Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
My parents.
I stare at them, hard. It has been a long time since I have seen them, and my memories do not match the couple in front of me. I remember them as young and vibrant, strong and hearty. I remember my mother's clothing being patched over and over again, and my father's robes fading after being worn so often. That is not the couple that sits before me.
My father's gray coloring is streaked with silver, his thick mane completely white. His whiskers are long and curled, and his fur is teased into several ornamental tufts, the thick strands braided and crusted with gems. His nose is pierced with an equally bejeweled ring, and an expensive chain hangs from the hoop in his nostril to his equally jeweled ears. The robes he wears today are sumptuous, deep red and white in color, and he wears our house symbol with pride. I cannot help but notice that the house symbol—once simple—is now increasingly ornate, framed by several chevrons that indicate our family's wealth.
Judging by the changes in that symbol, my family is exceedingly rich now.
My mother's robes are simpler, but no less expensive. She wears a peach gown made of flowing silk, the sleeves fluttering as she gets to her feet and holds beringed hands out to me. "You look well."
My mouth goes dry. I…don't know what to say. For years, I have imagined how it would go to meet my parents again. To embrace them with warmth and familial love. To be part of a pride once more. To be a son instead of an ex-slave. I expected my mother to hug me. I expected my father to look upon me with pride.
But these two rich praxiians are remote, hiding behind manners. "You are different than I remember," I say bluntly.
My mother looks over at her mate. He gets to his feet, and as he does, there's the heavy sound of tinkling bells and jewelry as his gem-crusted tail drags upon the ground. "Our family's fortunes have recovered," my father says. He glances over at my mother. "And I suppose we must thank you for it."
He supposes?
For some reason, that makes me grit my teeth. I ignore my father's outstretched arms—because an embrace is not sincere if it must be prompted by my mother—and sit across from them. "Why are you contacting me now?"
My mother glances at my father. She taps her claws—platinum tipped, if I am any judge of such things—on the edge of the table and wipes away an invisible speck. "We meet you here in this crude place because you demanded it."
"I know that. I mean, why are you contacting me now? After thirty years? Why put a bounty on my head?"
My father sighs and moves heavily back to his chair. I remember him a robust man, not the old praxiian whose movements are slowed by his finery. He settles in his seat, adjusting his clothing, and leans forward. "It seems blunt manners are the custom today. Very well. We wished to see you again because it is time for you to come home."
"Come home? You sold me into slavery."
"And that has now ended." My mother's smile is delicate.
Is it that simple to them? "It has ended because I escaped—"
"We know." My father shoots a disapproving look at me. "We heard of the mess that was caused and paid the appropriate honor fees. Your name is clear."
"I did not ask you to pay any honor fees," I grit. "Let them keep a bounty on my head. I don't care. It is not worth the money."
"It is to us," my father says simply. "You are our son."
"It is more than that. I have always been your son. What is different now?"
They exchange yet another look. My mother clears her throat. "Your brothers are dead. We are in need of an heir.“
67
NASSAKTH
An heir.
I taste the word and find it sits upon my tongue poorly. How long did I dream of hearing such words from my family? How long did I wish for them to look at me with love and affection, as if I were important instead of just another unwanted mouth upon a scrawny boy? To hear it like this…I don't know what to think.
"Assarth?" I ask, because I must.
"Dead," my mother says, and dabs at her eyes with a glittering kerchief. "Plague."
Of course she mourns him. He was always her favorite. My memories of him are vague, nothing more than a proud praxiian with a permanently sour expression on his face. "And Nokth?"
"Air-sled accident a few months ago," my father says.
Now that does not surprise me. My second brother always did love drinking and excess…and joy-riding in his air-sled. I grunt, because the news is surprising. I should be upset, but my memories of them are vague and old. Even as a child, I was not around them much, and I realize that, looking back, my parents had always kept me slightly apart because they had always known they were going to sell me. "I see you have done well for yourselves."