Page 13 of Scourged

That’s what his father would want. And, somehow, Lord Laurent was always watching.

It didn’t take them long to reach his mother’s wing, her spaces not far from those of his father. She slipped them through the door into her receiving room, depositing Andrian on a cushioned stool in front of an old vanity mirror before quickly starting a fire in the grate against the wall.

Every room in Antoris always needed a blaze roaring in the hearth.

Once the flames caught, Andrian’s mother rummaged through a drawer in her vanity, withdrawing a pair of small, sharp shears, the kind perfect for trimming hair.

“Sit back and sit straight. And don’t move, or else you might lose an ear.”

The words were slightly morbid, but Andrian saw his mother’s smile and smiled too. He did as he was asked, straightening his back on the stool, planting his feet on the ground.

His mother brushed through his black hair, the same shade as her own, with a fine-toothed comb she’d also pulled from the drawer. She sighed, a quiet sound, before making the first delicate snips.

“Teach me new words,” he blurted, staring at her in the mirror. She looked so sad, and … he wanted her to be happy. “I love it when you teach me your words.”

Her hands stilled, shears held suspended above his head. “You know your father does not approve of me teaching you my language.”

Andrian frowned. “Why?” It was something he’d never understood. His father was always talking about understanding his Onitan heritage. Why was it so bad to learn about the other half? To learn about where his mother came from, about her history and traditions?

His mother sighed again. “It is … complicated. But I suppose a few more words couldn’t hurt.” She met his gaze in the mirror, something mischievous shining in her amethyst eyes. “It can become our special language, just for you and me.”

Andrian smiled wider, nodding. He liked the sound of that.

His mother returned to his haircut. “What word would you like to know first?”

Andrian pondered for a moment. “How about … ‘magnificent.’”

She laughed softly. “‘Magnificent?’ Where did you even learn to say that in Onitan?”

“I read it in a book to describe one of the past queens.” Andrian shrugged. “I liked it. I want to add it to our special language.”

His mother continued to snip and snip away at his hair, a small smile on her lips. “Reisligr.”

“Reisligr.” Andrian tested the word on his tongue, the strange vowels and syllables rolling easier than he’d expected. “I love it. Better than magnificent.”

“I told you; do not teach the boy that filth.” Lord Laurent’s disgusted voice filled the room. “He should only know the language of his people.”

Andrian jolted on his stool; he’d been so consumed by the feeling of his mother’s hands in his hair and the new word on his tongue that he hadn’t heard the receiving room door open, his father’s presence filling the space. His mother stiffened, her fingers leaving Andrian’s head, and Andrian twisted to meet his father’s glare.

“Please, Father. Don’t get mad at Mother. I asked her to teach me. It was my fault.”

Julian narrowed his eyes at his son, flames dancing in their cold depths. “You are far too much like her; I hardly see any of myself in you. It is time to grow out of this dependence and become a man.” The Lord of Antoris whirled on his heel, storming from the room, the door closing behind him with a shuddering slam. Distantly, Andrian could hear a baby fussing, Nadya’s cooing words of adoration as she soothed Gabriel.

“Turn back around, Andrian. I am not yet done with your haircut.”

Slowly, Andrian twisted back. He refused to meet his mother’s stare in the mirror, instead focusing on the blaze in the fireplace. His mother resumed, pieces of his thick, dark waves falling into his lap.

“I will teach you one more word,” she said quietly. His eyes snapped to the mirror, to see her watching him. “It is a very special word. But I can only share it if you promise not to mention it to your father.”

Andrian sat up straighter. “Of course, Mother. Our secret language, remember?”

She smiled. “Yes. Our secret language.” She trimmed a few more pieces around his face. His hair was much shorter, now neat and tidy, where it was once errant and messy.

“What is the word?” Andrian couldn’t mask his impatience.

His mother snipped one last lock of hair, running a comb through it with her fingers, before walking around his stool. She knelt in front of him, lifting a hand to his face, and cupped his cheek. Her amethyst eyes shone with a sadness Andrian didn’t understand.

‘“Nio.’”

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