“What?” Nick stared hard at his friend. “Your father? You’ve never mentioned your father before. What the hell are you talking about?”
Simon held the empty glass to his mouth and drained the final drops of alcohol. “My father was a member of the old Order of the Oak in the days when it was a true guild of magicians, before the collapse during the French Revolution and the purges. The new Order decided that his loyalties to the previous management were annoying, so they dispatched a man named John MacFarlane.”
Nick flinched with surprise. “How do you know this? The Order was nothing if not secretive.”
“My mother. The night my father was killed, he knew MacFarlane was coming, so he sent my mother away for her safety. At the time, she was with child.” Simon touched his chest. “My mother never saw my father alive again.”
“I’m sorry, Simon.” Nick swirled beer in his glass, staring deeply into the amber liquid. “When did your father die?”
“He was murdered late in 1802, and I was born early the next year. He never saw me, nor I him.”
“What was his name?”
“Edward Cavendish. He was a scribe, as I am. Did you ever meet him in your travels and wide circles of acquaintances?”
Nick shook his head. “No.”
“He was Byron Pendragon’s right hand during the last days of the Order, in the days when they were a wall between humanity and darkness.”
“Pendragon?” Nick now looked doubtful. “Your father was Byron Pendragon’s right hand? Did your mother tell you this too?”
“Yes!” Simon sat forward with eyes alight. “After Pendragon was betrayed and killed by one or both of his compatriots, Ash and Gaios, they also killed my father for defying them.”
Nick drained his pint and set it down. “Aside from the fact that you have no idea who really killed Byron Pendragon, you’re telling me that your father knew Pendragon, Ash, and Gaios?”
Simon glared at the doubt in his friend’s voice. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you anything if you’re merely going to mock me.”
“You have to credit my doubts, Simon. You’re talking about the three nearly mythological figures who founded the Order of the Oak centuries past. Now you tell me your father knew them, and was killed for it. It’s a bit like saying you’re family friends with Robin Hood and King Arthur.”
Simon stood unsteadily, flushing with anger, remembering the tears his mother shed telling him the story of the night his father died. “You don’t have to believe me.”
“Wait, wait.” Nick smiled and urged his friend to resume his seat. “I never said I didn’t believe you. I’m just trying to understand what you’re telling me.”
“Then allow me to spell it out for you. Since I was a boy, I believed that my father was murdered by John MacFarlane on the instructions of someone high in the Order of the Oak. I now know that to be wrong.”
“How do you know that?”
“That man we met the night Beatrice died, the Scotsman, his name is Malcolm MacFarlane. He is John MacFarlane’s son. And he told me that his father did not commit that crime.”
Nick sat waiting, then when he realized that was the end of the story, he shook his head in disbelief. “He said his father didn’t do it? That’s it? Why would you believe him? Of course he would lie about it. And don’t you think it’s a bit convenient that you happened to run into him out of the blue?”
Simon tightened his hands on the glass. “Yes, it is convenient because now I know the truth.”
“But how do you know?”
“I know it!” Simon shouted. “I don’t know how. Or why. But I believe him. Damn him. And so I must search for the man who killed my father. I must say good-bye to you.”
Nick slammed his glass down. “You drunken idiot! What about everything you talked about the other night about the purpose of your power? You’re just coming into your own. You’re finally a half-decent scribe now.”
Simon put a hand to his forehead. “Plans change.”
“Oh shut it. You sicken me. That courtesan was right about you. You’ll never stick to anything. You’re petty.”
Simon snarled through gritted teeth. “How dare you speak to me in that way.”
“I’m the only one who will. Before you wander off into some misguided personal vendetta, you had best listen to me for a moment. I’ve lived a long time, Simon, a very long time. I’ve had my share of quests for vengeance. And I wasted an enormous amount of life doing it.”
“Are you telling me to forget my father?” Simon’s voice was slurred with gin.
“If you’d shut up and listen to me, you’ll hear what I’m telling you. The trail for his murderer is long cold. Don’t forget it, surely, but don’t let it consume you. Move forward with your life. Learn to be a scribe. Use your abilities to help those like your Beatrice. Let that be your tribute to him. To her. That is a better way to remember them both.”