“This has been a most excellent pleasure, milady,” Magnus said. “However, I would also be pleased to greet my great-uncle, if I may.”
“Of course, dear boy—yet surely you must have some refreshment first.” Matilda glided over to him, hooking a hand through his elbow and using it to steer him through the mob of cousins. “You must be quite wearied from your travels, if not from your arrival. A glass of wine and a little nourishment will restore your strength.”
Magnus followed, wondering why she was stalling—or did he really need to be fortified to greet the Count?
He did.
Count Rupert sat in bed, propped up by a half-dozen pillows. His hair was white, his face drawn and lined. Magnus stared, then covered the gaffe with a bow—surely they were mistaken! Surely this ancient was his great-grandfather, not his great-uncle! Fess, he is aged immensely, and so fragile that a breath might blow him away!
“Courteous,” the invalid croaked, in a voice that still had some echo of authority, “but impetuous. I am not a king, boy—you need not bow at the door. Come closer to me.”
Magnus obeyed without speech, for he was listening to Fess advising him, Do not inquire as to the nature of the disease, Magnus. We will no doubt learn of it later.
Magnus stepped up to the bedside, and the Count looked him up and down with a rheumy eye. “Your garb is quaint. They tell me you have come from a distant planet.”
“Aye, sir—one where your nephew, my father, has made a place for himself.”
“And you have left him?” the old man said with a touch of sarcasm. “Well, I am accustomed to that.” He frowned up at Magnus, who was still trying to digest the shock of his words. “You have turned out well, young man—tall, and broad. And there is something of your father in your looks—strong features, let us say—but so much broader, so much heavier!”
The first part surprised Magnus; he had never heard anyone comment on his resemblance to his father—nor to his mother—since he had changed from child to young man. As to the second… “The bulk is the gift of my mother’s father, milord.” Which was true, proportionally; there was no need to mention that his maternal grandfather, Brom O’Berin, was scarcely three feet tall, though stocky as a bull.
“Yes, your mother.” The old man frowned almost painfully, as though even moving his face cost him great energy. “What is she? How did my nephew marry?” Before Magnus could answer, he waved away the reply. “Oh yes, I know that every mother appears as an angel to her son—and she must be a wonder, to hold Rodney together long enough for him to stay till you grew. But what is she like? Tell me the externals!”
“Well…” Magnus collected his wits; it had been a startling view of his father, though one he could believe. “She is the daughter of a king, milord.” He didn’t think he needed to mention that Brom O’Berin was the King of the Elves—or that Gwen didn’t know he was her father.
“A princess!” The Count stared, round-eyed. “Then he is a king—or will be?”
“No, my lord…” How could he phrase this? Her line does not reign, Magnus.
“No,” Magnus went on, with relief, “for her line will not reign.”
“A cadet branch.” The count nodded. “Then he will be a duke.”
“Its equivalent, my lord, for he has won his own title by service to the reigning monarch.”
“What title is that?” the Countess asked. Magnus swallowed and took the plunge. “Lord High Warlock.”
“Odd.” The Count took it without batting an eye. “But autre temps, autre moeurs. Each culture has its own Weltanschauung, its own world-view, and its own titles. If he is the High Warlock, then you, no doubt, are only Lord Warlock?”
Magnus stood a moment, staring. Say yes, Magnus.
“Why … quite so! How perceptive of you, milord.”
“It is only reason.” The old man was obviously pleased by the flattery. “And how does my nephew?”
“He is in good health, milord.” A shadow crossed the Count’s face, and Magnus hastened to add, “At least, at the moment.”
“Ah.” The Count nodded. “His old malaise, eh?”
“I … cannot say,” Magnus floundered. “He has not spoken of it.”
“His mind, boy, his mind!” the old man said impatiently. “The family’s mental instability! Though he showed it less than most—only in a bit of paranoia, and a frantic need to leave the planetoid.”
The second, Magnus was already beginning to understand, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with mental illness. As to the first, however … “I regret to say that his paranoia has increased, my lord.”
“Ah.” The Count nodded, satisfied. “He has his good days, though, eh?”
“Yes, milord—and on one of them, he sent his best wishes to you, his uncle, and asked that I bring word of you.”
“He shall have it, have a letter! Which shall tell him of my delight at his good fortune, and his accomplishments! I was sure he had been a credit to the family! But this planet he has made his home, young man—what of it, eh?” When Magnus hesitated, he said, “You may tell me—I am cleared for the highest level of security.” He gestured impatiently at a waiting butler. “Show him the documents, Hiram.”
“No, milord—‘tis not necessary!” Magnus said quickly. “He hath come—uh, has come—to a Lost Colony, one named Gramarye. You … knew of his, ah, affiliation?”
“That he had become an agent of SCENT? Yes, yes,” the old man said impatiently. “And this planet is their concern, eh?”
“Yes, my lord. It has regressed to a medieval culture”—actually, Magnus wasn’t sure “regressed” was the right word for something that had been done intentionally—“and is ruled by a monarchy. It is my father’s intention to bring about the changes in their social and economic structure that will result in their evolving a form of democratic government.”
“A huge undertaking, and a long one! How frustrating it must be, to commence a project that you will not live to see come to fruition, that even your children will not see finished! But is there progress, young man?”
“Some, my lord. There have been attempts to unseat the monarch in favor of warlords and dictators, but my father has held Their Majesties secure…”
“As a nobleman should! But has he furthered a tyranny?”
“No, my lord, for he has built in systems for Their Majesties to take council from their lords.” Magnus smiled. “In tr— In fact, he has managed to wring from each attempted coup d’etat some change in government that plants yet one more seed of the democracy that will be.”
The old man nodded. “Small wonder your monarch has elevated him to the peerage! You inherit, then, not only his title, but also his work! You are a double heir.” The old man frowned. “Why are you here? Surely your place is by his side!” Again, he waved away Magnus’s answer before it was made. “Oh, yes, I realize you must have your education—but you must return to him! You must!”
Magnus bridled, but even as his emotions surged, he remembered to analyze. Why did the Count feel so strongly on the issue? “As you say, my lord, I must have a modern education—I must absorb the current state of knowledge in the Terran Sphere, but even more, I must learn to deal with its men of power.”
The old lord nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Even so, even so! Rodney, of course, knows the ways of such dealings, having been reared and educated on Maxima, and tried in the crucible of government service—but you, too, must learn such ways, for you will have to represent your planet before the Sphere, will you not? Yes, of course you will!”
Magnus was glad the old man had answered his own question.
“We must see to his placement at Oxford,” the Countess contributed.