“People change. Hearts change. Eternity spins.” King Albert.

The crier announced the King of Orlain, “Your Majesty, the King of Orlain seeks your call.”

Dressed in royal blue trousers, a white frilled shirt, and a rich red robe hanging rakishly from one shoulder, Albert stood from the throne and stepped down to the floor. The King’s man handed up the crown, and Albert adjusted the cumbersome relic. Attendants stepping aside, Albert walked forward with open arms.

“The King of Orlain is welcome,” called Albert.

Sam was marched forward under the tight security of the Royal Guard. They stopped midway along the red carpet that led to the throne. Guards snapped smartly to attention as their King approached. Two guards flanked the King of Orlain. Two guards flanked Senior Detective Langley. Two guards flanked an elder as a dog stood beside him.

Albert took Sam’s hand in a firm grip. “You are looking well,” said Albert smiling.

“As are you,” responded Sam. “I am here for a private audience. I have urgent news.”

“Come to the office,” said Albert. “Guards and attendants are dismissed,” he called broadcast.

Albert walked behind the throne and turned to Sam. “Please take a seat,” he said with outstretched hand. To Heaven, he said, “I am happy to see you are well, Detective Langley. "Sit.”

The King turned his gaze to the elderly man and his dog. He appraised the man. White hair was cut short. His face was gaunt. The eyes were keen. Albert turned to Sam and asked, “Will you introduce your man?”

Sam’s smile was broad and filled with a happy anticipation Albert could not gauge. Sam turned his chair to look at Besh, winking as he announced, “Albert, meet your uncle.”

Albert turned to Besh with wide eyes. He took a step forward and searched the man’s face. Besh smiled and Albert gasped. The face had features that tugged at the King’s memory. The eyes, the smile. Could it be?

Albert caught his breath as he took another step toward the older man. He held a hand over his heart as if he could keep it from racing. “Uncle Ben?” he asked. “Is it true?”

A happy tear came to Besh, blurring the face of his nephew. He said with a sniff and a nod, “It’s me, Al.”

Besh took the weight of the King as Albert fell on his neck with unabashed weeping. Besh cried with his nephew and hugged him close. Besh recalled the times when Al was young and needed a hug. He gave a pat to his nephew’s back just as he had in times past.

Albert pulled back and wiped his eyes. “I thought you were dead. I thought I was all alone.”

Besh let his shirt sleeve absorb his tears. “You can’t imagine how I’ve longed to see you. You’re the picture of your father.” He reached out to touch Albert’s chin and said with a smile of joy, “The beard suits you.”

Albert sniffed and smiled. He took his uncle’s arm and ushered him to a seat. “Come. Sit,” he said. Then, he turned back to the others. “Thank you, Sam,” he said in earnest. “Thank you, Heaven. Thank you for bringing my uncle back to me.”

Albert stood behind Besh, hands on his uncle’s shoulders. Sam and Heaven shared a smile, then, Sam looked up into the wet eyes of King Albert. He said, “I am happy to see the two of you reunited, but there is more. Perhaps you should sit.”

“No,” said Albert, composing himself. “You said you have news. Say it.”

Sam looked to Besh, who turned and pulled his nephew into the seat beside him. They sat face to face. “Listen,” said Besh. “David and Elizabeth are alive.”

Heaven said in alarm, “Please breathe, Your Majesty.”

Albert finally gasped, “How?”

“I may have something to do with that,” said Sam, and proceeded to tell of current political conditions in the Orlain system. He spoke briefly of his enemies and their ploy. He detailed the information his spies had relayed to him and gave his best guess where Albert’s parents might be.

Albert had steadfastly looked into the eyes of the King of Orlain. He soaked in the information like a sponge. His father and mother had been kidnapped, and the explosion and resulting fire was an all-to-convincing ruse. His parents had languished in some dark, dank dungeon since their capture. Albert could feel his ire rising.

Albert jumped from his seat and turned to think. There was only one thought. He turned immediately and cried out, “We have to save them!”

Besh reached out and took his nephew’s hand. Albert looked down, and Besh said in a calming voice, “We will. That’s why we’re here.”

Albert sat and looked across at Sam. “Tell me you have a plan,” said Albert. “Anything you need, I pledge. I will give all.”

Sam raised a hand to calm the young King. “I am putting all my resources into this. A plan is near. Before we can move forward, I need the King’s favor.”

“Anything,” said Albert. “Just tell me and it’s yours.”

Sitting straight in his chair, Sam looked into the earnest eyes, not of a King, but of a son. He spoke without reserve, as his request concerned his own son. “My son,” said the King of Orlain.

Albert was confused. “Your son?” he asked.

Besh touched his nephew’s arm and drew his attention. “Raul,” he said.

Albert looked deep into his uncle’s eyes. He turned to Heaven and finally to Sam. He stammered, “I’ve not heard from Raul in years.”

Heaven leaned forward to inform the King, “Crispin visits him every visitor’s day on Slag Island.”

Albert’s mouth fell open at the news. “Slag Island?” He could barely say the words. He turned to the King of Orlain. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

Sam replied, “I just need your Royal Pardon, and I will go get my son.”

Albert could scarcely focus his eyes as he combed his memories of conversations with Crispin. He felt guilty. What if Crispin had told him? He could have done something to free his friend. Albert stood, absently, and turned into his office. “A pardon,” he said. “Yes.”

Crispin waited patiently for a guard to call him. He looked about at the other men and women who waited to see their loved ones. He held his kerchief tightly over his mouth and nose; the smell of disinfectant was nauseating. His eyes turned to the solid door as it opened and a brawny female guard stepped in.

Dourly, she called out, “Crispin Beasley.”

Crispin stood and walked to her. She was a fearful sight, and Crispin feared to speak. It would not do to be in her cross-hairs. She turned without a word, and Crispin followed her along the hallway he had become so familiar with. She stopped before a door and pulled it open, waiting for him to enter. The door shut behind him.

He walked down a long row of windows where people sat speaking to prisoners. The windows were numbered, and Crispin found Raul waiting quietly at window sixteen. He did not smile when he saw Crispin, but his face relaxed as Crispin sat before him.

“How are you?” Crispin asked into the speaker.

“Still here,” replied Raul.

Crispin paused. The dilemma was always the same. What to say? “You’re looking better this month.”

Raul snorted. “Pinche Braxton got what was coming. They show me respect now.”

Crispin thought it worth another try. “You should let me ask the King.”

“I don’t want nothing, man!” Raul’s reply was barbed.

Crispin looked down at his hands. His sense of impotence was palpable. “I just want to help,” he said.

Raul looked at his sad friend and answered with a softer voice, “It’s enough you come to see this pendejo. So, what’s new?”

Crispin looked up at his friend. His hair was longer, and only the ends were blond. His face was covered with a short wiry beard, and his muscles were bigger. He smiled.

“I popped the question,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” asked Raul. “It’s about time you grew a pair.”

“She said she’d think about it,” said Crispin with a sad look.

“Cold,” said Raul. “Maybe you’re reaching too high.”

Crispin changed the subject. “Your Mom says hello. She moved into a new flat. I went with her to the grave. We cleaned it and put some fresh flowers.”

Raul looked away. “Thanks, man. I should have been there for Tio. Elegí un trabajo más.”

Suddenly, a light spun in the ceiling over Raul’s head. An alarm sounded softly. The door on his side opened. “Ruiz,” called a burly guard. “Come with me.”

Crispin called out, “Wait! We still have ten minutes.”

Raul stood with a shrug for his friend as Crispin’s complaint fell on deaf ears. At the same time, the door on Crispin’s side opened and the scary female guard called his name. Like a docile puppy, Crispin trotted to the door.

“What happened?” he asked. “We weren’t through.”

“Follow me,” said the guard.

Crispin followed meekly. Best not to complain. The halls were long, all of them smelled of disinfectant. Crispin followed the guard up iron steps and through a heavy iron door, where he was marched across a catwalk that overlooked the floors below. The door ahead was glass. A plaque beside it read, Warden, in bold letters.

Crispin entered to see the backs of men gathered around the warden’s desk. He recognized Raul. There was an elderly man and a tall brawny man with dark hair. The warden was speaking.

“Of course. O course,” he said truculently. “It is as you say. I am bound by the Royal Pardon. Then, I turn him into your hands.”

The men turned to leave, Raul smiling. Instantly, Crispin recognized the tall man. It was the Captain. His hardened eyes pierced him, but there was a hint of mirth at the corners of his mouth. They stopped before him, as he blocked the door. Crispin looked at the old man with white hair. The face was thin but familiar. Could it be? The old man smiled. Yes, it was. It was Mister Besh back from the dead. Crispin gaped in absolute awe.