Page 68 of A Fractured Song

His father shrugged. “Our ancestor was only a child when he escaped from the slaughter at Port Taran. And he only survived because his mother gave him to his nursemaid just before she was killed, and the nursemaid got him to safety. He had nothing but the clothes on his back and the documents the queen slid into his tunic.”

“The ancestry records, I know.” Zev nodded absently. He’d seen those very documents, hidden in their library room.

“Precisely,” his father continued. “They were obviously intending to take them when they fled to the continent of Providore, so they could prove their claim to the stolen throne. They would hardly have filled their pockets with documents detailing every aspect of daily life in Aeltas. Most of what we know about life back then was passed down orally, from the nursemaid to the prince, from him to his own children, and so forth. If the elves disappeared after the coup, it’s not hard to believe that over time their existence could have become a bedtime story in our family just like it did for everyone else.”

“So what you’re saying is that we can’t fully trust our own version of history any more than we can trust the one taught by the Council of Singers,” Zev challenged.

“Of course I’m not saying that.” His father sounded shocked. “We have documents detailing our lineage all the way back to the first king of Aeltas, Zevadiah. We know who we are. And the prince wrote his own record of what happened the day of the coup, based on his own memories and on the account of the nursemaid, who was present. Do you really doubt these documents?”

“No,” Zev assured him quickly. “I don’t doubt either of those things. My point is just that all the other details may have been warped in the telling. Influenced by our own prejudices.”

“And you talk about loyalty to our family,” Azai said, disgusted. “You’re basically siding with the singers now.”

“I’m not,” said Zev angrily. “But if we’re not open to learning that we might have been wrong about things, we’re no better than they are. And in fact we’re much worse than Marieke. I’ve seen how much it’s cost her to accept that what she thought she knew was actually wrong. But she hasn’t shied away from it, or tried to make excuses.”

“You think very highly of her, don’t you?”

His mother’s voice was quiet, the softness of the question cutting through the tense atmosphere more effectively than a raised voice would have done. Zev turned to her.

“I do. She’s repeatedly shown me the strength of her character. I wish you could see what I see.”

“You care deeply for her. Very deeply.” This time it wasn’t a question, and Zev didn’t offer an answer. His mother sighed. “I wish I could see a way forward, Zev, but I can’t. Your heart might be changing, but nothing else has changed.”

“She’s right, Zevadiah,” his father said firmly.

Zev’s mother leaned forward, searching his eyes. “It’s obvious she cares for you as well. How much does she care? Enough to make sacrifices for you?”

“What does that mean?” Zev asked uneasily. He didn’t like where the conversation was going. He hadn’t planned on discussing his or Marieke’s feelings, and the room felt suddenly much too hot.

“What if she were willing to denounce her songcraft?” his mother pressed on. “To put it aside and embrace a different way of life?”

Both of her sons made noises of protest, although no doubt for different reasons. But it was Zev’s father who spoke.

“It’s not enough, Narelle,” he said. “Singing is still in her blood. Royal blood and singing blood were never mixed, even before the coup. They were fastidious about it, and with good reason. It would concentrate too much power. There’s no way that—”

“Enough,” Zev cut him off. “Just stop, both of you. We’re not talking about this.” Discussing his feelings was bad enough. Talking about mingling his and Marieke’s bloodlines was way beyond what he was willing to discuss.

“I was only trying to offer a solution,” his mother said.

“That’s not a solution.” Zev’s voice was firm. “You don’t understand what you’re saying. You may as well suggest asking her to cut off her right hand. Never ever would I dream of asking her to put aside her craft. It’s an inextricable part of who she is.”

“I agree,” said Azai, his tone making it clear that his agreement was nothing for Zev to be excited about. “It’s the core of who she is, and it tells me all I need to know about her.” His eyes bored into Zev’s, his brow lowered. “You would have agreed once, Zev.”

Zev shook his head. “Then I would have been wrong, just like you are now, Azai.” His gaze encompassed all three of his family members. “We’ve been wrong about singing. I’ve seen the beauty of magic. I’ve felt its power for good.”

Azai clenched his fists over the chair in front of him, his eyes furious as he let out a growl. “How can you betray your family like this, Zev? How can you betray your history?”

“Azai.” Their father’s tone, rarely used, brought both brothers to silence. “Hear him out.”

“But Father!” Azai spluttered. “How can you—?”

“Because this is Zev speaking, not a stranger,” their father cut him off. “I trust his judgment.”

“His judgment is clouded by what he feels for this girl,” Azai insisted. “We can all see that!”

“Maybe.” His father’s calm voice made Azai’s bluster seem ridiculous. “But maybe not. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Are you finished speaking of me like I’m not in the room?” Zev asked dryly.

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