Imrik’s anticipation is clear, but the spark in his eyes must be for whatever spectacle dinner has in store. For Kazia, Imrik only has a calmness that makes Kazia want to scream.
Nothing to say about Kazia skipping his history lesson this morning. Nothing about Kazia flinging a teacup at Nevas lastweek. Nothing about Kazia crying beneath Imrik’s whip the day before that.
There are scarce few seats available at the high table today, most of them already taken by courtiers willing to risk their heads for royal favor. The seat next to Sei is empty, and Marek is nowhere in sight. Kazia slumps into a chair at the end. He’d rather observe than engage.
The first course finishes before the show begins. Few in the audience even notice the opening act, but Kazia’s seat gives him a clear view of Herald Bretka entering through a servant door. An unassuming woman with ice-white hair pinned tightly back, she’s tasked with carrying the king’s words throughout Ostomar. Outside her role? She may as well not have any words of her own. Kazia’s known her most of his life, but they’ve rarely spoken.
Bretka bends to whisper in Imrik’s ear.
“Bring him in,” Imrik answers. As Bretka retreats, Imrik raises his voice, as if the courtiers weren’t already hanging on his every word. “We’re hosting a special guest tonight. I haven’t yet decided what to do with him.”
One boot heel up on his seat, Kazia stares anywhere else. He may be watching Imrik’s every move even more closely than the other courtiers, but he’d rather nobody realize it.
Kazia doesn’t envy the special guest. Maybe he got caught for scalestone smuggling. Or framed for scalestone smuggling, since that’s one of Imrik’s favorite moves. Never gets old. Imrik wouldn’t bother dragging a common criminal into the dining hall, though, so maybe a noble is in trouble. Or a warleader. Military infighting would be nice.
He piles the vegetables to one side of his soup bowl like a soggy dam. Whoever the special guest is won’t matter in theend. Nothing does. Kazia simply doesn’t have enough leverage. Father’s made sure of that. No title, little training, only what influence Kazia’s managed to claw from the shadows himself. He’s made some inroads with certain families—but he’d be a fool to count them as loyal. Except for Gabra, they’re all just hedging their bets.
Imrik may not have said anything about the succession, but the houses and warlords are thinking about it anyway.
As Kazia’s vegetable dam topples back into the soup, heavy footsteps and metal clang at the other end of the hall. Herald Bretka reappears beneath the great doorway, her shoulders straight and her voice ringing.
“Your Majesty, I present Skyguard Commander Lucien Vaire.”
Kazia’s spoon pauses above his bowl. Like everyone else in the room, he glances first at Imrik’s slight smirk before peering at the incoming procession.
Marek struts in the lead, commanding attention with confidence as well as sheer bulk. Behind him, three drasgard escort a redheaded man in chains.
Kazia sets down his spoon in favor of a clean fork to fidget with.
Marek bows, says, “Your Majesty,” with only the quickest longing glance towards his husband. Then he steps aside, revealing the star of today’s show.
Cold twists Kazia’s nerves. His instinctive fear at the sight of any mage—because he knows the name Lucien Vaire, just like anyone who pays any attention.
Lucien Vaire is a common-born mage turned scourge of the Long Summer War, eventually commander of the Silaisan dragon corps. Now, he’s a prisoner in a ragged shirt and tornwyrmskin trousers. Three chains hook into the collar at Lucien’s throat, leashes held by the drasgard behind and to either side of him.
Kazia’s hand tightens around his fork. He leans forward, intent. There’s something fascinating about seeing such a powerful mage brought to earth. All that magic bound up with nullification enchantments, turning the great commander into just another man. Just another tool.
The drasgard shove Lucien down. He falls to his knees, but his head remains high. Dirt in his orange-red hair, arms bound behind his back, Lucien still burns with defiance.
Fool. That defiance is an invitation for Imrik to crush him.
Imrik will use any tool in his grasp. Kazia’s back stings with the invisible proof of that. This dinner circus has a purpose: Imrik wants the world to know he has Lucien. He may not know what he’s doing with Lucien yet, but the final decision will only strengthen Imrik’s position. In the war. At court. At home.
Kazia doesn’t want that. An idea strikes him like flint against stone.
It’s a terrible idea. Kazia can’t imagine the ripple effects. But that doesn’t matter—he never considers the consequences of his whims. The point isn’t the result, it’s the disruption itself.
Kazia doesn’t make plans. He makes problems.
As Imrik beckons a servant to refill his glass, an ostentatious show of anticipation, Kazia beckons to Herald Hyda. She listens to Kazia’s quiet order, then takes off without questioning.
Sitting back, Kazia fiddles with his hair and contemplates the mage on the floor.
?
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucien
