Inside, the room opened again, and they could both stand. Even before Galen lit the lantern he kept by the doorway, Kihrin let out an appreciative whistle. Galen felt immensely consoled. He would have been upset if his new brother had shown no admiration for the safe haven of Galen’s childhood.
Under the lantern’s flame, the contents of the storeroom became clear. In the center of the room loomed a golden statue of a woman, her head crowned by delicate metal roses, her neck and hips encircled by a belt of skulls. In her hands she held blades: dozens of knives, daggers, shivs, keris, and thin stilettos. They looked like fatal blooms. The flickering torchlight gave her life so she loomed over them in deadly benediction.
“Wow.”
Galen nodded. “Thaena herself! I don’t know what that statue’s doing here, of course, but—” He shrugged. “A lot of stuff was just thrown in this room to be forgotten.”
“That’s real gold.” Kihrin walked over to examine the statue.
“Yes, yes, it is. The Black Gate itself doesn’t have a statue that’s solid gold.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “Neither do we. That’s gold leaf. It would collapse under its own weight otherwise.”
Galen deflated. “Well.” He pointed. “That’s dried blood on the skulls!”
“Okay, so that part’s creepy.” Kihrin looked sideways at him, then added, “You should charge admission.”
“Nobody knows it’s here. Okay, nobody but you, me, and Uncle Bavrin.” Galen smiled at Kihrin and set off searching through the amassed clutter.
“Nobody but you, me, Uncle Bavrin, and whoever put this here in the first place, you mean.”
“They’ve probably been dead for years,” Galen said, waving his brother over to the side. “What I want to show you is over here.”
“How did they even move it into this room?” Galen’s brother mused. “There’s no way it would have fit through that narrow little passage.”
“Kihrin, over here,” Galen insisted.
“Aren’t you even curious?” Kihrin didn’t look at him. His stare traced out the contours of the statue, judging the size against the tiny doorway they had crouched to enter. He held up his hands to help measure and compare. “No way. Not unless that statue can be broken up into pieces.”
“I told you, they threw a lot of junk into this room.”
Kihrin bit his lip. “But why—all right, all right. What is it you need to show me?”
Galen held up the painting and pulled off the velvet cloth covering.
Kihrin’s face grew pale. “Taja…”
“Well?” Galen balanced the painting up against the stack of others behind it, and took a few steps back. “You see the resemblance, right? He looks just like you.”
Galen didn’t know when the portrait had been painted, but it showed a High Lord in the height of his power. He was handsome, impossibly pretty, with golden hair and sapphire eyes—the distinctive blue of the D’Mon god-marked royals. Galen had always seen the resemblance to Darzin in the picture, but that was nothing compared to how closely the portrait resembled his new brother. It was as if someone had reached forward in time to draw Kihrin as an older man; there could be no question he was related.
Kihrin didn’t speak, but Galen thought his expression was answer enough. Galen found himself feeling guilty. He’d only meant to show Kihrin he was part of the family, to show Kihrin he shouldn’t insult the D’Mon name. Kihrin’s expression wasn’t shocked or embarrassed. He looked heartbroken. For the first time, Galen realized Kihrin hadn’t been waiting on proof nor seeking it. The revelation Kihrin truly was a D’Mon was not a rescue, but a sentence.
Kihrin walked over to the painting and knelt in front of it. He traced the writing on the gold nameplate at the bottom with his finger. “Pedron D’Mon,” the young man whispered.
“He was our great-great-uncle. His mother was this vané slave with golden hair who was murdered by one of the family after she gave birth to Pedron’s sister, Tishar. A lot of people think that’s why he turned out so bad. Because he hated House D’Mon for killing his mother and wanted to destroy us.”
“He looks like me. That’s … that’s creepy.” Kihrin frowned. “So this vané slave had three children, right? Pedron, Tishar, and Therin’s father?”
“Uh, no. Therin’s father was Pedron’s half-brother. Therin’s mother was noble born.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It gets better though. My mother says that Pedron owned your mother. That is, Lyrilyn. You know, before she married our father.”
“Lady Miya mentioned that, but she forgot to mention how much I look like Pedron.”
“It was ages ago. And your mother, you know, betrayed Pedron, sided with his nephew Therin to help him kill her master.” Galen rested his hip against one of the crates as he spoke. “Nobody ever talks about what happened, you know. They all just whisper about it with these big capital-letter voices like everyone’s supposed to know what happened, and of course I don’t. It’s all so frustrating.”
“Pedron…” Kihrin whispered and touched the side of the painting again. It wasn’t reverence exactly. More like dread. “What’s this written underneath?”
“What?” Galen blinked. “It’s his name.”
“No, there’s writing underneath. Bring that light over here.”
Galen did, and saw that someone had carved words into the frame underneath the name plaque.
“Wizard, thief, knight, and king. The children will not know the names of their fathers, who quiet the voices of their sting.” Kihrin read the words and then raised an eyebrow at Galen. “Not what I’d choose to have engraved on my portrait, but who am I to question a dead evil High Lord?”
“I never noticed that before. What does it mean?”
“Uh, he has terrible taste in poetry?” At Galen’s glare, Kihrin raised his hands. “How would I know what it means? I still can’t figure out how they got the statue in here.”
“It sounds like a prophecy,” Galen said as he bent over to look at the frame again.
“A prophecy meaning what? Really bad family life? A rash of Ogenra? Wait.” Kihrin stared at the portrait a moment longer and then he laughed. “Wow. Oh, I get it. Pedron really got around, didn’t he?”
“What do you mean?” Galen blinked at him.
Kihrin started to answer and then stopped. “I mean the children won’t know the names of their fathers. It’s not prophecy: he’s bragging. Think about it. You brought me here to convince me Darzin’s my father, because I look like this High Lord Pedron. What you’ve really done is proven that High Lord Pedron wasn’t our great-whatever-uncle.”
“Wait, I don’t understand—”
Kihrin brandished a strand of his hair. “Don’t you get it? I wouldn’t have this hair unless I was related to Pedron’s vané mother, the one with the distinctive golden hair. What was her name again?”
“Uh … I don’t remember. Val-something?”
“Okay, well, she’s the key. Therin is our grandfather, right? And I have D’Mon blue eyes and her hair. I wouldn’t have both if Therin wasn’t related to Pedron’s mother, so no matter what you’ve been told, Pedron’s not some great-uncle. We’ve got to be descended from him.”