That was putting it mildly. The palace guard was a neutral military body. Their loyalty was to the throne and whoever sat upon it. They were rabid in their protection of the Isar and wouldn’t take kindly to the ruler under their protection putting his life on the line like that, especially in secret.
“I can warn them in advance?”
Arkadi shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to hide their reactions. They’d treat the Ministers like the enemy, and the group wouldn’t take the opportunity to strike. Let it be a private meeting, and I will handle them.”
Rodian couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his mouth. “Forgive me, but do you even know how to use a pistol?”
The flat steadiness of Arkadi’s gaze made Rodian’s humor fade away. “Believe me when I say I will keep you safe, Isar.”
It was rare for Arkadi to use Rodian’s title in private these days. It only emphasized the gravity of the situation and what they were planning. Rodian studied Arkadi, noting the determination in his gaze and the still way he carried himself, like a hunter lying in wait. A memory cut through his mind of that first dance lesson in the glass-encased garden and the strange calluses on Arkadi’s fingers. Not from a pistol, but some other work.
Or weapon.
Rodian chose to believe that Arkadi was part of his road, that the lovely young man whose intelligence helped guide Rodian’s choices among the ivoryanin was not a threat to his rule.
“Very well,” Rodian said after a moment of silence. “Let’s plan a hunt.”
Arkadi relaxed slightly, giving a faint nod that caused the slim jeweled hair sticks he wore to glitter in the gas lamp light. Rodian’s attention caught on the thick brown hair caught up in the usual knot the younger man wore. Not for the first time did he wonder how long Arkadi’s hair was, or what it would feel like slipping between Rodian’s fingers.
But that traitorous thought was better left for midnight dreams, and so Rodian bent to the task at hand to preserve his rule with the help of the only ivoryan in the court he trusted.
Eleven
ARKADI
Arkadi learned that when Rodian set his mind on something, he wasn’t to be moved. Treason wasn’t anything new in Urova, or any country, for that matter. Just look at the mess such betrayal had caused with the Infernal War. Everyone was paying the cost of it across Maricol, and Arkadi was determined that Rodian’s life wouldn’t be added to the sum.
So he had dressed with care that morning for the private meeting Sigurd and the others didn’t know he was also attending. Gregor was attentive in his duties, having picked out a long-vest and trousers made of the finest wool dyed a glacier-blue and spun thin. Gregor had modified the tailoring in such a way that Arkadi wouldn’t rip a seam in a fight, and his blades were all carefully hidden away but easily accessible.
He propped his elbow up on the windowsill of the motor carriage, resting his head on his hand as he watched the snowy streets pass on by. He absently fingered the jeweled tip of a metal hair stick, fingernail catching on the negligible space between the sheath and the stiletto it hid. Arkadi rarely left hishome without his hair up and the stilettos near at hand. They were a comfort, as were the other blades on his person, and he knew at least one of them would drip with blood before the winter sun had set.
The meeting could play out a hundred different ways. Arkadi only wanted it to end with Rodian safe. If it meant revealing Arkadi’s secret road as a Blade, then so be it. He’d risk never being in Rodian’s good graces again if it meant his Isar would live.
Arkadi closed his eyes, not wanting to think about how Rodian might never speak to him again. Blades weren’t looked upon kindly by ivoryanin—enough Isar had been murdered by such in the past centuries to make many bloodlines wary of the assassins the Star Order professed to know nothing about. But the practice of training such assassins had never gone out of favor. Arkadi was merely one more sharpened Blade in a long history of those meant to keep Urova on the proper road.
He did not want to lose Rodian, either to Sigurd and the traitors or to the truth of what Arkadi was. He didn’t want to lose the days spent conversing with a man who made Arkadi laugh so easily, who danced with such care as he learned the steps to a song. Arkadi treasured the moments where they got to touch each other as decorum allowed. If he dreamed of what it would be like to be kissed by the older man, to be held down and taken with the banked strength in those callused hands—well.
No one knew Arkadi’s dreams, not even the Midnight Star.
They were not prayers, after all.
The motor carriage eventually braked to a stop in front of the palace gates. The guard on duty chatted briefly with Arkadi’s driver, glancing cursorily at the formally stamped card that granted Arkadi access to the palace grounds without restriction. Lidiya had not been pleased to issue it, but Arkadi had kept his smugness to himself.
His driver drove through the open gates, the palace’s forecourt cleared of the snow that had fallen last night. The motor carriage came up to the grand staircase that led into the palace proper and braked to a stop. A servant stepped forward to open Arkadi’s door, allowing him to get out of the motor carriage. Even with his furred overcoat on, the winter chill seemed to bite through every layer. But Urovans were used to cold, and he paid it no mind as he climbed the steps to the palace. A servant took the overcoat once he was indoors.
These days, Arkadi knew the way through the many halls that would take him to the private royal wing used exclusively by the Isar and their family. The majority of the palace was built for governing. It wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary to meet with a Minister in any of the staterooms.
What was out of the ordinary was Arkadi crashing an appointment thought to consist of only Sigurd and his cohorts.
He swept into the Blue Stateroom with an indulgent smile on his face because he knew the role he had to play. The conversation Sigurd and the others were having around a low tea table broke off, the four of them staring at him in disbelief.
“Good afternoon,” Arkadi said, polite enough. “I see everyone is on time for the meeting.”
“What areyoudoing here?” Sigurd demanded as the other man stood. He was dressed splendidly, all russet red and gold. Arkadi thought it was a decent choice if one wanted to hide blood, but he doubted Sigurd had the stomach to murder someone himself, least of all the Isar. It was why Arkadi assumed Sigurd had dragged others of like-mindedness into this little treasonous act of his.
Arkadi frowned lightly at Sigurd, playing dumb. “The Isar invited me to a Minister meeting. Is that not what this is about? I am a Minister as well as Steward of the Crown.”
“This should have been a private meeting,” Sigurd snapped. He was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Arkadi but was more broad in the shoulders and thicker in the waist. He was always a heavy hand with cologne to hide his vice of tabac, and the smell wafted through the air between them.
