Daromir dislikes being put under the magnifying glass. “Does Fellrin not have books on Kaiskaran culture?”
“Few, and many of them out of date. Besides, I’ve always preferred learning from primary sources.”
At least talking about himself is better than talking about Vana. “Then ask away.” Daromir moves to keep a better eye on Vana, and Naoko moves with him.
The questions are simple enough. Were his parents bloodguards? No, but his aunt is, and his grandfather was. When did he begin training? At age eight in the formal sense, but before he can remember in the truest sense. Is it true the tournaments are rigged? Most are, but his wasn’t.
I won Vana, fair and true,Daromir doesn’t say out loud.
“Forgive me if this is too forward, but I’m interested in social structures,” Naoko says next. “How do relationships work for either of you?”
Daromir doesn’t tense up. He’s too well-trained. “You’re right. That’s too forward.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “My apologies.”
Daromir hates her. Unfairly yet undeniably. Whatever Naoko’s agenda for these questions, he doesn’t like it. Whatever King Imrik’s agenda for bringing her here, Daromir likes it even less. His mind goes against his will to a marriage arrangement, but that’s impossible. Even if Naoko didn’t have a wife and husband in Fellrin, she doesn’t hold sufficient rank to warrant a royal betrothal.
If she hopes for an affair with Vana out of personal interest, she’ll be disappointed. Vana is only interested in…
Daromir actually isn’t quite sure of Vana’s preferences, and that gap of knowledge disturbs him. Like missing a stair step in his mind. All of Vana’s brief relationships have been with men, but Daromir doesn’t know if that’s preference or coincidence.
None of the men were alike in any way, except their general unsuitability. Aggravating, grating, each and every one of them. They paid too much or too little attention to Vana. None of them lasted more than a month, and Daromir was always relieved to see them go.
Across the room, King Imrik claps Vana’s shoulder one last time, then heads from the room. Everyone but Daromir and the Fellrians bows at his exit—and Daromir is relieved when Vana approaches him and Naoko.
“Lady Naoko, I hope you’ve rested from your journey,” Vana says. “You’re welcome to borrow any books from this library that catch your eye—or keep them. Her Majesty’s favorites are all safely locked away.”
“I was just asking your bloodguard about you. He didn’t say you were so generous,” Naoko says with a smile.
Vana tenses almost imperceptibly. “You’ll get better answers if you ask me directly next time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Naoko says. “I heard you were a poet—is that true, Your Highness?”
Vana’s smile is back, his tension vanished. “I haven’t dabbled in poetry for a long time. We do have a poetry section over here, if you’d like to see it.”
“I’d love that.”
Daromir would have stayed put to continue observing the rest of the party, but the poetry section is very near to the drunk, red-faced Petir. On a hunch, Daromir follows Vana—a hunch proved swiftly correct when Petir slams his glass down on a nearby table.
It shatters, and conversation exclaims to a halt.
“Shut up. I won’t be quiet,” Petir insists to his appalled friends. “I’m just asking questions. What’s wrong with asking questions? Your Highness!”
He points a wavering finger towards Vana, who doesn’t flinch.
“Do you remember Irenka Miraz, Your Highness?” Petir demands, stumbling forward. “Do you know how she died? Don’t you think it’s strange?”
Petir staggers only half a step forward before Daromir is in front of him. His mouth opens again, and Daromir’s hand closes around his throat. Azri magic pools ice-cold in Daromir’s palm, freezing against Petir’s bare skin.
When Petir yelps and tries to pull away. Daromir just snaps, “Hold your tongue.”
“Unhand me, you traitor!” Petir gasps, scrabbling at Daromir’s hand. “Irenka told me about you. She told me all about you.”
That’s disturbing, but Daromir doesn’t have time to think about that. His fingers freeze even colder, claws of ice digging into Petir’s vulnerable throat, and he takes no pleasure from the way Petir’s eyes widen in terror. Petir’s skin reddens. He risks frostbite if Daromir holds him for long enough.
“Then Irenka told you that Azri magic takes the form of ice,” Daromir says, calm and quiet. “Did you know that a man’s body is sixty percent water?”
Petir stops struggling.
