Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [36]
Yet no matter how hard Caelan stared at the Guardian, it continued to be his father’s stern, unyielding face that he saw.
But what name had Elandra said? Whom did she see while she gazed up at the Guardian’s visage? Why did she smile so tremulously, so apologetically, so regretfully? Why did tears shimmer in her eyes?
“Who is Bixia?” he asked, but Elandra did not seem to hear him.
She was still gazing at the Guardian, listening to it utter words that Caelan could not hear. Various expressions chased across her face, and he worried that she was falling under some spell. He must not lose her now.
Pulling her to her feet, Caelan pushed her behind him.
Glaring up at the face of his father, he saw Beva’s gray eyes shift and focus upon him.
A shudder passed through Caelan. In an instant he was ten years old and standing on the wall surrounding their hold. Spring sunshine warmed his shoulders, and the air lay fragrant from the blossoming apple trees. He stood next to his father, who rested a hand casually on his shoulder as they watched a pair of birds building a nest in a larch tree beyond the wall. For once there was no argument between them, no scolding, no lectures ... only peace and mutual enjoyment. The nest completed, one bird flew away, but the other one—the female, judging by her drab colors— perched on the edge of her creation and sang.
Caelan and his father glanced at each other and smiled.
Thinking of that long-forgotten moment opened a boiling cauldron of emotions in Caelan. Tears stung his eyes, and he wanted to cry out to the man he had loved so very, very much, the man he had never been able to please, the man he had never been able to reach. What had gone wrong for them? Why had he failed so utterly to be what his father demanded he become?
He met his father’s eyes now and opened his mouth. Now was his opportunity to say he was sorry. Now was his chance to set things right.
“Yes, Caelan?” Beva’s voice spoke his name with warmth, urging him to say the words.
Caelan’s chest hurt. His eyes were burning. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he realized he was crying. Everything in him wanted to rush to his father, to find a way to bridge the chasm between them.
“Father—” He choked up and glanced away, trying to gain control over his voice. “Father, I—I want to—”
“Yes, my son?” Beva’s voice prompted. How gentle it was, how kind, how loving. It drew Caelan as nothing else could.
He took a step toward his father, then stopped with a frown. That was not his father’s way of speaking, never his father’s tone.
This was not really Beva. And Caelan was not really back in Trau at E’nonhold. Struggling against the beauty surrounding him, the dark green forest, the arching sky, the familiar shapes of the buildings inside the hold, Caelan reminded himself that he was in the realm of shadow, and everything before him was a trick.
With effort, he severed the vision, letting it fade and the strange gloom return. His eyes were still wet, but now he ached for what had never been and never would be. It was past. Old hurts became grooves in the soul. They no longer made fresh wounds.
Tipping back his head, he faced the Guardian again. But this time he did not meet those stern eyes. This time he focused his gaze slightly to one side, and let the memories slide away.
“You are the Guardian of the gate that leads back to the world of light,” he said, making his voice harsh and brisk. “We do not belong here. Let us pass.”
“Caelan,” said his father’s voice, sounding bewildered and a little hurt, “don’t you remember me, my son? I am your—”
“No!” Caelan said sharply. “You are not my father. He is dead. You are the Guardian. Let us pass through the gate.”
The Guardian tilted its head. “Do you not think the dead can come here?”
“Perhaps they can,” Caelan admitted, finding a lump in his throat. “If they deserve it. But you are not my father, no matter how much like him you look.”
Beva’s face frowned, and his eyes grew stony. “Then