Page 37 of Alpha's Magic

“Wait a moment!”

We stopped and I turned back to look at him. His face was cold. “You say you’ve been living in a cave with Grimora for the past—how many years?”

“About ten years, as nearly as I can figure. I was only ten years old when she did what she did to me and my family.”

“And you’ve never seen Rozamond before or since? How did you even know it was Rozamond when she arrived?”

“She was visiting my mother, and she’d been there before. She was my mother’s sister.”

“And since then?”

“No. I can’t say as I have. But I’ll never forget that woman.”

“Then you should be able to pick her out by her portrait. You should immediately know her by sight.”

“Yes, that’s right. I do.”

“Then indulge me in a little trip down to the Royal Gallery, if you feel up to it. It’s next door. The only existing portraits of your parents are there, I believe, as well as a portrait of my late consort. Perhaps you can identify them for me.”

It was a trap, of course. He was checking to see if I was lying, as if I couldn’t pick out my own father and mother’s faces from all the others. Not to mention the wicked queen. But it was a challenge I relished, because I was telling the truth. I could never forget her face.

“I’d be glad to go,” I said.

He came out from behind his desk and bowed to me. “Then by all means, let’s be on our way.”

We must have been quite the entourage as we traveled down the corridor and out of the palace. I had been distraught when I entered a few days earlier, but now I had a chance to really look around.

We were right in the middle of a huge city, and there was a great deal of foot traffic as well as many carriages going past us. We were separated from the main street by a short avenue, lined with trees. The buildings surrounding the palace were all huge, with tall white columns in front of them. We walked right up to the front doors of the one with the words Royal Gallery etched into the marble, with the courtiers leading the way self-importantly.

We went through the huge double door and began walking through room after room of portraits of important looking, former kings and queens of Morovia. In a separate gallery were the portraits of kings from Igella and Sudfarma, and it was in there that we stopped, and King Harrison gestured toward the portrait of a man of about middle age, dark-haired, though slightly balding. He had eyes very much like my own.

“This is your father, I believe, Leo?” Harrison asked, and I shook my head.

“No, it’s not.” I waved a hand toward a small portrait a few paintings down. “That’s my father over there, Prince Ludwig of Sudfarma.”

“Are you sure?”

“Naturally, I am. The man you pointed to was King Hendrick, my grandfather, as a younger man. We had a similar portrait hanging in my father’s study.”

“Very well. Then do you see your mother there next to him?”

I stepped closer but it wasn’t my mother. It was my grandmother. The king was being very clever, it seemed.

“No, my mother isn’t with any of these.” I teared up a little, because I had really wanted to see my mother’s face again. She hadn’t been the warmest of people, but I thought she had probably done the best she could, and what more could anyone ask of someone other than their best?

Asher took my arm and turned me slightly to the left, and there on the bottom row was a small portrait of my mother. She had long, blond hair and pale blue eyes. She looked sad, though she was beautiful to me. Her shoulders were thin and bowed, and I knew she’d had a short, tragic life. I just wished I could reach into the portrait and give her a hug.

I leaned against Asher’s chest, and he squeezed my arm.

“She looks like Rozamond. Only a bit softer around the edges.”

I shrugged, not liking the observation, though it was true. “Well, they were half-sisters.”

“Very well,” Harrison said. “You recognized your parents. Now you can pick out the queen. We had a painting commissioned not long before her tragic death. Down this way.”

He led us down another long corridor to the place where many portraits of long dead kings and queens were hanging. My attention immediately was drawn to Rozamond, a cold and unapproachable looking woman with blond hair and eyes like chips of ice. I almost fancied she was staring out of the picture right at me, wishing me ill, and I gave her the same long look back. I sent up a silent hope that she was burning somewhere in the afterlife.

“That one,” I said and refrained from spitting at it only with great difficulty. “That was Rozamond, who killed my parents and stole the throne of Sudfarma for her father. Any more questions?”

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