“As a father and a king, I’m glad to have everyone gathered here today,” Imrik says. “Momentous times are upon us, and House Dire is well equipped to meet them.”
“Here, here,” Marek says, raising a glass.
Dark premonition crawls down Vana’s spine. He doesn’t like that Aliza’s attention is fixed on him.
“Hold the wine, Marek, there’ll be time to toast later,” Imrik says. As Marek lowers his glass, disappointed, Imrik continues. “As you all know, Lady Naoko Mallory is in Ostomar on a diplomatic mission from Fellrin. She holds a royal writ with the authority to negotiate a trade agreement.”
Marek tenses. “Scalestone.”
Everyone knows what this means. A crack in Imrik’s iron control. Maybe this is a good thing. A slow, late unraveling of an unsustainable monopoly.
“Scalestone,” Imrik confirms. “This is a one-time, limited exchange. Not an ongoing export. But I’m aware that the world will see it as a crack in the floodgates. Marek, I’ll brief you on how to manage the dragon corps.”
Marek can’t quite hide his grimace at that.
“How much scalestone are we giving them?” Vana asks. “What do we get in exchange?”
Aliza is the one who answers. “Fellrin will receive half a ton of scalestone,” she says, waiting as Marek whistles under her breath. “In exchange, they’re giving us a grail, raised and trained in the Porcelain Guild.”
The room falls silent. Even Kazia’s fork pauses over his dessert.
“As a thrall?” Vana asks, recalling his conversation with Naoko. She seemed so charitably concerned with the Porcelain Guild. This would explain some of her trepidation. “That would push against Fellrian law.”
“The boy won’t be a thrall,” Imrik says. “We’ve agreed upon a betrothal contract.”
The storm in Vana’s heart quiets terribly. He doesn’t dare turn to look at Daromir—and couldn’t move, even if he dared. His soul is nothing but ice, and Imrik’s next words echo in his ears:
“Vana Dire will be the claimant, and Sei Mallory will be the claim.” Imrik raises his wine glass. “The betrothal will be signed as soon as Sei arrives in Ostomar.”
Vana waits for the punchline. It doesn’t arrive.
Instead, the whole family lifts their glasses in toast, and Marek reaches over to shake Vana’s shoulder. “Congratulations, brother. Hope he’s pretty.”
No. No, no, no.
Refusal swells in Vana’s heart. Just like it did when Imrik asked him to execute Fleury Bartome. Vana doesn’t care if the grail is pretty. He doesn’t want to marry a grail at all. He doesn’t want to bind himself to anyone but the man standing behind him, separated by far too much distance.
The man listening to every word of this conversation.
“His family name is Mallory?” Vana asks, surprised he’s able to talk.
“The grail is Lady Naoko’s son by blood, though he was raised in the Porcelain Guild,” Aliza says. “Naoko was very impressed with you. Well done.”
“That task is over,” Imrik says. “Lady Naoko leaves tomorrow to meet her son at port. Now.” He rises, and the family rises with him. Vana moves only on reflex, barely feeling his limbs. “I have a wyrm hunt tomorrow, and I’m riding out tonight. Vana, we’ll discuss arrangements when I get back.”
Vana isn’t sure how he manages it, but as soon as Imrik leaves, he escapes without a word to Marek or Kazia. He can’t even meet Daromir’s eyes as they fall in step together, fleeing the king’s chambers.
Vana counts his breaths so he doesn’t throw up. He won’t do this.
He can’t do this.
Yet what choice does he have?
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Daromir
