No Flame But Mine by Tanith Lee

Sombrec, a warrior aristocrat born from a long line of farming royalty, scathingly listed the captives’ only worth.
    Trunk columns forested the edges of the hall. A king sat on a carved seat. Before him lay a knife with a blade of shattering brilliance. ‘Diamond cut by diamond,’ Sombrec had loftily remarked. The king was like his men, dark-haired, dark-eyed, brown of skin. His clothes were rich and his demeanour frankly grim. He had asked questions of Sombrec and his men as to who, or what, the strangers were. He had already been told it seemed the strangers had killed a tiger, and freely confessed slaughtering others in the past year.
    â€˜Well, if you can speak our language, step forward.’
    Arok did so.
    Fenzi walked just behind him, with the cub.
    Khursp and several more attempted to follow.
    â€˜Two are enough. Keep the rest of them back.’
    A brief kerfuffle. Arok did not turn to see. He could guess.
    He faced the savage king with bleak dignity, well aware the king thought him the savage.
    â€˜What,’ said the king, ‘is your outland name?’
    â€˜Arok, Chaiord of the Jafn Holas.’
    â€˜ Ch —What does he say? Their king is it?’ Murmurs. Yes, this chalky barbarian was the other nineteen barbarians’ ‘king’. Ha ha. What a ripe jest! ‘Is he old? His hair is white.’
    Arok interposed. ‘Among my people, young men and women too have such hair.’
    â€˜ Women , you say?’ The king was intrigued. Disgusting. ‘Do you have any with you? Women, I mean.’
    Arok’s glower eclipsed his features.
    â€˜None.’
    â€˜I think you fib, Whitehair.’
    Arok said, ‘We came to your God-forsaken country on a great ship. Do you think we’d risk our women over the seas?’
    â€˜A pity. Why did you come?’
    Arok decided on truth. ‘An omen. My son was stolen and, the omen said, brought here. I came to find my son.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said the king. For the half of one half-second a glint of slinking sympathy lit his eyes. ‘This I understand. To lose a son – to have lost him – what can compare with such a loss? Have you found him?’
    Arok did not credit the sympathy. It had a weird colour to it for him, like wine that was too dark.
    â€˜Not yet.’ It was still the truth.
    â€˜Meanwhile you poach the tiger-kind. Know this. They’re only for us, for our royal families among the farmers or hunters or herders. Or of course for me, and mine.’
    â€˜How could we know?’
    â€˜If you speak our language, how could you not know?’
    â€˜We met none of your folk to tell us,’ barked Arok.
    â€˜Then you lie in all things. For how can you speak Simese if you came sea-over and till now met none here to teach you?’ Crafty, the king, twiddling the diamond-bladed knife.
    Arok said, ‘I can speak many languages because I’m witch-gifted.’
    â€˜Are you, by mighty Attajos, may his fire burn bright? Where’s your proof?’
    Arok stalled. He had none. None at least he could trust.
    Fenzi spoke carryingly yet quietly behind him. ‘I am his proof, sir. The witch that spelled him was my mother.’
    Another murmuring ran around. Already, the Jafn had heard no black-skinned man or woman was known in Simisey.
    â€˜Yes, you are bizarre. What are you made of, velvet?’
    Fenzi smiled in a disarming way, not insulted. ‘Of skin and flesh and bone and hair. Sir. As are you. But my mother was made of snow and at the touch of God grew living and black. Arok, my Chaiord, lay with my mother.’
    â€˜Then Arok is your father too.’
    â€˜No. He is the father of my half-brother, Dayadin, who is also black … as velvet. It was Dayadin who was stolen, and brought into these distant lands.’
    The king gave a dangerous laugh. ‘I’m confused. Enlighten me.’
    â€˜My witch-mother, in fact a goddess, carried seed like a man.