Harold's eyes narrowed as soon as I asked the question. I suppressed a curse as I caught the reaction. I had feared this was what might greet the question. I must have asked about my mother before. I must have asked often. What child wouldn't have? And yet I knew nothing of her. It could only have meant that my questions were met with evasion.

I had hoped that my father's passing might ease whatever restriction there was on her story. I had hoped a bottle of fine spirits might loosen Harold's lips. I could see immediately that that wouldn't be the case.

He turned his eyes from the wild landscape below us and looked at me. Harold was smart, oh so smart, and he knew me too well.

He said, "Tiberius… young master… that is something I cannot speak of."

The directness of his response caught me off guard. "Why?"

He sighed. "I swore to your father that I wouldn't speak of it. I swore to take it to my grave."

I spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. "But why? Why can't I know about her? I have memories—so vague—and none of it makes sense. I remember her. I get faint flashes, images. But it doesn't add up completely. I was well in those memories. I was able to run and play as any child could. And we lived in such… such poverty. I think we were poor even by the standards of the commoners. What drew Father to her? Were they poor together, and then ascended?"

Harold said sadly, "I cannot speak of it."

I leaned closer, stabbing him with my gaze. "Why do you say it?"

Harold seemed flustered, inebriated. "Wh… what?"

I said, "You're not saying you can't speak of her. You're saying you can't speak of it. What's the it, Harold?"

He returned my gaze, his eyes pleading for mercy. "Please… it's something I cannot do. I swore never… I promised. Your father was my best friend, and he is passed now. You cannot ask me to breach that promise."

His sincerity, his unreserved emotion, was enough to catch my breath. I could see the pain in him—a pain of my making. I could see how my actions might be perceived. I had quite intentionally come here to find answers from him, had purposefully plied him with drink in the hopes of easing his tongue. My actions were far from innocent.

I thought about dropping it. I loved this man, I truly did, and his suffering did me no good. But I knew I couldn't. Katya's words burned in my mind. Mother was a secret. Her story was more of the veil my Father had cast over me. If I was going to tear myself free of the damage he had done to me, I would start at the start. It was that strange fury that compelled me to push further.

After a few more seconds of tense silence, I swallowed and spoke. "Harold… you're being plain about it. There's a secret there that I can't be privy to. I don't like it, but I understand. Father was always one for his secrets. Can I… it's so difficult to know nothing about where I come from, about my past, about my own mother. Think for a moment. Maybe you can give me something. I don't know the nature of the oath you made to Father, and I can't fathom what kind of mystery you might be keeping from me, but maybe there are things you can tell me. Just some little mercies that don't jeopardize the promise you made."

His eyes were so soft as he listened to me. I could see the want—the desire—to tell me. But he was a man of unshakable loyalty and honor. He turned his head back, watching the shadows deepen between the trees below us. He was thinking. I did nothing to interrupt the process.

Harold drank again, passed the bottle to me. I drank again. I drank a little more freely. My hope at maneuvering him into honesty had failed. We were speaking openly now, and I suddenly saw no reason to hold back the tide of blissful intoxication.

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He accepted the bottle again, tipped it back, and then said, "I didn't know your mother very well."

I said, "How can that be? You were with my father long before I was born."

He winced. He was trying—trying to share what he could without casting light on whatever strange secret Father might have held.

He said, "This is more than a little difficult, Tiberius. I am navigating a desire to help you and a need to preserve my own honor. If you will ask such questions, I fear you will trip me up. And if I really fear that, then I will have to stop…"

I heard the warning—so soft and subtle, but distinctly present. I held my palms out to him, urging him to go on, silently promising not to prompt him further.

He watched me, a trace of scorn licking at the corners of his eyes. I remembered that scorn. It had been a rarely employed but powerful tool in his parenting arsenal.

He waited another moment before continuing, slowly, thoughtfully. "You were of the Empire, that's right. Your mother was of the Empire, and your father. You are pure-bred Westerner. Funny now to see you leading the city of Boston, about as far East as East gets."

He sipped.

"It's true that I didn't know your mother very well. I can tell you that she came from a respectable family. A very respectable family. But they'd fallen on hard times. You say you remember growing up in poverty… that makes sense. Your early years would have been before your father's fortune elevated you to such comforts."

I heard my voice, bitter, add, "Before I got sick."

He nodded slowly, pain painted on his face. He sipped again. He kept speaking slowly, as though considering every word, skirting his oath to my father as carefully as he could.

"Your mother was gone from us before we left the West. This is something that saddens me to think about even now."

I noted that he didn't say she had died. He might have been implying it. I had always assumed my mother to be dead. His choice of words made me wonder. I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible.

He said, "Your father's wealth grew rapidly in those days. Everything he touched was gold. Every decision was an amazing success. The wealth at his disposal went from substantial riches to nearly state-level power in a few years. He was proud of himself. No small part of him was amassing those riches simply for the reason of his own pride. He had been a nobody once. As the years passed, he came to wield the kind of wealth and power that the nobles envied. There are kings who would envy the fortune of money and influence your father came to amass. But, as you know, it irked him to have to address others with titles that were not returned. Sempronius was not a man who could be happy with having superiors."

Harold sipped again. "I think there are many of us who are limited not by our imaginations, but by the worldly resources we have to let our imaginations run wild. Your father crossed that barrier early in life. His imagination ran away with him, and he became more than a little obsessed with the insult of having to utter a 'm'lord' to a man he saw himself as better than."

I said, "So when I got well… that's when he decided to train me for a Griidlord…"

Oh, how he hesitated at that. I couldn't miss it. Harold was a little drunk, and was playing a careful game with a promise to a dead man. He didn't agree with me at all. It caught my eye so clearly. I wondered what was wrong with what I had said.

He said, "He did see you as the tool to change his station."

I said, "And how right he was. How strange though, that a man who wanted something so specific and rare should have a son with such affinity for the suit…"

Harold shifted. The comment made him uncomfortable. I could see it, plain as day.

I said, "Tell me about my mother's family. I know nothing of it. That's hardly fair. You said they were respectable? Very respectable? Do I have noble blood flowing in my veins after all?"

I said it as a joke, with a hint of genuine distaste. But again, his tired eyes betrayed him.

I urged him, excitedly, "Go on, Harold. Tell me. Connect me a little with my long-passed mother."

He softened. "Oh yes. She came from a great family. When you think about what you've achieved, Tiberius—it wasn't all your father. He was a truly great man, a generational rarity to be sure, but what you did in the arena? Less could hardly have been expected from someone with a Montagnion mother—"

He cut short. I could see him biting down.

My own heart thrummed in my chest.

A Montagnion.

No… it couldn't be…

My mother was descended from—

I shook my head. I could see the pain on Harold's face. I wasn't without regret as I saw his pain at the slip. But it was what I needed. Something solid. I had needed a name, something I could trace or track. But the very thought of it—that I was related to the madman who haunted my idle thoughts—

Harold looked at me again with sad, drunken eyes. There was a silent accusation there. I had played him into breaching his vow to his dead friend.

We drank together no more that night.

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