“Neither, Majesty. We feed it to our enemy.”
“A poisoned omelet, then.”
Tretar bowed in homage. “Your Majesty is, I see, far ahead of me.”
“You are referring to that human child… What’s his name? The one who was brought to the Imperanon yesterday.”
“Bane, Your Majesty.”
“Yes. Charming child, or so we hear. Passable looks, for a human, we are told. What are we to make of him, Tretar? Is this wild tale of his to be believed?”
“I have done some investigating, Your Imperial Majesty. If you would be interested to hear what I have discovered?”
“Amused, at least,” said the emperor, with a languid lift of a plucked eyebrow.
“Your Majesty has, among his slaves, a human who once served in the royal household of King Stephen. A minor footman, he was pressed into service in the Volkaran army. I took the liberty of bringing this man and the child, Bane, together. The footman recognized the child immediately. In fact, the wretched man nearly passed out, thinking he’d seen a ghost.”
“Appallingly superstitious—humans,” Agah’ran commented.
“Yes, My Liege. Not only did this man recognize the boy, the boy knew the footman. He spoke to him by name—”
“By name? A footman? Bah! This Bane cannot have been a prince!”
“Humans tend to be democratic-minded, Sire. I am told that King Stephen admits any human, even those of the lowest, most common rank, into his presence, if they have a suit or a grievance.”
“Gad! How dreadful! I feel quite faint,” said Agah’ran. “Hand me those smelling salts, Tretar.”
The count lifted a small bottle, decorated with silver, and motioned to the valet de chambre, who motioned to a slave, who took the bottle and held it at the proper distance beneath the imperial nose. Several sniffs of the aromatic salts restored Agah’ran to clear-minded attentiveness, alleviated the shock of hearing about the barbaric practices of humans.
“If you are feeling quite well, My Liege, I will continue.”
“Where is all this leading, Tretar? What has the child to do with the Kenkari? You cannot fool us, Count. We are sharp. We see a connection developing here.”
The count bowed in homage. “Your Imperial Majesty’s brain is a veritable dragon-trap. If I might presume upon Your Radiance’s patience, I beg Your Majesty to permit me to introduce the child into the Royal Presence. I believe Your Imperial Majesty will find the story the boy has to tell quite interesting.”
“A human? Into our presence? Suppose… suppose” —Agah’ran appeared distraught, fluttered his hand—”suppose we catch something?”
“The boy has been quite thoroughly scrubbed, Your Majesty,” said the count with becoming gravity.
Agah’ran motioned to the valet, who motioned to the slave, who handed the emperor a scented pomander. Holding it up in front of his nose, Agah’ran indicated with a slight nod that Tretar was to proceed. The count snapped his fingers. Two of the royal guard marched in, conveying the child between them.
“Stop! Stop there!” Agah’ran commanded, though the boy had not taken four steps into the large room.
“Guards, leave us,” Tretar ordered. “Your Imperial Majesty, I present His Highness, Bane, Prince of Volkaran.”
“And Ulyndia and the High Realms,” added the child. “Now that my real father’s dead.”
He stepped forward with an imperious air, bowed gracefully from the waist. The prince indicated respect for the emperor, but made it clear he was offering it to an equal, as an equal.
Agah’ran, accustomed to seeing his own people prostrate themselves flat on the floor before their emperor, was considerably taken aback by such arrogance and bravado. It would have cost an elf his soul. Tretar held his breath, thinking perhaps he’d made a serious mistake.
Bane raised his head, straightened his small body, and smiled. He had been bathed and dressed in whatever finery Tretar could find to fit him (human children being considerably rounder than elven children). The golden curls had been combed into ringlets that glistened in the light. Bane’s skin was like fine porcelain, his eyes were bluer than the lapis on the box held by the emperor’s geir. Agah’ran was impressed with the child’s beauty, or so Tretar judged, noting the emperor lift his eyebrow and slightly lower the scented pomander.