Vana nearly chokes on his tea. Daromir makes a similar choking noise next to him. So much for discretion. Vana trusts Indra and Zuzana to keep their mouths shut in public, but he hadn’t expected them to realize so quickly. Does he really look that happy right now? Is that really so unusual?
Indra rolls her eyes. “Idiot, they’re always together. That’s kind of their thing.”
“No, they’retogethertogether.” Zuzana covers her mouth and hisses not quietly enough into Indra’s ear: “Don’t make me spell it out!”
Indra’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Oh. Um. Wow, that sounds like…”
“None of your business?” Vana supplies.
Indra beams. “Precisely, thank you. Zuzana, I think our report is over. We have a lot of people to guard and interrogate and stuff. Somewhereelse.”
“Our report isn’t over,” Zuzana protests. “You still haven’t updated His Highness on Petir Bernek.”
“They don’t care about…” Indra grimaces. “No, they definitely care about Petir Bernek.”
Vana sets his tea down and rubs the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to talk about his love life, but he doesn’t want bad news either. “Tell me.”
Indra straightens up, clinging to professionalism as Zuzana continues glancing wide-eyed between Vana and Daromir. “Petir’s sister has him locked up in his Ostomar City estate to sober up and reflect on himself,” Indra says. “One of his adjutants sent you what’s apparently an apology letter. I left it with the rest of your mail.”
Vana blinks and meets eyes with Daromir. “An apology letter?”
“Words are cheap,” Daromir says.
On the contrary, an apology from a Draskoran noble is as rare and costly as scalestone outside the mountains. Vana doesn’t trust it, but it’s a surprise. “I’ll read it later. Let’s hold off on any assassinations, at least until Petir is out of confinement. It’s not very sporting otherwise. Anything else?”
“No, Your Highness,” Indra says, stepping on Zuzana’s foot.
“Great.” Vana picks his tea back up. “Before you go, Daromir and I are heading out of the city in two days. We’ll need discreet arrangements.”
***
Stanza soars overhead, her dark feathers iridescent in the sunlight. On a whim, Vana takes out the featherglass. The short feather is preserved as perfectly as the day it fell from Stanza’s wing, each barb delicate and clear. The filigreed edge of the case warms quickly in Vana’s bare right hand.
For an instant, the surface of the glass seems to shift. A flash of faraway rustling trees. The image is gone before Vana catches it as footsteps approach.
“They’re here,” Daromir says, then hesitates. “Do you want to speak to him alone?”
Vana slides the glass into his coat and pulls his glove back on. “No.”
Going into the city was too difficult to achieve discreetly. Instead, Vana took the day for a hunting trip with Stanza. The property owner was happy to lend Vana the use of the copse of trees, near enough to the Friendly Forest that the foliage spirals in unnatural hues of violet and silver. Not close enough for the wild magic to be dangerous.
Vana’s drasgard has blocked off a half-mile stretch of land. In the clearing, only Daromir stands beside him—and now, Indra escorts two cloaked figures.
Indra bows, then retreats to join Zuzana out of earshot.
The messenger removes her hood and bows. “Your Highness.” She looks very different from the last time Vana saw her. Not the hair color—seafoam green now instead of black and orange. It’s her demeanor that’s changed the most. The messenger isn’t Vana’s subordinate anymore.
That’s fair. Vana hasn’t been much of a leader the past three years.
“Thank you for your service,” Vana says, in greeting and dismissal at once.
“It’s been an honor,” she says, then bows again. When she steps back, there’s nothing left between Vana and his brother.
Arla pulls back his hood. “Hello, Vana.”
Vana had tried to prepare himself. Arla looks much as he expected. He has their mother’s high cheekbones, just like Vana does, but their father’s stubborn chin. His eyes are clear and green as new leaves. Vana had expected the differences too. Sea-reddened cheeks, hair cropped short. Wiry strength and confidence Arla never had as a child.
Vana hadn’t expected the crashing wave of homesickness. The brief, painful tempest. Kaiskaraisn’tVana’s home, but for an instant, he remembers when it was. As if all the long years diminish to a single sleepless night, and the youngest part of Vana’s soul cries out for what he lost.
