The child was tidy, but there was only so much soap and water could do to the dirt of years. His skin was gray and his hair was so neatly trimmed it had to have just been done. It was cut almost to his scalp—most likely to get rid of the pests that infested the lower population of Estian. Hunger gave him the face of a much older person, though Garranon reckoned his age to be around ten or twelve.

He hadn’t felt as young as this boy looked when he was twelve, and one of the king’s soldiers had presented him and his younger brother to the king in a scene very similar to this one.

“Hold him still,” ordered Jakoven. The excited tremolo in his voice brought Garranon to alert as the guardsman wrapped an arm around the boy and gripped his jaw, forcing the boy to stare at the king.

“Hurog blue,” said the king, satisfaction in his tone. “Your lord will be rewarded as I promised. Jade Eyes, take the boy for me.”

The king’s mage took the boy ungently by the arm and the guardsman left. The boy jerked once, then cried out and went still when Jade Eyes shifted his grip.

“A little scrawny, isn’t he?” said Jade Eyes distastefully.

“We’ll feed him up,” said Jakoven, leaving his chair.

“Boy,” he said in a velvet tone as familiar to Garranon as his own voice. “Give me your name.”

“Won’t,” said the boy, spitting on the floor.

Jakoven smiled and touched the boy’s thin cheek. Garranon saw nothing, but Jade Eyes dropped his hands and stepped away.

Magic,thought Garranon.

The boy stood still, held captive by the touch of Jakoven’s finger. His face was blank and empty.

Vekke’s breath,thought Garranon. He remembered that, remembered the king holding him with nothing more than his touch. He hadn’t realized it was magic Jakoven had used. Not until he saw the king use it on another boy.

“Give me your name, boy.”

“Tychis.” His consonants were thick with the accents of the Estian slums.

“Who was your mother?”

“Illeya of Hurog.”

“Do you know your father?”

The boy’s body began to vibrate with tension, shaking as he fought not to answer. “Fenwick of Hurog.”

“What relation was he to your mother.”

Tears spilled down the boy’s face. “My mother was his uncle’s get.”