Anything else, Vana could simply ask Daromir. But their arrangement is clear. Necessary. Vana’s the one who insisted that he shouldn’t question Daromir’s leave requests. If Daromir needs space, he shouldn’t have to justify it.
Vana already claimed Daromir’s entire life. How selfish is he to resent a mere day?
Daromir rolls up to his feet and cracks his neck before turning around. He doesn’t remark on Vana watching him. His eyes just drop to Vana’s chest, where his robe gaps open. “You’re going to catch a cold.”
“Morning to you too,” Vana replies, absently tying his robe tighter. “I was thinking we should spar soon. I’m getting rusty with a sword.”
Daromir flexes his bicep. “What, are you jealous?”
It’s a very impressive bicep.
Vana rolls his eyes so he doesn’t keep staring. “Speaking of catching colds, put a shirt on. We have a busy day today.”
Including, most importantly, a game of aerie with the wing-marshal of the Draskoran dragon corps—Marek Helra Dire.
***
When in residence at Ostomar, Marek stays in the barracks tower on the opposite side of the mountain castle. Enchanted, reinforced bars protrude from the building’s structure; riders can mount their dragons from their balconies in case of emergency.
There are no dragons visible when an adjutant lets Vana and Daromir into the tower. The adjutant bows and returns to the door when Vana dismisses him. Vana knows the way and needs no escort but Daromir.
As wing-marshal, Marek occupies the top two floors of the tower. The lowest is his dining parlor, furnished simply, with a broad balcony half again as big as the room itself. The accordion doors are fixed open, exposing the room to the elements, but enchanted heaters keep the space warm.
Marek is exactly where Vana expects him—at his great oak bar counter, filling a tankard directly from a keg. Even taller than Daromir, Marek has rugged good looks that would be eye-catching even without his dark blue hair. He’s originally from Helra, one of the northwest mountain clans, where the weather is far harsher than Ostomar’s. Sometimes Vana thinks Marek is determined to prove that fact with his aversion to sleeves.
“There you are!” Marek calls out. “Care for a drink?”
Vana likes Marek. He’s a rival for the throne, sure, and a dangerous one with his control over the dragon corps. But Vana doesn’t hold that against him, and with every passing year, he’s more and more sure Marek doesn’twantthe throne. Marek spends as little time tethered to Ostomar as possible. Vana can’t imagine him sitting still on the scalestone throne.
That doesn’t mean someone else won’t try setting Marek on it, of course.
“I’ll have what you’re having,” Vana says. He doesn’t usually drink this early in the afternoon, but this is as much a political meeting as a brotherly reunion.
“Perfect. What about you, Daromir?” Marek never adopted the practice of ignoring bloodguards. It isn’t how things are supposed to work, but Vana can’t help liking him better for it.
Daromir precedes Vana into the room, scoping out the surroundings. “I’ll pass.”
Marek tops off a second tankard for Vana. “You say you never drink on the job, but you’realwayson the job.”
“I drink on the job,” Daromir says. “I just don’t drink your bread in a cup.”
Marek shakes his head in mock sadness as he hands the tankard to Vana. “It’s tragic that you grew up on the apple juice Kaiskara calls ale.”
“I recall you getting wasted on that apple juice a few solstices ago, Marek.” Vana sips the stout slowly. One beer is much the same as another to him. “I’m glad we caught you in Ostomar. We haven’t played aerie in too long.”
Daromir pauses by the balcony, looking at something Vana can’t see past the accordion door.
“The timing is a piece of luck. Loska and I fly north again next week.” Marek glances over his shoulder. “Even luckier—it’s been too long since weallsaw each other.”
Vana makes eye contact with Daromir, who nods confirmation. Sure enough, when Vana follows Marek onto the balcony, a thin figure leans against the railing. Long lavender hair flying in the slight breeze, he doesn’t turn at their approach.
The king and queen’s only child by blood, Kazia Draskora Dire.
“Hello, Vana!” Kazia calls out cheerfully, still without turning. “I heard you and Marek had a playdate today. I hope you don’t mind me inviting myself along.”
Marek rolls his eyes and starts setting out the game board.
“Not at all,” Vana says easily, knowing only Daromir will hear the lie. “I’m delighted.”
