Kellen glanced about. “Garranon comes—came once a week to visit me, in spite of Jakoven’s disapproval. We played chess.”

I remembered that all-important chessboard Oreg had destroyed, and smiled as I laid the boy on the ground. I caught Oreg’s eye and he came over to check on the sleeping child. I’d begun to worry about what Tychis had been given to make him sleep this deeply. Whatever they’d done to him, I hoped Oreg could rectify it.

“Allow me,” said the Tamerlain, appearing on the other side of the boy. “I know what was laid upon him, so it’ll be easier for me to break it.”

I felt her power rise and cover the boy, but I couldn’t tell exactly what she did. The results, however, were obvious. The boy rolled to his feet, the whites of his eyes showing as he looked around them. Then, sprouting appalling Tallvenish gutterspeak that effectively stopped Kellen and Garranon’s conversation and directed the attention of most of the people in the vicinity toward him, he reached down and grabbed a chunk of rock in his hand.

“Impressive,” I said dryly in Tallvenish—which we’d been speaking out of courtesy to Kellen anyway. As I remembered from before his imprisonment, he could get by in the Shavig tongue, but was more comfortable in Tallvenish. “What do you think happens after you’ve hit one of us with the rock—assuming you can throw it hard enough to matter?”

He stopped swearing and glanced fearfully from me to Oreg and on to the rest of the men (Tisala was some distance away saddling a horse) who were watching him. A couple of them stepped forward, hands on their swords.

I shooed them with a wave of my hand. “Finish packing camp. I need a little time to explain matters to my brother here.” I said it first in Shavig, for the men, and then again in Tallvenish for the boy.

Turning back to Tychis, I nodded my head in greeting. “I am Ward of Hurog—your half brother. Next to me is my mage, Oreg—also a relative of sort. Your uncle Duraugh and Tosten—another of your half brothers—are over there. Tosten is the one over by that oak with his hand on his sword. Duraugh is that one,” I said, pointing behind Kellen, “the one frowning at me.”

“I’m not your brother,” Tychis said fiercely in broken Shavig. Then he repeated it, with a few more filthy words, mostly adjectival, in Tallvenish.

I shook my head sadly and settled myself on the ground where I was on more of a level with him, not so threatening. “I’m sorry if it pains you—but your father was Fenwick of Hurog, as was mine. You’ve half a dozen other half siblings in Hurog. Some of them, I’m sure, won’t be all that you could wish for, either.”