Page 32 of Lore of the Tides

Lore extracted herself from the cushioned couch, which was so comfortable that she was half convinced it was sentient and had been slowly trying to eat her, to get a closer look.

Nestled among an array of landscapes was a painting of a family.

Two small boys smiling wide; a female, presumably their mother, stood behind them, beaming as well, her hands on both of the boys’ shoulders. If not for the height difference, Syrelle and his brother could have been twins. They both looked like younger versions of Syrelle: brown skin and sharp, intelligent eyes, though his cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, and sharp jaw were beveled at the edges, filled in, softened by childhood... but the smile on the younger version was sounlikeSyrelle. They were only paint, but their brightness and unfettered joy were so vivid they leaped off the canvas in such a way that Lore had to stop herself from returning their smiles with one of her own.

It was hard to imagine that Syrelle had ever smiled like that. She glanced away, up toward their mother.

Goosebumps rose on her arms. She, like the boys, looked familiar, but not because of their resemblance to the older Syrelle.

“She looks just like...” Lore whispered, her voice strangled by a surge of emotion.

His mother was the female version of Asher. Two proud antlers parted brown, curly hair the color of ancient, well-loved, leather-bound books. Sharp cheekbones, midnight-black eyes that shone with more wisdom than Asher’s had but with that same mischievous gleam, same full lips, the bottom a little pouty... and her smile shone with the light of a thousand candles.

A wave of dizziness surged through Lore. She felt like she’d stepped into an alternate reality. If Asher had stayed Asher and the world hadn’t been trying to kill her, she imagined that this could have been their future. He could have brought Lore to meet his family, to see the seaside village his mother hailed from, the family he was so evidently close to.

“Sounds like you have some explaining to do, Syrelle,” his aunt said before withdrawing from the living room to busy herself in the kitchen.

Syrelle sighed and placed his mug of tea down, untouched, before stepping up beside Lore, his frame towering beside hers.

He spent long moments studying the portrait before finally answering. “My mother is from here. Unlike my aunt, who delighted in their childhood home, my mother abhorred it. She detested the smell of fish, the cold, severe winters, and the thought of spending her life either out at sea fishing or being married to one always away, working a perilous trade. This place stole her joy. So, the moment she was of age, she packed her belongings and moved to Alytheria.

“She had no connections on the mainland, but she was quick-witted, knew how to follow orders, and was no stranger to hard work. She impressed the master cook and secured a position in the kitchens of Wyndlin Castle, and, for a time, her life seemed perfect. That is, until my father, a royal and youngest brother to the king himself, fell for her.” Syrelle grimaced, his eyes darkening, losing the wistful look he had when he’d begun his mother’s tale. “It’s notlike the storybooks; Javad Jibrann didn’t buck his station when he won my mother’s affection. He didn’t exchange her food-stained uniform for exquisite ball gowns, her servant’s quarters for any of his many estates, or ask for the young scullery maid’s hand in marriage... not even when she swelled with my brother.” His voice was thick with fury. “Falling for my mother was hisgreat shame.

“My father comes from generations of wealth. His wings are a testament to that—eons of breeding a carefully cultivated royal line. But his royal upbringing and pride in his caste didn’t stop him from siring two children on her. Ashamed, he let us spend our childhoods with her. We were loved and happy. The story I told you about my brother and me playing in the castle as children and stumbling upon the garden? All true. But our wings drew questioning looks. We didn’t fit in with our peers, especially because Olivyre and I closely resembled our father. My mother used to say that we were painted with the same brush as him. I hated that. My father, often cruel, was despised by the servants.”

He huffed a laugh devoid of humor. “My brother and I were both naturals when it came to glamour—it didn’t take us long to master the art of changing our face. We chose to mimic our mother’s features, to hide our wings. As children, we would have done anything not to see our father when we looked in the mirror.

“Until it became clear that he and his wife, highborn and suitable for a royal, were never going to have children of their own. One day, as adolescents, he sent for us. We were forced to leave the castle. Move to his estate. Change our surnames. Gylthrae to Jibrann. Lie about our upbringing. He would have us beaten if we even mentioned our real mother. He despised that we were his only children, bastards born from the disgrace of loving my mother. His wife, who was almost crueler than him, despised where we came from,whowe came from, but she loved to remind us of our ‘shameful’ origins.”

“We didn’t see Syrelle or Olivyre for many years,” Maple said as she walked back in from the kitchen, her voice filled with grief.

“My father wouldn’t let us visit our mother or the island. Not even when our mother died were we allowed to mourn her. Not publicly, anyway.” His voice was far away, tinged with bitter, painful memories. “When Javad and his wife died, I finally had the freedom to reinitiate my relationship with this side of my family. I skipped his funeral to come straight here.”

Maple placed a paint-stained hand on Syrelle’s arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “We will always be thankful that you made it back to us. We just wish your brother could have, as well, before he passed.”

“I know Olivyre would have loved to. He talked about it all the time. He was older, so he had more memories of here than I. Of course, my mother was a maid, she couldn’t afford to come visit often.”

“So, ‘Asher’ is...” Lore started.

“...who I could have been in another life... a better one,” Syrelle finished.

Lore didn’t know how this revelation was supposed to make her feel. That Asher wasn’t all a lie. He was a dream, a wish, of a child. Shedding his true face, his father’s face, would have been a balm to ease the years he spent with him. Choosing the life of a lowly guard named Asher and carving out that path for himself... It would have been a difficult choice to reject his titles, even if only temporarily, as she was sure the king would not let him completely discard his duties... but for Syrelle, maybe it would have been the only choice that made sense to him. And one that honored his mother in what way he could.

Turmoil churned within her. She understood as much as she could... and yet. Syrelle’s gaze was heavy on her own. His eyes were filled with the emotion of his story: sorrow, anger, loss, shame, and regret. His eyes searched her own, uncertain. He wanted something from her. Forgiveness? Understanding? She could give him that, but forgiveness? No.

Her gaze shifted away from Syrelle’s face, his father’s face, and looked back toward the painting.

Lore opened her mouth three times; nothing she had to say felt right... She finally landed on: “Your mother was beautiful.”

“Yes, she was.”

Maple’s gaze flitted between the two of them, her lips drawn into a frown. She probably didn’t understand the history between them, how Syrelle’s admission had thepotentialto change... things... maybe. But Maple could surely feel the tension in the air, for it was palpable, drawn between them, a braided sailor’s rope, thick as the anchor line. But there was no way that Maple could grasp just how pertinent that line was. How it was pulled taut as though there were really an anchor embedded within the both of them and it was protruding from their chests. No matter how much Lore tried to wrench free, the flukes held fast. Where once that cord between them had been a lifeline, it now felt to Lore like a chain, locking her to him, Syrelle’s decisions coating the cordage like algae.

The grave mood was broken by the door bursting open and two tittering children raced inside.

“Ay, yi!” Maple exclaimed. “Shoes off, you rascals!”

The children skidded to a stop and hurled their boots somewhere close to, but not quite within, the vicinity of the door.

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