“Dry. Not too sweet.” At least the boorish oaf had good taste in wine. Had the wine been taken by force, like Yarif’s home?
The stiff set of Commander Draylon’s shoulders eased. “I like it. I’m more of an ale drinker but have been known to drink wine occasionally.” He tapped out a beat on the tabletop with his fingers. Nervous? Why?
Although hewouldbe nervous if he knew how many painful deaths Yarif had imagined for him.
A pair of servants entered the garden, bringing filled plates. Easier that way, Yarif supposed. A last meal.
Oh. His favorites. Lamb with rosemary roasted potatoes and crusty bread. Too bad he couldn’t possibly eat a bite. He picked at his portion. At least Commander Draylon went through the effort of learning what Yarif liked. Perhaps intending to trade the illusion of kindness for something he wanted.
Oh, yes. May would be questioned.
Draylon, for his part, ate with gusto. “This is good. We don’t eat a lot of lamb in Cormir.”
“Oh? What do you eat then?” An innocent enough topic, right, since “Are you going to kill me?”might be considered rude. Easier to pretend a “no” if Yarif didn’t hear the truth.
“Seafood. Our cook makes lobster so succulent…”
“Lobster?” Yarif had seen one. How could anyone eat such a horrifying creature?
“I’ll have to bring you to Cormir sometime and let you try it.”
Take Yarif to Cormir? Was he to be prisoner there? “I know you brought me here for a reason, Commander. Don’t waste either of our time by dragging this out with useless pleasantries.”
Commander Draylon set down his utensils. “Please. Call me Draylon. Or Dray, as my close friends do.”
“Oh? Am I to be one of your close friends?” Not judging by the way Yarif spat the words.
Draylon studied Yarif over the rim of his wine glass. So much assessment in that dark gaze. “I hope so.”
Butterflies suddenly danced in Yarif’s stomach. “So I’m not to be wined, dined, and executed?”
Draylon nearly spat a mouthful of wine. A few droplets hit the table. “What? No! Why would you think that?”
Time to get down to business. “Because I’m your enemy’s son. The death of my father and brother makes me king. I’m sure the emperor has no intention of allowing me to rule.”
“Do you want to rule?” The surprise on his face told of Draylon’s doubts. “You said earlier you didn’t want the throne.”
The bluster bled right out of Yarif. “I’d sooner spend an afternoon with my stepmother. In case you’re wondering, that’s a resounding no.”
Draylon swirled the wine in his glass, staring at a point over Yarif’s shoulder. “If you were emperor, what would you do in this case?”
“Other than execute a rival? I’d put someone I trusted on the throne and secure the royal spawn where they could do no harm. Killing would prevent those loyal to the old regime from trying to overthrow the one they saw as a usurper and put a rightful heir on the throne. One they imagined they could manipulate, if possible. However, those loyal to the old king’s family might revolt.”
Draylon slowly lifted his gaze, a wrinkle forming between his brows. “You’ve thought about this.”
Yarif shrugged, running his finger along the rim of his wineglass. “I’ve had nothing else to do lately.”
“I see. What if I offered you another option?” Draylon studied his fingertips, tapping them against the table once more.
Here came whatever life-changing decision the emperor had made. “Like what?”
“What if the emperor put a trusted subject on the throne, as you said, but made one of the former king’s heirs a consort?”
“What!” Yarif jumped to his feet, swiping his plate off the table. It landed with a crash on the flagstones. “Adrina is a child, not yet of marriageable age. I won’t have her married off like selling a cow at the market!” No, no, no, no, no! They’d have to kill Yarif first.
Draylon stood, wiping a hand over his face with a grumbled “I’m sorry. I’m handling this badly. The emperor has a million secretaries, advisers, and diplomats, yet he chose me to talk to you.”
“Then you’d better try explaining again.” Yarif paced, trampling bits of potato and broken pottery underfoot.
