“Celebration?” Mori asks under his breath. “What celebration?”
Daromir meets Vana’s eyes as he answers, his heart a leaden weight between his lungs. “It isn’t a celebration. It’s an execution.”
Daromir and Vana have to stay for the rest of Aliza’s party, as she explains each crafted, flowering tree to Naoko. They’re only saved when Naoko begs off, claiming a headache, and Mori and Osric tag along with her. At last, Aliza retires, and the rest of the courtiers trickle away after her.
A servant activates the enchanted roof. Heavy translucent glass groans across the space, darkening the garden as the guests leave.
Finally, Daromir and Vana are the only ones left. Daromir joins Vana at the edge of the crystal creek bed. Light reflects from the stones, illuminating the depths of Vana’s violet eyes.
“I haven’t heard anything of this,” Vana says.
“We’ve been a little busy,” Daromir says. “And His Majesty’s drasgard are discreet when they want to be.”
Vana’s shoulders are straight, his neck a perfect line beneath his braided hair. Above them, his magic still holds the storm at bay. “I hate this part.”
Daromir hates this too. Not the executions themselves. Imrik Dire’s brutality may be disgusting, but Daromir’s life has a singular focus. What he hates is the distance in Vana’s eyes, like clouded stars that Daromir can’t quite reach. The perfect, polite mask.
Nothing has changed.
Daromir loves Vana more than anything. That’s always been true, whether or not Daromir realized it. They’ve said the words now. They’ve been closer than ever.
And they’re still stuck in Draskora because Vana refuses to flee.
Helplessness tightens Daromir’s throat. He’s grateful they can’t talk openly in public, because he doesn’t know what he’d say. Seeing Vana unhappy has always hurt, more than any pain shared through the bond. Now Daromir can’t even fantasize about rescuing him.
“Let’s head back,” Daromir says quietly. “We need to tell Indra that tomorrow’s carefully planned schedule is in shambles.”
Vana’s sleeve brushes Daromir’s as he retreats from the garden. Daromir follows at his heel. As soon as they’re inside, Vana releases the storm. The column of sunlight vanishes behind them, and the sky pours down onto the glass.
?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vana
Dark clouds hang over the Ostomar City square, as if the whole land is an underground cavern. The air is heavy, but no rain falls. This isn’t weather; it’s a weapon awaiting the king’s command.
The Dais of Judgment is a raised stone platform dominating the north side of the square. A stone arch stretches over it, with three iron cages swaying and creaking overhead. The cages are empty today, and the dais is scoured clean. It wouldn’t do to have prisoners bleeding and defecating on the royal family below.
A phalanx of drasgard surrounds the dais, separating the exalted nobility from the commoners thronging below. Some onlookers have no choice but to participate. University students and scholars, guild representatives, and charity wardens are all required by law to attend executions when in Ostomar City. Others are there by choice, paying less attention to the dais than to the free-flowing ale and dueling minstrels at the south end of the square.
At the center of the Dais, King Imrik jokes with the chief executioner and some other courtiers. The queen is nowhere in sight, but Kazia sits bored in his seat, picking at his embroidered sleeve.
Petir Bernek is in attendance, his first court appearance since he tried to complain about Daromir. He’s quiet and sober, standing back from the other courtiers.
Laughter and clashing melodies leave Vana all the colder. He’s witnessed dozens of these executions. There are reasons he spends as little time in Ostomar as he can. Briefly he regrets denying Arla’s offer. If Vana had accepted, maybe he wouldn’t be here right now, arrayed in silk and fur, his hair held up with scalestone pins.
Vana stands on the dais as a symbol of Imrik Dire’s dynasty, and he doesn’t like it. He can’t even look at Daromir at his right side for comfort, because if he does, he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep his composure.
Vana’s duty today is absurd to the point of parody: escort Lady Naoko Mallory through today’s entertainment. Imrik must intend this as a warning of some kind. The outing is a far cry from libraries, laboratories, and singing caverns.
“Have you been to an execution before?” Vana asks.
Beside him, Naoko is dressed in her usual bright colors, except her white silk scarf. “My wife handles executions at Asakura, but I’ve never attended. They’re rare, anyway. For most crimes, commoners just get fined and taxed. Nobles just get assassinated, without all this… fuss.” Naoko sighs. “What do you do in Kaiskara?”
“Our ancestors used to drown convicts,” Vana says. “We—theyended that practice a century ago. Now, they just exile them. Out of sight, out of mind, as good as dead.”
Perhaps that’s why Duke Tellik forbade his remaining children from writing back to Vana. Far easier for Vana to be gone forever.
