“Sam, Ryan, a word if you would,” the King said.
We followed him through the Great Doors into the throne room. He dismissed the two castle guards in the room, telling them to wait outside. They closed the doors behind them.
Ryan stood at attention like a good knight. I slouched. I was okay with that.
The King looked down at his hands for a long time before he spoke. Finally, he said, “Justin’s mother… she. Well. She was a lovely woman. She was a Queen and not just in name and title. She was strong. She was kind. And she loved this kingdom with every fiber of her being. She laughed at me the first time I asked her for her name. She said a prince had the means to find out such things and she wasn’t going to make it easy on me. And she didn’t. At every turn, she seemed to be almost out of reach, always pushing me and pulling away. It was difficult. Many times I thought about stopping my pursuit and focusing my attention elsewhere. Many times I told myself it was the last time. Finally, one day, she stopped. She turned to look at me and her eyes were soft and she told me that she loved me and that I had better ask her to marry me, otherwise she was going to kick me in the shins. So I did.
“She died giving birth to Justin. There was so much joy, but it was drenched in misery. I had a son. I had lost my wife. Verania had a future king. Verania had just lost its Queen. My soul felt dark. But there was this little light. This little bundle of light that wrapped his tiny hand around my finger and held on tightly, as if reminding me that he was still there. That she was gone but he was not and he needed me now. Because he had lost her too.
“So I held on. I have made mistakes. I was not a perfect father. I could never claim to be. Justin is not a perfect son. He can be cold and calculating and manipulative. He often thinks only for himself and not of the bigger picture as a king must do. He is young and brash and full of an undeserved sense of accomplishment. But he still grabbed my finger and held on, and I will always hold on to him.”
The King looked up at us for the first time since we’d followed him into the throne room. “I consider both of you my family. The other sons the Queen could not give me. I am asking you to save your brother and bring him home so that I may remind him of the time he held on to me because I was the only thing in his world. I ask that you bring him home so I can make him a better man. To be the King I know he can be.”
Ryan stood up straight and balled his right hand into a fist, bringing it up and across his chest, pressing it over his heart. “On my honor,” he said. “I will bring him home.”
Kiss-ass.
They both looked at me.
I narrowed my eyes at the King. “You can’t go around telling emotional stories like that and calling me your other son the moment before we leave! I need to stay here now and make you cookies and have you tell me you’re proud of me and call you Dad Number Two and then let me paint a portrait of you standing in a field of flowers!”
“You can’t paint,” he reminded me. “The one time you tried, the subject of your painting looked more like a kraken then a human.”
I scowled at him. “Artistic impression. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Philistine. And maybe the subject had krakenish qualities.”
“She was an eighty-year-old grandmother named Matilda.”
“It wasn’t that bad!”
“The curator of the City of Lockes art museum demanded it be burned because it was an assault to all five senses,” the King reminded me.
“All five?” Ryan asked. “How is that even—?”
“He used tomato paste when he ran out of red,” the King told him. “And then he left it out in the sun for two weeks.”
“It had to dry,” I said. “And I was fourteen! I was still discovering my hidden talents.”
“Some talents should remain hidden,” the King said wisely.
“You should remain hidden,” I said. “Just for that, I am not even going to stay and make you cookies and paint a portrait of you. We are leaving immediately and you’ll never get to experience the wonder that is a Sam of Wilds original. Serves you right.”
“He showed it to the woman he’d painted,” the King said to Ryan. “Matilda called for a priest to exorcise it and then she fainted.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I said. “She overreacted. Who knew eighty-year-old women could be freaking drama queens?”
“You ate part of it in front of her.”
“It was performance art!”
“You can still call me Dad Number Two,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s certainly up in the air. Gods. You tell me sad stories as if I don’t already feel guilty enough and now I just want to do everything you ask of me to make you happy. This is so lame.”
He pulled me into a hug.
“Cheater,” I mumbled and I hugged him back.
“There’s no guilt here,” he said quietly. “You did nothing wrong.”