Did they just make a new offer, or did your grumpy king-father finally ask for something?
Marek snorts. Imrik Dire doesn’t ask for anything. He demands, or he accepts tribute. But something must have driven him to accept Fellrin’s latest trade offer. “He doesn’t like Silaise getting dragons. He’s shoring up Draskoran power.”
Your father thinks too much,Loska complains.I am already very powerful.
“Most powerful lizard in the skies.” Marek pats Loska’s neck, then leans in. “Let’s get back in time for dinner.”
Today’s flight hasn’t improved the situation. Imrik doesn’t make useless trades, which means he intends Sei to be used. If Marek breaks the betrothal, what will Imrik do with Sei instead?
Marek needs to bide his time and move carefully. After the wedding might be easier. Surely a few months of marriage won’t be so bad, as long as they both remember this isn’t real.
***
Correction: a few months of marriage will be torture if they’re anything like tonight’s formal dinner. The change in hair color seems to have transformed Sei. Like it’s unlocked a hidden chamber of confidence inside him.
Sei has always been more talkative than his polite demeanor would indicate. But tonight, he’s bolder than ever, easily slipping in and out of the dinner conversation. He doesn’t seem intimidated by the lofty titles surrounding him.
That’s not the torture.
The torture is the way Sei keeps smiling whenever Marek says anything. Not a huge smile—just a pleased curve of his eyes, the corners of his mouth deepening.
Marek would suspect the wine was spiked with nightrose, except he’s been feeling like this all week.
They sit at the high table in Ostomar’s great hall. During festivals, King Imrik oversees the chamber from the center of the table. Tonight is an ordinary dinner, so Imrik sits at the head of the table, facing down the length of it. The far end is empty in Queen Aliza’s absence.
Marek, Sei, Kazia, and several courtiers sit to Imrik’s left, their backs to the wall. Warlord Navlin, Radovan Ark, General Gabra, and several more courtiers sit across from them, their backs to the lower tables.
Gabra is more cheerful than Marek has seen her since she first fell ill. Wine flushes her cheeks, and she carries a lively conversation about painting with Sei and Radovan.
Marek addresses the woman across from him. “What brings you to Ostomar, Navlin?”
Warlord Navlin is a tiny woman with formidable magic. She started using feminine pronouns a few years ago but changed nothing about her masculine clothes and short-cropped hair. Raising her glass, Navlin answers, “You do, Your Highness.”
“Really?” Marek asks. “I must have drunk too much after sending the letter.”
“Navlin will host your wedding next month,” Imrik says. “She’s here to confirm details and arrange transportation.”
Once again, the details of Marek’s own wedding are a surprise. “We’re holding it at Raya Keep?”
Imrik gestures, and one of his personal servants steps forward to fill his wine glass. “I’m not about to host Silaisans in Ostomar. Julien Sandry has accepted our invitation on his family’s behalf.”
The high table falls quiet, and Sei goes tense at Marek’s side. Sei might be a sheltered teacup, but he studied Draskora before his departure. No doubt he’s wondering the same thing as Radovan, Gabra, and everyone else at the table: is this a wedding invitation, or an act of war?
But Marek understands his father enough not to worry about that. Imrik’s declarations of war have never been subtle. He saves the subterfuge for his home and family.
Marek pats Sei’s leg under the table, intending to reassure him. Sei only tenses more. “Diplomatically bold as always, Your Majesty.” Marek raises his glass. “I’ll leave everything in Warlord Navlin’s capable hands.”
“You know me. Consummate party planner,” Navlin says drily.
Gabra gives a hiccupping laugh. “Better you than me, Navlin.” She stretches for a pitcher. Ale spills over the side of her glass as she pours.
“Where is Raya Keep?” Sei asks, finally relaxing.
“Near the Silaisan border, across from Greenhaven,” Marek answers, removing his hand from Sei’s leg. “It’s a week away by caravan, but that’s a problem for Navlin to sort out. You and I will take Loska, I assume.”
“You’ll head north directly after the wedding,” Imrik says. “I know the wraiths must miss you.”
Polite chuckles follow the king’s joke.