Naoko hugs her colorful coat closer to her. There’s a strange, conflicted pensiveness in her expression. “Sometimes I truly wonder whether I’m doing the right thing, here.”
“Pardon?” Vana says.
Naoko shakes her head. Any other query is interrupted by the clarion sound of horns, and the arrival of the convict.
A phalanx of drasgard in black and violet escorts the convict from the south end of the square to the north. Anyone who throws anything would join the convict on the dais—Imrik got annoyed one year when rotten tomato juice got into a guard’s eyes and delayed proceedings. That doesn’t stop the cheers and jeers from drunks and teenagers.
Vana wants to hold Daromir’s hand right now. But even if he felt safe being open about their relationship, reaching out for comfort would be a sign of weakness. Across the dais, Imrik seems wholly occupied in regaling his courtiers with a wyrm-hunting story, but anyone could report Vana’s movements afterwards.
Shifting slightly to the right, Vana brushes his arm against Daromir’s. For an instant of reassuring pressure, Daromir leans closer.
The crowd roars louder as the drasgard and convict approach the Dais of Judgment. The steps are steep, slick with condensation. The convict slips and cries out, and a guard roughly hoists him the rest of the way.
Vana catches a brief glimpse of the convict’s face, just an instant before a herald steps forward to proclaim: “The realm’s justice presents a traitor for absolution. Fleury Bartome, of common and foreign blood, is twice traitor against His Majesty’s law.”
“Oh, damn you, Fleury,” Daromir murmurs, as Vana’s heart plummets.
There’s no mistaking that broad, furtive face, the scruffy brown hair, the crooked nose. That cloudy day in Sabora should have been the last time Vana saw Fleury. Vana gave him achance, damn it. The man was supposed to disappear. He was supposed to move back to Silaise. Reunite with his parents.
Vana wasn’t supposed to see him again.
The herald continues. “The traitor stole scalestone from the northern army, defenders of the realm. He then attempted to sell it to renegade Silaisan forces. Give praise to the heroic drasgard who apprehended him!”
As the crowd cheers, guards shove Fleury to his knees in front of the king. He hunches over, broken. His hair is matted with dried blood. He doesn’t beg like he begged in Sabora.
Imrik looks down on him. “Have you anything to say for yourself, thief?”
Fleury shakes his head so violently he nearly topples over. All he makes is a small, choking sound. Imrik gives an exaggerated sigh, then begins addressing the gathered nobility. He doesn’t bother raising his voice for the benefit of the commoners. The day’s warning is clear enough already.
“No last words?” Naoko asks quietly.
“I believe they cut out his tongue.” Vana wishes he could match her shocked grimace. He’s seen executions before. He used to think it would get easier. It doesn’t. But it will be over—whenever it’s over. Not quickly enough. But once Imrik is bored, it will be over.
Vana just needs to wait until then.
Except Imrik turns and gestures towards Vana. “Thankfully, such traitors are rare in Draskora. I’m grateful as always for the strength and loyalty of my sons. Prince Marek, who defends our northern shores. Prince Vana, who governs our heartland with justice and strength.”
Behind the king, Kazia rolls his eyes and twists a strand of hair around his fingers.
Imrik turns his sharp violet eyes towards Vana. “Now, sometimes it seems that Marek gets all the adulation. Military achievements are flashy, aren’t they? But a firm hand at home is just as important.”
Vana can’t tell what Imrik wants right now, so he falls back on the usual courtly flattery. “I don’t seek adulation. I strive only to serve House Dire, Your Majesty.”
“Let no one say I don’t reward service,” Imrik says. “Prince Vana, would you like the honor of absolving this traitor?”
He gestures to Fleury.
Vana’s mind goes empty, cold. Then racing fast. The next second stretches for an eternity. Like the moment just before a man falls from a horse, when the world stands still and his mind races through all the possibilities. Can he get his foot in the iron? Can he sit back in the saddle? Should he cling on, or is it better to fall now, while he can still roll away from the horse’s hooves?
Vana meets Fleury’s eyes, no longer empty but filled with pleading, and sees the true nature of his choice.
Will Fleury get a quick death at Vana’s hands, or a far slower death from Imrik Dire?
“I’m happy to serve, Your Majesty,” Vana says, barely hearing his own voice through the ringing in his ears.
Courtiers clap politely, and the drasgard drag Fleury towards the front of the dais, the better for the crowd to see. Vana steps forward on numb legs—except Daromir catches his arm. Daromir’s grip is so good and strong, Vana might shatter from it.
“What is it?” Vana asks, wishing he could dissociate from this. Wishing the anguish in Daromir’s eyes wasn’t quite so clear.
