“Does Edmund… Does he really make all his children do... terrible things... or he...”
“Kills them, yeah.” Wyn moved over and sat down next to me softly.
“After Ilyan and Ovailia, there were Markus, Zetta, Drayven, Sylas, Gielle, Mym, Thom and then Ryland. After Ovailia, each one had a different mother, each one forced to do different things. Markus was murdered in 1480, Zetta has been missing since she was 130, Drayven and Mym fought with Ilyan for a while, but you can’t always escape the shadows of your past. They eventually turned against Ilyan, and he had to fight against his own siblings.
“Edmund found and probably killed Thom, about thirty years ago. He was hiding as a college student somewhere in the US. One day, his letters stopped coming. We all ran out to find him, but we never did. Not even a body. That was when Ilyan commanded that everyone stay together at all times. I never met him, but the way Ilyan talks about him, he was very brave. They all are, or were.”
My stomach clenched.
“He made Ryland kill his mother.”
Wyn turned to me with her mouth open in shock. It took her a second to recover.
“I am not surprised,” she said darkly. “Edmund made Ryland torture Ilyan, too.”
“What?” I asked, the memory of Ilyan’s scarred chest filling my mind.
Wyn looked at me guiltily for a minute, thinking she may have said something she shouldn’t have.
“About three years ago, Ilyan was captured in Greece. Edmund could have killed him then, but he made Ryland do it instead, or rather try to; Ilyan is exceptionally powerful...” she faded out and I looked away, not really wanting to hear anymore.
Ryland was about thirteen in the T?uha. Only years before that, he had been forced to kill his mother. About the same time, the bright red hand print had appeared on his face and we had fled to the mountain for the first time. Three years ago would have made him about fifteen, about the time we started breaking into hospitals and defying his father even more. Ryland had gone through all that, and through it all, he had smiled and never said a word. I felt the bile rise in my throat.
“I need a shower.”
“You still have five minutes,” Wyn protested, but I just waved her off. I doubted five minutes would make that much difference.
I was grateful it took so long to get all of the hair dye out. The bright red and dark black streams of color swirled around each other as they slid across the floor of the tub on their way down the drain. I watched the water as I thought about all the people Edmund had hurt, all the people he was still hurting. Strangely, I didn’t feel like I wanted to cry; I just felt sick and angry. I fought the anger; I didn’t like the way it consumed me.
The swirls of red against the tub began to fade as I thought of my mother, even though the pain of her loss was still an open wound. I thought of how Ryland had hugged her the last time I had seen her alive. I thought of our happy smiles and of painting our fingernails ridiculous colors. I thought of Ryland when we got lost in the cemetery, when we played in the fountain at the park near his house. Also, strangely enough, I thought of my father.
He had, in his own way, tried to save me, too. I thought of the good memories from my childhood, part of me wondering where he had disappeared to since giving me the stone. Even Ilyan had said he didn’t know where he was. Before long, I was smiling. While the anger at what Edmund had done was still there, it no longer dominated me.
As I continued to rinse the dye out of my hair, it became apparent exactly how much Wyn had cut off. I wasn’t even sure I had any hair left. The hair on the back of my head was all but gone; only short hairs, about an inch long, were left. The front half was longer, one side more than the other. I guess I needed some hair to cover the kiss.
I stepped out of the shower reluctantly, not really wanting to look in the mirror yet. I threw on my pajamas and went to find Wyn, a towel wrapped around my head, even though there was no point. I walked into the bedroom to find not only Wyn, but Talon, Ovailia, Ilyan and about seven other Sk?íteks as well. I wished I could run back into the bathroom, but the sight of Ilyan made me stop short.
He was dressed in one of the many perfectly-laundered tunics I had seen in his closet that first day. The shirt was long and white, with simple trim in deep gold and purple. A large gold medallion hung around his neck, reaching down his chest halfway. The shirt was cinched to him with a dark leather belt that matched the boots that came to his knees. The worst part was the intricate, jewel-encrusted gold crown he wore on his head. He looked like he was going to a masquerade party. I fought the urge to laugh, instead opting to stare at him, open-mouthed.
“Manners, Joclyn, mr?vy,” Ilyan scolded roughly.
I looked around me confused and then did the only thing that made sense, given the situation; I curtseyed.