Kihrin glared at his stepmother, but she didn’t seem inclined to explain.
The man behind the desk looked up and examined them both. Kihrin felt a shock as the man’s gaze passed over him: High Lord Therin’s eyes were sharp, calculating, and a distinctive, bright blue. Despite his slender build and his youthful appearance, his presence made him seem larger. Kihrin found himself reminded of General Milligreest.
Most importantly, he looked nothing like Dead Man. Kihrin frowned. When Darzin had said his father was meeting with Butterbelly, Kihrin assumed that meant Darzin’s father was the other person who had been present for the demon summoning. If Dead Man wasn’t Pretty Boy’s father, who was he?
Therin D’Mon put down his pen.
“Thank you, Alshena. That will be all.”
Alshena curtsied again, then left, shutting the door behind her.
Therin looked at Kihrin for several heartbeats, his face holding the faintest suggestion of a sneer.
“One guard dead and an escape attempt in a week. I must say I’m surprised it took you so long to try to run away.”
Kihrin clenched and unclenched his fists. “I was in mourning.”
“Yes, of course. Please sit down, Kihrin.”
Kihrin sat down, thinking, At least he used my name instead of “boy.”
Silence loomed. Therin picked up his pen and continued writing. When he finished, Therin blotted the paper, put away the pen and ink, and tucked the sheet in a drawer. Finally, he stood up and looked out the window.
“It would be a mistake,” Therin said as he gazed out over the Blue Palace, “to think of House D’Mon as a family. We are not. Never mind that the men and women at the top are related through blood or marriage. This is a company, a corporation of skills and talents, with the singular function of providing a service for as cheaply as possible, while being paid as much as possible. It is a business. Every Royal House is, and anything else is just so many god-king tales for the common folk. I do not care who your parents really were, and I do not care whether or not Darzin’s story is true. You are god-touched and you have talent and you are therefore a useful commodity, an investment. As long as I believe you are a sound investment, your stay here may even be enjoyable. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord—but Darzin’s lying. I’m not god-touched.”
Therin almost smiled. “You misunderstand, son. You are god-touched. That is not under dispute. No matter if Darzin is your father or isn’t, at some point within four generations, one of your ancestors was a member of this House. There is a mark it leaves on our members, a mark that can be detected. I double-checked the accuracy myself. It is the singular part of Darzin’s claim that I have no doubt is absolute truth: our blood runs through your veins.”
“So I could still be Ogenra?”
The High Lord scoffed. “Do you know what an Ogenra even is?”
“I thought I did, but Miya said—”
“Lady Miya.”
Kihrin faltered. “Excuse me?”
“You will always call her Lady Miya.”
Kihrin flushed with embarrassment. He fought the urge to stand straighter, tug down his clothing, act like he was being reprimanded by Surdyeh. “Yes, sir,” he said instead. “Lady Miya said that illegitimacy had nothing to do with it.”
Therin nodded. “Indeed. All my grandfather’s children were illegitimate—he was fond of raping his slaves. An Ogenra is nothing more than a blood relative of a House who has not been formally presented to the gods. They can never inherit, never wear the name, never even wear the colors or live on our land until that pact is formalized—but since they are not members of the House, they can be elected as Voices; they can serve on the Council. They can do something we cannot: rule.”
“Alshena mentioned something about that, but I don’t understand. I thought you do rule.”
“We have power. It’s not quite the same thing.”
“So technically I’m Ogenra until you present me?”
“You were presented while you were unconscious,” Therin corrected. “It is formal and irrevocable and done. Darzin has made public claims that will be difficult to avoid fulfilling, particularly since he’s seen fit to provide the documentation that proves you aren’t even a House bastard. Necessary, that—his wife, Alshena, belongs to House D’Aramarin, and they would have used any excuse to protest a bastard being taken as heir over their daughter’s legitimate son.”
There was nothing much that Kihrin could say to that. He studied the wood of the desk and wondered if he could get away with slipping his sight past the Veil. He could take it for granted that Therin would be a wizard too. The most expensive physickers healed using magic.
“You don’t think he’s your father, do you?” Therin asked.
Kihrin was quiet for a few moments. Finally, he said, “No.”
“Why?” Therin asked, with a surprising amount of sympathy in his voice. “Is this just instinct talking? You can’t bear the idea that he might be your sire? A lot of people find that they cannot tolerate their parents, young man. It’s not that uncommon. I hated my father with every breath in me, and I know Darzin holds no love for me, a feeling which is quite mutual.”
Kihrin shook his head. “No, there’s just no gain in it.”
“No gain in it?”
“No, Lord. What does he gain by claiming me as his son? He didn’t have to recognize me when we met at the High General’s house. He could have ignored me. Instead he sent assassins to kill me, and for some reason—for some reason he changed his mind and decided to save me. I should be dead. He wanted me dead. Instead, I’m his long-lost son.” Kihrin shook his head. “From all I’ve been told, including by you, people up here don’t do anything unless there’s something to gain. Even if I really am his son, what does he gain by admitting it? He already has an heir. He pisses off House D’Aramarin by pushing Galen aside. He’s clearly not sentimental. That means he has another motive.”
Kihrin debated mentioning the Stone of Shackles, but dismissed the thought. He had no idea how much he could trust this man, and while he might be new to royalty, he was not new to the idea that it was unwise to show his hand too soon.
Therin returned to his chair. “I too don’t know what Darzin wants, which isn’t a situation I enjoy. He could have claimed you as Ogenra and no one would have questioned it. Instead, he puts you under him as next in line for the House Seat. The cynic might argue the only thing keeping certain individuals from having Darzin killed is the thought of who would inherit after he was dead.”
Therin leaned forward. “But sometimes we must make the best of the cards we are dealt.”
“I’m sorry?” Kihrin was startled by Therin’s analogy, so close to his own thoughts.