The sorcerer, the prince -- perhaps soon a king -- gazed deep into the portraits for a moment. They seemed to stare into him and yet reflect him, shadow mirrors into the souls which had preceded him. Each pair of eyes smoldered gold and green, determined rather than merciful, he noted, beautiful as a sword was beautiful, flawless and cold. In them he sensed a<i>lack</i>that he could not place, nor which reminded him of Jessamine. Yet the world had scarred his mother and she had kept the mysteries of her origin veiled until the last possible moment. In the cold triumph of her dying smile, had she not resembled these visages? Perhaps kindness meant weakness in a world where people must be almost as weapons. If he examined himself; his hardness might spare him, any compassion cost him. The burden lay heavy on him as he gazed between the portraits and Nikolas, now.<br/><br/>This creature, for all his dispassion, did not seem heartless. Arenor knew he might wish the Duke to be otherwise and paint him in only half of his true colors, yet he sensed in the man something of good intentions and honor. The words he spoke only reinforced this. Did the court view these as weaknesses as well? He would find out. "If fate is kind, perhaps that will come to pass." Arenor's shoulders released their whipcord tension. His free hand un-fisted, and he almost smiled. Though he hadn't realized it, he'd resembled the portraits very much in posture, if not a flawless weapon, then certainly a sharp one. "I'll no doubt owe you thanks, if so."<br/><br/>If Arenor knew Niko's thoughts about his staff, he might have been disturbed, and startled, for it was another limb to him and nothing of display. As he breathed, the staff pulsed with that mellow glow like a guttering candle, an echo of breath itself. He knew so little of this country's religion. What Nikolas knew, Arenor could guess from his travels here, from the villagers' fear and the nobles' curiosity. Their silent reactions spoke a great deal. Yet the staff in his palm and the power he wielded was not his greatest secret by far. That slept in him, a darkness quelled, one that he would neither invoke nor think of while he lived among these people.<br/><br/>So he thought. Yet now as he offered the almost-smile to Nikolas, it stirred in its prison and focused its sudden and hungry attention upon the Duke. Arenor's reaction was immediate, autonomic. He suppressed his magic without a blink. The staff in his hand ceased to glow. Nikolas might notice a shadow cross his eyes for the briefest of moments, a trick of the light perhaps, and his face hardened statue-like again as he half-listened to Nikolas' plans for the night and the following day and for Alain. Nothing betrayed him outwardly, but inwardly the dark thing he carried rattled his blood and bones like a creature in a cage, as if it would leap from him to Nikolas. Of course, it could not.<br/><br/>Before, in the rare event his darkness showed interest in a normal, living person, Arenor fled and did not stop until ten leagues lay between himself and that human. Demons and spirits and other fel creatures were another matter. This secret of his acted as a beacon and allowed him to find and banish all that should not walk, his special talent as a sorcerer, though he'd no plans to admit that either. This kingdom had its mages and its spirituality -- let them attend to that sphere. Dismay settled on him like yet another cloak. He could not escape this Nikolas, despite the unfortunate turn. Perhaps the darkness only reared its head because Arenor was weakened, exhausted, grieved, unbalanced.<br/><br/>Yes, Arenor decided, rather in desperation. That must be it. Rest and confidence would restore him. Even as he thought the words, the creature receded like a tide and curled up within him. He focused again upon the pretty Duke, beautiful rather than pretty, he amended, with eyes like something fae had fathered him. "Yes, I will meet with you in the morning to discuss Lysandria, if you are willing. Alain…" Arenor half-turned, black leathers swishing in his wake, to gaze at the closed doors behind which his child hopefully slept. He pondered gender revelations but dismissed it. At this age, no child's gender mattered, and education for a prince would better suit a potential heir than what a princess might receive, no doubt. "This will be difficult for Alain. I trust you to keep his safety in mind. My enemies, whoever they are, must not touch him."