Chapter 4
Four
ARKADI
The knock on his bedroom door caused Arkadi to roll over and burrow his face into the soft pillow with a groan. “I left explicit instructions to let me sleep in.”
The door opened on creaking hinges, and the familiar voice of his manservant came to his ears. Arkadi swore he could hear Gregor’s frown in the words. “My lord, a messenger arrived just now, bearing a letter for you.”
The coronation ball last night had ended well after midnight, so late it might as well have been morning.
Arkadi had been looking forward to sleeping in until at least midday.
He cracked one eye open, squinting through the dimly lit bedroom at the mechanical clock resting atop his dresser.
He could just make out the time the pair of hands pointed to, and he was not happy to see it was still morning and he had, rudely, been woken up.
“That is not worth me getting up,” Arkadi grumbled, closing his eyes again.
“The letter is stamped with the royal seal and came delivered by one wearing the livery of the palace.”
Arkadi’s eyes snapped open at that, and he twisted over beneath the sheets, propping himself up on one elbow. He glared at Gregor, the older man not fazed at all by Arkadi’s grumpiness. “You should have led with that.”
Gregor, already shifting through the clothes hanging in Arkadi’s closet, ignored him. “The servants are preparing your bath.”
“Where is the letter?”
“In your sitting room.”
Arkadi sighed, realizing the few hours of sleep he’d managed were all he would get that day. He slid out of bed, tucking his feet into slippers and reaching for the soft robe Gregor had laid over the wingback chair in the corner last night.
He left Gregor to handle his wardrobe, seeking out the missive that had been reason enough to disturb his sleep. The cream envelope with its red wax seal carrying the imprint of a snarling bear head had been set beside a tray holding a beautifully painted samovar, tea already brewing inside it.
Arkadi ignored the tea in favor of the letter, picking it up and slipping his finger beneath the flap to tear across the crease.
The letter inside was on thick paper, the sort used for proper correspondence between the ivoryanin.
Typewriters might be used by merchants, but letters were always to be personalized.
One coming from the palace could be written by a secretary on behalf of someone of rank, but looking at the stark black ink with its practical cursive, he rather thought it came from the Isar himself.
The signatory proved that to be true.
“Gregor,” Arkadi called out as he stared at the simple, one-page letter. “Please pick something formal. I’ve been invited for lunch with the Isar.”
Gregor was too much of a professional to react out loud to such a statement.
Arkadi trusted in the man who had been his manservant for nearly a decade to put together something suitable for a royal lunch that could be held indoors or outdoors or with others.
The variables were many, but the underlying thread tying them all together would be formal.
The sleepiness from a long evening faded once Arkadi had bathed and dressed with Gregor’s assistance.
The formal suit he wore was a sleeveless golden brown long-vest that fell to mid-calf and split over the sides of his legs.
It sat over a long-sleeved white shirt with cuffs the same color as the coat.
A russet-red sash tied around his waist completed the silhouette.
His trousers were the same color as the sash, while his knee-high boots matched the long-vest in color.
Once dressed, Gregor presented him with a gleaming wooden box and lifted the lid.
Inside lay six blades: three stilettos and three knives, two of which were balanced for throwing.
Arkadi deftly hid them on his body, securing them in the specialized sheathes sewn into his clothes and knee-high boots, as well as twisting up his hair and securing it with two stilettos that doubled as hair sticks.
Gregor was the only servant in the mansion who knew of Arkadi’s true background as a Blade, the manservant willingly bound to secrecy by Arkadi’s mother and a touch of mind magic from a magician.
Despite his youthfulness at almost twenty-two years, Arkadi had killed in the past, and done so with the Star Order’s blessing to ensure the stability of their country.
But then rionetkas had crept into all corners of Urovan society, careening their country into a war that would not have benefited Urova in the end, and had not.
And so here everyone was, left to pick up the pieces.
But at least one piece was proving to be worth something.
Isar Rodian lacked the political skill and heft of his predecessor, but there was an earnestness about him that made Arkadi want to believe he meant well. One hand-picked to rule by the Midnight Star couldn’t be a terrible man.
Arkadi clung to that thought on the drive through Matriskav to the civic center and heart of the capital city.
The motor carriage rumbled over cobblestone streets, his driver taking the quickest route through the inner walls of the city for the palace.
The Isar’s letter was tucked into his coat pocket, a seemingly innocuous missive that got him past the palace gates and into a place he’d left bare hours ago.
Only this time, he wasn’t part of a crowd of other ivoryanin, vying to snatch a few seconds of their new Isar’s attention.
No, this time, Arkadi had the man all to himself, and wasn’t that a heady thought.
The aide from last night on the balcony met him in the grand foyer of the civic wing of the palace. She was dressed in a high-necked gown whose heavy skirt brushed the ground, and she eyed him like one might eye a bug.
“Ivoryan Arkadi,” the aide said coolly.
“It seems my reputation precedes me,” Arkadi said, amused at her judgment more than anything else.
“I am Lidiya, the Isar’s personal aide. He informed me he was expecting you for the midday meal.” The way her lips pressed together told him she was irked by that. “Please follow me.”
Arkadi did as he was ordered, following Lidiya through the foyer to a grand archway.
A magician bound to the palace guard posted there held a clarion crystal–tipped brass wand before him and deftly called forth magic from the aether.
Arkadi stood silently as the ribbons of the seeking spell twined around his body, searching for a threat.
Arkadi had no magic, but some in his family did. Those who were magicians dedicated their power to the Star Order and the continuation of their country. Every weapon Arkadi carried on his person had been delicately engraved with a deflecting spell that blocked the seeking spell from noticing them.
The magician found nothing out of the ordinary, and Arkadi was once again thankful for his family’s magic.
Arkadi was then led through the bustling halls of the administration section of the palace and into a quieter wing that held the royal family’s private suite of rooms. Arkadi had never been high enough in social rank to earn an invitation to a private audience during the previous ruling family’s reign.
Now, it was only one man rattling about the massive palace, outnumbered by everyone.
It was, certainly, a lonely place to be.
“Wait here,” Lidiya instructed him before sweeping out of the parlor she’d deposited him in.
Arkadi drifted over to the window, peering out at the vast snow-covered garden beyond.
The enchanting white vista was contained by the palace wall in the far distance, the rest of the city stretching out beyond.
Buildings with tall wooden peaked roofs or the more traditional, brightly colored onion domes at various heights filled the view against a sea of white.
The sun was out, shining weakly in the sky, giving them just a few hours of sunlight in the harsh black of winter.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him turn around in time to see the Isar arrive, with Lidiya at the tall man’s heels. Arkadi immediately straightened and put a fist over his heart before bowing to the royal degree. “Isar.”
Isar Rodian nodded in acknowledgment, but it almost seemed an afterthought, as if he was still remembering the protocols that came with being royal as opposed to ivoryanin. “I understand my request was delivered on short notice, but I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me nonetheless.”
Arkadi stared at him, wondering if Rodian heard himself. No royal in the past would offer such platitudes, but perhaps they did things differently up in the far north. “I am yours to command, Isar.”
“Rodian,” the other man replied, his deep voice rumbling between them in a way that made Arkadi’s knees go weak for an instant. “Please, you may call me Rodian.”
“Then I must insist you call me Arkadi.”
Rodian nodded. “Very well.”
Arkadi studied the man whom the Midnight Sun had chosen as their ruler.
Last night on the balcony, their time together had been brief, each of them trapped in the roles they were meant to play.
Here and now, while Arkadi had garbed himself for a formal visit, Rodian’s outfit was far more muted and understated, despite the fine cloth.
The dark brown trousers and matching long-vest over a white tunic were something no ivoryanin in the capital would be caught dead in.
Without the extra bulk of ceremonial clothing or his crown, Rodian was still a mountain of a man.
Taller than Arkadi, with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms and legs and a firm torso, the clothes he wore emphasized a physique used to hard work, not sitting on a throne.
His wavy hair fell loose to his shoulders as it had last night.
His face was a bit weather-worn beneath his neatly trimmed beard, but the faint crow’s feet at the corners of his brown eyes were probably more from laughter than anything else.
Most male ivoryanin did not have beards, and Arkadi wondered if that would change in the coming months.
His fingers itched to touch Rodian’s beard, and a thought came, traitorously unbidden, making him wonder what it would feel like to have that beard scrape across his skin.
“Your letter did not say what you wished to discuss, only that you wanted to meet,” Arkadi said, hoping to distract himself from thoughts of what the Isar might taste like.
“Yes. I hope you haven’t eaten yet. I asked for the meal to be set up in the glass garden today. We can speak there.”
“I am at your disposal.”
He meant it honestly, even if Lidiya seemed to judge him for it.
Arkadi was well aware of the reputation he had in court, one he’d done his best to cultivate to achieve his goal of information gathering.
What she would never understand was that the currency he held was worth more than most things in the country.
Blackmail material was rarely worthless.
“Then please, follow me,” Rodian said, already turning for the door.
For a moment, Arkadi found himself sharing a commiserating glance with Lidiya as they both tried to come to terms with a polite Isar.
Shaking his head, Arkadi followed Rodian out of the room while Lidiya remained behind.
He was careful to maintain a pace that was a step behind Rodian, who seemed not to care about royal protocol and kept trying to match his stride to Arkadi’s as they walked down the hall.
“Lidiya was against me sending you the letter,” Rodian said.
“I am sure she has her reasons,” Arkadi replied.
“They weren’t enough to dissuade me.”
“Clearly.”
Rodian slanted him an amused look. “You are remarkably forthright. It reminds me of my younger sister.”
Arkadi didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. “Would you prefer I agree with everything you say?”
“Gods, no. That’s what everyone else is doing.”
He sounded aggrieved at that fact, and Arkadi let himself relax a little. “Then I will speak my mind as long as you wish, but I will not do so where it undermines your rule.”
Rodian nodded slowly at that, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. “That’s probably for the best, but as I wish to appoint you as my official Steward of the Crown, you will not need to worry about holding your tongue.”
Arkadi nearly swallowed his, missing a step and stumbling there in the hallway. Rodian’s hand snapped out cat-quick, catching him by the elbow with a surprisingly gentle grip. “You—what?”
Rodian sighed, dropping his hand after a moment, and Arkadi nearly hissed at the loss of touch. “Let’s get something in our stomachs before we continue this conversation.”
Arkadi could definitely do with a bottle of ika just then. “Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea.”
Better than nearly falling on his face in shock.