Chapter 2

There are five prominent families within the piper realm, though it's not unusual for a piper to be born from a family with no legacy ties. The Humblecuts, the Daughtlers, the Vespertines, the Wixx, and the Bonaventures all hold centuries of pipers, each generation adding to the family's pride. Each family predominantly produces one type of piper every generation, such as the Bonaventure War pipers or the Humblecut Eros pipers. For those who carry no Family legacy, it is much harder to find their way to the piper challenge, and many never complete the challenge at all. These pipers are doomed to always feel as if they're missing an integral part of who they are.

-A History of Pipers; A.A. Wesen

For the next year, Finley and Finnian make a name for themselves. Even though Finley is a greed piper, I see something of what feels like pride for her from Father when she singlehandedly builds a powerful kingdom. She plays her music and robs the people in the kingdom of all their valuables. The greedy king is happy. The people starve.

Father approves.

I don't really understand the pride for such a terrible thing. Wealth comes with a price at the hands of a greed piper. Then again, most pipers cause nothing but pain. War pipers are dangerous weapons. Any king who has a war piper is practically guaranteed to win a war. That's why it costs so much to hire Finnian or my father. They come with heavy price tags because they come with heavy success. My father has never lost a war, and Finnian hasn't been a piper long enough to lose one. He's only fought in small wars, but it's enough. Together, they make the Bonaventure name live on.

Not me though. Not little ole Fenwick. Little strange Fenwick.

"Clean the house again," Father orders as I appear from my tiny room. It's practically a closet, but it's better than having no room at all. "It's not clean enough."

"It's time for my practice, Father," I tell him. Every day, I go to practice for my challenge. I meditate. I practice my climbing. I ask the stone statue of a deity I have no name for to make me a war piper. Father has always claimed that the deity gives us our powers. I don't know if it's true or not. I've done this every day since I was a child so it's more of a habit now than an actual prayer.

Still, I never skip practice. I'm a great climber now, just as I can do most things my father can. Practice has helped my skills grow, and I hope that the climb won't be nearly as cumbersome as it was for my sister.

"There's no reason for practice," Father growls. "Comedy pipers don't have any need for that."

I blink in surprise. Father has always made it out that practicing is important and that I should fight the destiny he expects of me. The moment I assume I'll be so is the moment I will be, so he orders me to strive for war regardless. So for him to say I have no need now is strange. "But we don't know that I'll be a comedy piper," I point out hesitantly, not certain where this change of opinion comes from.

He looks at me, those silver eyes hard as the steel of a blade. I shrink beneath his gaze, not wanting to invite his wrath. His fists hurt, but not as bad as his compelling does. When a war piper sets his sights on you, you should run, but because I can't run from my father, I'll be forced to feel his music. A piper is unaffected by another piper, but I'm not a piper yet and thereby susceptible should he decide to harm me. I've only felt it once, and I don't want to feel it ever again.

Mother comes from the kitchen, her golden eyes flickering between us in worry. She can't step in without inviting her own punishment, but she would if she could and that's all that matters. Her gaze meets mine and I see her hesitation, so I release her from any guilt. I shake my head. If I'm to be punished, I can handle it alone. There's no need for her to gather any bruises on my account.

It eases my ache that I got one of my eyes from her, even if I got the other from my father. At least I'm partly from her bloodline. At least I have evidence of that. Perhaps that's why Father hates me so much. Perhaps he hates that I'm clearly split down the middle.

"Did I misspeak?" Father asks. "I told you to clean the house."

I raise my chin. "I'll clean after I've finished my practice. You've always said that?—"

I don't get a chance to finish my argument. I don't get a chance to parrot his words back to him. Clearly, things have changed, and it probably has something to do with Finley's recent win. The Bonaventure family now has more gold than they can ever hope to spend. It'll be in the family for eons. But that doesn't explain why he suddenly strikes out and smacks me across the face.

The hit surprises me even if it shouldn't. I stumble and fall to the wooden floor, my hand going to my cheek as it throbs from the sudden pain. I blink up at my father stupidly, not sure what to do. I'm still a year from my challenge, but clearly, that doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I don't matter.

"Clean the house," he growls. "And because you want to argue, make sure you go clean the pig slops, too." He towers over me, his eyes cold, as if I'm not his son. As if I don't belong here. "And when you're done with that, I'll find more for you to do. Practices are cancelled."

I stare at him. "But. . . how will I pass my challenge?"

"It doesn't matter," he growls. "I don't need confirmation of what you are."

I straighten. "And what is that?" I ask, needing to know, needing the words. Father has always disliked me, but that dislike has turned to hatred. I can't fathom why, but it doesn't matter. I'm still Fenwick. I'm still myself.

He curls his lip up at me, and that hatred flickers in his eyes.

"Nothing," he says. "You're nothing, Fenwick, and you'll always be so."

And then he leaves me there on the floor with the weight of his shame.