I descended to the courtyard. Mother was already there, supervising the loading of the carriage with our picnic. I took a moment to look at her. Mother was an excellent mage in her own right, and in formal circumstances she would wear a mage’s robe, carry her staff, and look quite formidable. But today she was wearing a simple summer dress in light blue, which set off her deep blue eyes. There were a few strands of silver in the pure gold of her hair, and a few wrinkles around her eyes, but the wrinkles were mostly laugh lines. I could still see the beautiful young woman that had captivated my father long ago.

And there came Father, striding into the courtyard. He never simply walked, he always paced, strode, marched. His expression was habitually stern, but he smiled to see my mother standing in the sunlight. He came up and put his arm around her. She smiled up at him and they kissed briefly. Whatever my quarrels with my father, I couldn’t fault him in the way he treated Mother. They were still as much in love today as they had been on the day of their wedding, perhaps more. Father was a tall man, and dark. The perfect picture of a mage with his black hair streaked with a touch of silver, which made him look wise and dignified. His lean features and his stern expression strengthened that impression, and his cat-slit eyes added just enough of the strange and magical to awe all who saw him. He was, as always, dressed in mage’s robes, and he carried his staff. Never mind that we were just going on a picnic, he was never without it.

Bouncing after him came my brother, Chris. Just ten years old this month, he still had some of his baby fat, but from the look of him he’d be as tall as Father when he was grown. His hair was dark, but his skin was fair, like Mother’s. He too had the green cat-slit eyes. He had the rest of the Ritah abilities as well. I remembered three or four years ago when I’d decided to perform an experiment and had dropped him head first off of a balcony. He’d yelled all the way down, but sure enough he’d landed on his feet. When I had fallen off of that same balcony years earlier I’d landed sideways and had broken my arm. Chris, of course, had emerged without a scratch. At the time I’d wished I could have dropped him from twice as high, but the odds are he would have been fine anyway. I kept it stifled most of the time, but I couldn’t help but be jealous of the brother who had everything I didn’t.

Seeing that they were ready to go, I emerged from the doorway where I had been lurking. I suppose I should describe myself as well. I don’t have my father’s height, or his lean looks. I take after Mother mostly. My hair is sandy blond and my skin fair. I’m pretty short too, almost a head shorter than Father. The only obvious clue that I’m his son is my eyes, which are just as green and have the same slit pupils. That day I wore a plain outfit in muted browns. Father disapproved of my dressing habits as well, saying I looked like a peasant in simple tunic and trews. Just one more thing in a long list of things he disapproved of. As a concession to the occasion, however, I’d worn a tunic of fine cloth with green embroidery around the collar and hem and a belt with the cat’s head emblem of our family on the buckle.

I climbed up into the carriage behind my father. When we were all settled in he signaled the driver and we set off. There wasn’t much conversation as we rattled down the road. Mother made a few remarks, and Chris chattered on for a while about his latest school project but otherwise a somewhat uncomfortable silence reigned. Fortunately we arrived at the beach before things got too awkward.

Mother busied herself directing the servants. They laid out a picnic cloth and all of the food, then went off by the carriage to do whatever it is servants do while waiting for their masters. I walked down the sandy slope until I could see the waves breaking smoothly on the shore. As much as I appreciated Mother’s attempts to include me, I wasn’t looking forward to this picnic. Father was sure to make some comment about my failure, and then there would be an argument. I hated arguments. Hated conflict of any kind, really.

“Ashen! Come on, we’re ready to start!” Mother’s voice came over the sound of the waves. I turned away from the peaceful ocean to the much less peaceful prospect of breakfast with my family.

We sat on the blanket and passed around fruit, scones, and sausages. Mother smiled and made conversation. I could see her leading up to my graduation, and I wished she would let the subject well enough alone. “So, Ashen, what was your last semester like? I understand you did very well in all your courses.”

With a mental sigh I responded. “I did well enough, I suppose.”

“Well, graduating with high honors suggests you did better then well enough. I’m quite proud,” She turned to Father and I winced inwardly, anticipating her remark, “Aren’t you Devon?”

Father looked at me. I could tell he was trying to bite back his automatic disparaging remark. “I wouldn’t say proud,” he said. “But you’ve done well, for a theorist.”

Mother gave him a disapproving look, but Father didn’t relent. “I’m not going to lie to the boy and say I’m proud of his degree. Generations of Kestrals have become great mages. Some have specialized in one area, some in another, but none of them have been theoreticians!”

I got to my feet, anger beginning to well up in me. My hands were clenched into fists, and my teeth gritted. I opened my mouth to make an angry retort. Then the fear followed close on the anger’s heels. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I didn’t know why, and sometimes I hated it, but I was terrified of my own anger. Every time I started to loose my temper, fear drowned the anger out. Somewhere inside me I simply knew that anger was terrifying, dangerous, and I had to control it. So now, as always, I calmed my anger and sat back down.

My father exploded. “And look at that! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were no son of mine! You never stand up for yourself! No abilities, no magic and no spine! Come on, I know you have something to say, say it!”

I was on my feet again in a red-hot haze. I felt my hands, for some reason, begin to ache. I wanted to yell, to hit something, to let all the anger out, but then the fear was back, paralyzingly strong. I was terrified. If I let my anger go something horrible would happen. I could feel the dreaded whatever it was coming closer. With a snarl I turned and stalked away wordlessly. I needed to cool down.