Page 41 of Heir of Autumn
Satchel smirked. “And you haven’t even been inside yet.”
It had escaped me somehow, that this was Satchel’s second trip to this part of the Verdance. Sylvain had been kind enough to bring him along on his last visit to discuss the Withering with the court alchemists. I remembered being jealous at the time, but also acknowledged that Satchel of all people deserved a quick vacation in his home realm.
This was definitely worth the wait. Every tree lining the boulevard rustled as we passed, as if in recognition, to welcome their beloved prince. But they weren’t sentient, only responding to his power, delivering streams of leaves to contribute to a last-minute addition to his outfit.
I held my breath as the leaves gathered around his shoulders like pauldrons, like armor. I gasped when more of them spilled down his back, forming a long, imposing cloak. And the whole time, Sylvain never skipped a beat, never paused his steps.
The cloak rippled behind him as he walked, billowing like great wings. A golden angel, a noble hawk, a faerie king. He’d never looked so regal, so handsome.
He stopped walking, and at last the cloak settled behind him. He nodded at me, then did a slow twirl. “How do I look?”
I noticed that the cloak really was just that — a cape that draped from his shoulders all the way down his back, and nothing more. “Um, Sylvain? It’s dramatic, and stately, and I love it. But where’s your shirt?”
“You sound like Mother.” Sylvain frowned and gestured at his bare chest, his chiseled abs. “This is as far as I’m willing to go. These are my princely vestments.”
“Well, it’s not like I mind, exactly,” I said, hooking my finger into the waistband of his trousers. “It leaves little to the imagination, but I like how it emphasizes your, ah, assets.”
He flexed his muscles, raised his chin with pride. “Thank you.”
Satchel groaned. “Could the two of you be disgusting and grope-y with each other later, please? We’ve got a whole palace to explore, and you don’t keep a queen waiting.”
“Right, right,” Sylvain said, clearing his throat.
He extended his index finger, rotating his hand at the wrist in a circular motion. I’d seen this trick a dozen times, how he manifested his circlet. All those other times, he’d used it to conjure a portal to the Verdance, taking us straight from Earth to the privacy of his grotto. I’d never actually seen him wear it.
The golden circlet materialized with a metallic clink. It sparkled as Sylvain tossed it in the air. He caught it in one hand, then offered it to me. I blinked, unsure of what to do. With his free hand, he pointed toward the top of his head.
“Put it on me, if you’d be so kind. Please, and thank you.”
“Oh,” I said, almost glad that I had no other words to follow because I knew I’d fumble and stutter them all on the way out.
My heart thumped. I could hear my pulse in my ears. Why was this so frightening and exciting for me? When Aphrodite had gifted me her necklace, Sylvain had put it around my neck without so much as a thought. How was this any different?
Sylvain bowed his head, bending his knees just enough. His eyes shut as he waited for me to crown him, lashes thick and long. I swallowed thickly, then placed the circlet carefully upon his head, making sure not to muss his hair, resting the rim of it against his ears.
The warmth of his breath misted my cheek as he sighed with satisfaction and once again rose to his full height. Sylvain opened his eyes, the gold of them matching the gleam of his circlet. Standing against the sunlight, in his cloak and crown, he was radiant.
Sylvain smiled like he’d read the inside of my mind. “How do I look now?”
I smiled back, cupping the side of his jaw. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
“Yuck,” Satchel muttered, buzzing toward the palace doors, a teenager embarrassed by his affectionate parents. “Come on, you guys. I’m dying to meet Sylvain’s mom so I can tell her how gross the two of you are together.”
Sylvain and I laughed, held hands, and followed our stubborn son.
Columns lined the atrium of the palace, reaching to the sky, tipped in crowns of leaves. In every direction the trees thinned, giving way to sprawling gardens with autumn blooms that glimmered like dark jewels. Guards lowered their heads as we passed through the great entrance hall, their armor crafted out of hardened leaf and bark that gleamed like metal.
If I had any remaining doubts about the truth of Sylvain’s identity and lineage, they would have been blown completely away, dead leaves in the wind.
Hundreds of flickering candles illuminated the corridors, reminding me of the many little flames that similarly lit the inside of Sylvain’s private grotto. Glittering windows caught and reflected the candlelight. The palace shone like a lantern, a beacon in the dark of autumn.
At the end of the long hall waited a great pair of doors, their surfaces inlaid with delicate gold filigree, inset with amber. The audience chamber. The throne room. Again guards bowed their heads at Sylvain’s approach. They pushed the doors open.
I held my breath.
17
The gentle scentof smoke wafted out of the throne room, what I imagined to be the fragrance of amber. The smell of spice was strongest here, but it was never cloying. A suggestion of incense burned the day before, cold air from an open window carrying it away with the breeze.
