While the dust of the Mercy-Land Refugee Camp still clung to Edna's skin, forty miles away, the heart of the Gbaka-gbaka kingdom beat with a slow, rhythmic decay. The Royal Palace was a sprawling testament to another era—a fortress of limestone and mahogany nestled in a lush, gated estate that seemed to repel the chaotic noise of modern Port Harcourt. Inside, the air was perpetually cooled by silent, industrial-sized units, yet it felt heavy, thick with the scent of expensive floor wax, aged brandy, and the bitter, herbal tang of traditional medicines.
His Royal Majesty, King Amadi, sat in his high-backed throne chair, his legs draped in a heavy cloth of hand-woven Akwete fabric. He was a man who had once commanded the respect of every oil executive and politician in the Delta, but age and the silent grief of the war had carved deep hollows into his face. His skin hung loose on his frame, like a garment that no longer fit, and his eyes were clouded with the milky, blue-grey film of cataracts.
"Is there still no word from the London embassy?" the King asked. His voice was a gravelly whisper that barely carried across the polished floorboards.
Beside him, standing in the shadows of a velvet curtain, was Egeonu Amadi. The King's younger brother was a man of sharp angles and even sharper ambitions. He wore a crisp, white traditional tunic, his red cap perched perfectly on a head that had never felt the weight of a crown but craved it with a hunger that bordered on sickness.
"Richard remains firm, brother," Egeonu said, his voice smooth and dripping with a false, oily sympathy. "He speaks of the 'unsettled nature' of the country. He says his wife, Grace, is of delicate health and cannot endure the journey. He sends his prayers, of course. And more money for the hospital wing."
The King let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a cough. He pressed a silk handkerchief to his lips. "Prayers and pounds sterling. My son wants to buy his way out of his bloodline. He thinks he can sit in a flat in Kensington and wait for me to blow away like ash so he can sell this land to the developers."
"He is your only son," Egeonu reminded him, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was counting the days until that fact no longer mattered. "If he will not return, the council will look to the next in line. The traditions are clear. A kingdom cannot have a ghost for a King."
The King shifted, pain lancing through his hip. He knew what Egeonu was implying. If Richard abdicated his duty, the throne would slide sideways to the brother who had stayed. But the King also knew Egeonu's heart; it was a cold place, devoid of the empathy required to lead the Gbaka-gbaka people through the reconstruction of their broken lives.
"The line does not end with a coward in London," the King snapped, his voice momentarily regaining its old iron. "Richard has a son. I saw the child before the war tore the communications apart. Edna... the Mark girl... she sent me a photograph. The boy had the Amadi brow. He had the look of my father."
Egeonu stiffened. The mention of the "bastard prince" always made his blood simmer. "The boy is a product of a fleeting romance, Your Majesty. He has been raised in the streets. He hasn't the training, the polish—"
"He has the blood!" the King roared, then crumbled into another fit of coughing. When he recovered, his eyes were wet. "He is my grandson. My only link to a future that isn't built on your greed, Egeonu. I heard the refugee camps are being cleared. The children are returning from the border. Find them. Find Edna Mark and my grandson. I will not go to the ancestors without seeing the face of the one who will carry my name."
Egeonu bowed low, his face a mask of subservience, but his mind was already spinning. "I will send the palace guards to the Red Cross stations immediately. We will find them, brother. For the sake of the kingdom."
As Egeonu walked down the long, echoing corridor of the palace, his footsteps clicking against the marble, he pulled a sleek mobile phone from his pocket. He didn't call the guards. He called a man in the Diobu slums—a private investigator who specialized in the kind of secrets that could be bought with a few bundles of Naira.
"The Mark woman," Egeonu said into the receiver. "She's surfaced. I want eyes on her before she reaches the palace gates. If there is a boy with her, I want to know everything. The color of his eyes, the scars on his skin, the way he breathes. If she is bringing a cuckoo into this nest, I want to be the one to break eggs.