‘Taking an interest in your family for once?’ The man’s voice was gravelly, like he had coals in his lungs, and after a moment Ilan placed him as a third cousin or some other equally distant and grasping relation. Though the last time they’d met, the man had been a foot shorter and dumped peas in his lap.
‘Filip.’ Ilan inclined his head, though his eyes didn’t leave the other man’s throat. He recognised those marks. He had their echo on his own demon-scalded skin.
‘I thought you were supposed to be protecting the divine.’ He gestured to the scalding, yellowed and brittle like a fall-touched leaf at the edges. ‘Run away when you realised you couldn’t?’
Ilan’s fingertips tingled at the reminder. ‘You were attacked by a demon?’ Ilan tried to remember where Filip called home, how close it was.
‘Possessed,’ Filip spat. ‘I lost myself for three days before they found a priest who could still work. And I’m not the only one. Why do you think we’re all in Silgard?’
There were briars in the eyes and tangled voices that surrounded them, and he noticed now that between jewelled brooches and golden chains was the dull protection of consecrated metal.
‘Ilan.’ A deeper voice cut Filip off before Ilan could answer. Posture suddenly painfully stiff with the muscle memory of childhood lectures, he turned to face his father.
The Baron Koriatovych was not tall, and the breadth that had been military muscle and hunting prowess had softened as his taste for action declined but his appetite for other things remained. His face was hale, but his left arm hung limp in a greyed bandage sling. Ilan couldn’t tear his eyes away even as his father extended his good hand.
‘We haven’t heard from you in over a year.’ There was reproach there that made him feel ten years old again. But there was also relief. His father was glad to see him, and Ilan was shamefully glad for it. He was even more glad to seem them safe in the city away from the dangers on the road, though he shouldn’t care for them more than any other citizen.
Maybe Sandor had been right to accuse him of clinging to the past.
‘I’m here on official business,’ he said, but guilt quickened his words.
‘Clearly,’ a lighter voice sighed, and Ilan suppressed a groan as his mother Olga grabbed him from behind with a squeeze. ‘I washopingyou came because you worried about us, Ilya. You look like death.’
The possessive grasp of his waist was coloured by the long years of terror every time he was sick or injured, which had beenoften. She was never satisfied until she was practically absorbing her children back into the safety of her skin.
Losing them would do that to a mother.
‘I’m just tired. I need to fetch the Izir and his guest. He is in attendance, yes?’ There still wasn’t a sign of Mihály’s blasted head, much less Csilla.
The older man inclined his head towards the deeper parts of the house. ‘They haven’t let him off the dance floor all night. Your mother danced with him.’
She laughed, pearls on her ears and in her fine blonde hair catching the light.
‘You can’t blame us for wanting some intercession. We could all use more protection now. He even looked at your father’s arm. Which you haven’t asked about.’ Her grip tightened with a prick of nails. ‘They had him back on the front for six months.’
The baron nodded confirmation as Ilan swallowed hard, trying to choke down the pebble of resentment that a man who had already given years of service would be called back for more fighting.
‘It’s a mess, all of it. I’m lucky to have come out so lightly, starting to think the old boys are...’
‘Hush.’ Olga clucked her tongue to stop him from finishing. He didn’t need to. Ilan knew well that there were plenty in Saika who thought the westmost territories had the right of it and independence would serve them better than the bonds of the Church.
‘I’ll find the Izir and his guest and take my leave.’ He’d stolen enough seconds away from his mission, and if the escape was also an excuse to slip from his parents’ pleading eyes and the strangle of his own feelings, there was no harm in it.
His father caught his arm.
‘If you’re going to use my name to enter parties, you could come home once in a while.’ His father’s words were true enoughto hurt. ‘The birds need shooting and the horses need riding. Asten lives within our borders too.’
Ilan raised his chin, green homesickness in his lungs. He’d sworn away attachments, wealth, and his family name. But saying you renounce a thing didn’t mean not wanting it; he’d whipped many a priest for the same selfish desire he’d never fully managed to kill at the root.
It was easy to say you didn’t love a thing when it wasn’t right in front of you.
‘There is more important work. Even you have to be careful in the city now.’ He turned again to his mother, her lake-blue eyes a mirror of his own. ‘Obey the lockdown orders, and stay away from the Izir.’
Ilan wove through the throng towards the grand room at the rear. He could already see Mihály, a head above most of the crowd, a woman dressed in wine-red in his arms with a drunken blush on her cheeks and decolletage to match. He looked around for any hint of chestnut curls; Csilla was short enough she’d likely sink into the crowd, but if he could grab her without directly talking to Mihály, so much the better.
But no such luck.
‘Mihály.’ Ilan strode towards him as the music died and grabbed him by the embroidered sleeve the second he let his partner go.
