The Dragon's Devotion (Chronicles of Tournai Book 5)

by Antonia Aquilante

  The glint of a knife in the low light made Bastien’s eyes widen. A thief intent on taking his money with nothing more than his fists, he could have handled. But a man with a knife—and a second man, also armed, stepping out of the shadows behind the first—two men with knives, then, were a very different story. He’d never have expected to face even one, not in this part of Jumelle.

  He dropped into a wary, defensive stance. “If you want my money—”

  One of the men laughed and gestured with the knife. “We’re not after that, Lord Bastien.”

  Well, that was not what Bastien wanted to hear, and it brought up a lot of questions and disturbing possibilities. But he would have to think about them later. If he survived.

  A city guard patrol would come in handy about now.

  The first man lunged at him, and Bastien ducked away, but the attacker’s blade bit into his upper arm. The pain, sharp and quick, didn’t stop Bastien from moving. The two men had him cornered, but he did his best to stay well back from them. Where had all the people on this street gone? Yes, he’d been more focused on Corentin than anything else, and the lane was quiet, but he could really use a little help.

  Suddenly there was a shout. The two men turned, but before they could do anything—run or fight, Bastien couldn’t have guessed which—a ball of purple-tinged fire flew out of the shadows, followed quickly by another. One of the men dodged out of the way, but the other was too slow and the fire hit him. He dropped to the ground, struggling to put out his flaming clothing in a flurry of yells and curses.

  Bastien flattened himself to the wall, his mind whirling. What was happening? How was it even possible for flames to be flying through the air?

  The other man abandoned his compatriot and ran. Bastien lunged at him and got a handful of his cloak, but the man wrenched away, leaving the cloak in Bastien’s hand, and sprinted down the lane. A fireball flew after him but missed its target as he dodged around a corner. Bastien moved to go after him as Corentin stepped out of the shadows, face illuminated by the flames hovering above his hand. Shock stole Bastien’s breath and his words—his thoughts along with them—for a moment.

  “Are you all right?” Corentin asked. The flame winked out. “We need to get after him. Wait, are you bleeding?”

  Bastien shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. He was bleeding, but they did have to try to catch the man. Only he couldn’t quite think enough to do it.

  Corentin came closer, reaching for Bastien’s arm. “Let me see.”

  “No, you’re right,” Bastien said, finding his voice. Whatever Corentin had done and how he’d done it would have to wait until later. “We need to chase him. We need to know who he is.”

  Only they couldn’t. Bastien tried to move in the direction the man had gone, but Corentin had his arm, and a crowd had grown around them, people spilling out of buildings on the street or wandering from the busier street adjacent to gawk and question. Someone must have summoned the city guard too, because two uniformed men pounded up to them seconds later, only to stop suddenly, unsure perhaps what to do with him and Corentin and a man on the ground whose clothes were still smoldering.

  Bastien shot a look at Corentin—hoping to convey that he should keep his counsel about the attack—and approached the guardsmen. As soon as they found out who Bastien was, and therefore his relationship to the prince, they immediately summoned the royal guard. It wasn’t exactly procedure, or Bastien didn’t think so as he’d never had much contact with the city guard, but he wouldn’t complain.

  Loriot himself arrived not long after. By that time, the city guardsmen had secured the attacker whose clothing had caught fire, one of them standing over him where he sat hunched on the ground. The second guardsman had gone after the other attacker after hearing Bastien’s description and the direction in which the man had run off. Bastien doubted they’d find him after so long, but he was grateful for the effort. They’d taken Bastien’s word that the men had attacked him and that he and Corentin had defended themselves, but kept them there while waiting for the royal guard to arrive. There were privileges to being an earl and maternal cousin to the prince, but they only went so far.

  “Lord Bastien, Master Corentin,” Loriot said. His gaze seemed to take in the situation at a glance. “Are you all right, my lord?”

  “We had a scare, but we’re fine. Thank you, Captain.”

  Bastien ignored Corentin’s narrow-eyed look. Corentin had whipped out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound on Bastien’s arm, which had hurt more than the actual infliction of it, but had taken no heed of Bastien’s protests, just as he didn’t seem to believe Bastien’s assertion now.

  “I can’t get a good look at his wound in the dark,” Corentin said. “It doesn’t seem serious, but we should have it checked.”

  “Of course. Come with me.” Loriot gestured toward the end of the lane. A carriage waited there, at the intersection with the larger street, as there was no room for it to turn in. “We’ll go up to the palace. Jadis can examine you, and we can talk about what happened.”

  Bastien wanted to argue. His only desire was to return to Corentin’s cozy rooms and the nest they’d made of the bed there. Why had they come out at all? Surely he couldn’t have been that hungry.

  But he couldn’t argue. Loriot was doing his job. And someone had just tried to kill him.

  Bastien acquiesced with all the grace he could muster. At least Corentin was coming with him. True they were about to be questioned while the head of the royal healers poked at Bastien’s arm, but Corentin would be there. It would have been shocking how much Bastien needed his presence if he had any capacity for shock left that night.

  Corentin nudged him gently toward the waiting carriage while Loriot turned to the city guard and the royal guards he’d brought with him. His instructions to them—to take the man into custody, to disperse the crowd, to continue the search for the other man—floated over to Bastien as Corentin guided him to the carriage and insisted on helping him inside. He wanted to go back to hear what Loriot was saying, what he was ordering the guards to do, but Corentin was implacable.

  He settled in the small carriage with Corentin close beside him. The heat of Corentin’s body burned into him through their clothing, and Bastien suppressed a shiver—it was so good, and the fact that it was Corentin beside him felt even better.

  Still. Corentin didn’t have to coddle him quite so much. “I really am all right. There’s no need to treat me like glass.”

  Corentin slid an arm around him. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly. “Indulge me. You have no idea how scared I was when I realized what had become of you.”

  Bastien wasn’t sure what to say, but he nodded and allowed Corentin to hug him close. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to be held. He let out a long breath. “What did you do back there? I’ve never heard of any Talent that allows someone to throw fire.”

  Corentin went utterly still against Bastien, but he didn’t let go. “We also should talk about why someone was trying to kill you.”

  Bastien stilled in the act of turning to look at Corentin, and they remained that way for a long moment. Bastien had been trying not to think about why someone might want him dead, especially since the only reason he could imagine was that a man had sent him a letter telling him of a horrible crime. Would whoever had killed his parents come after Bastien? And what could he tell Corentin? “All right,” he said slowly. “We’ll talk.”

  Loriot approached the carriage, but instead of opening the door and joining them, he swung up beside the driver, and the carriage started moving.

  “After?” Bastien asked Corentin. He needed to figure out what he could tell him. Out of nowhere, the need to not lie to Corentin swamped Bastien. But they were meant to be keeping what had happened secret.

  “Yes, after,” Corentin agreed readily. “You need to see a healer.”

  Bastien nodded, glad for the reprieve even if it did involve a visit to Jadis an
d an interview with Loriot. He let his head fall to Corentin’s shoulder. “We should have stayed in bed.”

  Corentin tugged him a little closer without bumping his injured arm. “I won’t argue with that.”

  AT THE PALACE, Loriot led Bastien and Corentin through quiet corridors to the healers’ domain. Jadis met them there and ushered them into an examination room. He didn’t ask Corentin to remain outside, which Bastien thought was all to the good since he doubted Corentin would have, not without strenuous argument.

  Jadis made quick work of examining the wound in Bastien’s arm and cleaning it. Bastien tried to hide his wince. Now that he could see Corentin in decent lighting, he could easily tell how worried he was. He had the urge to take Corentin’s hand and reassure him but couldn’t in front of Jadis and Loriot, who was already watching them far too closely.

  “Not as bad as it could have been,” Jadis pronounced after a few minutes. “I think your cloak must have blocked some of it.”

  “I tried to get out of the way,” Bastien said, rather inanely because who would just stand there and let someone stab them?

  Jadis only nodded. “I’ll speed the healing and bandage it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jadis put his hand over Bastien’s wound, and Bastien looked away, his gaze finding Corentin across the small room. Corentin latched onto Bastien’s gaze, and Bastien found himself unable to look away, Corentin’s violet eyes burning into him. Little of the tension had eased from Corentin’s frame, and Bastien was struck again by the urge to take his hand, to bring him closer and try to soothe. He wished he could let himself.

  Before Bastien knew it, Jadis had finished his healing, spread something cool over the half-healed wound, and bandaged it. Bastien’s gaze was only wrenched away from Corentin when Philip strode into the room, Amory a step behind him. Neither was dressed formally, so it must have been a rare quiet evening for them. Bastien hated to have interrupted it; they didn’t have many moments to themselves. He stood and bowed along with the others.

  “Are you all right?” Philip asked, his gaze sweeping over the scene in front of him, pausing for a second on Corentin, before returning to Bastien. Jadis slipped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “I’m fine. Only a scratch. Thanks to Corentin,” Bastien added, somehow desperate to show how grateful he was and to give Philip a reason for Corentin to be there. Of course if he told Philip he and Corentin were lovers, that would likely be enough. But he couldn’t, could he? Not when there couldn’t be anything more between them, as much as he was beginning to wish otherwise. “I doubt I could have managed unarmed against two men with knives.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Philip said, somewhere between a request and an order.

  Loriot was still there, and he would want to know everything anyway. Bastien could just tell it once. Corentin took a step closer to him, perhaps sensing that Bastien needed the support. As much as he was trying to be strong and stoic, Bastien was beginning to quake at the thought that someone wanted him dead.

  He resolutely pushed aside the panic that wanted to well up within him and told the others what happened. The room was utterly silent while he did, and Bastien could feel the force of their stares boring into him, though he focused on Philip. Still, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Corentin’s fist clench when he remarked that they hadn’t been trying to rob him. The urge to reach out to Corentin overwhelmed him once more. Bastien shifted a fraction closer to him.

  When he spoke of Corentin’s rescue—which was certainly what it had been—he said only that Corentin had used his Talent. He had questions for Corentin about it, but he’d seen Corentin’s reluctance to speak, and he wouldn’t put him in a position to do so in front of others, not if he could avoid it. Philip and Loriot glanced at Corentin but didn’t interrupt.

  After Bastien finished, Loriot said, “Master Corentin, can you tell us what happened from your perspective? What did you see?”

  Corentin tensed slightly at Bastien’s side, but his expression never changed. “I’d forgotten my gloves in the eating house, so I went back to retrieve them while Bastien stayed outside. When I returned, he was being attacked. They had knives.”

  Corentin’s voice hitched just slightly on those words, and Bastien leaned closer still, letting his arm brush against Corentin’s. A faint tremor went through Corentin at the contact.

  “We weren’t armed,” Corentin continued. “We were only going a short distance from my rooms to the eating house, and I’ve always found it to be a safe district.”

  “It is,” Loriot said with a glance at Philip. “Aside from rowdy students causing a bit of trouble at times, there’s little crime in that district.”

  Corentin nodded. “In any case, we weren’t armed and they were, so I used my Talent. It seemed the most expedient way of dealing with the situation.”

  “And I, for one, am grateful you did,” Bastien said quickly. Even if he was curious about exactly how Corentin had done it.

  “We all are,” Philip said with a nod in Corentin’s direction. “You didn’t see anything that would identify the one who ran away? Either of you?”

  Bastien let out a long breath and shoved a hand through his hair. “About my height, both of them. The one who ran was bulkier, more muscular. Dark hair, I think. It was too dim in that part of the lane to see anything else. Was it darker than when we went into the eating house?”

  “I didn’t notice, but I don’t know how it could have been. The sun had already set when we went out.” Corentin paused as if thinking about it but then added, “As for the man, dark hair, yes. But he avoided the light as he ran, I think, so it was difficult to tell exactly.”

  “And nothing to show us who might have sent them?” Philip asked. “I think we’re all assuming the reason they were sent.”

  Bastien closed his eyes, blocking out Philip’s grim expression, before nodding. There was only one reason someone might want to do him harm, even if the thought of it terrified and angered him in equal measure. “That was my assumption, yes.”

  “Lord Marcus will question the one we took prisoner. He’ll get all he can, Your Highness,” Loriot said.

  “I know he will.” Philip’s voice was immeasurably weary and worried. Amory took his hand. Bastien actually ached to take Corentin’s, but he did his best to smother the feeling—what he and Corentin had was not what Philip had with Amory. “I’m worried that this happened in the first place. It means they know.”

  “Excuse me, Your Highness,” Corentin said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what any of you are talking about, nor do I know why someone would want to kill Bastien.”

  The room went silent as Philip stared at Corentin, his gaze blatantly assessing. Had Philip, Amory, and Loriot forgotten Corentin’s presence? Forgotten that someone was among them who didn’t know? Bastien hadn’t, though he also hadn’t brought anyone’s attention to it. He wanted Corentin at his side too much.

  “Bastien, do you trust Master Corentin?”

  Philip’s question left Bastien speechless, floundering for an answer. For a reason for Philip to ask the question.

  “Savarin trusts him,” Loriot said, and they all turned to look at him. “I don’t know what you and Savarin spoke of, Master Corentin—he wouldn’t share with me—but he trusts you.”

  Corentin looked as bewildered as Bastien felt.

  It was that as much as anything else that caused Bastien to find his voice. “Yes, I trust him. With my life, obviously.”

  With his heart too, a small voice whispered. He ignored it.

  Philip nodded, his expression contemplative. He looked to Amory, and the two stared into each other’s eyes, sharing a silent conversation, one that Bastien couldn’t follow but supposed must be common among devoted couples. He remembered his mother and father sharing those speaking looks, knowing exactly what the other thought with only a glance exchanged. He wanted to have that depth of connection with someone. />
  Corentin brushed lightly against his side. Bastien looked at him to find Corentin staring at Philip and Amory too, brows drawn together over his vibrant eyes. Bastien took the chance while everyone was focused on Philip and Amory to tangle his fingers briefly with Corentin’s, squeezing and releasing them.

  At that moment, Philip turned back, and Bastien froze, unsure if he’d seen. Philip wouldn’t care, Bastien knew that, but the action, here, now, wasn’t at all appropriate. He put a hair’s breadth of space between him and Corentin; it should have been more, but he couldn’t quite make himself move farther away. Philip seemed to come to some sort of decision.

  “If you trust him, trust his discretion, then tell him.”

  Bastien’s mouth dropped open. “Philip—Your Highness, we were meant to keep this matter within the family.”

  “Someone tried to kill you tonight, Bastien, and I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t try again after coming so far.”

  Bastien shivered, a chill racing down his spine at Philip’s words. He wished he could deny they were true. Corentin shifted beside him, closing the minuscule distance between them again. “Yes, but—”

  “Come outside in the hall and speak with me privately.” Philip opened the door without waiting for a response and stepped out, leaving Bastien no choice but to follow. A glance at Corentin showed him looking no less perplexed than he had a few moments ago, but Bastien could do nothing about that at this point. He walked out into the hall and closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with Philip.

  “Philip, you said yourself that we needed to keep the investigation quiet,” Bastien said immediately, keeping his voice down despite the empty corridor. “That we couldn’t let the possibility there was an assassination get out.”

  “Is allowing you to tell Master Corentin going to lead to everyone knowing?” Philip asked. “You said you trust him.”

  “I do,” Bastien hurried to say. “I do trust him, but he isn’t family. You’re the one who said—”