He stopped only long enough to dump a bucket of water over the hearth so that the embers couldn’t blow about and burn the place down, and then he stepped outside, spread his arms, and transformed as he leapt into the air. His wings caught the wind, bearing him up a thousand feet in an instant.
Corin wheeled to the west. Salt tickled his nose, borne on the air currents that swept in from the ocean at this altitude. He beat his wings against the buffeting in time with the pounding of his heart, flying faster than any bird, any arrow, any stone flung from the greatest catapult. Nothing on earth or above it could travel as fast as a dragon in a desperate hurry.
Corin would be in time to save Aster from everything that threatened his safety and his peace of mind. He had to be.
Aster pulled his hood downto hide his face despite the heat, praying he’d remain unobserved and unrecognized at least until they reached the palace gates. The crowded streets would help, anyway. It seemed to be market day, with wagons full of produce rumbling over the cobblestones in every direction and making a dreadful din. After the silence of the mountains and the sea voyage, it gave Aster an almost instant headache.
Jules, riding beside him, leaned down to peer under his hood. “You’re more conspicuous like that rather than less,” Jules said nastily. “And no one gives a fuck about you anyway. Do you really think the average fellow on the street would care one way or the other?”
Aster did his best to ignore both him and Sig, who’d hardly spoken a word all day but glowered and sulked more loudly and obtrusively than anyone Aster had ever met. He’d had enough rum the night before to have put any three mercenaries on—or maybe even under—the ground, but he seemed steady enough, so clearly he could hold both his liquor and his hangover.
Except for being a total asshole, of course.
“No one gives a fuck about you either,” Sig growled, breaking his silence at last, tugging his reins irritably and making his horse shy around a wagon full of onions. “Why don’t you fuck off? We’re back in the city. You’re home. Go away.”
“And miss the show?” Jules hissed. “Not on your disgusting, pathetic life. Besides, you still owe me a trumpet when you get paid! And you owe me more than that, you—”
Aster spurred Etallon forward, desperately not wanting to hear what Sig owed Jules. The sun beat down with force, his shoulders drooping forward under the strain and his head light and floaty.
Or maybe that was fear and worry and grief and exhaustion.
Or all of the above. No reason to limit himself to one form of crippling misery.
He’d spent most of his time on the three-day voyage gazing down at the sea speeding by, letting the slap of the waves against the hull toss spray into his face. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Corin. He could almost feel his arms around him. It didn’t do anything about the cold. The thought of diving off the side of the ship into the frigid, endless water left him even colder, and although he could still see the appeal…he couldn’t do it. Terror overwhelmed even his despair, his human instinct to live no matter what reasserting itself.
He’d also caught Jules watching him throughout the day and sometimes at night, too, as if the fellow genuinely cared.
That had touched him more than he expected.
Not that it made the constant rudeness and insults and complaints any more pleasant. Jules had been horrid aboard the ship, but upon coming ashore he’d become even worse, impossible though it might’ve seemed. He’d dragged his feet, looked around the dock, muttered imprecations under his breath—and over it—and finally mounted up only when Sig threatened to hogtie him over his mule.
And he still hadn’t stopped: “…going to end up offending the king, or committing some terrible faux pas. Really, it’d be better for all of us if you let me do the talking—”
At that, Aster’s severely frayed nerves snapped at last. He stopped Etallon and wheeled him around, nearly clipping someone’s giant basket of turnips. He glared at Jules, and something in his face must have been more intimidating than usual, because the herald’s flow of words stopped like he’d been silenced with magic. Sig raised one eyebrow and reined his horse to a halt.
“I’m the one being summoned back to court,” Aster said quietly, his voice somehow carrying over the din around them. “This has nothing to do with you, Jules. It’s not about Sig, either, really. He’s an instrument of another man’s will, either the king’s or Marellus’s or my father’s, it doesn’t matter. This is going to be awful and humiliating enough without some self-aggrandizing blowhard inserting himself into the proceedings. Do you understand?”
Jules’s mouth tightened, and he looked down, cheeks reddening. “I understand,” he said after a moment.
Sig said nothing, but the glance he shot at Jules said everything: a flash of pain and confusion and desire, gone almost before it could be seen. Aster’s heart sank even further, something he’d thought would be impossible. Sig claimed to want nothing but money, but not even he would be happy at the end of this.
Aster turned, nudged Etallon back into a walk, and set off for the palace again.
Another quarter hour of weaving their way through throngs of market-goers brought them out of the southern side of the city, through a quieter commercial district, and into the neighborhoods near to the palace, where the gentry and nobility had their townhouses and walled gardens. Bougainvillea in every color from cream to apricot to crimson to the deepest royal purple spilled over whitewashed walls, and broad, clean boulevards held far fewer passersby.
But few were still enough. A trio of gentlemen riding by paused, stared, and laughed as Aster and his companions passed. One of them spurred away, clattering off up the street. Two ladies leaned out of their carriage, one of whom Aster thought might be a friend of his brother’s. She twisted about and said something to her servants at the back of the carriage.
A moment later, a footman hopped down and bustled away.
A few would be more than enough, in fact.
Because by the time they rode through the temple plaza that occupied a huge space to the east of the palace, a small crowd had gathered: priests, ladies, gentlemen, and servants all cheek-by-jowl in their eagerness to see the show. The palace gates stood open as they always did; King Theobert believed in making himself accessible to his subjects. But the gates were far more heavily guarded than usual. Half the garrison had turned out to watch, apparently.
Fucking bloody fucking hell. This was a nightmare.
For one hopeless, desperate moment, Aster squeezed his eyes shut, hands clenched on Etallon’s reins, belly twisted into a knot. Corin. He needed Corin at his side, his strength and his confidence and his ability to make this entire mob slink away in terror with one look and one hand on his sword hilt.
Aster opened his eyes, ignoring the burning ache in his chest and the sting of gathering tears. His hood wouldn’t hide him now, and it’d only make him look ashamed.
