9.8

“Trust me, he'll come around,” the child said. But the King thinks the kid's beguiled. Heh. If I had that kind of magic, would I waste it on a kid? At least, on one I planned on following around anyway? But something told Aytheur to be patient. He could break out easily enough; the cell was barred with iron, but such an escape would be neither quiet nor invisible. Fighting his way through a city of angry goblins struck him as a poor plan.  
 They were supposed to revere him from he moment he arrived. Aytheur always figured a little show of magic and they'd hang on his every word. Most of his thoughts were on what he'd accomplish after that. But this city was so backward, he'd have to sell them on the idea of ideas. Just the possibility of improvement would be alien to them. He tried to stick his head out through the bars. The cell overlooked the rather impressive cliff on which the Polis was built. “What am I doing here?”

 “It seems curiously appropriate that you and I should be asking the same question.” The King entered a hall adjoining Aytheur's cell. “Perhaps you would speculate?”
 “Your highness...”
 “Spare me the formality, elf. It is plain enough you think yourself above kings when you're free.”
 Aytheur found the statement confusing. He'd done everything right. At least he thought he had.
 “Why are you here?”
 The question had a finality to it. Adding 'I won't ask again' would be redundant.  
“I...” Aytheur began, but stopped. The King's words played in his head. Perhaps this wasn't the right time to talk about his personal mission. He did not exactly seem receptive. Aytheur suddenly needed another reason to be there. He was fortunate to have one. “A druid met me. He asked me to heal a friend. I am an orc-blood.”
 
 The king appeared angry again. “First you are the Wizard's son, yet an elf. Then you say you are a troll. Now you claim to be an Orc as well? Tell me, fool, did you mother lay with dwarves as well? How many parents went into your making?”
 
 Aytheur fought to control his temper. Thin smoke rose from his hands and his head. “I have two parents. My mother is an orc-blooded elf. Do you know what that means?” The King didn't answer, so Aytheur assumed he did not. “Elves and orcs were once one race. When nephilim, the true trolls, ruled the whole world. Our kinds split. We warred. Your kind joined us in that war, surely you have memory of that.”  
 The King's expression soured further as Aytheur spoke, but he continued. “But blood is never fully pure. There are always a few elves born with the magic of orcs. They suffer the same dangers and fears which drove our races apart in the beginning...”
 
 The elf spoke of memory, like he expected Crelocthen to have seen the battle where orc were driven from the continent. Now he spoke of the separation of the races like he was there! Perhaps elves truly are immortal, as the fools believe. Or, perhaps his arrogance crushed underfoot the ancestors of the whole world without distinguishing them. 

 “Shut up.”
 “What?”
 “Stop talking. Or is that below you too?”
 Aytheur shut up. He considered the appropriate curses for the stubborn ignorance of goblins. He said nothing but the truth, yet the king regarded him as though insulted. He'd said nothing wrong; this King was full of insults. Aytheur smoldered.
 
 “Answer me simply. One word only. Are you skilled in the orc's magic?”
 Aytheur paused before he answered. Not long enough for the king to repeat the question, but almost. “Yes.”
 The King nodded to a guard. It seemed to Aytheur that he King never spoke to his men. They communicated, somehow. Telepathically. The guard opened the door to his cell.
 “You will come with me. You will not speak. You will not act, unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
 “Yes.”

 They left the prison, then the Polis. A tight phalanx of guards surrounded the King and his prisoner. Aytheur found them strange, because they had no uniform. Their armor, even, had no order to it. Some wore steel rings, others a cuirass (breast and back plate), and still others wore leather only. In elven cities, the guards were either outfitted with armor, or required to purchase their own from a uniform supplier. Their disorganization enhanced Aytheur's impression that the guards were a pack of thugs. 
 They escorted Aytheur out of town. Everywhere they went, commerce stopped so people could stare. Aytheur, being notably taller than the goblins around him, stared back. No one met his eyes, but at least they weren't throwing things.