In which Thane does not choose to abandon Kolyat

Kolyat lay on his bed, sulking. He turned up his music to drown out his parents' fighting. Ululating voices backed by strong, angry instruments filled his consciousness, blocking out the rest. Everyone fights, his mother kept telling him.

He was certain not everybody fought like this, screaming and throwing things. What had happened? They had been so happy and quiet when he was little.

Distress roiled in his stomach, making him curl up against the pain. Turning the music up again, he fell asleep, waking hours later when his music player died.

The house stood silent. Whatever his parents had been fighting about—again—they must have settled it by now. Kolyat's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd been too upset to eat dinner before. Nor had he wanted to go into the kitchen while they were still at it. Checking his clock, he saw it was the middle of the night. No wonder they'd stopped. He was just lucky they hadn't given him shit about his music being so loud all night.

Why can't they ever fight at a reasonable time? Why always start in the afternoons and go right through supper? He clomped down the stairs, stopping in shock when he saw his parents. The chill hit him from all the way across the room, emanating from his mother, who used to have such a kind face, an even tone that reassured even as it corrected.

Kolyat shivered. Her tone hadn't been calm tonight, and the look on her face was stone.

They sat at opposite ends of the table, as far away from each other as they could get in the same room. Mother sat with her arms crossed, her face cold. Father looked up as Kolyat came into the kitchen, a look of weary grief on his face.

"Kol—" Father's voice broke, so he cleared his throat, tried again. "Kolyat, your mother and I … we've decided to take a little break. I'll …." He mouth kept moving, but he didn't finish the sentence. Maybe couldn't.

Has he been crying? What did you do to him, now? He glared at his mother, rage burning in him. He knew it was her fault. Wasn't it always? Always sniping at him, blaming him for everything. It wasn't his fault Father was an assassin, she'd said so herself. But the moment she'd changed her mind, he was supposed to just stop?

"Your father is moving out," Irikah said. The words came out like rocks falling into the dirt.

"No!" Kolyat yelled. The scream tore its way out of his throat, even as his mother's words tore at his heart. No, he can't leave me here. "You're not doing this, you viper! I'll go with him."

"Kolyat." His father's voice stayed low, but the command in it was undeniable. "You will not speak to your mother this way."

Why is he still defending her? "Dad, it's not fair. If she wants to be like that, she can leave." He kicked a chair, sending it sliding across the kitchen floor.

Irikah didn't move, but his dad got up, moving slowly and carefully. His posture was unnaturally perfect, as if he were compensating for some injury somewhere.

Gee, I wonder why?

Thane came around the table to put his hands on his son's trembling shoulders. "No, Kolyat. Your mother is right, about a lot of things. You're going to stay here with her." His voice kept cracking, sounding like the words kept cutting him, too sharp to hold in his mouth.

Why is she being so cruel? Dad was loyal, Dad would never have left. He'd always supported them. It was all her fault. "Don't leave," he begged.

Thane held him tight, whispering apologies for leaving, and promising they would see each other soon. Kolyat felt hot tears burning at his closed lids: shame for having begged, and grief that it hadn't worked.

When Irikah sighed, his dad pulled back from him. He looked utterly defeated for a moment, shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow; Kolyat only ever saw him looking like that after she'd sunk her poison fangs into him, and never so bad.

Then Thane straightened and picked up his suitcase from by the door—already packed? You made him pack before even letting me know you were throwing him out?—and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Irikah stood easily, smoothing her gown over her hips, then reached for his hand. "I know this is difficult, Koly—"

Kolyat yanked his hand away; her touch was poison, and he knew it. "Don't. Don't say a thing, I'm never going to forgive you for this!" He stomped up the stairs, slammed his bedroom door, and flung himself on the bed. He wanted to run, to follow, but he knew they'd never let that happen. Irikah would get the authorities in on it, and his father wouldn't stand against them. He'd be dragged back in disgrace, and he'd still have to live with Irikah.

Kolyat stretch to turn on his music, twisting the volume up as loud as it could go, trying to drown out the voice telling him run. Go anyway. You can't stay here, so catch up before it's too late.