It still ached sometimes. Now and then, he could have sworn he felt his fingers move, though there were no fingers there.
That was bad enough. This was worse.
"Explain to me," Isembard said, "how my son managed to lose so disgracefully to Owen Ferrers."
His voice was harsh and cold, and it filled the room.
"After you stood in front of half the capital and accepted a wager like that. Explain it to me."
"Father, he was—" Lucien swallowed. "He was far stronger than anyone expected. I could feel it, the moment our weapons met. The difference between us was— And his abilities weren’t normal. He used fire, and then my axe went straight through him, as if he were—"
"Enough."
Lucien stopped.
"You brought shame on this house," Isembard said. "Your arrogance, and your judgment, and your mouth. In front of the Princess. In front of the imperial court." His lip curled. "Do you have any idea how many people watched a de Clare beg?"
"I didn’t expect him to be that strong," Lucien said. "No one did. If I had known—"
"Another excuse."
His father’s eyes went to the empty sleeve again, and Lucien saw his face darken.
"Look at you," Isembard said. "A son of mine. You lost a duel to a Ferrers, and then you lost your arm to him as well. How did you allow that to happen?"
Lucien tried to answer.
He opened his mouth, but his throat had closed up, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice shook.
"I— Father, I tried. I tried to—"
He could feel his face crumpling, and he hated it. He hated standing here like this. He wanted his father to understand. He wanted him to know what it had been like, standing in front of Owen Ferrers and realising, too late, that nothing he did was going to be enough. He hadn’t been careless. He had been beaten by something he couldn’t have known about.
But the words wouldn’t come out right, and his father wasn’t listening.
Alaric stepped forward.
"Father," he said. "The duel was held under imperial supervision. Lucien accepted the wager in front of witnesses, and Captain Voss recorded the terms. By the time Ferrers claimed his payment, Princess Adelaide and the whole court were watching. If we had tried to stop him by force, or attacked him afterward, it would have made things far worse for this house. We would have been the ones who—"
Isembard rose from his chair.
He came around the desk and struck Alaric across the face.
Smack!
The sound cracked through the chamber.
Lucien flinched.
Alaric’s head turned with the blow. For a moment, he stayed like that, perfectly still, a red mark already rising on his cheek. Then he turned back to face their father.
"And where were you?" Isembard said. "While your brother was being humiliated in front of the whole court? Why didn’t you protect him? Why did you stand there and let a Ferrers walk away after taking his arm?"
He was very close to Alaric now.
"You should have taken his arm in return. Instead, you let him leave without a scratch on him."
Alaric opened his mouth.
Then he closed it again.
Lucien saw his brother’s jaw tighten. Alaric lowered his eyes to the floor, slowly and deliberately, and said nothing at all.
Isembard turned back to Lucien.
"As for you," he said. "You are useless."
Lucien had thought the shouting was the worst of it. He was wrong.
"I don’t want to look at you," his father said. "Not like this."
Lucien’s legs gave way.
He sank to his knees on the polished stone. His eyes were stinging, and he tried to blink it away, tried to hold on to whatever dignity he had left, but he couldn’t lift his head. He couldn’t look at his father’s face.
Isembard didn’t move to comfort him.
"You’ll report to one of my senior officers," he said instead. "He will be told to expect you. He will see about having a replacement arm made for you, and he will decide how you’re to begin learning to live with it. A manufactured one." His voice was flat. "Don’t expect anything more than that. Whatever it can do beyond hanging off your shoulder will have to be worked out later."
He went back around the desk and sat down.
"Get out. Both of you."
Alaric bowed and turned toward the door. Lucien struggled to his feet, unsteady with only one arm to push himself up, and followed him.
The door closed behind them.
The corridor outside was long and quiet. Lucien kept his eyes on the floor as they walked. The place where his arm had been throbbed dully with every step, and when he glanced sideways, he could see the mark on Alaric’s cheek turning a deeper red.
They walked until the study was well behind them.
Then Alaric stopped.
Lucien looked up at him, uncertain.
Alaric turned around and came back toward him. The calm, careful expression he had worn in front of their father, in front of Owen Ferrers and the Princess, was gone. He bent down until his face was close to Lucien’s.
"Do you know how much I despise you?" he said quietly.
Lucien stared at him.
"You were born a bastard," Alaric said. "That was never your fault. But nobody ever told you that you had to act like one." His voice stayed low and even. "You humiliated Father. You humiliated this entire house. And for what? A girl who didn’t want to dance with you."
He straightened slightly.
"You deserved every bit of what happened to you."
Lucien’s face tightened.
His remaining hand curled into a fist, so hard that his nails bit into his palm. For a moment, he thought about hitting him.
The thought died almost as soon as it came. Alaric was stronger than him. He always had been. And like this, with one arm and barely enough strength to stand, he would only end up on the floor again.
Alaric glanced down at the clenched fist. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned.
He gave Lucien one last look of contempt, then turned and walked away down the corridor.
Lucien stood where he was.
He listened to Alaric’s footsteps until they faded away, and then there was nothing but the silence of the house.
He looked down at his empty sleeve.
The healer had saved his life. She had closed the wound, and she had stopped the bleeding. But the arm was gone, and every time he looked down, it would remind him of the East Martial Court.
His father had called him useless. His brother despised him.
And then there was Owen.
Lucien remembered the duel. He remembered the axe passing through nothing. He remembered running, and stumbling, and begging, and the way Owen had kept walking toward him without a word, and the sword appearing in his hand.
His fist tightened again.
He was not going to stay like this. He was not going to be the useless, broken thing his family saw when they looked at him now. Whatever it took to become strong again, he would do it.
And one day, he would make Owen Ferrers pay.
Lucien turned and walked down the corridor to find the officer his father had sent him to.