Page 91 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“I’m not a Lord Governor.” Azriel shook his head and elbowed Madan to shut him up. It only served to prolong the mirth. “I was a guard. Before that, I was nothing. I grew up a half-breed, bastard-born, amount-to-nothing failure. Getting all of this—” he gestured to the house in general “—was never my intention.”

The servants looked at each other in confusion. The Rusan woman who spoke before sat forward a bit and said, “Then how did you become the Lord Governor?”

Now it was Azriel’s turn to still. He didn’t speak of his past for a reason. He certainly didn’t admit that everything the Caersan Council knew of him was, ultimately, wrong. If they knew the truth, not one of them would deny his place amongst the Society. Especially not Madan’s. Bastard though Azriel had always been, there’d be no denying his heritage.

So rather than expose every secret, he edged around the truth. “My father hid Madan and me from the Caersans. You may have heard that the two of us are cousins?”

A collective nod.

“Madan is my little brother.” Azriel watched with grim amusement as they gaped back at him. “We agreed to tell the Caersans we’re cousins to protect him were anything to happen to me.”

“What did you expect to happen?” The Rusan woman’s dark eyes flared with interest.

Azriel chuckled darkly. “I’m sure you all heard about my imprisonment a while back?”

Again, they looked at each other nervously. Some mumbled their apologies for what happened to him, while others merely nodded.

“I’m not exactly known to follow the rules.” He gestured to himself, sitting on the floor with them. “And the last thing I need is for my brother to bear the brunt of my mistakes.”

Madan smiled at him grimly. “This is not something we tell you all lightly. In exchange for our transparency, we expect this to be kept a secret until we’re ready.”

“Of course, my Lords,” Petre said a bit breathlessly. “Of course.”

“If there’s one thing I can promise you all,” Azriel said, voice darkening, “it’s a swift end to anyone who breaks my trust. I’m a man of the sword first—words and forgiveness don’t come easily.”

Every servant looked at one another. Many swallowed hard while others gave a friend or family member a sharp look of warning. Those were the gossips, no doubt, and prone to spilling secrets. He’d keep an eye on them.

“Now,” Azriel said, looking at each of them with purpose. “Like I said, I need your help figuring all of this out.”

They all sat a little straighter. The uneasiness dissipated from the group, their shoulders dropping away from their ears.

“I need to learn a lot in very little time,” Azriel said and sighed. “How to dress, eat, speak…all of it. Can you teach me?”

A small smile curled Petre’s mouth, and he looked to the rest of his staff. They nodded to him and began standing. Azriel followed suit with the butler, Madan doing the same behind him.

“We have our work cut out for us,” the Rusan woman whispered to her friend, who giggled behind her hand.

“You’ll find I’m a quick study,” Azriel told them with a wink. “Where do we start?”

The staff moved in unison. Some picked at his hair, others at his clothes. A man whipped out a measuring tape and nearly throttled him for a neck measurement while an elder Rusan clicked her tongue at the scars on his hands and arms. Yet another servant began rattling off rules of etiquette and Caersan grammar.

Azriel immediately regretted it all. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t cut out for any of this. It was like a game of make-believe that, once started, he could never escape. An incessant list of responsibilities and appearances he didn’t know how to maintain long-term. Sooner or later, everyone would discover the truth: he was a fraud.

But for Ariadne, he’d do anything. Even if it meant pretending to be someone he could never truly be.

So it was Ariadne he thought of as they pruned him into a more palatable vampire for the Caersans to consume. Whether they considered him a Caersan or not, he could put on the mask required of him, and it would all be for her. Because it’s his fault she couldn’t continue on with the life she was meant to live with Loren.

By the time he stepped into the Council Chambers a fortnight later, he was a different man. He’d signed away his surname and become a Caldwell and let the staff smooth out his rough edges. By the time he looked in a mirror in the long hall leading to the Chamber, Azriel couldn’t recognize himself.

The clothes in the manor from the previous Lord Caldwell had been too small for him, so they’d all gone to Madan. Instead, tailors crafted a new wardrobe to his measurements. He wore a white shirt and deep green and black brocade vest, dark brown trousers, and fine, new black leather boots that reached his knees. The black jacket, fashioned with double buttons, stopped at his waist in the front while hanging almost to his knees in the back.

He adjusted the cravat at his neck and winced at his appearance. The staff had called in a local mage to tend to the small scars in visible places. His face was now smoother, including the newest addition given to him by Ariadne the night of her drunken escapade. Though he asked to keep the length of his hair, they’d insisted on a trim. It now hung to his collarbones, half of it tied up in a smaller top knot than he was used to. Still, the soap they’d used in it made the dark curtain of hair shine more than he’d ever seen it before.

He certainly looked the part, much to his chagrin. Whether or not he could play the part had yet to be determined.

Continuing down the hall, Caersan men he recognized from the balls stepped out of his way with a bow. Some watched him with reverence, while others demonstrated their respect with resentment. The former outnumbered the latter. Whether it was because of his new position or that they’d watched him win against their esteemed General, he wasn’t certain. Nor did he care.

The Chamber lay beyond a pair of massive doors carved with the history of the vampires. From the Great War between the two largest rival mage clans of the plains to the curse of night and blood put on their people. Azriel studied it for a long moment, tracing a finger over the young Caersan vampires who settled in Valenul to escape the long summers. They thought they’d escaped the carnage wrought by the Rusans who’d destroyed their plains enemy. What they hadn’t realized is that they’d merely traded one for another—the dhemons.

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