“If he had anything more than questions, he was drunk enough to spill his suspicions,” Daromir says.
“Questions are bad enough if I permit them.” Vana’s lips tighten. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t see any other way. The Dire throne has to be won with strength. “I need to find out if he has a backer, or a conspirator, before I get rid of him.”
“Kazia mentioned Rakos.”
“Maybe.” Vana catches Daromir’s meaning, but he has trouble imagining Kazia backing Petir. Kazia isn’t the cooperating type.
“Let’s try to get someone into Petir’s household, then,” Daromir says. “We need to be careful. Maybe we should hire a Hound.”
The Kennel is an elite assassin guild in Fellrin, and its Hounds are expensive. Worth every gold piece. But Vana shakes his head. “That will take too long, and Petir isn’t clever enough to be worth the expense. We’ll go local, as long as we can’t find a backer for him.”
Daromir just nods. Sunlight catches in his pale hair. He’s strong, his eyes clear and green. He’s grown into exactly the man he should be. Vana is the one who couldn’t remain himself. He doesn’t know how to be that boy again.
Incredible that Vana almost kissed Daromir last night. The thought hurts now. Does Daromir truly know him? Is Daromir loyal to him, or a fragmented shadow of his younger self?
Vana turns towards the open sky. Stanza’s feathers shimmer in the light, and rather than taking off, she settles on his arm. Tucking her head in, she’s content to rest. Which means Vana is controlling himself enough that his nerves aren’t affecting her. His panic is locked deep in his heart where it belongs.
Planning someone’s death is usually a more difficult decision. But Petir made it personal by threatening Daromir instead of Vana.
?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Daromir
Before they meet up with Naoko and her group, Vana tugs Daromir aside. “I know it isn’t your job, but do try to be nice to the ambassador today.”
Guilt twinges through Daromir. All right—he was rather rude at the welcome party. Being polite isn’t his job, but he also shouldn’t makeVana’sjob more difficult. “Understood.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Vana says. “Things are just…”
“I understand,” Daromir says more softly.
Even Daromir can’t see any sign of Vana’s exhaustion. His violet eyes are bright even though Daromir heard him tossing and turning all night. “It’s just that the king isn’t happy with you,” Vana says. “Until I know more about Lady Naoko, we have to be careful.”
“Let me do the worrying, okay? You just charm her. Show her the wonders of Draskora.” Daromir gives a crooked grin and gets a slight answering smile from Vana. Encouraged, Daromir reaches to straighten Vana’s coat collar. A flush crosses Vana’s cheeks. Is he getting sick? “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” Vana steps back, still looking unwell. “We should go.”
Concern growing, Daromir follows him from the Opal Tower towards the central palace. Vana has been acting distant the past few days. Daromir doesn’t like it, but he can’t figure out why. He doesn’t think Vana’s angry at him for attacking Petir Bernek. Vana doesn’t seem angry at all—just withdrawn. Worse, he isn’t seeking comfort from Daromir like usual. Even holding Vana hasn’t fixed it.
Maybe Daromir just hasn’t held Vana for long enough. If this keeps going, Daromir will schedule a complete day off for both of them and try that.
Perhaps it’s the potential necessity of killing Petir. Vana was a poet once. He enjoys reading and talking with people. He enjoys flying his dreamhawk. He wasn’t meant to have blood on his hands.
Daromir is more certain than ever. He needs to get Vana out of Draskora. This place, this family, is changing him. But Daromir is afraid to admit he’s been hiding his contact with the messengers when Vana is already so strangely distant.
They meet the ambassador’s party outside Lord Radovan’s laboratory. Lady Naoko is dressed in dark trousers again, this time paired with a flowing peacock patterned blouse. Tiny gold buttons circle up her arms. Accompanying her are diary-assistant Mori and the red fellcat, Osric. The fellcat barely flicks his golden eyes toward Daromir and Vana, most of his concentration apparently reserved for a nearby dragon mural.
Radovan’s workshop is near the queen’s wing of the palace. Daromir has rarely been in this area, and he’s never been to the laboratory at all. He’s wary as he always is in new places, but curious.
A guard knocks on the door, then has to jump back as it flies open.
“Welcome, Your Highness, and welcome, Lady Ambassador.” Radovan sweeps a low bow—though not low enough to dislodge his gold spectacles. Daromir suspects Radovan’s vision is just fine. The spectacles, like his undyed brown and silver hair, are an intellectual affectation. Radovan was originally common born, but his knack for magical experimentation won him a lordship specially dispensed from the crown. “I’m thrilled to offer a tour of my laboratory. May I first inconvenience you by scanning you for scalestone?”
Naoko laughs. “Why not? It will only be the hundredth time since I crossed the border.”
“Only a hundred times to go,” Vana says.
