Fuck it. Aster was a Cezanne, a gentleman, a knight, and he’d done nothing wrong.
He sat up straight in the saddle and threw back the hood, lifting his chin and staring out over the heads of the whispering, giggling crowd as if he couldn’t even see them.
Aster rode through the palace gates with his head held high, Sig and Jules following in his wake. He paid no attention to anyone but the captain of the guard at the gate, whom he favored with a lordly nod. He could do this with only Sig and Jules to back him up. He didn’t need anyone else’s courage to bolster his own. He could face the king, and his parents, and Marellus, and Dericort, and every sneering, jeering courtier in the kingdom, and a future as a laughingstock married to an insignificant soldier who didn’t love or even want him, and the man he loved far away and forgetting all about him and not caring enough in the first place to come with him now.
His hands shook and his lungs couldn’t quite fill. Everything went a little numb around the edges, blurry and dim.
But he rode on until they reached the courtyard where the king’s guests could leave their horses, and he dismounted, and he thought he probably gave some answer to the senior servant who greeted him, telling him that Sig and Jules were with him. They’d already made themselves as clean and neat as possible before disembarking, so they didn’t need to stop.
The palace corridors held more satin-clad lords and ladies, more servants, more whispers, the bows and greetings of grinning acquaintances, a gauntlet to be run. Sweat broke out on Aster’s forehead and trickled down his spine as he bowed and murmured replies, as he forced one foot in front of the other.
“It’s Lord Aster,” someone said, and another replied, “Which one do you think he’ll marry?” and yet a third muttered, “Depends on whether he wants to be able to walk the next day, I suppose,” and then a series of titters followed Aster and his burning cheeks down the hall.
The din of voices grew louder as he approached the throne room. A large hall served as an antechamber, with a great carved door in between. They stopped a few feet away under the glittering eyes of yet another group of lords and petitioners and officials. Aster stared straight ahead. He couldn’t feel his hands and feet. Two liveried officers of the court at the door leaned in and spoke to their escort, and then one of them nodded and stepped through into the throne room.
Sig moved to stand by Aster’s side, and Aster glanced up to find Sig gazing down at him with more steady, serious sympathy in his rugged face than Aster would’ve thought him capable of. He did his best to smile, but he could barely manage a twitch of the lips.
“If it please Your Majesty!” came from the throne room, the officer’s sonorous voice ringing and echoing. “Sir Sigmund, a knight of this realm, requests an audience as Lord Aster of Cezanne’s escort!”
The throne room instantly burst into an ear-splitting hubbub. “Fuck,” Sig said, drawing a stern look from the servant who’d brought them here. “I didn’t think they’d care this much.”
Aster’s vision went dim, fading in and out in big spots. Oh, God, he’d faint, right here in front of everyone.
And then distant screaming cut through the noise of the court. Shouts of alarm, cries of fear and awe, and…
“Did someone say a dragon?” Sig demanded. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
Heedless of protocol orthe people in his way, Aster shoved his way past the distracted ceremonial guards. The palace had been built around an enormous central courtyard garden, and even larger, gilded double doors opened onto it from the throne room, allowing in the air and the sunshine. No one stopped Aster as he sprinted across the throne room toward the courtyard. They were all either running away or running to the doors themselves to see what was going on.
Aster skidded to a stop on the expanse of marble just outside the door above a broad set of shallow steps leading down into the courtyard. The sun blinded him for a moment, reflecting off of those steps and the glittering white gravel paths. A dreadful din assaulted him, the shrieks of a whole garden full of panicking courtiers and servants. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared up, chest so tight he could hardly breathe.
A shadow passed over the garden and an ear-splitting roar shook the air.
But he couldn’t see…
And then he saw. Circling in from the north and silhouetted against the sun, there was the unmistakable shape of giant bat-like wings, a long tail, and a graceful neck and massive horned head.
A dragon.
Aster’s heart stopped, thudded agonizingly, and then galloped into motion again.
Corin. It had to be Corin. Here for him? He couldn’t believe it. If he believed it, he might hope. No, he had to have some other reason for returning, didn’t he?
Corin wheeled in the air, his shadow passing over the courtyard twice more, great wings flapping and blowing Aster’s hair about as he swooped down. The roses bowed their bright blooms, hats flew away, and more cries rose up as everyone who’d been taking the air in the garden scattered and ran like a kicked anthill.
Aster hadn’t understood why he’d been circling, but now he did: Corin had to keep terrifying them until they got the hell out of the way and left him a clear area to land.
Sig and Jules both ran up beside him, Sig shouldering a velvet-clad gentleman aside to make room.
“Fucking shit,” Sig said. “What a goddamn asshole. He could’ve saved me the trouble by simply coming with us in the first place. He’s paying me back for our passage on that ship. And the trumpet, Jules.”
Jules muttered something that sounded like, “Oh my God, it worked.”
But Aster didn’t care enough to ask what the hell that meant. He could only gaze up, frozen and breathless. The others might be afraid. He wasn’t—or if he did have any fear, it was that he’d run to Corin and fling himself on him and weep and beg as soon as he touched the ground. Or break his nose and scream at him for letting him go, irrational as that might be.
Perhaps both.
