"One of the escaped prisoners, señor," a guard babbled. "How he got in here we do not know. He—"
"Enough, payaso. Take him away. Kill him."
A tired frown crossed the big man's forehead. "No. Forget that. Tie him to a chair, and leave him alone here with me."
The guard looked up doubtfully, but quickly concealed his misgivings. "Of course, sire."
"Send in my clothier also. This idiot has ruined my robes."
Kesley allowed himself to be tied to a chair.
"You're a bold fool," the big man said, coming over to glower down at Kesley. He knotted his fingers in his thick, tangled dark beard, and smiled, baring stained yellow teeth. Kesley met the noble's gaze evenly.
The deep eyes were set in a network of fine wrinkles. They were not the eyes of an ordinary man. They were heavy with the shadow of a hundred thousand days gone by, and infinities of days to come. Kesley realized that the man before him was no mere noble. He could only be Don Miguel, Duke of South America.
An Immortal.