Papa averts his gaze from mine and takes a deep breath. “You said there’s another specter you’ve been meeting with for the past year. Who is it?”
What?
“That’s it?” I demand. “You’re not even going to deny that you were lying to me this whole time?”
“Cavas, please. I don’t claim innocence here, but you need to tell me now—whom have you been seeing? And why?”
It isn’t Ma, if you’re wondering, I think spitefully. But the sight of Papa’s trembling hands stanches my anger somewhat, and I force myself to tell him the truth:
“The specter’s name is Latif. I’ve been telling him palace secrets in exchange for the coin it takes to buy your medicine. He has small eyes, a hooked nose, a beard. He ties his turban like a merchant.”
“Or the high-ranking palace servant he used to be.” My father puts aside his cup, the tea completely forgotten.
The inside of my mouth feels like sandpaper. “So you know Latif.”
“I did know him. Back when he was still alive. He was head gardener at the palace,” Papa says slowly, his gaze focused somewhere in the past. “Brilliant at earth magic, but more than that, a good man. He never thought himself greater than anyone else—magus or non-magus. Of course, that got him into trouble from time to time. He had been a favorite of Rani Megha’s, but once Lohar became king, things went … awry. Latif was arrested and then killed. The Sky Warriors made sure to hang his body in the square of the Walled City.”
Questions pour out of my mouth: What happened? Why was Latif killed? What does he have to do with Gul and Juhi? What—
“That is a story for another day,” Papa’s soft voice cuts me off. His face has taken on a pallor I don’t like. “Please, my son. I will tell you about this one day, I promise.”
I force myself to breathe deeply. Angry as I am, I still can’t find it in myself to push him as hard as I want to. “Fine, then. Another day. But I have one important question.”
I wait until Papa nods before asking: “You told me that only half magi can see living specters. Is that still true?”
Papa stares at me for a long moment. “Yes, it’s still true.”
“Papa.” My voice trembles. “Papa, was Ma a magus? Is that why the people in the tenements don’t like her?”
He closes his eyes. A tear slides down his cheek. “Your mother wasn’t a magus.”
“Are you a magus, then?”
When my father opens his eyes again, they’re sad. “No, son, I am not.”
My blood runs cold.
“My wife was your mother, yes,” Papa says. “But your father was—is—magi.”
A pair of strays begin barking outside.
“So he’s alive, then,” I say after a pause. “My … the man who…” My voice trails off.
“Yes.”
I want him to deny this. To claim that I belong to only him and Ma. But there are other things that don’t add up—that have never added up. Like how my eyes are dark brown, while Papa’s are hazel and Ma’s were pale green.
A part of me wants to know, wants to demand, who my real father is. But then another part wonders about the circumstances under which my mother came to know him. If there was a reason he left me with her instead of coming to claim me for his own.
“Was my mother … was she what the people in the tenements say she was?”
“People have tongues that wag far too often and minds that don’t think as much. Your mother didn’t have much choice about some of the things she had to do. Your father … I don’t think he was cruel to her. I think she even liked him.”
“Stop!” My voice makes him wince.
Outside, a lone stray howls into the night, reminding me of the dustwolves from my dreams.
“Cavas—”
“You told me that I’ve been living a lie for most of my life. Forgive me if it takes me some time to process that I’m not even your son!”
“Cavas, listen to me—”
I don’t. I can’t. I stalk out the door and into the muggy night air.
28CAVAS
Half a mile from our house lies the ruins of an old temple, most of its engravings lost to time and the Great War. The inner sanctum, which once housed statues of the gods, now stands empty except for a rusty metal pitcher, a broken fanas, and a tray. Overhead, an old bell still hangs precariously from a fraying rope.
“Ring the bell and the gods will come,” the priest in the tenements always says. Only no one else—not even the priest—visits this temple, and the bell never rings except on the days when the wind blows. Sometimes I hear it clanging on my way home, and I imagine the dead returning, demanding why the gods left us here in this place.
Today, however, instead of ringing the bell, I call for my mother. “Ma, are you there?” I shout. “I know what you are—what I am now. Papa told me everything. You don’t need to hide from me anymore!”
I say the words over and over, perhaps in a dozen different ways. In desperation, I also pull out the green swarna Latif gave me and rub it hard as I call for her. It’s only when my throat begins to hurt that I realize Ma isn’t coming. That perhaps she never would.
“Well, that was dramatic. It reminded me of the plays put on every year at the moon festival.” Latif’s voice appears before his face does, which would ordinarily startle me.
“I should have known you would come,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Are you here to finally tell me that you’re a living specter?”
“I would have told you sooner. But neither of your parents would let me.”
My parents? “You’ve seen my mother?”
Evading the question, Latif points to the bell hanging precariously over my head. “Maybe you should move out of the way
