Petir splutters. “Of course, I saw a blood healer already. I can present her for testimony, Your Majesty, but an injury healed is still an injury.”
“Indeed.” Imrik looks bored, but it’s surely an act. “What do you have to say for yourself, Daromir Azri?”
The question is mild, but Vana has heard that same mild tone precede torture, imprisonment, and execution before. Daromir doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even move. Vana is the one who raises his head and steps forward.
“Daromir is my bloodguard,” Vana says, steady despite the fear lancing his heart. “He acts in my service. If Count Petir has a complaint, he is welcome to register it against me.”
The room falls silent. Imrik’s bored expression doesn’t falter.
It’s a risk. Petir could repeat his questions, and Vana doesn’t care to answer those questions before his father. Yet surely Imrik has been informed of everything Petir said last night. If he wanted an explanation, he would have asked for one.
Petir must realize that too, because he wilts. “No, Your Highness. I see now this was a misunderstanding.” He bows deeply to the throne. “Your Majesty, please forgive me for taking up your time. I withdraw my complaint.”
Imrik claps his hands. “Splendid. Count Petir, you may leave. Prince Vana, remain.”
Petir retreats from the throne room. His absence leaves an echoing silence. Vana stands straight under the heavy regard of the man who’s been his father for fourteen years.
He does think of Imrik as his father, though their relationship is as much abduction as adoption. Imrik taught him Dire magic and wyrm hunting. They play aerie together every solstice Vana spends in Ostomar. Vana has more memories of the king than of his first father now. One took him hostage, and the other gave him up. Neither is less his father than the other.
“Have you anything more to say, son?” Imrik asks.
The king doesn’t want excuses. He wants strength.
“It’s been fourteen years, so you may need to review the treaty with Kaiskara,” Vana says. Daromir tenses beside him. This is something Imrik doesn’t want to hear, but it’s too important to leave unsaid. “I have full authority over my bloodguard. Nobody may discipline Daromir but me. Any complaint against him is a complaint against me. Just as any insult against me is an insult against House Dire. Last night, Petir insulted us both. While I commend Daromir for his restraint, the next time Petir raises his voice against me, his injuries won’t be so easily healed.”
Imrik pauses, then relaxes on his throne. “That would certainly save us the complaints.”
As they walk the long hall away from the throne room, Drasgard Indra catches up with them. Before she can say anything, Vana says, “Rearrange any social calls for today. I’ll be flying Stanza on the wall.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Indra wisely doesn’t ask any questions.
Daromir doesn’t say anything either until they reach the Opal Tower’s ramparts. The wall is made of the same glossy dark stone as the rest of the tower, separating the residence from the rest of the palace. They aren’t as wide as the main Ostomar walls below, but there’s still plenty of space.
Stanza has already been flown today, and she would probably prefer to nap the rest of the day away. But she doesn’t fuss, and Vana’s heart settles with her slight weight. His unease isn’t gone, but he can manage it.
The sky is cloud-pale, with a stubborn mountain wind. If Stanza wanted, she could fly away at any moment. No tether holds her to Vana’s wrist, and no amount of training can change her true nature. She’s here because she doesn’t see a need to leave. Because she wants to be. If that ever changed, the next time she left Vana’s wrist, she simply wouldn’t return.
Perhaps that’s what drew Vana to falconry in the first place. A wistful envy. Sometimes Vana dreams of flying away too, but far too much tethers him to Draskora.
Daromir is quiet behind him. He hasn’t spoken since before they entered the throne room, but his mere presence is reassuring. Except Vana doesn’t want reassurance right now. He doesn’t want strong arms to drag him to the couch, or careful fingers digging into his tense shoulders. Vana is panicking. Slowly, quietly, yet panicking nonetheless. He needs to act before the feeling leaves him.
Vana doesn’t know if this is love, but he’s amazed Daromir can’t feel the pain clawing into his heart.
“I may need to have Petir Bernek killed,” Vana says. Behind him, Daromir is silent for long enough that Vana turns around. “What’s wrong?”
Daromir leans against the parapet, arms folded over his chest. “Nothing. You’re probably right.”
“Daro.”
“Just wondering how we came to this,” Daromir says. But that isn’t what he means. He’s sayingweagain, when he just means Vana.
Stanza picks at the laces of Vana’s glove, her weight shifting on his wrist.
Daromir swore himself to a naïve, weak teenager. Naïve, weak, but surely a better person than Vana is now. Not for the first time, Vana wonders whether Daromir truly likes—or truly sees—the man Vana has grown into.
Doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.
“Petir asked if I knew how Irenka died,” Vana says, shoving aside his hurt. He gives another treat to Stanza, who delicately shreds it. “Everyone knows how she died, so what he meant to ask waswhy.”
