Page 35 of The War of Four Winters

"In Savarra," Tariq continued, settling back with his cup, "sharing safra is a ritual of trust between equals. Each person drinks, then shares something true about themselves. A secret, a hope, a fear. Something genuine."

"Is that what we're doing?" I asked, the liquor already warming my blood. "Building trust?"

His smile was smaller now, more genuine than the dazzling performance he'd given at dinner. "We're blood, you and I. In Savarra, that means something. Even unexpected blood, even blood discovered by chance."

He tossed back his second cup, and I followed suit.

"I've never known another of my father's bastards," I admitted, feeling the alcohol loosen my tongue. "Michail was thorough in his purge."

Tariq nodded, his expression darkening. "I lost three half-sisters and a brother to his madness. I never met them, but my mother's spies confirmed their deaths." He poured again, this time from a different bottle containing ruby liquid. "This one is called bloodfire. Appropriate, given our conversation."

The red liquid tasted of berries and heat, with an underlying bitterness that lingered on the tongue. It was stronger than the safra, hitting my system with immediate effect.

"To siblings lost," Tariq said quietly. "And unexpected ones found."

We drank in silence for a moment, letting the potent spirits work through us. Bash stirred on the discarded coat, stretching like a cat before fluttering over to land on Tariq's shoulder. The miniature dragon chirped, eyeing my cup with evident interest.

"No, you little menace," Tariq scolded, stroking the creature's copper scales. "Remember what happened last time? You hiccupped fire for three days straight and nearly burned down that pleasure house."

I couldn't help but laugh at the image. "Your dragon drinks?"

"Bash has expensive taste in everything," Tariq sighed. "Spirits, jewelry, fine fabrics… She's bankrupting me with her extravagances."

As if understanding his words, Bash made an indignant sound and puffed a small cloud of smoke at her master's face.

"See what I mean? No respect." But his tone was affectionate as he scratched under the dragon's chin. "She's been with me for five years now. Won her in a card game against a Savarran fire priest who'd vastly overestimated his skill at Three Kingdoms."

"I've never heard of miniature dragons," I said, watching as the creature preened under Tariq's attention.

"They're rare even in Savarra. Bred originally as companions for the royal family, though the practice fell out of favor generations ago." He offered Bash a morsel from a nearby plate, which she delicately accepted. "Most are much less agreeable than my dear Bashqara. But then, she knows I saved her from a life of being some spoiled brat’s pet."

We continued drinking as the hour grew late, progressing through Tariq's collection of exotic spirits. With each cup, the conversation flowed more freely. He told tales of Savarra, of the floating markets of Qeresh, the great library towers of Almir, the blood-sport arenas where citizenship could be earned through combat. I found myself sharing stories of Ostovan before Michail's rise, of the palace where we'd grown up, though at different times.

"He was always strange," I said, my tongue loosened by what Tariq had called "midnight tears," a clear liquor that tasted of anise and secrets. "Michail, I mean. Even as children. He used to collect things."

"What kind of things?" Tariq asked, sprawled elegantly in his chair despite the substantial amount of alcohol we'd consumed.

"Dying things," I replied, the memory still unsettling despite the years and distance. "Injured birds, dying plants. He said he was trying to save them, but they always died. I found his collection once. Small bones arranged in patterns, dried flowers pressed and labeled with the date of death." I shuddered, taking another sip of my drink. "Our tutors thought it showed scientific curiosity."

"And what did you think?"

"That there was something wrong with him. Something... missing." The alcohol made it easier to articulate what I'd never fully expressed. "Like he was trying to understand life by studying death, but couldn't grasp why his specimens kept dying under his care."

Tariq nodded thoughtfully, his golden eyes slightly unfocused from drink. "Our father must have seen it, too. Why else name you Captain of the Guard at twenty? He was preparing a counterbalance to Michail's inevitable rule."

"Fat lot of good it did," I snorted, refilling our cups without waiting for an invitation. My movements were less precise now, liquor sloshing over the rim. "Father dead, Andrej dead, me collared and sold. Michail got everything he wanted."

"Not everything," Tariq countered, raising his cup. "He didn't get you. Not permanently. And he certainly didn't get me." He leaned closer, lowering his voice despite our privacy. "And he'll never get what he wants most—a cure for the Rot."

I sobered slightly at the mention. "You know about that?"

"My contacts in Ostovan report he's growing desperate. The Rot's eating away at his face beneath that golden mask." Tariq traced a pattern across his own cheek, mimicking the disease's progression. "He executed three royal physicians for failing to cure him. The fourth fled to Savarra seeking asylum. Now he’s got that blasted cleric of the Sower following him around like a dog."

"It's why he wears the mask," I confirmed, memories of Michail's deteriorating condition surfacing through the alcoholic haze. "Last I saw, it had already taken his right eye. Started as just a patch of dead skin, but it spreads. No magic or medicine has stopped it."

"Poetic, isn't it?" Tariq's smile was sharp. "The man who grasped for everything, rotting from the inside out."

We drank to that, a silent toast to survival.

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