“You are a king, Sorweel, and when you return to Sakarpus you will rule as your father had ruled, with all of your privileges intact. But here, you are a soldier and a vassal. You will salute others in accordance to rank. In the presence of myself or my brother and sister, you will kneel and lower your face, so that when you look straight ahead, your eyes are focused on a spot one length before you. You may then look at us directly: This is your privilege as a king. When you encounter my father, no matter what the circumstance, you are to place your forehead to the ground. And never look at him unless invited. All men are slaves before my father. Do you understand?”

The tone was gentle, the words were nothing if not politic, and yet there could be no mistaking the cutting edge of reprimand. “Yes,” Sorweel heard himself say.

“Then show me.”

A breeze bellied the eastward canvas panels; ropes creaked and poles groaned. There was a burning tightness to the air, like the tinkle of old coals in an old fire, making breathing not only uncomfortable, but dangerous. It happened without him even willing it to happen: His knees simply bent, folded like stiff leather, then fell to the crude-woven mat that had been rolled across the floor. His chin dropped on the swivel of his neck, as though obeying an irresistible accumulation of weight. He found himself looking at the Prince-Imperial’s sandalled feet, at white skin and pearl nails, at the yellow-orange calluses climbing the pads of his toes.

Forgive me …

“Excellent.” A breathless pause. “I know that was difficult.”

His every sinew, it seemed, tensed about his frame, cramped about his father’s bones. Never had he been so utterly immobile—so utterly silent. And somehow, this became his accusation.

“Come, Sorweel. Please stand.”

He did as he was instructed, though he continued staring at the General’s feet. He looked up only when the silence became unbearable. Even in this, they were unconquerable.

“You’ve made a friend,” Kayûtas said, gazing at him with the amiable air of an uncle fishing for some reluctant truth. “Who is it? Zsoronga? Yes. It only stands to reason. That interpreter of his … Obotegwa.”

The young King’s shock was such that he paid no heed to his expression. Spies! Of course they were watching him … Porsparian?

“I have no need of spies, Sorweel,” the Prince-Imperial said, snatching the thought from his face. He leaned back and with a gentle laugh added, “My father is a god.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Osthwai Mountains

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Osthwai Mountains

Since all men count themselves righteous, and since no righteous man raises his hand against the innocent, a man need only strike another to make him evil.

—NULLA VOGNEAS, THE CYNICATA