The Red Sea Read Free Page B

Gaskan struck Dante as nothing short of proof of the existence of the gods. Blays finished reading, lowered the note, and raised his eyebrows at Dante. "He knew your mom. He knew you . The events he mentions, they're like you remember them?"
    "It was a long time ago. But yes."
    "Right. So when do we leave?"
    Dante laughed. "We're not going anywhere."
    "But you just said this is your dad."
    "And?"
    "And he's sick and dying. You're one of the only people in the world who could help him."
    Dante sat on the cushions of the window seat. "He's the one who decided to leave. I've done perfectly well without him. Why mess with a good thing?"
    "We're only issued one father per existence," Blays said. "Most humans, when given the chance to see a parent they thought was long dead, would leap at the chance."
    "He left me. Alone. That was his choice. This may be difficult for you to understand, but after that, I've had no desire to ever see him again."
    "You're right. I don't understand. I'd give anything to see my dad one last time."
    Dante watched him a moment. "Really? You'd give up Minn? Trade your relationship with her for one last chat with your dad?"
    Blays batted at the air. "I didn't mean it like that."
    "How about our friendship, then?"
    "I'd give you up for a good ham sandwich."
    Dante rose to collect the note. "If you won't take this seriously, then I won't, either."
    "All right, point conceded. It wouldn't make any sense to trade a meaningful relationship for a few more minutes of an old one."
    "So we've established that you wouldn't give up anything. That there are, in fact, real limits to what you'd sacrifice. The only thing left to do is find out exactly how little you would give up."
    Blays glared from beneath his blond eyebrows. "Clearly more than you."
    Dante crumpled the note and pocketed it. "People like to pretend there's nothing more important than family. That they'd sacrifice anything for it. But parents abandon their children every day. Kids forsake their parents. Brothers betray each other. There's nothing sacred about blood."
    "Family isn't sacred, it's an ideal. We all have to break our ideals sometime. But having them gives us something to live up to." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "If you won't go, mind if I do?"
    "You absolutely will not."
    "I'm not up to much here. I may as well go make myself useful."
    "Don't you dare try to threaten me with this." Dante's voice was soft, concealing its quaver. "This is my family. My decision."
    "Maybe it's none of my business. But I've known you long enough to know that, in a situation like this, you'd rather reject it out of hand than give it real consideration."
    "I've made enough mistakes to be able to live with one more."
    "Just think about it, all right?"
    "Why do you care so much?"
    "I'm not saying you have to go make nice with him. You can go heal him up, then rub it in his face that you're such a raging success."
    Dante frowned. "What exactly would that gain me?"
    "If you're that sure you don't care, then stay here. But if you've got any uncertainty at all, and you don't see him, you could regret it forever."
    "I'll think about it. But I make no promises."
    "That's all I ask." Blays pushed off from the wall. He moved to the door and unlocked the bolt. "If you decide you're going, you know I'll go with you."
    He walked outside, using the door this time. Dante sat on the bed, removed the wadded-up note from his pocket, and smoothed it against his leg.
    An hour later, he left his room and found Lolligan in his study. The room overlooked the lake and was cozy with bric-a-brac gathered over a lifetime of travel. The salt merchant was approaching seventy years of age, but his white goatee remained neatly trimmed, and he showed no signs of slowing down, be it in his business or the speed at which he walked between meetings.
    Seeing Dante, he smiled and rose from a plush chair. "Back from work already? I didn't expect to see you until this evening."
    "The