He’d never see Corin again.
Aster’s vision blurred. He tried to blink it away. That only made it worse, and now he had droplets clinging to his eyelashes, and even a human would be able to see he was crying, let alone a dragon with his keen vision.
“I also had a talk with Sir Gustave, and there’s more—oh, the fuck,” Corin spat in a tone of such disgust Aster stumbled back a step.
Corin surged to his feet, face like a thundercloud, strode across the hall, and—brushed right by him, stomping his way into the anteroom by the stairs.
What? What the hell had he been about to say?More?
Aster turned and trotted after him. At least Corin’s anger didn’t seem to be for him or his tears after all, but—and then he heard it too, his human ears catching up to Corin’s senses: the clop of hooves. More than one set of hooves, in fact. He peeked his head around the corner of the anteroom by the stairs in time to see Corin opening a chest that stood by the wall in a shadowy corner where Aster hadn’t even noticed it. He flipped up the lid and pulled out the longest and broadest sword Aster had ever seen. How had it even fit in that chest? It wouldn’t have. And yet there it was, gleaming with a deep, bluish sheen totally unlike normal steel as Corin rotated his arm to inspect the blade on one side and then the other.
Aster gaped at it, his fingers itching with the desire to touch, everything else forgotten in his awe.
This had to be Corin’s famous sword, the one they said no human could wield. Aster had only glimpsed the hilt of it before when Corin wore it while attending the king on more ceremonial occasions; he used other swords when training, and yet a different sword for dueling, as when he’d scarred Belinda’s lover. This one he only drew, as far as Aster knew, when he meant to fight for real.
Corin nodded and grunted, apparently satisfied by the condition of his blade, and stomped past again, this time down the little corridor that led to the gate room.
Aster stared slack-jawed. God, he’d forgotten how Corin looked holding a sword. Not that he slouched at other times, or anything, but when he had a sword in his hand he changed subtly, his body held differently—somehow more loosely and with more tension at the same time.
Like this, Corin exuded danger in a way that practically made the air around him crackle and spark, even barefoot and with his shirt hanging untucked. He was so intimidating and so magnificent that he’d opened the gate a couple of feet—and watching him lift that heavy bar with one hand while he effortlessly held his massive sword in the other gave Aster a quiver in his belly—and stepped out onto the bridge before Aster realized he ought to have fetched his own sword.
Because wasn’t he meant to be the one fighting? If he hadn’t been a swordsman, then he’d have needed a champion, of course. But he was perfectly capable of fighting for himself, albeit poorly. He wouldn’t even be in any danger; no one challenging him under the king’s decree would be trying to hurt him. Quite the contrary. The victor couldn’t claim his reward without Aster in good condition.
And yet Corin had gone out to meet whoever it was without even consulting him.
It stung more than Aster had expected to realize how little Corin truly thought of his prowess.
On the other hand, too late now. He’d spotted an arrow slit set up high on the wall just above and to the left of the gate, but he didn’t see—there, an old ladder stuck in another dark corner. The ladder seemed sturdy enough when he bounced on the lower rung a couple of times, and he’d set it in place and scrambled up within a couple of seconds.
He peered out the loophole in time to see three riders rein up before the bridge. Corin stood in the center of it poised and waiting, his massive sword held out at a casual angle that would’ve had anyone else’s arm visibly shaking.
Aster looked more closely at the three. Two of them were obviously squires or attendants, but he was surprised to realize he recognized the one in the middle: Lord Fredmund, a particularly obnoxious fop who nevertheless had a reputation as a respectably skilled duelist. He’d have outmatched Aster for certain, and clearly he knew it; he hadn’t even bothered turning up in plate mail or with a lance, instead wearing only a chainmail jerkin, it looked like, with one of his servants carrying his shield. Instead of a helmet he had a jaunty yellow velvet hat with a plume long enough to nearly tickle his horse’s ears.
But unfortunately for Fredmund and his lack of proper armor, it wasn’t Aster on the bridge. And no matter how embarrassing it might be to have another man fight his battles for him…so far from throwing Aster out on his ass, Corin hadn’t hesitated to assume the role of Aster’s protector. This time, anyway.
Embarrassing, yes. But it proved he meant at leastsomethingto Corin, didn’t it?
And at least he wouldn’t need to marry the odious Fredmund, though who knew what would happen the next time someone came to the gate.
“You again,” Corin said, in a tone that strongly suggested the surprise didn’t delight him. Fredmund must’ve been with Sir Gustave last night in the village, then. Had that been what Corin needed to tell him, that Fredmund meant to come and challenge him? “The fuck are you doing here?”
No, because Corin seemed as surprised as Aster.
Fredmund made an exaggerated moue of horror, wrinkling his nose and staring down it at the same time. Aster stifled a laugh despite everything. There were established forms for this sort of thing. “The fuck are you doing here” was not one of them.
A short and fraught silence fell.
“Sir Corin of Saumur, I greet you,” Fredmund said tensely, clearly trying to get back on script. “I am Lord Fredmund of Rivanne, and in the king’s name—”
“Cut the crap,” Corin said briskly, and Fredmund let out a little yelp of anger.
Aster leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and gently thumped his forehead. God. He hadn’t thought Corin could be any more wonderful, and yet…the feeling he didn’t want to name welled up warm and desperate, irrepressible. He’d never wanted to suck someone’s cock the way he did right then.
“I know why you’re here,” Corin went on. Aster looked out again, unwilling to miss even a moment of this. “You think you can keep yourself in stupid squishy hats by challenging Lord Aster and claiming the king’s reward. But if you want to fight, you’ll be fighting me. So either draw your sword or bugger off and stop wasting my fucking time.”
“You—you—” Fredmund sputtered, and then stopped, closed his eyes for a second, and visibly pulled himself together. He smiled slyly. “Lord Aster can surely fight his own battles,” he said, his voice pitched to carry farther than just to Corin’s ears. Damn him, he’d figured out that Aster would be nearby and listening. Aster leaned back a little to make sure he couldn’t be seen. “If he’s not a coward, he’ll come out and face me himself, rather than hiding behind you.”
Aster’s heart sank down to his toes. Fuck. Fredmund hadn’t really left him a choice by phrasing it that way. Damn it, damn it… He opened his mouth, ready to call out through the loophole that he accepted the challenge, not at all ready to accept that he’d be going, that Corin would have to let him go, that he’d only had one night—but Corin spoke first.
