“I need to attend a party with both Zilata and Radovan,” Vana says, settling on an overwrought but comfortable iron and velvet couch. “But I can’t be the one to invite either of them, so check what our options are.”
“Noted. I’ll see what Lady Ivo has planned,” Indra says.
“I also need to play aerie with Marek. Inviting him is fine.”
“Too late, Your Highness. Prince Marek already invited you—the letter’s on the desk.”
There’s no use wondering whether Vana’s adopted brother is playing games or just being friendly. If Marek Stormrider is playing games, he’s so subtle about it that Vana would have to concede the win.
“Anything else, Your Highness?” Indra asks.
Daromir knocks on the doorframe between the parlor and Vana’s bedchamber. “Indra, do you know where those hideous dragon statues went? The ones with amethyst eyes, flanking the fireplace. Gifted by Her Majesty.”
“Oh, thanks for clarifyingwhichhideous dragon statues.” Indra scowls. “The tower keeper reported it when I got here. Apparently, Prince Kazia took a fancy to the statues and demanded to have them. The keeper caved to his tantrum. I’ve fired the keeper.”
Vana resists the urge to rub his suddenly aching head. He hadn’t liked the statues at all, and he won’t miss them ghoulishly flickering every time he lights the parlor fire. But his youngest brother’s interference in his household is a problem. “Thank you. We’ll be in Ostomar for a while, so let’s take our time replacing the keeper.”
“What about the statues?” Indra asks.
Daromir grimaces. “Fuck the statues.”
“Disregard the statues for now,” Vana rephrases.
Indra just shrugs. “Got it, Your Highness. Anything else?”
Vana shakes his head, but Daromir speaks up. “I’ll be taking a day off next week. Let Zu know, and we can coordinate.”
“Yes, sir,” Indra says, and Vana remains quiet, because this is another part of their arrangement.
Bound bloodguards are one thing in Kaiskara, where the entire noble class is built around the custom. Kaiskaran homes are sanctuaries, and ward and bloodguard can have a limited amount of space apart when they need it. A bloodguard’s first commitment is to their ward, but they have their own lives too. They often partner with other bloodguards in the same household, or soldiers or servants.
Vana’s Draskoran homes have never been sanctuaries. Several years into their partnership, worried he would smother Daromir with his neediness, Vana proposed that Daromir take a day off. The notion infuriated Daromir—which only proved the necessity, since they were both so angry they could hardly look at each other. When Daromir cooled off, they established the current system. Daromir can ask for a day off when he needs one, arranging for Indra and Zuzana to guard Vana in his stead, while Vana remains in his quarters.
Vana doesn’t ask for explanations. Daromir sometimes gives his reasons and sometimes doesn’t. He’s taken perhaps twenty days off in the past fourteen years, and Vana pretends he hasn’t hated each and every one of them.
A knock from the outer doorway distracts Vana from his unfair hurt—Drasgard Zuzana, a fire mage and Indra’s partner in every respect. She’s taller and leaner than her wife, with slightly lighter brown skin. Her tight braids have been pastel pink for the past few months.
“Hey, Your Highness,” Zuzana says. “A royal herald just dropped by, saying the king wants to welcome you in the throne room.”
So much for the afternoon’s rest. “Tell the herald I’m on my way,” Vana says, rising to his feet.
Daromir peels away from the bedroom doorway. “Clear our schedule after his audience with the king. I need to discuss something with His Highness.”
Ah, finally. Daromir is exercising his authority. Vana lowers his eyes to conceal his smile. Surely only Daromir will notice his shoulders relaxing. The prospect of a few hours’ rest will get Vana through the royal audience.
?
CHAPTER TWO
Daromir
King Imrik’s throne room is a kaleidoscope of dark reflections. Every black stone surface is polished mirror-bright, and the layers of screens between the balconies and the main chamber create illusions of depth. Blue and violet stained glass windows surround the chamber, painting most of the room and its inhabitants as if they’re underwater.
The thrones themselves sit against the northern wall. A massive carved dragon stretches in flight behind them, spitting gold-plated lightning from its open jaws. White fire torches flicker below, casting the dragon in shadows. Only the king and queen are illuminated with plain white light.
Daromir enters the throne room half a step behind and to Vana’s right. He doesn’t bow at the threshold like Vana does; he doesn’t take his eyes off their surroundings.
The Dire throne room suits this version of Vana. His cold, unreadable expression. His precise posture. The clasps on his tight-fitting coat are as intricate as the stone dragons and gargoyles looming in every corner.
