The Rebel King

all her senses…run her fingers over the smooth wood-cedar, perhaps?-and brass fittings…smell the old-wood-and- dampness smell that always reminded her of the French Quarter in New Orleans. An innocuous, innocent-looking little chest, to contain the cause of so much turmoil…so much grief.

'Where did you find it?'

Nikolas's calm voice startled her. Her eyes jerked back to his face, and she could hardly believe it was the same one they had been focused on a moment ago. His eyes, resting on Lady Zara, were merely curious, now, his face completely composed. Only a hint of white around his mouth and the muscle working near the hinge of his jaw gave evidence-and to her alone-that he'd just received yet another emotional body blow.

Lady Zara glanced at King Weston. 'In a moment, Mr. Donovan. I think you should see whatever is in the chest first-don't you agree, Your Majesty?'

King Weston didn't reply. His eyes were shielded, his jaw intent as he leaned over, turned the key and opened the padlock, then removed it from the chest and placed it in his jacket pocket. He lifted the lid, which gave an obligingly gothic creak.

Then the only sounds were the incongruously joyful warble of a bird outside in the garden, and some faint rustlings as the king carefully lifted something wrapped in tissue from the chest.

'Before I show you these things, Nikolas, I must explain.' the king said. 'Naturally, the essential items of evidence are in Lord Southgate's custody, locked safely away in a forensics lab somewhere. I will tell you that they consist of a lock of hair, and a baby's, er…nurser-uh, bottle-from which they were able to obtain both fingerprints and DNA.'

'But that doesn't-' Nikolas all but exploded.

The king lifted a hand to silence his protest. 'The fingerprints on the bottle,' he said patiently, 'though an infant's, are a verified match to yours-' his lips twitched '-which I regret to say are on file with our police department, as well as national security. Your DNA is not. However, since the DNA recovered from the bottle, as well as from the hair follicles, is a close match to mine, it was considered necessary to obtain a sample immediately. Which Mr. Lazlo's agents-' he gave Rhia an acknowledging nod '-were able to do quite easily, from materials found in your office at Dunford College.'

Nikolas stiffened and threw Rhia a look that stung. 'You… broke into-'

'I did no such thing,' she shot back, more calmly than she felt. 'The dean was more than glad to-'

'Be that as it may.' King Weston said, in a crackling voice that instantly reclaimed everyone's attention. 'Your DNA was obtained, Nikolas, and it, too, was found to match the samples from this chest. But there is more.' He took a breath, and his voice wavered and lost some of its volume. 'There were…two items which I withheld from the forensics scientists. Lord Southgate-the Duke of Carrington-and I-and one forensics expert sworn to absolute secrecy-are the only ones who know of their existence.' Almost reverently, he lifted the tissue-wrapped object he'd held concealed in his hands and folded back the paper to reveal a small silver box, quite tarnished but exquisitely carved. 'And now…the three of you.'

He opened the lid to reveal, nestled in a bed of royal purple velvet, a baby's silver cup, the kind once given to every newborn infant by doting aunts and uncles, engraved with the child's name or initials and date of birth. King Weston removed the cup from its velvet nest and held it up for all to see, turning it so the monogram HRW-Henry Reginald Weston-was plainly visible. Then he rotated the cup.

'This,' he said softly, tapping the engraved crest on the other side with one index finger, 'is the royal crest of my predecessor, King Dunford. This cup was given to my parents by His Royal Majesty on the event of my birth. I, in turn, gave it to my son, on the day of his birth. This-' with hands that shook slightly he held up the second item-a black-and-white photograph in a gilt oval frame '-is a photograph taken on that day.' He handed it to Nikolas, quickly, as if it burned his fingers, and went on in a breaking voice. 'That is your mother, Queen Alexis. This was taken just two days before she died- I know, because I took it myself-she would have no one else except the doctors see her. She thought-' He smiled slightly. 'She didn't like the way she looked, you see. However, I thought she looked quite beautiful, as always, and I convinced her to let me take this one photograph. The babe in her arms, Nikolas, is you. And the cup you see in the picture, here- your mother was holding it for you- is this one.' He held up the silver cup with an air of triumph. 'This very same one.'

The ringing voice seemed to hang in the air…in the ears… like the tolling of a bell. Nikolas shook his head to dispel the echoes and stared narrow-eyed at the photograph in his hands. Through the clouded glass he could see a gaunt, exhausted-looking woman with heavily lashed light gray eyes, her dark hair hastily arranged in a style he recognized as having been popular in the 1970s. She was propped on a massive pile of pillows, smiling bravely and holding what seemed to him an uncommonly ugly baby with a smashed-in face and puffy, slitted eyes. The child's most remarkable feature was a shock of jet-black hair.

In a harsh voice very unlike his own, he asked. 'What makes you so sure I'm the child in this picture? He looks- it could be anyone.'

Weston smiled gently. 'I am sure, my boy. Absolutely certain, even without the DNA. Do you see in the photograph, the way the infant's hand is open and touching-holding, one could almost say-the cup? When I saw the photograph I asked Lord Southgate to have the cup tested for fingerprints. Remarkable as it seems, they were able to match the prints left on this cup by that tiny hand…to yours, Nikolas. To yours.'

Dazed and fighting for control, Nikolas cleared his throat and handed the photograph over to Lady Zara. Ignoring her faint gasp as she looked at it, he croaked. 'How could-how did this happen? Didn't you-didn't anybody notice it wasn't the same kid?'

It was brutal, but he was beyond caring. Sometime during the past ten minutes or so, the relentless assault on his emotions had evidently achieved what all the scientific evidence in the world could not. Nikolas was no longer speaking to a king; he was merely a son like so many other sons, having heated words with his father.

Weston leaned back in his chair with a sigh. 'Ah, yes. I assure you, I have asked myself that a thousand times since…all this came to light.' He shot Nikolas a fierce glare. 'I am certain it would not have been possible if your mother had been alive. She would have known her own child. But.' His face spasmed with that same terrible grief, and he closed his eyes and shook his head. 'But. shortly after I took that picture, she…there were complications. She was rushed into surgery, but she lapsed into a coma. Two days later, she was dead, and I-I'm afraid that in the days that followed I wasn't aware of much of anything. It was days-God help me, maybe even weeks-before I saw you-before I saw my son again. If I noticed changes, I wouldn't have thought anything of it- children change from one day to the next at that age.'

'What about…I don't know-nurses, nannies?'

Weston's face hardened. 'I imagine at least one of them had to be part of it, but they're all long gone, I'm afraid. Anyone who might have known about the switch is dead…' He paused and aimed his black stare at Nikolas. 'Good God. You don't think-'

'I think,' Nikolas said softly, 'it's time Lady Zara answered my question. I'll ask it again. Where did you find the chest? And how?'

Mystifyingly, she blushed. Clearing her throat, she replied. 'I'd rather not say how I found it. It's complicated, and… somewhat personal. Suffice to say, Walker-Dr. Shaw-and I found it in a vault under the collapsed ruins of an old pavilion on the grounds of an abandoned estate. The estate…' she glanced at the king and drew a steadying breath '…belongs- belonged-to Benton Vladimir, the Duke of Perthegon.'

'Vladimir!' Nikolas exclaimed. 'But…he's been-'

'Missing, yes-exiled, vanished.' Weston said grimly. He waited a beat before adding in a deliberate tone. 'For thirty years.'

'Perthegon…' Nikolas shook his head, which was swimming with implications, with possibilities, with scenarios he didn't want to think about or look at too closely. Not now. Not now.

'Uh, excuse me.' Rhia said, holding up her hand like a shy child in a classroom, 'can somebody take pity on the ignorant American in the crowd and explain what all this means?' She knew quite a bit about recent developments in Silvershire, of course, and the name Vladimir sounded familiar, but she still felt like the only one in the crowd who didn't know the people being gossiped about.

Lady Zara gave a little spurt of laughter. Weston arched an eyebrow at Nikolas. 'I believe we have time for a short history lesson. Professor Donovan, will you do the honors?'

She felt his reluctance like a stiffening in her own muscles as he turned toward her, and a shiver went down her spine at the hard, set look of his mouth, the cold glitter of anger in his eyes.

Empathy. Remember, it's not you he's angry with.