Chapter 27
Vorik smoothed his hand down his newly made set of black riding leathers, ceremonial wyvern-scale-and-sea-shell bracelets rattling on his wrists.
Numerous sets of eyes—mostly Kingdom guests that Syla had invited to the wedding—were turned toward him, and he felt self-conscious.
Earlier, he’d let the castle staff shave his jaw closer than he’d ever managed with a knife, and they’d also scrubbed him down with an abrasive sponge while trimming his fingernails, his toenails, and his hair before attempting to comb the wildness out of it.
They hadn’t been entirely successful there, but he expected his people would tease him later when he and Syla flew to Harvest Island for the stormer version of their wedding.
A few dragon riders and Freedom Faction men and women were in attendance here in the castle courtyard, but most would go to the ceremony that was more familiar to them.
And where nudity rather than painstakingly cleaned, ironed, and fussed-with clothing was expected.
He’d warned Syla about that, and she was probably as nervous about appearing like that for his people as he was like this for hers.
Maybe they should have simply declared themselves wed and flown off together on their dragons.
Sergeant Fel stood nearby, looking similarly out of place in what the Kingdom subjects called a frock coat and a high-collared shirt that he kept tugging at.
He was, Vorik had been told, there as a newly appointed island lord, not as Syla’s bodyguard, but he was wearing his weapons belt with his mace and dagger close at hand.
After all he’d been through in her wake, he probably believed trouble could break out at her wedding.
Understandable. Already, a few people who weren’t on the guest list had tried to sneak in, but the guards had caught them and turned them away.
Vorik looked wistfully toward the gate. The last time he’d seen his brother, he’d shared the wedding date and asked him to come.
Though Jhiton would be more likely to show up at the stormer ceremony, Vorik couldn’t help but wish he would stride into the courtyard.
Jhiton had been, even if he hadn’t meant to be, instrumental in Vorik and Syla coming together.
But he’d been scarce since the peace treaty had been signed.
He’d been around more often in the beginning, rounding the riders up for training sessions, but he’d been perturbed to realize people wanted to enjoy some time off, as they’d said, and get used to their new lives.
Riders, Storm Guard soldiers, and regular stormer civilians had been delighting in wandering around under the islands’ shields and not watching the sky.
As a lifelong military man, Jhiton had seemed a little disgusted by it all, and he’d flown off with Ozlemar for long hunts.
Vorik was as happy as his non–sky-watching kin and wished Jhiton could be happy too. After all he’d endured, didn’t he deserve some happiness?
Two kitchen staff in white uniforms whispered to each other as they hurried past carrying… were those bird cages? And… tongs? Vorik watched them for a moment before understanding dawned.
“Ah,” he said. “I did warn Syla that dragon hatchlings are quite adventurous and not that prone to staying in their nests, even if they haven’t yet learned to fly.”
Fel gaped as the tong-wielders paused to look behind the foundation and under cloths dangling from long tables laden with food. “Are you saying those little dragons might be up here? They were just born, er, hatched the week before last, weren’t they?”
“Dragons are relatively small when they come out of their eggs, but they’re not helpless. They hatch with scales, talons, and tiny fangs. Tiny sharp fangs. Like piranha teeth.”
“So… they may not only be up here but the guests might be in danger?” Fel asked.
“In danger no higher than their ankles. Knees at the most. Hatchlings can be prone to biting anyone and anything though. At least they’ve probably not developed the ability to breathe fire yet.
That’s not until the fourth or fifth week, if I recall correctly.
Though it’s probably a good thing this courtyard and most of the castle are made from stone.
Once they do develop that ability, they take great satisfaction in employing it liberally.
In all directions.” Vorik considered the material of Fel’s trousers but didn’t point out that it looked flammable as well as bitable.
“I’m going to talk to the new head of security.” Fel strode off.
Vorik spotted Lieutenant Wise and several other men from his squadron who’d been brave enough to come to the castle and lifted an arm.
They were sticking together while browsing at the end of one of the long tables—Vorik wasn’t the only stormer man who’d found he had a love for sweets.
He started toward them but glimpsed someone in black entering through the courtyard gate and stopped.
Jhiton strode in, wearing his sheathed swords, his riding leathers, and the fur-trimmed cloak of his general’s position. Numerous guards reached instinctively for weapons but paused when he looked balefully at them.
A senior officer said, “He’s on the guest list.”
Ignoring someone else saying, “But is he supposed to be armed?” and the way dozens of other conversations halted, Vorik grinned and waved for Jhiton to join him.
As usual, his brother’s face held little expression and could have been carved in stone. He did not grin. Vorik hoped he had come to watch the ceremony and enjoy himself, not bring or report trouble. His eyebrows did twitch slightly when he took in the trimming that Vorik had endured.
“Did you come to tease me about having combed hair?” Vorik asked when Jhiton stopped at his side, putting his back to one of the stone walls and letting his gaze rove over the crowd, as if he were the head of security.
“That’s not why I came, no, but I will do so. You look like one of their aristocratic dandies.”
“A servant scrubbed my back earlier. It felt better than I should admit.”
“You’re letting them bathe you?”
“Not regularly, but this is a special occasion. Someone’s going to paint a portrait of Syla and me afterward. They want me to look nice.”
“They want you to look domesticated.”
“You did come to tease me. I’m touched.” Vorik grinned again, refusing to feel shamed by his brother’s mockery. The eyes of the moon knew he’d teased Jhiton many, many times in their lives, so he probably deserved some payback.
“I came because…” Jhiton trailed off as the kitchen boys jogged past again. Was that smoke wafting up from the corner of the courtyard near the stable? Maybe one of the hatchlings had matured precociously and could light things on fire.
“You care about me, despite our recent differences, and want to support me in my new life?” Vorik suggested.
Jhiton squinted at him. Vorik expected a snarky comment, especially since recent differences didn’t properly convey that they’d almost battled to the death—multiple times.
Surprisingly, Jhiton said, “I do wish to do that.” He gazed over the crowd again, this time pausing when he spotted Syla, who’d stepped outside with an entourage of female attendants. “Even though you attempted to kill me, and your fiancée has tried to kill me nine times.”
“Are you sure that’s an accurate count? I feel like you might have lost track by this point.”
“I have not. My memory is excellent. I also came because she sent word, via the dragon relay system, that she has a position she wants me to consider.”
“Kneeling and apologizing for the many times you’ve vexed her and her people?”
“I don’t kneel to anyone.”
“With an attitude like that, you may never again know the adoration of a woman.”
Jhiton sighed at him.
“Sorry,” Vorik said. “I know it’s difficult having an irreverent and occasionally disappointing brother.”
Jhiton grunted and looked toward Syla again.
“You’re supposed to say I’m not disappointing,” Vorik said. “That I actually haven’t done half badly for our people.”
“Do you think I should report my arrival to her?”
“Jhiton.”
This time, Jhiton was the one to grin, however briefly.
“You’re a bastard,” Vorik said. “No wonder Syla keeps trying to kill you. And, no, I promise you, based on all the people staring at you as they move to the other side of the courtyard, she knows you’re here.”
“They move because I am not domesticated.” Jhiton eyed Vorik’s trimmed head of hair.
“I won’t tell you what else they wanted to trim. I did draw some lines. With my sword. One man called me a savage as he fled the bath house.”
When Syla looked over, Vorik beamed a smile at her and waved away whatever response Jhiton might have made.
She was as primped as Vorik, with her auburn hair swept up in a swirling style above her head and her spectacles without a smudge on the lenses.
She wore a vibrant red-and-orange dress that a tailor must have made to honor and somewhat emulate Wreylith.
The colors did bring to mind her scales—and the fire she could breathe, and the fabric hugged Syla in eye-catching places while being voluminous in others.
It didn’t look that comfortable though. Certainly not practical for running, riding, or going into battle.
Later, Vorik would enjoy getting her out of it, and not only for the nude stormer ceremony.
As Syla started in their direction, her cousin, Teyla, appeared out of the crowd.
Though she was also dressed up, her hair elegantly coifed and a pretty green dress wafting about her calves, she carried an open book, her finger marking a passage.
She pointed elsewhere too. First skyward and then to the east. In the direction of Droha and the Dire Desert?
More than once, Vorik had heard her mention an interest in returning to the storm god’s laboratory for an archaeological dig.