Aliza laughs. “We win either way.”
Still on his knees, Kazia scrambles for his shirt. He focuses on each deliberate movement so he doesn’t fumble, despite the tugof phantom pain. Not everything he feels is recent. The memory of blood slides down his ribs, even though his father didn’t break the skin today.
Kazia barely knew Rakos Tem, but he’s spent the last four years listening to his parents’ complaints. An ungrateful, backstabbing traitor. Never mind that Rakos only fled the country because Imrik plotted to kill him. Framing him for scalestone smuggling—the tyrant’s favorite trick.
Vana had to meddle too, of course. All for the sake of strengthening control over the dragon corps. Funny how things turn out. Chaos and effect. Kazia learned a lot from the Rakos Tem incident. The smallest accident can have such consequences.
A sickly general retired. A king schemed to pick her replacement. And now Silaise has dragons.
Breathing deep, Kazia drags his shirt over his aching arms without screaming. “By the way, Father, what’s going on with the wild gold dragon?”
Talking with Imrik after the beatings is always so strange. The conversation requires Kazia’s utmost concentration. But maybe it’s better to have something to focus on.
Imrik tilts his head. “Since when have you cared about dragons?”
Kazia straightens his sleeves. “Since I adopted a pet dragonrider. I wouldn’t have taken him outside had I known there was an issue.”
“Tezurit will get bored soon enough.” Imrik will never admit that Kazia has a point, but he’ll answer. “Keep Vaire indoors for the meantime. I’ll instruct the garrison to update you when she’s no longer around.”
“Tezurit?”
“Marek says some of the garrison dragons know her. A young wild dragon who thinks she’s bonded.” Imrik sips his wine. “It’ll wear off soon.”
Kazia stoops for his jacket. His fingers tense, shoulders locking. This is as much as he can bear. Without pulling the jacket on, he bows to his parents. “Thank you, Father. Do you need anything else from me today?”
Imrik waves his hand. “Nothing else.”
“Won’t you stay for supper, dear?” Aliza asks.
Kazia can’t refuse—but Imrik is the one who snaps, “What do you think, Aliza? Of course the boy doesn’t want to stay for supper.”
Aliza’s lips press together. She looks away.
Adrift between resentment and gratitude, Kazia can only bow again before departing the tower.
He uses the journey downstairs to compose himself. By the time he finds Chief Herald Bretka in the antechamber, his coat is on. His eyes don’t sting. His throat only hurts a little.
Bretka’s pale face is unreadable. “Your escort awaits in the hall, Your Highness.”
Kazia adjusts his jacket, though it’s already perfect. Just like the unmarred skin of his back. “What do you know of my father’s power, Bretka?”
Bretka doesn’t react. “I know what His Majesty wishes me to know, Your Highness.”
“Of course. Why did I ask?” Kazia trails his fingers along the picture frames. Stops halfway down the room beneath a landscape of the queen’s hunting lodge. He’s been looking for an opportunity to mention it. Perhaps Bretka will do as a messenger. “You’re almost as bad as Radovan, with yourmysterious bullshit. I can’t believe Mother used to give him free rein of the lodge. As if he was a proper lord.”
Kazia doesn’t wait for Bretka’s response. She’ll pick up the hint or she won’t. Kazia can’t be too obvious, and if this was too subtle, that’s fine. He’ll just find another way to get his mother out of Ostomar for a few days.
His cheerful smile falls with each step. The polite conversation exhausted him more than the beating. Phantom pain stripes across his back. Kazia wonders if Imrik feels the lingering effects. Do Kazia’s twitching nerves make his father even stronger?
Drasgard Salarin is on duty in the hall outside the parlor. She salutes. “The prisoner hasn’t caused any trouble.”
“Thanks,” Kazia says, struggling to keep his exhaustion from sounding like anger. His people expect him to be grouchy, but he doesn’t like to take his mood out on them. “I appreciate you taking over jailer duty.”
“Just doing my job, Your Highness,” Salarin says.
Kazia pauses outside the parlor door. Guilt twinges—quickly smothered—for leaving Lucien alone so long. He’d intended to parade Lucien through a few more wings of the palace, testing his sensitivity to scalestone. But Kazia can’t face the public now. He’s in no shape for a performance. He’ll send Lucien back to his cell, then pass out.
Enough composing. Salarin is watching, and Kazia trusts her—she’s been in his service for six years, except for a few detours for espionage. But even his most trusted servants can’t learn his weaknesses.
