“Why?” he asked. That was what he could not discern—the reason for the Lion’s need. He refused to believe someone who shared his blood could simply hunger for power. There was truly no drive more boring.
His father’s gaze froze, brilliant amber trapped in glass, there and gone before Altair could comprehend it.
“Vengeance,” the Lion said, but the word was spoken in a tone accustomed to saying it. No vitriol, no vigor. Only habit. “And more, of course. There must be order. Magic must remain in the hands of those capable. Do you think the common man understood the extent of what the Sisters of Old had so freely given?”
Equality. That was what the Sisters of Old had given Arawiya, despite their faults.
“Akhh, the creativity of men when it comes to their vices,” Altair droned, unsurprised. “Order,” in this case, was only another word for “greed.” “But if that is indeed why you crave magic, then you, with your endless desire for knowledge, should already know the old adage: ‘Magic for all or none.’ There is no in between.”
Unless one was si’lah, like the Silver Witch. Like half of Altair and half of Nasir. Yet another revelation Sharr had given him—he’d spent his entire life thinking himself fully safin, thinking Nasir was half safin, despite the boy’s round ears.
He supposed he should be grateful he wasn’t too much like his father—the man didn’t even have a heart. The Lion opened the door leading to the upper deck. It was strange that he came so often to see Altair for seemingly no reason at all. His dark thobe caught the barest sheen of purple in the dying light, and despite himself, Altair didn’t particularly want him to leave.
The silence was too loud, the ghosts too real.
Altair’s mouth worked without permission. “Do you mourn him?”
How the living felt mattered little to the dead, but the longer he spent alone, the more he thought of the brother of his heart.
“I know all about Benyamin’s circle of high safin,” Altair continued, even as the words ripped through his ancient heart. “He took you into his fold against their wishes, and you butchered him with cursed ore. You know precisely how much pain he suffered in those final moments.”
The Lion turned back, cool and assessing. As if he’d been waiting for Altair to speak. “He should not have tried to save someone so worthless.”
Benyamin had never liked Nasir. Even in their years of planning, when Altair’s goal was to see Nasir on the throne, Benyamin had been against it. Somewhere on the island, that had changed. To the extent that the safi had decided Nasir was worth sacrificing his own immortality for.
“You truly are heartless,” Altair said with a tired laugh.
The Lion’s smile was sardonic. “I would need a heart to claim otherwise.”
For a long moment, he looked at Altair, and Altair looked back.
“The dead feel no pain,” he said gently, and Altair’s eyes fell closed of their own accord. Perhaps it was this show of emotion that made his father continue. “Your friends, on the other hand, knew precisely the pain you would feel when they left you. You put on your little light show, saved them, and for what? How does it feel to be abandoned?”
Altair stiffened. He liked to think he was prepared for anything. This, however, was still a sorely sore spot. He loosed a laugh, one of the many at his disposal. “You want me to talk to you about feelings.”
The Lion’s eyes glowed and the ship rocked, the slow creak of swaying ropes haunting in the quiet. “If anyone can understand, it would be your father.”
“I’m flattered,” Altair drawled, rattling his chains. He had filled this place with light the first night, before he’d learned what the shackles were doing to him. “But this is no way to treat your son.”
The Lion only looked at him. “They left you, Altair.”
Altair pressed his lips together. He would not give him the satisfaction of a reply, but the Lion, like his son, was dedicated.
“Knowing I would be your only refuge.”
Altair didn’t need to close his eyes to see them running for the ship. Sand stirring behind them. Nasir. Zafira. Kifah. His mother, who had never loved him. Not once did they look for him.
Not as the distance grew between them.
Not as they lifted the anchor on Benyamin’s ship.
“They took what they needed and left the rest,” the Lion said in his voice of velvet darkness as Altair bit his tongue against a response. “Without a glance.”
Not even as he was forced to his knees, shadows knotting his throat.
“Even Benyamin’s corpse.”
Altair finally snapped. “I was there. I don’t need to relive it.”