He taps Daromir’s chest, right over his heart, and looks up.
Daromir’s eyes crinkle in a grin. He covers Vana’s hand with his. “You’re turning very sentimental, Your Highness. Next you’ll be writing poetry again.”
“Maybe I will. But first… I want to try something else.” Vana extricates himself from Daromir’s grasp—he hadn’t even noticed Daromir’s hand falling to his waist, it felt so natural.
Stanza still circles high above. She ate already this morning, so she’s flying more for pleasure than for prey right now. Vana takes a deep breath and draws out his featherglass.
He’s gazed into the glass countless times. Falconers say the connection works best when the user is calm and centered. When he knows himself well enough that he can see through another’s eyes without losing himself. Vana never thought it sounded difficult, but he’s never managed to catch more than quick flashes of vision.
The glass warms slowly in his hand. He slips the other hand into Daromir’s and looks withouttryingtoo hard.
The image is brief but clear. Perfect detail. A dark expanse of forest, streams of mist flowing and vanishing as the morning deepens, and two small figures together, hand in hand.
“Do you see anything?” Daromir asks.
Vana laughs as the vision vanishes. “I saw us.” He touches Daromir’s jaw and pulls him down. “Right where we’re supposed to be.”
?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Daromir
Daromir sets down his book and rises when Vana returns from the bathroom. Vana’s hair is neatly braided, his decorative gold and blue-gray coat perfectly pressed and straight. That doesn’t stop Daromir from adjusting Vana’s collar anyway. “There, now you’re presentable.”
Vana catches Daromir’s hand and kisses his palm. Daromir is used to ice flowing through his veins. Not slow, sweet heat like this.
Vana’s eyes flutter shut. “Oh, Ifeltthat. All I did was kiss your hand.”
Daromir adjusts his trousers without shame. “How am I supposed to leave the room if you keep doing scandalous things like kissing my hand?”
“Kazia was right,” Vana teases. “You are a dog—though not how he meant it.”
“As long as I’myourdog, I don’t care how he meant it,” Daromir says. “Hey, we should keep testing the bloodbond. When we’re back tonight, you can lie back in bed and jerk yourself off, while I watch and wait to see if I feel it. It’ll be very scientific.”
“Oh, so now you like science. Perhaps you should consult with Radovan or Aliza on methodology.”
Daromir winks. “Trust me, I’m an expert on methodology.”
Vana bites his lip and turns away. Daromir knows Vana isn’t embarrassed by the innuendo, but by howhappyhe is. These little moments are gorgeous. Daromir treasures them.
He also allows himself to treasure the sight of Vana bending over his bed and picking up the book Daromir just set down.
“What’s this?” Vana asks, turning it over. “Oh.”
It’s the same poetry book as before. Daromir shrugs. “I thought I’d try reading it again. It’s not quite as nonsensical as I thought last time.”
Vana’s smile is exactly why Daromir needs to brush up on his poetry, fast. Because the way Vana looks right now, and the way Daromir feels?
Daromir needs metaphors for this.
***
This isn’t a metaphor: a storm rages above the palace, except for a single column of sunlight streaming onto the queen’s stone garden. Wind lashes rain around the boundary in glittering crystals, as bright as the imitation foliage below. Metal trees with glass leaves form topiary shapes throughout the garden. A creek bed without water winds its way across the center, tiled with marble and lavender quartz. A silver-iron bridge crosses the waterless creek. Gargoyles and stone wyrms lurk beneath the cold foliage.
Osric sits perfectly posed at the waterless creek, tail swishing. He appears fascinated by the play of light on the stones.
Queen Aliza invited Lady Naoko over in a display of hospitality—and to show off the garden’s new addition, a six-foot-tall rosebush with iron thorns and delicate gold blossoms. She invited a dozen other people too, and for once, there’s not a book in sight.
