“I didn’t expect you to request an audience today,” Imrik says.
“I didn’t expect you to grant it, Your Majesty.”
Imrik remains impassive, his face colorless except for his dark purple eyes. A faint crackle in the air is Marek’s only warning before lightning blazes towards him.
Marek’s own magic flexes in perfect instinct. Electricity bends to his will and ricochets. Lightning arcs towards Imrik instead.
Imrik dissipates the lightning in a sizzle of smoke. “You were always better at Dire magic than Vana.”
“He has his own strengths.” Secrecy, patience, restraint. Marek wishes he had more of the latter sometimes. “Your Majesty, the betrothal took me by surprise yesterday. I acted impulsively. That’s because I didn’t have enough information. I’m asking as your wing-marshal, not your son. What’s the situation with Vana?”
Marek might not play court games like Vana, but he’s not an idiot. He can’t allow yesterday’s confrontation to fester. Better to address the matter clearly. Imrik won’t apologize, and Marek won’t either. But Marek can make the first move.
Sure, this audience risks deteriorating into another argument. But if Vana is gone, Imrik won’t want to fight one of his remaining sons. Not right now.
Imrik closes the leather-bound book. “Vana is presently crossing the Jaws on a Kaiskaran ship. His course leads to the Isle of Tavoc.”
Marek exhales.Fuck you, Vana. And fuck me for a complete idiot.
Vana didn’t just vanish. Vana deserted, and Marek was unwittingly complicit. He was so eager to help his older brother. “Father, I had no idea what he intended. I knew he was up to something, but not this.”
“I don’t blame you.” Imrik sounds tired. “I didn’t foresee this betrayal either. Vana always had his flaws, and he was never a true Draskoran. But if nothing else, I believed in his ambition.”
Fuck me twice, with wyrmblood for lube.
With Vana out of the picture, the most logical candidate for the Draskoran throne is Marek himself.
Marek has dodged that candidacy since he was old enough to realize it was a risk. His place is in the dragon corps, not on the throne. He wants to protect his country, not rule it.
Imrik must see the rejection in Marek’s face, because he laughs drily. “Don’t worry, son. I remember our last conversation about the crown. Keep your focus on the dragon corps. I value your strength there.”
That should be reassuring. But there’s another problem. “Who are you considering instead?”
Imrik’s lips twitch in another smile. He answers Marek’s real question: “Kazia is entirely unsuitable. Don’t concern yourself with the succession for now. The matter is important, but hardly urgent. I have much left to accomplish.”
“I don’t doubt that, Father.”
“As for your betrothal,” Imrik continues. “You will remain in Ostomar until the wedding. Aliza is handling that—rather, my seneschal is keeping matters on track.”
“Thank you, Father.” Hopefully the reluctance isn’t too clear in Marek’s voice. “Is there a date yet?”
“Two months from now. They need time to invite the foreign guests.”
Marek relaxes. Last night’s argument is too recent for Marek to push against Imrik’s authority again. But two months is plenty of time to break the betrothal. “Is there anything else I need to know about this arrangement?”
“I expect you to treat Sei Mallory well in public,” Imrik says. “Do as you wish with him in private. Use his power or not. All I require is that you keep him alive for a few years, so relations with Fellrin don’t get awkward.”
Marek’s relief sours into pure disgust.
“I understand,” Marek says, wishing he didn’t.
?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sei
Draskoran tea is stronger than Sei is used to. He blames the caffeine for his jittery nerves that first full day in Ostomar. At least he has plenty to do. Putting his belongings away is easy because Marek hardly has any clothes in the wardrobes. Sei meditates. He brushes Osric’s fur while Osric extols the virtues of Draskoran cuisine. He takes more hallabark, then explores.
