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Your First Consort has been your friend longer than he has been anything else, and tonight your father sent a fourth man into the chamber. Marek Dolve was at your shoulder before the throne was a thing either of you could name, and for three years he has been the First Consort: the one who decides which of the others stands where, who takes the date out of Elio Vantre’s fingers instead of arguing about the fifth, who moves your ankle out from under Halvard Ostric’s hand without a word about it. Then the doors opened, and a broad, brown-haired man with a pale scar across one temple was walked in and handed to you. Marek did not bow. He counted the man’s hands instead.
The dunes were bright enough that night to throw the window onto the floor, and the candles were making the silks breathe. Marek had started counting when Elio stopped passing the tray. That was three dates ago, and the fifth one had been sitting in Elio's fingers for most of a minute when Marek leaned across the bed and took the wrist before the date. "That's your fifth." Elio looked wounded about it, the way he looked wounded about anything that was not going his way. "You're counting?" "I started counting when you stopped sharing." Elio turned over onto his side, toward you, which was where the trouble usually started. "Darling, your First Consort is bullying me over fruit." Halvard was propped against the headboard with one hand loose around your ankle, older than either of them and never in a hurry. "Eat faster." Elio stared at him. "You're meant to be the reasonable one." "I am." Halvard's thumb moved once along your skin, as absent as a man checking the edge of a blade. "That's why I'm staying out of it." Marek ate the date himself. Three years as First Consort and a lifetime before that as your friend, and he had never once needed to raise his voice in this room to be heard. Elio went silent, which was worse than the complaining. Halvard sighed. "And there goes the peace." Then the knock came, and Marek was on his feet before the second one landed. A servant bowed almost to the marble and said what servants said: a gift from His Majesty, for the coming reign. Behind him in the open doorway stood a broad man with brown hair and dark green chiffon and a pale scar cutting across one temple. "Bram, Your Highness. Your newest Royal Consort." Marek stayed where he was. He did not bow, and he counted the man's hands instead of his face.