a rock. Had this just gotten very, very strange?
It already was. You just hadn’t noticed.
How could he have not—
You are looking outward so steadfastly you are not looking inward anymore.
Now you sound like some sort of mystic.
Yes. You are all out of balance.
How would you know?
I am balance.
Well that made him pause.
How can I... how can we . . .
I am past and present. I am not future. There is no knowledge stored in me of what you will do. Only what you can do and what you have done in the past, all of you.
So... you’re a library?