Silence falls between them. From the window, the messenger regards Daromir just as intently as Arla does.
The proposition doesn’t surprise Daromir. Instead, slow, sad anger burns the back of his throat. Daromir should have expected this. Of course another Tellik would show up wanting to use Vana as a pawn, with only a cursory, incomplete understanding of the situation. Raised to rule? Daromir isn’t so sure about that. Imrik keeps his sons safely adjacent to true power, never fully trusted.
Arla doesn’t want his brother back. He wants a symbol.
“That isn’t why I want Vana out of Draskora,” Daromir says. “If that’s the condition, we’ll leave without your help.”
Arla’s smile doesn’t falter. “What does Vana want?”
And Daromir freezes. Because it’s a fair question. Because Daromir hasn’t dared tell Vana he’s still talking to the messengers yet. Because he’s sitting here, talking to Vana’s brother without him. A brother Vana hasn’t seen in fourteen years—a brother Vana doesn’t even know is his brother yet, and not the time-worn memory of a younger sister. Daromir doesn’t have the right to decide what Vana wants. He doesn’t have the right to even guess.
If Daromir keeps waiting for the right moment, it will never come. But one thing’s certain. The longer Daromir waits, the worse it will be.
Tonight. Daromir will tell Vana tonight, as soon as he’s home at his prince’s side. However uncomfortable, however inconvenient, Daromir can’t keep this secret any longer.
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” Daromir says.
Arla’s smile widens, and in that moment, he looks nothing like Vana at all. “I’ll be in Ostomar for one week. Talk to the messenger and make it happen.”
?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vana
This is the arrangement. Daromir asks for a day off, and Vana grants it without question. Tonight, nearly buzzing out of his skin with anxiety, Vana curses his naïve younger self for devising such a masochistic scheme.
His chambers are empty and lonelier than ever. Vana thought sending Indra and Zuzana downstairs would make it better. Every time they spoke or moved or blinked too obtrusively, Vana was reminded they weren’t Daromir. But the emptiness is worse, because there’s nothing to distract Vana. There’s nothing to stop him from pacing from room to room, hands twisting behind his back, thoughts spiraling in terrible directions.
Daromir isn’t sleeping with anyone. Vana would feel that—unless Daromir closed off the bond. Which Daromir would never do.
Vana rubs his eyes, though they don’t hurt now. If Daromir isn’t sleeping with anyone, Vana can’t think what else he might be doing. What could be so urgent that he would take a day off after an attack?
That isn’t like Daromir. Vana has breathed the same air as Daromir for fourteen years, and he’s certain. This isn’t like him.
Maybe that’s the problem, though. They’ve been so close for so long. With the change in the bond, they’re even closer, against both their wills. Yet even that is an unequal trade. Vana didn’t choose to feel Daromir’s pleasure, but he can’t help wanting it.
Vana has spent the past fourteen years suffocating Daromir. Why should he blame Daromir for wanting a breath of air to himself?
Stanza shifts on her perch, fixing a beady eye on Vana. Her feathers shimmer in the light. Vana steps towards her, then stops. He’s too unstable right now. He moves instead towards the bedroom, and when he glances back, Stanza has settled with his departure.
The uncertainty is the problem.
“You’re a terrible person,” Vana says to himself. There’s nobody around to refute him as he kneels at the trunk at the foot of Daromir’s bed.
Daromir keeps the key under the mattress. Vana’s never touched it before, but he finds it easily without looking. Before he can think better of it, he unlocks the trunk. The lid swings open with a whispered creak.
Not all their arrangements are spoken agreements. Living with another person for so many years leads to habits. Daromir frequently goes through Vana’s wardrobe, picking out clothes when Vana sleeps in too long. But Daromir never touches Vana’s books or journals, even though Vana’s journals are boring schedules and coded notes and inventory reminders. Things Daromir would know anyway. Nothing creative or secret. Vana meanwhile never touches this trunk. Simply out of habit. He never has a need to.
Today, Vana doesn’t get past the shallow upper tray. Unstained wood, well-made but simple. There’s a dagger in a faded scabbard, a gold and leather bracelet, three of Vana’s broken hair ornaments, and a pile of letters held together with a pin. Vana smooths out the topmost letter and has to read it three times before he understands.
A fourth and fifth time before he believes it.
Daromir’s presence tugs his awareness. Vana has time to prepare as Daromir returns to the tower. He rises to his feet, weightless and untethered, and drifts to the parlor. Outside the door, Daromir murmurs something, and Zuzana says something in reply. Vana clears his mind of assumptions and accusations. All he has left are clear, cold questions by the time Daromir opens the door.
His bright green eyes as always dart to Vana. “What’s wrong?” Daromir asks, striding forward. “You’re pale.”
The paper’s still crumpled in Vana’s hand. He can’t unclench his fingers.
