Too late. A drasgard opens the second carriage door—then jerks back, swearing. The entire squad snaps into action, drawing their swords and surrounding the vehicle. One of them splits away to trot towards Vana and Naoko.
“What about the second carriage?” Vana asks mildly.
Naoko smiles. “I’ve brought a companion for the journey.”
The dour-faced drasgard captain barely salutes when he reaches them. “Your Highness, I think there’s a fellcat in the carriage. That or some other big beast with teeth.”
“I hope he won’t pose any inconvenience,” Naoko says. “I forgot that people aren’t used to them outside Fellrian courts.”
Vana can’t tell if she’s speaking sincerely or not. Fellrin’s large magical tigers seem rather difficult to forget, and someone will get fired for this surprise. A port master, or a drasgard captain from an earlier checkpoint. This information should have reached Ostomar far ahead of the actual procession.
“Not at all,” Vana says. “Could you remove the fellcat from the carriage, to allow the inspection?”
“Splendid idea.” Naoko turns to her servant. “Mori, could you fetch Osric?”
Mori bows deeply enough that his hair flops over his forehead, then scurries off to obey. The drasgard surrounding the carriage step back, and Mori bows again to the carriage before saying something Vana can’t hear. Mori jumps back in time to avoid the large crimson cat descending in a fluid leap.
The creature is huge, taller than a man’s waist at the shoulders. The black stripes and ear tips resemble an ordinary tiger, but his fur is bright crimson. Unknown numbers of fellcats live wild in Fellrin’s jungles, but some have been domesticated among the Fellrian nobility. Thoughdomesticatedis the last word that comes to Vana’s mind now.
As Osric pads towards them, Vana and Naoko are the only ones who don’t tense nervously. Naoko because she’s used to the creature; Vana because he has no cause for alarm.
He has Daromir right behind him. Nothing can harm him.
“Is he one of the ones that talks?” Vana asks. He isn’t very familiar with fellcats, but he knows their magical abilities vary between individuals.
Naoko rests her hand on Osric’s head. “Osric speaks Trade and High Fellrian, but rarely chooses to.”
“Then welcome to Draskora, Lord Osric,” Vana addresses the cat. “Would you like to join us for refreshments as well?”
Osric blinks his great golden eyes. There’s a sense of patience within his gaze. Vana feels himself under strict observation and wonders what the fellcat could possibly think of him.
Whatever Osric’s judgment, he keeps it to himself. Osric turns around with a flick of his tail, scattering drasgard and servants in his wake. When he jumps back into the carriage, the vehicle rocks with his weight, then settles.
“I guess that’s a no,” Vana says, and hopes this is the last surprise Naoko has brought to Draskora.
***
Daromir is quiet throughout the journey back to Ostomar. That’s normal—Daromir is always quiet on duty among strangers. Vana, meanwhile, has to talk and talk and talk. His throat is sore by the end of the day, and he’s grateful small aches aren’t enough to trigger the bloodbond. His eyes hurt too, after too long in the day’s unrelenting brightness.
The evening doesn’t improve when Vana retires with Daromir for the evening. Vana knows bad omens are nothing more than superstition. Useful symbols for propaganda, manipulation, and poetry. They aren’t real. But Vana has trouble dismissing superstition when he stubs his toe on the bed frame.
Even halved, the pain is immense. Vana curls over, swearing, as Daromir gives an exaggerated groan from the other side of the screen. “Damn, Vana. That’s a rough one.”
“Sorry,” Vana calls weakly. By the time he hobbles around the screen, Daromir’s still wincing and shaking out his own leg.
“Why is stubbing our toes so much worse than getting stabbed?” Daromir complains.
“I disagree. The times you get stabbed are far worse than the times I stub my toe. You just have all that adrenaline messing with your head.” Plus, the few times Daromir has taken a blade meant for him, the pain has been compounded by Vana’s desperate worry.
“Plus, I was drunk, the one time,” Daromir concedes. “I barely felt that one. Turn around.”
Vana turns on command so Daromir can unbraid his hair. Daromir’s fingers are gentle, pulling each strand just so.
As tired as Vana is of everyone else, talking with Daromir is never a chore. “What do you think of the ambassador?”
Daromir pauses to rub his own neck. The mirror reflects the grace of his every simple movement. Every element of his body is in perfect alignment with the rest. “I dislike her.”
Vana raises his eyebrows. “That was fast.”
