“Am I to understand that your grandfather desires war and will not be dissuaded?”
“No,” said Taudde. “I hope he would not be displeased if I tell you plainly that he does not desire to resume the war. He will pursue that course only if he must. But which of the lands that you and your father and his father took from Kalches will you yield back, to persuade him to a different course?”
The king tilted his head judiciously. “We can discuss the matter. You may approach your grandfather for me, when the time comes for such an approach. If you will, Prince Chontas.”
Taudde looked at him. He could hear the distant sea and the whisper of the breeze. He said at last, “I confess I don’t understand how you can imagine you may ask any of this of me.”
“I would have to trust you,” the king answered calmly. “Prince Chontas… other than Miennes and Ankennes, who in Lonne knew you were Kalchesene? I will go further and ask: who were your allies? Which of my people aided you?” The king paused and then went on softly, “If you will remain in Lonne as anything other than my prisoner, or if you will approach your grandfather for me, then you and I must trust one another. Fondness is unnecessary. Civility will serve well enough. But trust is essential. And because I have power here and you do not, you must trust me before I may give trust in return. I will do no harm to those you will name. But if you would remain in Lonne, you must name them to me.”
This talk of trust was entirely unexpected. The Dragon of Lirionne, speaking of trust? Yet… there was no deceit in the king’s voice. Taudde heard ruthlessness in it, yes, underlying every quiet tone. But no deliberate deceit. Nor any inclination toward cruelty. But then, sometimes ruthlessness was enough like cruelty to serve… Taudde shut his eyes and asked himself, did he want to stay in Lonne, here where the sea met the shore? Not as a prisoner, after all, but as… some sort of ally?
And could he possibly bring himself to trust this dragon king?
The answer to the first question was uncomfortably clear. The answer to the second… uncomfortably opaque. He said, “Do you know what you are asking?” and then waited, his eyes still closed so that he might listen with all his attention to the king’s answer.
“The first step into trust,” the king said steadily, “must always be blind.”
Taudde opened his eyes and met the king’s gaze. The gray stare was cold, patient, merciless… but Taudde found no deceit hidden in the king’s eyes, as he had detected none in his voice. Perhaps a man who had all the power in his hand had no need of deceit.
But he knew even as he thought this that it was wrong. That the candor Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes offered him was an unusual and precious gift, and that if he failed to take that gift now it would not likely be offered again.
Speaking at all felt like… a step over a cliff’s edge, when clouds hid what lay below. And yet… and yet… “My servant Benne, who was first Miennes’s servant,” Taudde said quietly. “He is more clever than he appears. He guessed. And…” Taudde nearly said no one else. To his own surprise, and driven by an instinct he prayed was sound, he said instead, “And a woman of Cloisonné House, a woman called Leilis. It was chance I was touching her hand when Ankennes pulled me into the dark, chance she was dragged after me. She was neither my servant nor my employee nor my ally; indeed, her first thought when she realized my true nationality was to warn the Laodd. But… I acknowledge that once she came to believe I posed no threat to Lonne, she then tried to protect me.
“You claim to put a high value on trust, eminence. These people trusted me. I can only hope now that I have not betrayed them to your vengeance. They are simple people and no danger to you or yours. I must hope you will keep your word and do no harm to them.”
The king lifted a hand at one of his guards, who went to the door and opened it. Benne and Leilis came in together. The big man looked strained, but calm. The young woman was white as parchment. Almost as astonishing as the mere fact of her presence, Leilis carried a finger harp in her hand: his own, a harp made of pale mountain birch and strung with delicate silver wires. For one of the few times in his life, Taudde found himself utterly bereft of speech.
“I did not find either of them so simple as you would have me believe,” Geriodde Seriantes said. His tone held something that was not quite amusement, but certainly included irony. “Each of them told me everything he or she knew of you, evidently believing I should be swayed by this to clemency, and begged my pardon on your behalf.