Is he kind?Osric asks.
Daromir only agreed to two answers, but this third question stops him short. Osric sounds worried, and Daromir has a sudden sense that he’s missing some critical context in this conversation. “I don’t know him that well. He should be back in Ostomar next week. You can meet him then and judge for yourself.”
Perhaps I shall. Thank you, and good luck with your mate.
Osric jumps down from the sofa, which sags more than it did before five hundred pounds of fellcat were inflicted upon it. As Osric resumes his circuit of the library, Daromir meets Vana’s eyes across the room.
Vana gives the tiniest smile, just for him.
They’re going to be all right, Daromir thinks, despite everything. With each other and a little luck, they’re going to be all right. Even if sadness again darkens Vana’s eyes before he turns away.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vana
Still raw from the week’s events, Vana would prefer not to attend a Dire family meal. The last thing he wants to do right now is sit for a polite luncheon with the king. But he doesn’t have a choice—especially when Imrik specifically invites Vana to join him early, before anyone else arrives.
Imrik’s chambers are nothing like Aliza’s. They’re stark. Utilitarian. The dining table must be a century old, as polished and sturdy as the day it was constructed. Unlike the rest of the palace, there are no tapestries of former monarchs or ancient legends. As if Imrik doesn’t want to compete for glory, even with his forebears.
When Vana arrives with Daromir at his heel, he finds Imrik pouring two glasses of zalvin at the table. The king is dressed simply in a plain ruby-red shirt today. The scalestone serpent pendant around his neck is his only ornament.
Imrik wears the pendant so casually, yet Fleury Bartome was slain for touching that same precious ore. By Imrik’s will and Vana’s hand.
Daromir remains at the edge of the room. Vana can’t take his hand for comfort, even if he dared show such weakness in front of his royal father. Instead Vana bows, then straightens when Imrik says, “Rise, Vana.”
“Father,” Vana says. “You look well today.”
Imrik chuckles. “I always look well. At least that’s what the courtiers say. Come, have a glass of zalvin with me.”
Each glass holds only a finger’s width of deep pink liquid. The heavy floral fumes alone are nearly enough to intoxicate Vana when he takes a goblet. “What’s the occasion, Father?”
They speak at a normal volume, neither loud enough to intentionally include Daromir, nor quiet enough to keep a secret. Imrik is very good at pretending Daromir doesn’t exist. Today, Vana resents that more than ever.
Imrik takes a sip, expression unchanging with the liquor’s burn. “Today marks exactly fifteen years since the Kaiskaran rebels surrendered.”
Vana’s heart flips so hard, he wonders if Daromir feels it from across the room. That’s right. The timing is right. There were several months between his aunt’s surrender, the treaty signing, and the treaty’s arrival on Kaiskara. If one could call Imrik’s unilateral declaration of supremacy atreaty. There was no negotiation.
Vana sips the zalvin. The alcohol burns at first taste, then unfurls into sweetness. The essence of Draskoran winter, according to old stories. Vana has never understood that metaphor—nothing in Draskora has tasted sweet.
“I thought nothing of you at the time,” Imrik says, with a rare contemplative look on his face. “Not as an individual. I simply wanted to punish Kaiskara without diminishing its resources. I also wanted to test Duke Tellik. Would he send his own child, or would he demand one of his vassals make the sacrifice in his place? He could even have sent a common orphan if he wanted. The treaty left the decision to him.”
This isn’t a conversation Vana ever wanted to have with Imrik. Yet he finds himself riveted as Imrik speaks what has long been unspoken between them.
“I was shortsighted.” Imrik fixes Vana with his matching violet gaze. “I didn’t expect you to truly become a son to me.”
Vana barely stops himself from turning around to meet Daromir’s eyes, to confirm whether his ears are working correctly. “If anyone else called you shortsighted, you would have them hanged.”
“I’m the king.” Imrik raises his goblet. “I have certain privileges, including insulting myself.” He takes another sip, holding the burning sweet liquid in his mouth before swallowing. “Pain isn’t always a tragedy. Sometimes it’s a catalyst for progress. For better things.”
Vana isn’t sure he agrees. “You didn’t call me here to talk philosophy, Father.”
“Indulge an old man, Vana.” Imrik sets the goblet down and paces around the table. Taps his pendant, the shimmering scalestone reflecting off his blunt fingers. “Draskora is at a crossroads. Our security is under existential threat. Silaise has scalestone, and Fellrin wants it. I’m ready to give Fellrin what they want before that bitch Margot strikes a deal with them first.”
Vana can’t help his eyes widening. A scalestone trade agreement with Fellrin—withanyone—would reverse a century of Draskoran policy and tradition. It would reverse Imrik’s entire career. Yet it makes perfect sense with the Silaisan threat.
This must be why Lady Naoko is in Ostomar, and why her purpose has been shrouded in secrecy. The mere rumor of a scalestone trade agreement would be disruptive.
