Chapter 5 Homecoming
HOMECOMING
CEDRIC
Kingshelm’s typically golden glow had faded into the soft blue hue of twilight as Cedric and Tristan rode through the city toward King’s Keep. There was a bite in the air—the first sign of autumn’s long transition to the impending winter.
The streets bustled with activity. Vendors lined the main thoroughfare, their carts laden with trinkets.
Minstrels played jaunty tunes while children danced.
Despite the complicated sentiment that surrounded the Arcanian delegation’s arrival, it was clear that Kingshelm would take any excuse they could for merriment.
The welcome celebration had spilled far beyond the palace gates.
Tristan glanced at Cedric, his face half-lit by the setting sun. “All this for us? They really shouldn’t have,” he quipped, flicking the reins of his horse.
“Once again, you think too highly of yourself.”
“Perhaps you simply think too little of me,” Tristan sniffed.
“Would only that I could not think of you at all,” Cedric said with a smirk.
Tristan barked a laugh, clapping a hand over his heart. “Such sharp words for your best friend. Do you think Lord Church has his tongue equally sharpened for us? I can’t imagine he’ll be too pleased at the hour of our arrival.”
Cedric grimaced. “And whose fault is that? Am I the one who waylaid us in every town we stopped in on the way back?” A dull throb pulsed in his chest, faint but persistent, and growing stronger the closer they got to the palace.
He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the feeling. They’d been riding hard for a long time. Perhaps it was simply the effect of the exhaustion blearing his eyes or the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
Tristan’s blue eyes, on the other hand, were clear, bright.
Twinkling, even. “Now, now. I don’t think the fair women of Goldenvale would appreciate you flinging blame at them.
They cannot help being the beautiful distractions that they are.
” He raked his gaze up and down Cedric, pursing his lips to one side.
“Well, distractions for some of us, at any rate.”
Cedric rolled his eyes, scratching at the stubble growing over his jaw. “Forgive me for not finding the wiles of Miss Sabrina of The Walking Goat quite as enchanting as you.”
“You are forgiven. Far be it from me to dissuade you from this self-imposed celibacy act of yours. I was starting to get mighty sick of always coming in second to your handsome scarred face.”
“We both have scars, Tristan.”
“Yes, but yours is far sexier than mine. Lip beats cheek every time.” Tristan sighed melodramatically, touching a gloved hand to the line carved into the skin below his left eye.
“Sabrina seemed to like your scar just fine.”
Tristan grinned rakishly. “That she did.”
Cobblestones clattered beneath their horses’ hooves as the pair made their way deeper into the city, the busy central streets giving way to crooked alleys and cracked stone walls. Crossing a small footbridge, Cedric tugged gently on the reins, slowing his horse and dismounting in one easy movement.
“You’re stopping? What—”
“Just need to stretch my legs,” Cedric said, giving his horse a gentle pat on the nose before handing the reins to Tristan. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Tristan shook his head. “You and the Walk. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Cedric shrugged. “I’m a creature of habit.”
“You’re fucking soft is what you are,” Tristan called after him, but Cedric was already walking away.
“It’s him!”
A young boy of perhaps ten, his cheeks smudged with dirt, called out from the doorway of one of the Walk’s many ramshackle homes.
He swept his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes as he ran onto the street, bare feet slapping against the stone.
He waved his arms wildly, drawing the attention of a group of children playing together a few houses down.
Soon, the entire gang was bounding toward Cedric, whose mouth stretched into a broad grin as one particularly petite little girl skidded to a stop in front of him, tangled red ringlets bouncing.
Staring up at him with wide brown eyes, she lifted her hand in a tentative wave. “Hello, Sir Victor.”
“Hello yourself,” Cedric replied, drawing his hand to his waistband and unlatching his coin purse from where it was tied at his belt.
The little girl froze as Cedric pulled out a copper coin and placed it in her palm.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
She didn’t answer him, just turned the coin over and over between her fingers.
“Her name is Leia, sir,” said the first boy, coming up next to her and putting his arms around her shoulder.
“And yours is . . . Jack, right?” Cedric plucked another coin from the purse and offered it to the boy.
Jack’s eyes went wide as he took it. “That’s right, sir. Good memory you have there.”
Cedric smiled. “Yes, well, I remember you, Jack. I’ve seen you out here, watching out for the little ones.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and inclined his chin at Leia.
Jack looked away, a shy smile of his own curving up his young face. “I try my best, sir.”
“You do a good job. And it’s my job to know who all the protectors of the realm are.”
Jack straightened his spine as though he’d just been knighted on the spot. The other children fanned out around them, cautiousness and perhaps a bit of wonder on their faces as they held their hands aloft.
A soft laugh emerged from behind Cedric, and he turned his head to see a grinning Tristan waiting at the top of the street, holding both horses by the reins. “You’re going to bankrupt yourself one copper at a time, Ric.”
Cedric placed the last of his coins into the hands of a pair of green-eyed twins, then shooed the whole lot of them off. “We’re back now,” he said with a shrug. “What use have I for it?”
Tristan’s smirk softened into something resembling approval as he handed the reins back to his friend.
“I told you I’d only be a moment,” Cedric said. The knights led their horses back to the main road before remounting. “You didn’t have to follow me.”
“And miss that classic display from Lord Victor Cedric Thorne, the knight with a heart bigger than his purse? I think not.”
Cedric laughed but cut himself off as that dull throbbing in his chest resumed, stronger than it was before. Less like a pulse and more like a . . .
Halting his horse, he frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked.
“I—Nothing.” He sucked in a slow breath, resisting the urge to rub at his chest. “Perhaps I am just uneasy about tonight.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. The golden boy is still unused to being on the receiving end of Lord Church’s ire. Lucky for you, I happen to be an expert, so fear not, my friend. You’ll get through this.”
As if providing their commentary on the reason for said ire, the cathedral bells tolled in the distance.
“Stars a-fucking-bove,” Tristan muttered. “If we were late before . . .” He flicked his reins and urged his horse into a trot, before calling back to Cedric over his shoulder. “Come on then, Sir Bleeding Heart. The ball is beginning.”
They quickly made their way to the palace. Cedric felt his chest pull tight as they passed through the gates, which shone like a polished coin as they swung open to welcome the returning Victor of Havensreach.
Music and laughter filtered into the night air from the open doors of the main building, and Cedric clenched his jaw.
He’d always known there was a stark difference in the state of the palace and surrounding neighborhoods as compared to other parts of the city.
But tonight, having come directly from the Walk, the contrast was highlighted to an almost unbearable degree.
“This city needs more than a ball,” he muttered as he and Tristan stabled their horses and headed inside.
Tristan clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, definitely. But one thing at a time, eh? Maybe we start with washing the dirt off your face and getting rid of the, uh”—he made a show of sniffing at Cedric—“horse smell.”
Cedric snorted. “You’re one to talk, friend.”
Tristan opened his mouth, undoubtedly another quip on that tongue, but two flustered attendants intercepted them.
“There you are!” exclaimed one of them, a tawny-skinned man with dark hair shorn close to his scalp. “You’re late.”
“Lord Church has been demanding we locate you,” added the woman, frizzy blonde hair spilling out from what Cedric assumed had once been a neatly plaited braid.
“We’ve been searching everywhere, haven’t we, Gregor?
” She looked to her companion before returning her gaze to Cedric.
“And just look at the state of you!” Her voice rose in both volume and pitch with every word.
Cedric cringed. “Our apologies, we—”
“—smell worse than a couple of hogs,” Tristan interjected.
“Yes, Addison, we are aware. Sorry and apologies and regrets and all that. Just give us a few minutes to clean up. I promise we’ll be along before the council can backpedal on their decision to let the Arcanians in.
” He winked at Cedric before giving an irritated Gregor his prize-winningest smile.
“Well, our fair Lord Victor will be. I, myself, could use a nibble before facing a ballroom full of nobles. Accompany me to the kitchens first, won’t you? ”
“There’s food at the ball,” Gregor replied drily, his mouth twisting, but Cedric didn’t miss the way his cheeks flushed. With a short bow to Cedric, a nod to Addison, and a rather curt gesture indicating Tristan should follow, he spun on his heels and strode away.
With a shake of his head at his incorrigible friend, Cedric trudged off toward his quarters, Addison trailing close behind. By the time they reached his chambers, she was already pulling at the straps of Cedric’s armor, unbuckling his vambraces before he’d even entered the room.
Fortunately, the travel armor that Cedric wore was far less cumbersome to don and to remove than his plate mail, and Addison was a practiced hand. She shucked off the rest easily, leaving him with a few more well-deserved admonitions about just how late he was before shutting the door.
Cedric exhaled, then glanced around the bedroom with appreciation.
Of all the many, many things he heartily disliked about being the Victor of Havensreach, he would admit that being assigned these quarters—and, more importantly, the private bathing chamber that came with them—was something he could appreciate.
Unlike most of the palace, the room was not particularly fancy. There was a small washbasin against the wall by the door, a plain mirror hung above it along with a shelf that hosted a lineup of scents and soaps. A few simple sconces were lit on the walls, casting a warm glow through the space.
But it was the elusive mana-powered shower in the center of the chamber that had Cedric silently giving thanks to the celestials. He touched a finger to his token, whispering an ancient word that cued the flow of warm water from the manastone hanging from the ceiling.
Stripping off his doublet and tunic, Cedric gently removed his token and set it in a jewelry dish by the washbasin with a clink. Then, he stepped beneath the stream, letting it wash away the dust and grime of the road.
His thoughts strayed to Tristan and the cold barracks bath he was likely subjecting himself to at this same moment.
No wonder he’d wanted to delay. Cedric could almost hear Tristan’s yelp of displeasure as he dipped a toe into the icy bathwater.
Maybe if he was extra nice during their kitchen detour, Gregor would give him a hot kettle to warm it.
Water sluicing down his body, Cedric chuckled. He scrubbed at his face, allowing himself just a few more minutes to linger under the stream before getting out.
With a clean towel wrapped around his waist, he returned to the washbasin and stared into the mirror that hung above it. “Here we go,” he told his reflection.
He smoothed his hair away from his face, picking up the blade that sat on the counter and bringing it to his jaw. With careful sweeps, he shaved away his scruff, wiping away the final sign of the days of travel.
Four hells, he wished he had time to rest. He wished for many things, actually. That he had left Paideus earlier, given how fruitless the trip had turned out to be. That he hadn’t let Tristan talk him into spending an extra night in Goldenvale. That he didn’t have to take part in this circus.
Cedric’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the basin. His breath caught, that strange feeling in his chest surging once more.
It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was deep, but not sharp. Like that tether inside him, previously loose and unanchored, had hooked on a wire. He could feel it threading through his ribs, pulling, twisting—tugging. It almost felt like . . .
But no.
That was impossible.
It was the stress of his circumstances, the long days of travel. And the fact that Tenny would surely be at the celebration.
He didn’t know why the thought made him feel queasy.
No, that wasn’t true. He did know. And that queasiness only increased as guilt layered on top of his reticence to see her.
He should have been excited. Overjoyed, really, to be seeing his oldest friend again after weeks away.
But Lord Church’s final words to him before he left were playing on a loop in his mind.
And even if Tenny hadn’t said anything to him herself, Cedric knew better than to think that her father hadn’t spoken to her about it—about Cedric’s intentions.
Or at least what Lord Church so clearly hoped Cedric’s intentions might be.
He could so clearly envision the questions that would be waiting in her eyes.
So, yes, that pulsing, pulling feeling. It had to be his nervousness over what awaited him tonight. That was all it could be.
Cedric shook his head, droplets of water flecking the mirror.
“Get it together, Thorne,” he muttered. He went to retrieve his token from the jewelry dish, his lips pursing as he looked at the simple silver ring laying underneath.
He seldom wore it for fear of misplacing it, but Cedric supposed that tonight was as good a night as any for a little extra luck.
He slipped it onto his pointer finger and, with a forceful exhale, exited into the bedroom to finish getting dressed.
It was time, and Cedric Thorne had a role to play.