Vana Dire is just another dark reflection of the Draskoran throne. Those damned purple eyes reflect only what the observer wants to see—just as Vana intends.
Only Daromir sometimes still dreams of Vana’s clear green eyes.
Today, the throne room is empty, save the royal drasgard lurking like shadows between the gargoyles. King Imrik sits in his throne, a massive block of dark stone riddled with veins of shifting violet scalestone. Queen Aliza’s throne to his left is smaller, plain dark stone, but scalestone shimmers on her fingers and around her throat instead.
Imrik Dire is a portrait of contrast. He’s stout and strong, looking closer to forty than his true age of sixty, but his skin is porcelain pale. Nearly sickly, and stark against his silver-streaked black hair. His eyes are a deep violet, so dark they’re nearly black, and shocking in his pale face. The white gold and scalestone crown rises in spikes above his head, and his neck is unbowed by the heavy white gold chains over his dark raiment.
His blood mage queen wears a silver gown studded with a galaxy of black embroidered stars. Aliza is as pale as her husband, but the effect is due to powder, not her complexion. Her hair is a tower of purple and silver braids. Her scalestone tiara is nearly lost in it.
Dyed hair has long been in fashion among Draskorans. The tradition started with the nation’s first dragonriders, and modern dragonriders still match their hair to their dragons’ scales. The practice spread to the nobility, then to the commoners, and has ebbed in and out of fashion. Rather than choosing one color, Draskorans outside the dragon corps will change their hair according to whim or trend.
Or agenda. Queen Aliza’s hair likely makes a significant political statement, but Daromir doesn’t need to decipher it. That’s Vana’s job. Daromir just has to protect Vana while he does it.
Aliza also holds a large leather-bound book in her lap. The message in that is simple enough. She often tires of her husband’s audiences, and she has no compunction against reading through them.
His gaze constantly roving the room, Daromir pays Imrik and Aliza as much attention as he would to any threat. Kings and queens are inherently dangerous creatures, especially when they wield storms and blood magic. But the politics are Vana’s purview, not Daromir’s.
“Rise, Prince Vana,” Imrik says. “How was your journey from Sabora?”
“Quite dry, Father,” Vana answers, straightening from his bow. He hides his exhaustion well, and only Daromir knows how much that dry journey took out of him.
Imrik chuckles, then begins inquiring about recent affairs in the southwest. He doesn’t spare a glance at Daromir. That’s normal. Kaiskaran custom is to ignore bloodguards in formal settings. Daromir isn’t here as himself; he’s merely a protective satellite of his prince. In a sense, he isn’t even present as an individual. That’s why Daromir isn’t expected to bow or kneel as he approaches the throne.
It’s a custom many outside Kaiskara find disconcerting, and Daromir is used to getting more attention than he should. Being addressed when he shouldn’t be. But Imrik and Aliza Dire adapted to the custom with flawless ease. Treating commoners like air comes naturally to them.
But today, as Imrik and Vana talk, Aliza watches Daromir. Every so often, her clear lavender gaze lifts from the book in her lap. Her powdered face is unreadable, and Daromir tries not to let the attention disturb him.
“Expect to remain in Ostomar for the next half year at least,” Imrik says. “An ambassador from Fellrin arrives next week. Her name is Lady Naoko Mallory, and you’ll be her guide and host throughout her stay in Draskora.”
“What’s the purpose of Lady Naoko’s visit?” Vana asks.
Imrik’s grin shows true mirth. “Her purpose depends entirely on the quality of our hospitality.”
Daromir doesn’t like the sound of that. Imrik’s tasks are usually straightforward. Increase the harvest in the western reaches. Quell the dissent from the mountain clans. Sometimes violent, sometimes diplomatic, but always with clear goals. Measurements of success and failure. Pride and disappointment.
“I’ll show her the finest of Draskora,” Vana says. “But it would be easier with more information.”
“It wouldn’t.” Imrik leans back on his throne. “Take your task at face value: be a pleasant host. Ensure Naoko sees everything she wishes to see and nothing she shouldn’t see. You don’t need to know her purpose for that.”
Aliza closes her book. “This is important, Vana. Very important.”
Vana bows. “I understand. Thank you for your trust in me, Father.”
Imrik lifts his hand. “The details of the ambassador’s itinerary will be sent to you tomorrow.”
Vana ascends the dais and bows over the king’s outstretched hand. His lips hover an inch above the signet ring.
It isn’t Daromir’s place to question—in public, at least. But he dislikes everything about this new assignment. He keeps his mouth shut as they retreat through the palace, until the door of Vana’s parlor closes behind them.
After his customary inspection of Vana’s rooms, Daromir finds Vana exactly where he expects. It’s exactly where Vana shouldn’t be: in his office, sorting a pile of pre-inspected correspondence. Vana is still in his stiff, uncomfortable clothing, so many layers binding him together. Still expressionless and calculating in the soft lantern light.
Daromir leans his forearm against the door frame and orders, “Set those down.”
Vana’s shoulders visibly relax as a scroll slips from his grasp onto the desk. His head bows not in subservience but in relief.
“You can read your letters when I say so,” Daromir says. “Get over here.”
Vana obeys without question or hesitation. When Daromir’s hand falls to his back, palm pressing between his shoulder blades, Vana leans in like Daromir’s touch is a missing part of him.
