Victory—true victory—is humble, he told himself. Just the knowledge that he had led the force that ended the dragons’ last and greatest threat against the goddess was enough. Even if it had been the biggest, most lavish celebration in Camnipol’s long history, it wouldn’t have been as glorious as the truth. There was even a beauty in this exhaustion. This wasn’t the paper-thin remnant of a third-pressing army celebrating that it had slaughtered a few dozen religious zealots in a swamp. It was the proof of how much the empire had pushed itself in the name of the Righteous Servant. All of Antea was like a warrior kneeling on the battlefield with the dead enemy all around. It was easier to see a nobility in the greyness when he thought of it that way.
At the entrance to the royal quarter, Prince Aster waited. He was dressed splendidly, and the handful of lords and nobles who’d stayed in the capital through winter stood with him. There were fewer of them, and many of the great faces he’d known growing up were missing. Either suborned and corrupted by the plots of the Timzinae or scattered to the corners of the vastly expanded empire. The few that remained stood like watchmen in a tower, a forest of servant-held torches warming the air around them and making a little circle of gold in the darkness of the city.
The prince came forward. In the time Geder had been gone, he’d grown a little fluffy peach-fuzz moustache. It made him look like a puppy. Geder could see the boy’s anxiety and knew him well enough to recognize its meaning. A dismissive comment from him now—or even a false compliment—would devastate the prince. Geder felt a smile burgeoning and bit his cheek to force it back as he knelt.
“Lord Regent Palliako,” the prince said. “We welcome your return.”
“My prince, you honor me,” Geder said. “The enemy of the Severed Throne is defeated.”
There was a round of applause, noble palms banging together to fill the air between leafless trees and dry fountains. And above them, the Kingspire rose, higher, it seemed, than the clouds. For a moment, it reminded Geder of the green blades Basrahip and his men had carried against the apostate, as if the heavens had leaned down with one and cut the city in half, the mist rising out of the great wound of the Division like milky blood.
With the parade complete, the men scattered. One of the low halls was ready for them, ham and beer and roasted fowl, singers and cunning men and perhaps some of their families come to welcome the unlikely warriors home. Many would go, and others would scamper back to their homes—their children, their parents, their wives. Aster drew Geder to a black carriage with gold bunting and a team of pale horses. The servants helped them inside, and the carriage lurched off, wheels and hoofs clattering. Aster let himself sink back against the cushions and grin. For the first time since he’d left, Geder felt something like relief.
“You did it,” Aster said. “You found the apostate.”
“We did,” Geder said. “Killed him where he stood. It was mostly Basrahip, though.”
“You always say that,” Aster said. “This was it. It’s over now.”
“Not totally over,” Geder said. “We still have two armies in the field, after all. But yes. With the apostate gone, the dragons’ power is broken. Basrahip said it will be like light pouring through the fabric of the world until everything’s… right.”
Geder felt a blush rising in his cheeks, called up by the admiration in Aster’s eyes. The prince swallowed and grinned. “You’ll be remembered as the greatest hero in history, Geder. You know that.”
“I probably won’t be remembered at all,” Geder said. “I didn’t really do anything that someone else wouldn’t have done in my place. I’m not special.”
“You are,” Aster said. “You know that.”
Geder let the smile he’d been holding back come through. He was back. He was home. He had Aster with him, and the carriage was warm, and he wasn’t expected to lead an army or sleep in a tent. There was pride, yes. And there was a glow that came from the young prince’s admiration. And more than anything else, there was a relief that it was all finally over.
“We’ll need to talk soon about how to prepare for your coronation,” he said. “Not right away, of course, but in the next two years. Maybe three. You’ll be old enough to take the crown. All I wanted was to keep the empire strong until it was yours. It’s got more than twice the holdings it had. The Timzinae are broken. The goddess has come back to the world and beaten her enemies. I think you’ll be the first king to rule in peace… maybe ever. You’re the one they’ll remember. Not me.”
The carriage lurched around a corner. There were tears in Aster’s eyes. “It’s not going to be right. Not without you.”
Geder pretended to wave the comment away, but in fact it left his heart feeling warmer for the first time since he’d left. And maybe in some expanse of time before that. “I won’t be gone. I only won’t be Lord Regent. No call for a regent when you have a king.”
“Still,” Aster said. Geder thought about taking the boy’s hand, then didn’t. Aster was almost a man now, and too old for taking comfort in hand-holding. So was Geder, for that.
The carriage stopped at the Fraternity of the Great Bear. The carved animal that announced the place was coated in ice, as if the weeks of winter had greyed its pelt with age and weariness. With the precedence of both prince and Lord Regent, there was no one closer to the great doors. Geder and Aster entered the great hall together. Within, the air was warm and fragrant with the smoke of pine and pipe. The silk tapestries were lit by cut-crystal lanterns. Great chains of gold and silver glittered along the walls. A servant girl in a uniform that was just revealing enough to be pleasant but not so much as to provoke offered them both mugs of wine. Aster caught Geder’s eye as if asking permission before he took it. Geder smiled. He didn’t mind. A little mulled wine never hurt anyone.
The others came in afterward, men of the great families laughing and joking. They stopped at the table Geder and Aster had claimed and paid their respects. A Dartinae woman with a viol took her place in one of the niches at the corner of the hall and began playing soft music, her glowing eyes darkening when she closed them in concentration or ecstasy. Geder found himself watching her, appreciating the beauty of her music, of her hands. Of the gentle swell of her breasts. Only that made him think of Cithrin, and he turned away. Better to be distracted than think too much of her again.
The patriarch of one of the minor houses of Asterilhold lifted to prominence by the recent tumult was reciting a lengthy poem. It appeared to be about the nobility and burdens of empire, which Geder thought was perhaps a little obvious and self-serving. He wondered what would happen if he questioned the man about his sincerity with Basrahip present. It would be interesting to know if the old man actually meant all he said, or if he was just trying to curry favor. Or both.
Geder craned his neck. Even though the winter court was thinly attended, anyone who remained in the city was here. There were enough that the tables were filled, the halls crowded. It didn’t feel as thin now, except for the early darkness at the windows and the chill that even the fires and braziers couldn’t quite dispel. It took him some time to find Basrahip among the bodies and motion, despite the priest’s size. But yes, there he was, his head canted forward, listening to someone. To Canl Daskellin, in fact.
The Baron of Watermarch and the high priest of the goddess were in an alcove. Daskellin was gesturing as he spoke, his hands making low smoothing gestures, his head shaking in a constant, barely perceptible no. The man’s skin, usually as dark as a Timzinae’s scales, had an ashen cast. Geder felt a tightening at the back of his neck. He rose, the poet forgotten, and made his way through the crowd. Aster followed in his wake. When he was perhaps half a dozen steps away, Daskellin glanced over, and his face went greyer.