Vana meets Daromir’s eyes briefly. “False accusations like this have a way of following you. I would think about a career change. Something that’s less likely to be misunderstood as smuggling.”
Fleury nods vigorously. “I’ll think about that very hard, Your Highness.”
“Your name is Silaisan. Do you have family there?”
“My parents, Your Highness. I haven’t seen them in years.”
“Maybe you’re overdue for a visit,” Vana says.
Daromir whistles for the nearby drasgard to join them. Vana passes on his instructions, then sends Fleury on his way in their custody. He and Daromir leave the glade at a more leisurely pace, with Stanza still on Vana’s arm.
“He’s just going to keep getting into trouble,” Daromir says from his usual position to Vana’s right and a step behind.
“I expect nothing less from Fleury, but hopefully he’ll stick to safer trouble. Maybe he’ll find trouble out of the country instead.” Vana glances back at Daromir. “What are you thinking about?”
“You should take a carriage this morning.” Daromir doesn’t need to say much for Vana to catch his meaning, just like he doesn’t need Dire magic to feel the cool weight of the oncoming storm.
“I’ll ride, unless you object.”
Daromir is silent for a moment. He’s more in tune with Vana’s well-being than Vana himself, who tends towards a self-destructive work ethic. If Daromir objects, Vana will listen. That’s part of the arrangement they made years ago—an arrangement that evolved rapidly in the first year of their bloodbond. Vana is the prince. The ward. In most matters, his word is absolute. But when it comes to his well-being, Daromir is in charge.
“No objections for now,” Daromir says. “I’ll tell you if I change my mind.”
“You always do,” Vana says, and Daromir laughs.
After Vana transfers Stanza to the mobile roost, the procession is ready to go. A mere hundred members of Vana’s household will accompany him to Ostomar, over half of them members of his personal drasgard complement. Grooms hold Vana and Daromir’s horses ready near the front of the procession.
Vana swings into the saddle with his usual prayer to get up in one try. He hasn’t failed yet, but it’s a lingering fear from childhood.
Daromir mounts beside him, and Vana as always admires his effortless grace. He barely rode in Kaiskara, but he took to riding like he takes to so much else—with natural ease. Beneath his long coat, every line of his body is relaxed but purposeful. Today, the silver-clouded light catches in his short white hair and darkens his green eyes.
In some ways, Daromir Azri is still the sixteen-year-old boy Vana met the day before his tournament. He’s still possessed of a singular determination, blessed with confidence that would be arrogance on most men. But Daromir’s confidence is simply an accurate estimation of his own abilities.
He’s grown taller, outpacing Vana by half a foot by the time they both finished growing, with a warrior’s shoulders. He’s honed his awareness as sharp as his blade and Azri ice magic alike.
Daromir was never as naïve as Vana once was. Yet even Daromir has been hardened by Draskora. Or, Vana thinks in moments of self-flagellation, by Vana himself.
As the procession sets off in a rattle of hoofbeats and turning wheels, a drop of water falls on Vana’s black leather glove. Then another on the sleeve of his dark gray coat. Rain at the journey’s beginning would be an omen if Vana was given to superstition. A symbol if he still indulged in poetry.
For a prince of House Dire, the rain is merely a duty.
Vana relaxes in the saddle and loosens his tightly-chained core of magic. A slight shock like static electricity stings his fingertips before his magic arcs into the clouds above.
Weather interference is dangerous. Vana won’t stop the storm today; he simply controls it. The clouds crack apart overhead, and a narrow ribbon of sunlight shines on the procession even as the rain falls harder on either side. Rainbows scatter in the mist between the sunlit road and the rain-drenched embankments. As they move forward, the road beneath them will be dark and slick, but the procession itself will remain dry.
The appearance of strength is as vital as strength itself. Vana can think of few greater humiliations than a Dire prince arriving in Ostomar bedraggled by rain.
It’s difficult magic, the precision far more tiring than the power. Vana makes it look effortless; he has no choice. He just hopes the storm won’t haunt the entire journey.
***
Ostomar was a mountain once. A dynasty far older than House Dire carved the peaks into its palace. Jagged spires soar high enough to split thunder and tempt lightning. The mountain palace is as large as a city itself, looming over the even-larger Ostomar City that sprawls southwards. Violet and gold banners declare that the king in residence—as usual.
Vana’s quarters are the Opal Tower, a separate fortress-peak. A wall half as high as the tower encircles a separate courtyard and stable, with its own gate and guardhouse. The Opal Tower is nearly as spacious as Vana’s beloved Sabora, though it’s dwarfed by the surrounding spires. The top three floors are Vana and Daromir’s private chambers, and Stanza has her own aviary adjacent to the top-floor parlor.
Nobody expects Vana to be cheerful, so masking his distaste is as easy as masking his exhaustion. The rain continued on and off throughout the ten-day journey to Ostomar, and even the smallest Dire magic is difficult to maintain for long. Dire magic is meant for quick, sudden violence. Not sustained working.
Vana looks forward to an afternoon of rest as soon as his drasgard finish clearing the building. Daromir inspects the parlor while Vana meets with Drasgard Indra, one of his closest aides for the last ten years. She’s a brown, stocky woman with a cloud of vibrant green hair.
