The drive to the palace was a journey through a graveyard of his own making. Richard leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the SUV, watching the bustling streets of Mile 1. He saw the billboards—not of the false Graham, but of the ongoing commission into the "Palace Massacre."
He had stayed away because of Grace, he told himself. He had stayed away because of the "instability." But as he looked at the crumbling infrastructure of his home, he knew the truth: he had stayed away because he was a coward. He had preferred the lie of a son in a photograph to the reality of a child in the mud.
The SUV pulled into the palace gates. There were no drums today. No red-cap chiefs waiting with gin and libations. There was only a quiet, industrious hum. The West Wing, once a gilded cage, was now filled with the sound of children's laughter. Ekenne had turned it into a sanctuary for displaced orphans.
Richard stepped into the Great Hall. The black-and-white marble tiles had been replaced—the blood of his uncle and his father had been too deep to scrub away.
At the far end of the hall, a man stood looking at a portrait of the late King. He didn't wear a crown. He wore a simple white linen shirt and trousers. He turned as Richard approached.
The resemblance was so striking it felt like a blow to Richard's chest. It was like looking into a mirror that showed him a version of himself that had been forged in fire rather than finished in London.
"You must be Richard," Ekenne said. His voice was steady, lacking the practiced royal cadence of the pretender. It was the voice of the sea.
"I... I didn't know," Richard stammered, his British accent sounding brittle and out of place in the humid hall. "Edna sent photos. She sent letters. I thought I was protecting you by staying away, by sending money..."
"You weren't protecting me," Ekenne said, walking toward him. "You were paying for your absence. You sent money to a woman who used it to buy a boy from a camp. You sent money to a woman who turned a refugee into a murderer."
Richard looked at the floor. "Where is she?"
"In the maximum-security wing at Kirikiri. She doesn't take visitors. She says she only speaks to Kings."
"And the boy?" Richard asked, his voice a whisper. "The one who... the one who killed my father?"
"He is waiting for his appeal," Ekenne said. "He is a shell of a man. He doesn't know who he is without the script Edna wrote for him. He asks for the mango tree in his sleep."
Richard reached out a hand, but Ekenne did not take it.
"I am your father, Graham," Richard said, the name sounding foreign on his tongue.
"My name is Ekenne," the man replied firmly. "Graham died in that camp when you failed to come for him. I am the man who survived. If you want to be a father, Richard, don't look at me. Look at the children in the West Wing. They are the ones who need a man who stays."