The Rebel King

She closed her eyes, let out a hissing breath. 'God, I wish I had a gun.'

The feeling of lightness and optimism left him as quickly as it had come. 'Silas would never hurt me.' he said stiffly, and felt her eyes turn on him again.

'Nik, the man is very probably a sociopath-you do know that, don't you? He has no feelings, for you or any other human being. People only matter to him if he can use them. Otherwise, they're disposable. He used you-'

He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, surprising himself as much as her. It was a child's anger, stubborn and irrational. He knew that, but it made no difference. 'Dammit, Rhee! The man was a father to me!'

'He stole you from your father. And raised you, groomed you, planned to use you to fulfill his own sick agenda for revenge. You think you know him? How can you know what he'll do?'

He stared bleakly through the windshield. He didn't want to quarrel with Rhia; quarreling with her made him feel cold and sick inside. But he couldn't let himself agree with her. He couldn't. 'He was both mother and father to me,' he said in a voice that hurt his throat. 'The only parent I ever had. I can't forget that.'

She didn't reply.

The car topped the last rise and began the long gradual descent toward the tip of the arrowhead. And although outside the sun continued to beat down from a cloudless sky, inside the car Nikolas felt the way he had as a child when the fog rolled in from the channel and shrouded the lighthouse and its two lone occupants in a blanket of white-chilled, isolated… .alone.

It seemed fitting, somehow.

'Doesn't look like anyone's here. I don't see a car,' Rhia said in a low voice that was a measure of how tense she was rather than fear of being heard by anyone outside the vehicle.

Nikolas had parked the Opal nose-in to a row of white-painted rocks separating a bare gravel parking area from an overgrown garden. He was staring through the windshield at what had once been a charming lightkeeper's cottage, built of white-painted stone with a slate-tile roof to withstand the buffeting of storm and sea. Now. wind and rain had scoured away most of the paint, so that the cottage seemed almost to be trying to return to the rock that surrounded it. Windows set deep in the thick stone walls were clouded with cobwebs and salt spray, and wooden shutters tearing slivers of blue paint hung crookedly from rusting hinges.

'There's a garage around the back,' he said absently. 'If he's been living here for a while and doesn't want that fact known, I expect he'd keep his car in out of sight.'

She nodded, but didn't reply. Her throat felt clogged with emotions she couldn't express…words she couldn't say. Oh, how she wanted to reach out to him…touch his cheek…take his hand. What are you feeling now, Nikolas, my love? This must be so hard…and you are so far away from me.

He turned his head to give her a lopsided smile. 'I must say, the place has gone to ruin a bit since I saw it last. A pity, really. A lot of history here…'

She cleared her throat and returned the smile. 'I think it definitely ought to be preserved. When you're king, you should turn it into a museum, or a national monument.' Nikolas snorted and reached for the door handle. 'Sure,' she said as she followed suit, 'you know, turn it into a tourist attraction, like they do the childhood homes of presidents back in the States. You could-' The rest froze solid in her throat.

The door of the cottage had opened partway-no more than a foot or so. Through the crack came a pair of arms holding a rifle, and a voice that was cold and hard as steel.

'Ye have 'til I count ten to get back into your car and drive away. On the count of eleve,. I start shooting. One…'

'Nik-' I knew it-I should have insisted on bringing a gun.

'Shh-it's all right.' He pushed the door open and called cheerfully. 'Don't shoot, Uncle-it's me, Nik.'

The rifle barrel wavered, but didn't withdraw. 'Show yourselves-the both o' ye,' the voice commanded. 'And keep your hands where I can see them.'

Rhia eased herself out of the car slowly, hands on the top edge of the door but keeping most of the rest of herself barricaded behind it. Nikolas, meanwhile, stood up boldly, unconcernedly slammed his door and held his hands out to his sides.

'Come on, Silas, what are you doing? This is a fine welcome. For God's sake, put that thing away.'

While Rhia held her breath, the gun slowly lowered, then abruptly disappeared. The door opened wider, and a man emerged, scowling into the sunshine. He was tall, but stooped and gaunt-a big-framed man losing flesh to age, though he looked strong and wiry still. He was wearing olive-green wool trousers tucked into knee-high boots, a black knit long-sleeved sweater and an open brown leather vest. He also wore a black wool fisherman's cap over long graying brown hair that had been pulled back into a clubbed ponytail. His beard, moustache and bushy eyebrows were almost entirely gray, and what visible skin he had was weathered as old leather.

'Nikolas, me boy-is that you? Ah-' he made a gesture of impatience with his hand '-forgive an old man. I don't see as well as I used to.' As if daring her to challenge the statement, eyes as sharp and blue as steel knives flicked at Rhia before returning to Nikolas, and she winced involuntarily, to her inner fury, as if stung by a lash.

'Thought you'd be Weston's men, come to arrest me for trespassing in me own house.' Silas Donovan went on, thin lips drawn into a sneer. Then he laughed-a single harsh sound, like the crack of a whip. 'But I hear that's who ye be, ain't it? Weston's man? Henry Weston's whelp, so they're saying. Who'd've thought it, eh, boy? If I'd known who ye were when I found ye on me doorstep thirty years ago. I'd've drowned ye like a runt pup. I would.' Baring strong teeth in a wolfish grin, he clasped Nikolas's hand and pulled him into a hard embrace. The two men thumped each other soundly on the back for a moment or two, then Silas turned and aimed his fierce glare at Rhia. 'And who is this ye have with ye?' And he bowed his head and doffed his cap in an oddly charming gesture. 'Aye, I must be getting old indeed, me lass, to have mistaken ye for Weston's, or any sort of man.'

Rhia was rarely tongue-tied, but the bombardment of conflicting thoughts and impressions she was experiencing had her reeling. It was all she could manage just to mutter her own name as she placed her hand in Silas Donovan's leathery grip.

Who is this man? Can this crusty old seadog possibly be the exiled Duke of Perthegon, cousin to King Weston and erstwhile heir to Silver shire's throne? This is the man who raised Nikolas, nurtured him as an infant, was both teacher and companion to him when he was a little boy. Can this be the same sociopath who plotted against the crown for more than thirty years, kidnapped an infant prince, arranged one murder and committed another…and who knows how many more?

Could we…could Nikolas…be wrong? What is a picture, after all-a portrait painted more than a century ago? A couple of chests made by the same craftsman? Can it have been as this man says? Was he only a lonely lighthouse keeper who chose to raise the foundling infant left on his doorstep?

'…a friend of mine.' Nikolas was saying.

She felt the brush of whiskers and warm breath on the back of her hand, and a shiver ran down her spine. She lifted her eyes, seeking Nikolas's, and found them resting on her, their gray gaze calm and reassuring.

'Well, come in, come in.' Silas said, straightening with a beckoning gesture. 'I've just put the kettle on-about to have me tea and a bite. I was. You're welcome to join me, if ye don't mind tinned meat and a bit of bread.'

'Nothing to eat, thanks.' Nikolas said. 'I wouldn't mind tea, though, Rhia?'

She mumbled something in acquiescence, feeling a little like Alice in Wonderland as she followed him into the cottage. And she took care to note, as she did, that the rifle was propped against the wall beside the door.

The front door of the cottage opened directly into a large room that was all but bare of furniture, although a large stone fireplace at one end still held the remnants of a recent fire. It was dim inside; the only light was that seeping in through the small, dirt-and salt-encrusted windows. The place smelled of stale ashes and abandonment.

'I stay mostly in here in the kitchen.' Silas said as he led the way with a sprightly step across the room and through a doorway opposite the fireplace, his boots making echoing footsteps on the dusty wood-plank floor. 'Make me fire in there at night, when ye canna see the smoke.' He swept off his cap and favored them with his wolfish smile as he gestured toward a wooden table and chairs. 'Rather not advertise me presence here, if ye take me meaning.'

'Why are you here, Uncle?' Nikolas sounded merely curious. He pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving Rhia to do the same while Silas turned his attention to the teakettle steaming on a portable