The Great Hall of the palace was a cathedral of power. High ceilings featured intricate plasterwork depicting the history of the Niger Delta—the arrival of the Portuguese, the trade of palm oil, and the rise of the Amadi dynasty. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white marble, polished to such a high sheen that it reflected the flickering shadows of the heavy bronze chandeliers.
At the far end, seated on a throne of dark iroko wood inlaid with ivory, was the King.
He looked smaller than he had in the photographs Edna had studied. The weight of the crimson robes seemed to be crushing his frail chest. Beside him stood Egeonu, his arms crossed, his gaze a physical weight that seemed to strip the clothes off the boy as he approached.
"Your Majesty," Edna said, her voice ringing out with a rehearsed clarity. She sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, pulling the boy down with her. "I have returned with your blood. I have brought home the Prince."
The King leaned forward, his breathing a wet, rattling sound in the cavernous room. He squinted through the haze of his cataracts. "Come closer, child. Let me see the face of my son's son."
The boy felt Edna's hand give him a firm shove. He stepped forward, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble. He stopped three paces from the throne, as he had been taught. He looked up, meeting the milky eyes of the old man.
"Grandfather," the boy said. The word felt like a stone in his mouth, but he spat it out with the steady rhythm Edna had drilled into him.
The King reached out a trembling, liver-spotted hand. He cupped the boy's chin, his skin feeling like ancient, dry parchment. A heavy silence settled over the hall. Egeonu leaned in, his eyes darting between the boy's features and a small notebook he held in his hand.
"He has the jaw," the King whispered, his voice breaking. "Richard's jaw. And the eyes... they have the fire of the Amadis."
"He has been through much, Your Majesty," Edna added, stepping into the light. "The camps were not kind. He has lost weight, and his memory of the early years is clouded by the trauma of the shelling. But his heart knows where it belongs."
Egeonu cleared his throat, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room. "A remarkable recovery, Edna. To find the boy in a camp of thousands, just as the succession began to be questioned. It is almost... miraculous."
Edna didn't flinch. She turned to Egeonu, a cold smile playing on her lips. "Fate has a way of protecting the crown, Egeonu. Perhaps you should be more concerned with welcoming your nephew than questioning the heavens."
"Oh, I am welcoming him," Egeonu replied, stepping down from the dais to circle the boy. He walked with the slow, predatory grace of a man who knew he had time on his side. "Tell me, Graham. Do you remember the dog? The one Richard kept in the kennel behind the summer house?"
The boy's pulse spiked. There had been no dog in Edna's lessons. He felt the sweat prickling at his hairline. He looked at Edna, but her face was a mask of stone. He remembered what she told him: When you don't know, lean into the pain.
"I remember the fire," the boy said, his voice small but clear. "I remember the screaming. Everything before the smoke... it is like a dream I cannot catch."
The King's eyes filled with tears. "Of course, of course. The boy was a toddler when the shells fell. Egeonu, leave him be! Can you not see he is exhausted?"
"I only seek to help him remember, brother," Egeonu said, though his eyes remained fixed on the boy's ears. He had noticed something—a lack of a small, distinctive notch that Richard had possessed since birth, a trait often passed down. But it wasn't enough to prove anything. Not yet.
"Take them to the West Wing," the King commanded. "Feed them. Clothe them. Tomorrow, we begin the boy's education in the ways of our people. The Gbaka-gbaka stool will not be empty."