Page 52 of Oath
By the fifth day, the joke had grown teeth.
“Well?” he demanded of Heston one afternoon, sprawled in his chair with a goblet of wine in hand. The butler had entered quietly, as he always did, hands folded before him, back bowed just enough to be respectful but never servile.
“Nothing today, my lord.”
Aerion clicked his tongue against his teeth, a sharp little sound in the silence of the solar. “Of course not. The Hound could go longer without words than most men could without breath. Stubborn brute.”
He laughed as he said it, sharp and bright. The laugh carried, bouncing off the marble and tapestries, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Heston only inclined his head, studying him for the barest flicker of a moment before asking, “Shall I have the kitchens send up sugared plums, my lord? They are fresh in from the south.”
“Plums?” Aerion scoffed, rolling his eyes as he tipped his goblet, watching the wine swirl. “You think to sweeten my mood with fruit?”
“No, my lord,” Heston said evenly. “Only to give you something else to think about.”
Aerion froze, goblet hovering mid-air. His smirk returned a beat too late, polished but brittle. “Careful, Heston. If I find out you’re more entertaining than the court, I might drag you to supper just to watch their faces sour.”
The butler inclined his head again, as though it were no more than jest. He withdrew in silence, leaving Aerion alone with his wine, his smirk, and the echo of his own laugh that hadn’t quite sounded like his own.
By the second week, his amusement had curdled.
The couriers still came and went, their saddlebags fat with missives, but none bore Clyde’s hand. Aerion stopped lingering at the windows. Instead, he carried the absence into council with him, wearing it like armour.
“Three more petitions, my lord,” intoned the chamberlain, voice thin with nerves as he laid the parchments down in neat stacks.
Aerion lounged with one boot propped on the long oak table, twirling his quill between two fingers. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it stabbing into the pile so hard the tip splintered and ink spattered across polished wood.
“Three too many,” he said flatly. “I don’t care if they want roads or bread or bloody cathedrals. Tell them to marry each other and pray.”
A ripple of unease moved around the chamber.
“My lord, that is hardly—”
“Do I look like I asked for your counsel?” Aerion snapped, his voice like a lash cracking across the chamber.
The chamberlain’s mouth pressed tight, his knuckles whitening as he gathered up the stained parchments. He bowed stiffly, but no words came.
Aerion leaned back in his father’s chair, smirking as though the exchange had amused him, though the air stank of tension and fear.
That evening, Heston entered the solar with a bottle of pale summer wine, the kind imported from the southern vineyards, crisp and sweet. “Perhaps something lighter, my lord—”
The goblet struck the wall before the sentence finished, shattering on stone. Red spilled down plaster like blood.
“Bring me what I asked for,” Aerion hissed. “Not a sermon.”
Heston bowed as though nothing had happened, but his eyes lingered on Aerion a fraction too long—steady, assessing, unflinching. For the first time in days, Aerion looked away.
The next morning, he stalked into the sewing room where a seamstress bent nervously over his robe. He caught her fumbling with the sleeve, her needle slipping just shy of the proper line.
“Is this the best work Valemont can muster?” Aerion hissed, jerking his arm back. “Crooked seams for a lord’s garment? Shall I parade your incompetence at court? Or should I have the stitches pulled with your teeth?”
The girl’s eyes welled, her lip trembling as tears spilled over. She dropped the needle, bowing so low the crown of her head nearly touched her knees. “Forgive me, my lord. Please.”
Aerion turned on his heel before she could finish, robe snapping like a whip as he stormed from the room. His jaw was tight, his nails digging crescents into his palms.
His hands trembled after.
By the third week, the absence had weight.
