Heath nodded, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. The politics of who to invite to a formal function was exactly the sort of tedious task that had made him reluctant to take on the role.
“However,” said Prince Lachlan quickly, perhaps sensing what Heath was politely not saying, “I have mentioned your desire for time at home to my Father. He has agreed to give you leave of absence for a few weeks, in a couple of months’ time. That will allow you to return two weeks before the ceremony, which should leave time to finalize any details.”
“Thank you,” said Heath, thinking he’d better take what he could get, even if it was a while away.
His thoughts were full of the offered leave as he parted from Prince Lachlan. It didn’t take him long to decide what he wanted to do with the time, and it wasn’t to visit Bexley Manor. He wandered the castle’s corridors absently, as a plan began to take shape in his mind. He had intended to try a little harder to convince Reka to take him back to Vazula, and there was nothing stopping him doing that as well. But he shouldn’t count on it—who knew how long that might take, or if he’d ever succeed? Dragons were never in a hurry, and Reka was no exception.
He shook his head slowly as his feet took him past the very dining room where he, Percival, and three of their cousins had been informed by King Matlock about the loyalty ceremony.
This wasn’t like the previous times, when he’d needed Reka to fly him to Vazula and back within a day. He had weeks of leave coming up, and that was long enough to take action on his own.
He gave a decisive nod. Dragonflight wasn’t the only way to reach an island in the middle of the ocean. He was going back to Vazula, one way or another.
If he couldn’t convince Reka by the time he was free to go, then he was going to sail there.
CHAPTER NINE
Merletta floated into the dining area with a feeling almost of excitement. It had been surreal to wake in her hammock in the trainees’ barracks. She hadn’t slept in water for a month, and the familiar weight of it felt cool and comforting. She also realized that she was ravenously hungry. She’d eaten the day before, but she’d been too apprehensive about her return to really appreciate the food.
She intended to rectify that at breakfast. She eyed the basins of oysters, the rings of squid, and the ever-present salted cod eagerly. The fact that it was a training day helped, of course. Bruises notwithstanding, she’d always felt more comfortable in Agner’s classes than in either of the other instructors’.
“Ready to spar with me?” she asked Sage brightly, as they took their seats at the round trainees’ table.
Sage groaned. “If I have to.”
Merletta couldn’t help chuckling. “Unless Agner has changed dramatically in the last month, I’m pretty sure you will have to.”
“He hasn’t,” Sage confirmed gloomily.
“I hope I get the chance to spar with you,” Andre piped in eagerly. “Agner often names you as an excellent example of how far hard work and persistence can take you. Doesn’t he, Lorraine?”
His fellow first year didn’t look enthusiastic about being appealed to, but she responded readily enough. “Yes, he does. He says that you had no skill whatsoever in combat when you started.”
“Does he just?” said Merletta ruefully, as Sage snorted on a laugh.
Andre frowned at Lorraine. “He says that you’re now quite a good fighter, and have a great deal of potential.”
A quiet scoff drew Merletta’s attention to Oliver, and she raised a challenging eyebrow. The look he cast her was as disdainful as ever, but he made no comment.
“I can’t match Oliver’s skill, of course,” said Merletta with frigid politeness. “But I hope he’ll give me the chance to improve my skills by pitting my spear against his.”
“Gladly,” said Oliver, the curl of his lips belying his polite tone. Merletta noticed that Lorraine had seated herself beside Oliver, and her body was angled subtly in his direction, as opposed to Andre, who was leaning toward Sage and Merletta.
“Is Lorraine from Hemssted, by any chance?” Merletta asked Sage quietly, as the five of them rose from the table a short time later.
Sage nodded. “Like Oliver.”
“And Andre is from Skulssted like you?” Merletta pressed.
Sage gave her a wry smile. “Noticed the allegiances, have you? Yes, you’re right. We’re supposed to all be members of the Center now, of course, but old loyalties are hard to shake.”
“So it seems,” mused Merletta.
The politics of the other cities fascinated her. Even after a year in the Center, she was still a stranger to the dynamics between the different groups. Growing up in Tilssted, she had always seen Skulssted and Hemssted as one privileged block. But she had discovered the year before that their disdain for Tilssted was possibly the only thing on which they consistently agreed. They had their own rivalries and cultures. Skulssted was overall the wealthier city, with its showy fashions. But Hemssted had a stronger cultural history, and seemed to be more connected with the Center of Culture. Its residents, such as Oliver and Ileana, would certainly argue that it had the most influence.
“Is there an imbalance in the number of record holders?” Merletta asked Sage curiously. “Are there more from Hemssted than from Skulssted, or vice versa?”
“I think there are a few more from Hemssted, but not by a huge margin,” said Sage. “My mother is a record holder, as you know, and she’s obviously from Skulssted. But I did hear that Emil is the first Skulssted record holder in a few years.”