Chapter 171 – Family

Mirian walked into the Sovereign’s Aerie and assumed an aura of command. This was the Mirian who had commanded soldiers and led battles. Her voice brooked no disagreement.

A puffed up Zayd wandered in after her, undermining her comportment only a little.

“We would like one of the private dining rooms,” she told the host.

The host wore a coat with gold embroidery, with enchantments that gave the garment lines of swirling color. It was a monstrously expensive jacket. “Such rooms require a reservation, madam,” he said.

Mirian pulled out two gold florins and slid them his way.

“Mirian!” she heard her mother gasp. She wanted to say more, but Mirian patted her bulging coin pouch.

The man took the coins. “Right this way,” he said.

As soon as they were seated and the door was closed, neither of her parents could contain themselves any longer. Her mother burst out with, “Mirian, what is going on!? Where did you get that gold, since when can you cast illusions, and why are we eating at a place we clearly can’t afford?” at the same time her father started with, “Honey, your education is very important and I’m quite confused as to how you—”

“Almost,” Mirian said, dismissing the mass illusion spell disguising their clothing. “I just need to check the wards.” She went through a few divination spells, then frowned. “Shoddy work, but they’ll do. And no eavesdroppers. Well, I have a couple of announcements. First, I’m a Prophet. Second, I cracked the Allard seal formula so I can get us as much gold as we need for anything. Third, it won’t matter, because the world will end in a few days—for you, at least. Fourth, I figured out I’m adopted.”

Her parents stopped talking and stared at her.

Mirian shrugged. “I’m a bit bitter about not being told about that last one, but I also still have no idea how to break the rest of that news gently.”

Zayd, who had been staring at the crystal chandelier and then tracing his finger around the carvings at the edge of the table, suddenly stopped, realizing the mood in the room had changed. He then looked down and realized his fancy costume had disappeared. He checked under the table first, then started looking around.

Mirian summoned her spellbook and cast a color-changing light spell that she surrounded with a force sphere. She tossed it to Zayd, who brightened and began tossing it in the air.

Her mother’s brow furrowed. “You’re… a Prophet? Sweetie, I don’t understand. How does that…?”

The door opened and a waiter entered. “For overlooking the dress code violations,” Mirian said, flipping him a gold florin. “We’ll have the chef’s courses, paired with whatever wine you think is appropriate. After that, we’ll appreciate as few disturbances as you can manage.”

The waiter was slightly taken aback by the daughter giving orders, but seeing no protest from the parents, said, “Yes, madam,” bowed, and turned to leave.

“Thank you,” she said.

As soon as the door was closed again, Mirian explained, pausing every so often to change up the spells she was using to distract Zayd. She gave the brief version, not bothering with the myrvite titan she’d just killed. She mentioned the existence of other time travelers, but not that she’d just removed one.

“We’ve had this conversation before, then?” her father asked.

“No,” Mirian said, looking at Zayd. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of one of the others using you against me.”

Jeron’s face fell. “But that means… you went for over ten years without seeing us? How did… you manage?”

Mirian gave him a sad smile. “I was lonely.”

Her father’s chair scraped loudly on the floor as he rose. He quickly walked around the table and wrapped Mirian in his embrace. Her mother followed, and then Zayd belatedly rushed in to join, managing to get his arms around her leg.

Mirian didn’t cry. She’d expected to. She had every reason to. But her eyes stayed dry. It had been over a decade. She’d had to forget about them. Until now, she hadn’t realized that the distance she put between them that had started as a necessity had calcified into something more permanent.

No one spoke. Eventually, the hug ended.

She thought about the life she’d had planned so long ago. I would have been an artificer in Madinahr. On holidays, I would have traveled back to Arriroba. When they ran errands in the city, they would have seen me. I would have watched Zayd grow up. They would have watched my progress. They would have been there for me.

But all this time, they hadn’t been there for her. Not out of any malice, but out of indifferent chance. It wasn’t their fault. Nevertheless, the bonds of family had chilled and withered out of neglect, long before she’d found out they’d lied to her.

Mirian summoned an illusionary bird for Zayd to chase around, then said, “Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted?”

“Because we thought it would only hurt you,” Dhelia said.

“The doctor who saw to you said it was best for children to forget,” Jeron said softly.

“Doctor Westerun,” Mirian said.

“Oh. You remember him?” her mother asked.

“No. But Grandpa Irabi did. Were you aware I had a memory curse on me?”

“A what?” her father said, sounding shocked. He looked to Dhelia, who looked equally concerned. “I… suppose you’re old enough now to know the whole story. There was fighting in Persama. Well, there’s always fighting in Persama, but this kind was worse. We read about it in the broadsheets. It was in Mahatan, I think, that city by the oasis. A bunch of families got rounded up and killed.”

“It was that Dawn’s Peace, I remember,” Dhelia interjected. “A bad joke of a name. A bad joke.”

“I think that’s right. Well, when refugees fled the city, they left behind a lot of children in the chaos. The Baracuel soldiers couldn’t exactly just leave them, could they? So they brought them north, then tried to find families for them. We had been trying to, ah, conceive for some time, so when we heard about it, we volunteered.”

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Mirian tried to remember what Rostal had told her about the rebel group. Dawn’s Peace has always been one of the smaller factions. They never could field an army until the time loop. But was that what Ibrahim did that made Rostal flee? It seemed there was little hope of Ibrahim being negotiated with. Then again, how old was he? How old had he been when the massacres had taken place? Ten? Fifteen?

Seeing her grow quiet, her mother said, “Whatever you saw as a child, it hurt you. Doctor Westerun said he had ways of helping children forget, and it was best to forget. He never said… we never were told…” She seemed unsure of herself now.

“Never told the Department of Public Security used necromancy on children?”

“That can’t be right!” her father said, gasping. “If people knew…”

Mirian gave a bitter laugh. “What would they do, if they knew? I have a feeling I know what would happen to them if they spoke about it.” She thought of the printer in Palendurio. She’d already been assassinated this cycle, along with her contact.

“We thought we were doing what was best,” Dhelia said. She swallowed hard. She wouldn’t cry either, she never did. “We were told your real parents were dead, and just didn’t want you to go through the pain of remembering that.”