Marek frowns. “Were they stuck? I’ll remind the driver to check the latches.” He heads for the door. “We leave in an hour. Don’t wear anything too nice.”
Sei slumps on the edge of the bed, too many emotions swirling inside him. He had been asking permission—but Marek assumed the windows were a technical problem. Like it never occurred to him that Sei might need permission for something like that.
“I don’t understand him.”
Not surprising.Osric nudges Sei’s shoulder.You don’t understand yourself either.
“I do,” Sei protests. “I know my purpose very well.”
Exactly,Osric says, which doesn’t make any sense.I think Marek is good for you.
“If only Marek agreed.” Sei closes his eyes and centers himself. Time to stop moping and get dressed. He has another opportunity to win over his betrothed today.
***
Guards clear the avenue ahead of their party, so the carriage rolls unimpeded. Crowds still press in the side roads, giving Sei brief glimpses of Ostomar City’s inhabitants. Everything is much more colorful than Sei expected. Sure, the buildings are dark and foreboding. Scarcely a corner exists without a snarling gargoyle. But curtains and awnings flutter in bright jewel tones. More people wear rainbow hair than plain yellow or brown.
Sei fiddles with his own black hair until the carriage draws to a halt. The door opens before the most distinctly un-Draskoran building Sei has ever seen. As Marek hands his horse to the groom, Sei takes the time to gawk.
The building is a pale stone tower covered in creeping vines. Green shutters flank the windows, not a gargoyle in sight. Trees surround the outskirts of the property. Autumn-red leaves scatter across the yard.
A huge sign hangs above the door. Made of wood but carved to look like a cloth banner, it’s emblazoned with the establishment’s name: The Tipsy Tree.
“Is this a… Silaisan tavern?” Sei asks when Marek joins him.
Kamil Ivo answers instead. “Silaisanthemed. It’s a bit ridiculous, but the wine is good.”
Kamil and his adjutant make up the rest of their party today. The dragonrider’s hair matches Yavran’s scales—black with streaks of yellow green. The black might be his natural hair color, judging by his dark eyebrows and light brown complexion. The green clashes terribly with his red wyrmskin jacket and flashing violet eyes. He’s taller than Sei, but how much is difficult to tell. The soles of his wyrmskin boots are very thick.
His adjutant is a woman named Delline, a head taller than Kamil. Her Fellrian ancestry is clear, though her features are rounder and deeper than Sei’s. The long pink and green braids had thrown Sei off from a distance, as well as the Silaisan name. Their shared heritage aside, Sei isn’t sure about getting closer. Delline wears a brace of knives over her flowing black dress.
“Don’t scare Ludvik off,” Marek tells them.
Kamil salutes, then races to catch up with Delline, who’s already halfway to the entrance.
“Will this Ludvik not want to see us?” Sei feels like he’s missing a lot of context.
“We’re about to find out.” Marek hesitates. For a second, Sei thinks he’s going to offer his arm. Instead, Marek just touches Sei’s shoulder and urges him forward. “This place should be safe, but stay in eyesight. No wandering off.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Sei tries not to read anything into the touch burning behind his shoulder blade. “I’ve never been to a tavern before.”
“You’re joking. No, of course you’re not joking.” Marek pulls Sei closer as they pass a group of patrons stumbling out of the tower. It’s not necessary—drunk as they are, the group clearly recognizes Marek. They give Marek and Sei space, bowing to the prince.
Or they’re just falling over.
Marek waves with the hand not glued to Sei’s shoulder, then escorts Sei into the Tipsy Tree.
Sei blinks against the assault of color. Every surface is carved and painted. Pink roses and purple tulips, green and gold leaves, bright red strawberries. There are real plants too, flowering bushes and trees ensconced in patterned pots. A wide staircase curves up to the next floor, vines wrapped around its railing.
More than a bit ridiculous, as Kamil described it.
The rest of the clientele doesn’t seem as surprised to see Marek as the drunks outside. Maybe Marek comes here often.
“I don’t see Kamil,” Sei says.
“He’s upstairs.” Marek nods towards the staircase, where Delline lounges against the banister. Seeing they’ve noticed her, she heads up the stairs. “They must not have seen Ludvik down here. Come on.”
“Are we not following them?”
