When there was no response, Abalone looked back and forth between the Brothers. “What are you not telling me?”
Vishous opened his mouth, but the Brother Butch raised his palm and shut him up. “Your role here with Wrath comes first.”
Abalone recoiled. “Are you saying that Paradise is ineligible because of my position here? Dearest Virgin Scribe, why didn’t you tell us—”
“We need you to understand that what’s going to happen is not all book learning. This is a preparation for war.”
“But the candidates don’t necessarily have to go fight down in the alleys during the program, correct?”
“What we’re worried about is here.” The Brother indicated the room. “We can’t have anything affect your relationship with Wrath and what you do for the King. Paradise is as welcome as anyone else in the program, but not if the prospect of her dropping out or being cut could create tension between us.”
Abalone exhaled in relief. “Do not worry about that. She succeeds or fails on her own merits. I expect no special treatment for her—and if she cannot keep up? Then she should be dismissed.”
In fact, although he would never say it aloud, he both prayed for, and expected, that to be the case. He did not look forward to Paradise being disappointed in herself or her efforts, but … the last thing he wanted for his daughter was her being exposed to any ugliness—or, God forbid, actually trying to fight in the war.
He couldn’t even fathom that last one.
“Worry not,” he reiterated, glancing at the Brothers and at the King. “All shall be well.”
The Brother Butch stared at Vishous. Then looked back. “You read the application, right?”
“She filled it out.”
“So you didn’t read it?”
“This is something she’s doing independently—as her father and ghardian, was I supposed to sign it?”
Vishous lit a hand-rolled. “You might want to be prepared, true?”
Abalone nodded. “I am. I promise you, I am.”
Paradise was a female gently raised in the proper traditions of the aristocracy. She’d been working on her physical conditioning for the last two months—quite diligently, actually—and he could feel the excitement rolling off of her as she wound up her duties here and prepared to exit her position. There was, however, a very good chance that after the orientation tomorrow evening, when the real work started, she would find herself either bowing out … or being asked to leave.
It was going to kill him to see her fail.
But better that than her dying out in the field just to prove the point that she was so much more than what her aristocratic station dictated.
As the pair of Brothers continued to look at him, Abalone lowered his head. “I know this is not going to go well for her. I am more than braced for that. I am not naive.”
After a moment, Butch said, “Okay. Fair enough.”
“Is there aught else, my lord?” Abalone asked the King.
When Wrath shook his head, Abalone bowed to each of them. “Thank you for your concern. Paradise is my most precious one—all that is left of my beloved shellan. I know she shall be in kind and fair hands on the morrow.”
As he turned to leave, the Brothers remained grim, but then again, he was not privy to what was going on with the war—and there was always something. The fighting and the strategy were nothing he had ever been involved with, and for that he was grateful.
Just as he would be if Paradise left that program.
Verily, he wished her mahmen were still alive. Perhaps this all would be moot if his shellan had been present to talk some sense into the girl.
Opening the double doors, he heard a clattering in the waiting area. “Paradise?”
He strode across the foyer, and as he rounded the corner into the parlor, his daughter straightened from picking up red pens that had been knocked off the desk.
“Is all well?” he asked.
Her eyes met his. “Is it? Are you allowing me to go tomorrow night?”
Abalone smiled—and tried to keep the sadness out of his eyes, his voice. “Of course. You’re in the program, that was decided months ago.”
She ran over and embraced him, holding on tight, as if she had been convinced she was going to be denied what she wanted so badly.
Embracing his daughter, Abalone was vaguely aware of the Brothers and the King leaving out the front door. He paid them no mind.
He was too busy wishing he could save his daughter from any and all disappointment. That was not among the parenting skills he had been granted upon her birth, however.
Oh, how he wished his shellan were here with them instead of in the Fade.
She would have handled all of this better.
Standing over the horrifically injured female, Marissa closed her eyes as she got Manny’s voice mail for the third time. What the hell was going on at the clinic?
Just as she was about to redial, her phone began to ring. “Thank God—Manny? Manny?”
Something about the tone of her voice caused the wounded female to stir, her bloody face moving against the sofa cushions. God, the sound of that wheezing rattle was enough to make the heart skip beats.
“No, it’s Ehlena,” said the voice in her ear. “Manny and Jane are doing emergency surgery on Tohr. He has a compound fracture of the femur and I have to head back into the OR. Is there something wrong?”
“How long are they going to be?” she asked.