8. Dimitri
8
Dimitri leaned against the golden stone column. He soaked in the atmosphere, admiring the enchanted domed ceiling of stars and moonlight. It was the most relaxed he had felt in an age. Even the ever-present tightness in his shoulders had faded. He had not been in this part of the palace for over a year since the last summer ball of the previous season. It was one of the few parts of the palace he liked. Warm and inviting, a world away from the cold, grey stone, foreboding gloom, and politics in the rest of the place. Most of his business took place in the older, original parts of the building. The ones constructed for war, not pleasure.
He sipped at his nectar-like drink in the delicate glass flute, raising it in toast to those who greeted him with a dip of their head or a smile. On this one night, all came together. Political agendas, familial ties, personal vendettas… All were forgotten for a night of merriment. He had no doubt that in the morning, along with sore heads, they would have hate for him once more, but tonight, it was nice to feel almost like one of them for a change. To not have to keep the cold and distant mask.
Still, his smile was clipped as he toasted them, and no one stopped to speak with him. They might not have shown their hate or fear towards him that night, but there was a clear divide. He was not one of them, and never would be. He was here as his father’s guest, not in his own right. That irked him—and delighted his father, who was convinced he granted Dimitri a great and gracious boon.
Dimitri watched his father stalk past with his wife on his arm. Dimitri looked through the crowd, but his half-brothers were mercifully lost in the throng. His step-mother glowed with a beauty Damir did not deserve, but she was as cold as the rest of them. Calculating. She had not wed Damir for love, but money and position. Dimitri knew a lot more than she thought.
He had been there—or at least his ears had—as her family had arranged the union. It—or rather, she—was one of many strings the family had to its bow, always trying to improve its standing and wheedle its way into royal favour. She was now a lower lady in waiting to the queen, an honour that would have been far beyond her reach otherwise. The queen’s favour had its own rewards and her family quick to capitalise upon them. Dimitri had not been overly concerned. Every house was like that. Self-serving, out for their own gain. All friends on the surface, but conniving and conspiring to take the others down.
Now, with warm faelights bathing them all in golden light, they laughed and danced as if they were naught but good friends. On the edge of the swirling bodies of those mingling and dancing, it was the perfect place to observe who spoke to whom, who slipped away with whom, and even who was present or absent. Dimitri was never off duty, much as he softened the hardness of his mask. The king would grill him for the details on the morrow, as he always did.
Dimitri shoved away from the column with casual grace, meandering through the laughter and gleaming smiles for another drink. He would have just one more. It would not do to have a buzzing head and lose his mind. Elven wine was extremely strong. The scent of Rosella’s perfume reached his nose before she crossed his path. Once upon a time, it had enchanted him—now it nauseated, sending that swoop of sickness into his belly, every breath a poison. Suddenly she was upon him, giggling, and dragged him into the whirl of dancers. He let himself be pulled, before sweeping her into his arms and falling into step with those beside them with a smile upon his lips that betrayed nothing of his true feelings.
A wispy gown of palest blue like the glowing moon adorned her, swirling around her sculpted figure as her feet danced upon air. Next to Dimitri’s black tunic adorned with silver threads, Rosella was the light to his darkness, glowing in comparison and effortlessly eclipsing all those around them. She was indeed the most beautiful of all there. At least outwardly. Her dress floated with her. She was wind and water, her feet seeming to never touch the floor. He followed their neighbours’ steps with ease with her long-fingered hand in one of his and her slim waist cradled in his other palm.
For all the limitations of his younger days, Dimitri had been well-schooled in the courtly arts and did not shame her. Even so, he felt the king’s disapproval radiating from the dais. He was half sure Rosella had preyed upon him just to cause the king’s ire. Dimitri fixed his mask into bland cheer, not letting the king drag his attention as he twirled the princess past her father, pretending that all his attention was on her. All her attention was on the rhythm of the music. Inebriated, she was pure joy, movement, and laughter in his arms.
When they passed Dimitri’s father, he allowed his gaze to slide to Damir’s and his lips to curl with the hint of smug disdain. As they twirled once more out of sight, Dimitri suppressed a genuine smile at his father’s scowl. Damn them all, he decided. Dimitri held his head higher. Tonight, he was off duty. He held his back straighter and tugged Rosella closer. Tonight, he was no one, dancing with a princess, and, king be damned, he would enjoy it. The bastard and the princess. For that one moment, he would be above all their scorn.
As the music crescendoed and died, Dimitri bowed and Rosella curtseyed, holding themselves for a moment. Around them, applause scattered through the dancers, and the musicians struck up another tune. Dimitri handed Rosella off to another willing male, and with his usual wink and a mischievous grin that she mirrored, disappeared to catch his breath and find another drink. The musicians had chosen a favourite, and the floor flooded with bodies.
His heart sank as he saw the king’s subtle summons. Toroth could not be ignored. Dimitri inclined his head slightly to indicate he had seen. The king affixed him for a long moment with a stare that promised murder, before vanishing. The dangerous thrill of terror spiked in Dimitri before he forced it down. Dimitri changed course, meandering to one of the exits and a quieter, deserted part of the castle.
The chill blasted him as soon as he left the ballroom and the heat of all those bodies fell away, as if they hated the shadows he now stepped into. It was freezing beyond the protective spells, the nights cool even in the late summer with the proximity of the mountain and the altitude of the place. The breeze seeped through him, cooling his clothes and his skin—but doing nothing to dampen the stoking fire of fear inside him that Toroth wrought amongst his court. The court that existed on a knife edge between the king’s tempers. Dimitri was not immune to it. He was a navigator of that tempestuous sea, but not its master.
And so, he found himself as he always did when presented with unexpected summons, racing through a mental list of any perceived infractions. What had he done? When? Why? How? What spin could be put on it to soothe the king’s ire, to keep himself safe? Every time, it felt the same crushing weight of life or death—that somehow, Dimitri had damned himself and today was to be the day the king had decided his worth was at an end, and that he would have to fight his way free. Dimitri did not turn as the king silently appeared beside him. He steeled himself, awaiting for the blow to fall.