Page 62 of Alora: The Portal (Alora 2)

“We proposed Daegreth might be a genetic match as a brother to Wesley and me, and the DNA says… he’s not.”

Brian’s face fell. “So he’s not related? He just happens to look like you?”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t related. He and I are a fifty percent match and fifty percent of his markers came from Mom and Dad. But he has fewer markers in common with Wesley.” Steven grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“Steven, tell us right now.” Karen was starting to get that wild look in her eyes.

Steven rolled his lips in, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “Okay, Mom. Here it is. Daegreth is… my son.”

“What?” Brian was on his feet. “What are you talking about?”

“But Vindrake killed my father,” Daegreth protested, his wide eyes blinking rapidly.

Steven lifted his shoulders and dropped them, his grin unfazed. “I can’t explain it, but the science doesn’t lie. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed a parallel world could exist. I wouldn’t have believed Alora could move people around like in Star Trek, either. Hey, Daegreth—do I look like your father?”

Daegreth’s mouth opened and closed a few times as if he were trying to make sense of Steven’s words. “I cannot say. He had more years than you, and he wore a full beard. But people commented we looked similar. Does this mean my mother is here in this realm? Will you someday marry her?”

Steven tapped his fingers on his chin. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem likely. I can’t even tell you your father and I had identical DNA. Just take it for what it is. Genetically, we’re family.”

Alora caught a glisten in Daegreth’s eyes before he tucked his chin down, and she could almost swear she sensed him choking back his emotions. In fact the whole room felt so thick with emotion, she was practically swimming in it.

Odd. I wonder if this is part of my discernment?

~ 10 ~

“I have no wish to depend on this decrepit old man to locate the portal for me.” Vindrake glared at Malphas. Not for the first time, he considered replacing his chief shaman. Always, it seemed, he fulfilled his duties with minimal effort. Vindrake could

hardly believe the small aged man quaking at Malphas’ side was the only citizen of Water Clan with the gift of gresses.

“But Ferrister here has an able body despite his years and he bears your bondmark. An extensive search revealed no other with the gift, save this man’s grandson, Markaeus, with whom you’re already acquainted. Surely you prefer the help of someone you could control, rather than that of a child of nine years.”

“Perhaps I’d prefer to take the gift and use it myself.”

“I beg your pardon, Sire, but are you absolutely certain you don’t possess the gift already? Daevidea, from whom you… ahem… procured the gift of water-source, also had the gift of gresses. Perhaps her other gift transferred to you, as well.”

Like the gift of bearer and shaman, gresses might not pass to him from its owner through the oath of Maladorn. Yet he couldn’t know for certain.

“In the past, the presence of a new gift has made itself known to me, but perhaps I might not notice such a minor gift.” Vindrake willed the old man to meet his eyes, noting little resistance in his cowering persona. A wendt created from this man wouldn’t be worth the energy expended.

“Ferrister? Is that your name?”

His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Instead, he nodded with vigor.

“Ferrister, if I have the gift of gresses, you will teach me to use it. So how can I know if I possess the gift?”

“Uhmm… uhmm…”

“Look. There’s a lock on my trunk. How would I open it without using my key?”

Ferrister moved to examine the lock. “Y-you w-would… uhmm…”

The aged man was obviously inept. Perhaps he no longer remembered how to use his gift. Not bothering to hide his disdain, Vindrake prodded the timid man. “Is this lock too difficult for you? I don’t see how you could find and open a portal if you can’t—”

Vindrake stared at the trunk, astounded. The open lock dangled from the hasp. “How did you do that?”

“I… I…” Ferrister backed away, tripping over his own feet and falling against a table, which upended, sending a pottery washbasin crashing to the floor.

Without a thought, Vindrake stretched out his hand in anger. Ferrister writhed on the floor, clutching his throat as Vindrake squeezed off his supply of air.