Actually, the stableboy Nyk had made a fool of him.
As if it wasn’t bad enough to hesitate, to mess up another important exercise—but to have a stableboy swoop in and save him? The very same person who had already made him look an idiot once before? Word had traveled after Tristan’s disastrous first patrol, and the apprentices had been quick to see the humor in Tristan “prematurely blowing his horn.” Every time they saw Nyk, they’d cast Tristan sidelong glances and smirks, and now with this most recent blunder, his hopes of living it down were practically nonexistent.
Tristan had replayed the scene over and over in his head since he’d left the obstacle course, and he was convinced that if the boy hadn’t stepped in, he could’ve gotten things under control. The fire made him panic—that was nothing new—but given another moment, Tristan would have told Rex to quench his flames, commanded the horse to stand down, and called back his dog and pigeon. He could’ve fixed it, but instead that runt of a boy ran into the middle of the scene, seconds away from being trampled and burned, and did the very thing Tristan hadn’t yet managed to do—regained control. Almost effortlessly, it had seemed.
This boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
Tristan dropped his head into his hands, his hair curling around his fingers. As if being embarrassed in front of his fellow apprentices wasn’t enough, he’d seen that familiar look in his father’s eye. This mistake would be his excuse for holding Tristan back for weeks—months, probably. No matter how strongly Tristan performed from now on, his father would remind him of this failure.
Not only would he suffer, but the Riders would suffer too. The commander’s opinions of him didn’t change the fact that they needed more patrols—finding Nyk had only proven that. They needed to survey the areas of Pyra where empire spies and raiders might lurk, the lower rim and the Foothills and the wilds that weren’t traveled by the locals.
Now, because of Tristan’s mistake, the commander would hold back on what they desperately needed, just to prove a point. Just to humble him.
“You win, Father,” Tristan muttered, getting to his feet. “I am humbled.”
Several hours later, however, Tristan’s weak grasp at humility slipped away with every step he took toward the obstacle course. How could his father do this to him? He was the best apprentice they had, and still he wasn’t good enough. Sure, he’d made some mistakes, but only because his father pushed him to that brink.
By the time he reached Nyk, standing anxiously next to Wind, Tristan’s mood burned hotter than Rex in a fire dive.
Calm as the mountain, he told himself, but the words held no meaning.
He didn’t speak to the boy, who looked up at him with hair and eyes as dark as charcoal. He had a smudge of dirt on his short nose, and his servant uniform was filthy and ill fitting. Still, he had to be magically powerful, to pull off the stunt he did during the obstacle course. To calm a horse as wild as Wind and to approach Rex in full flame without fear or hesitation . . . He had the stuff of a Rider, Tristan had to grudgingly admit. But all the raw talent in the world didn’t make Nyk an expert, and the commander assigning the boy to help Tristan—that cut more deeply than his fragile ego could bear.
Scowling, he snatched the reins, mounted up, and called his other animals. Without a word he began the course, leaving the boy behind.
Halfway through, however, Nyk caught up.
“I . . . I thought I was supposed to help you?” he asked, wide-eyed and uncertain.
Tristan paused before the target up ahead. “Do you ride?” he asked.
“What—horses?” Nyk said.
Tristan’s nostrils flared. “Yes, horses,” he said, forcing his voice into politeness. He knew the boy didn’t ride horses, or phoenixes, or llamas for that matter.
“No,” Nyk said, and Tristan nodded.
“And have you any skill with a bow?” Tristan indicated the weapon in his hands.
“No,” the boy said again, looking down.
“No,” Tristan repeated. “Have you used a messenger pigeon? Hunted with a hound? Have you done anything that I am doing in this obstacle course?”
Nyk shook his head, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“I didn’t think so,” Tristan said, focusing again on the target several yards away. He knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t seem to stop. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Father? To make me more like you?
“Why did he assign me to help you, then?” Nyk asked, looking up at last. Tristan felt an unwilling stab of compassion for him.
“That was just the commander toying with you. You’ll get used to it—or not. I thought I had, and now look at me.”
A rush of blood burned Tristan’s cheeks—he hadn’t meant to say so much, to reveal his true feelings. But to his surprise, when he glanced down at Nyk, there was deep understanding in his expression, as if Tristan’s words hadn’t been the nonsense ramblings of the commander’s privileged, misunderstood son, but something he could completely relate to.
“What do you want me to do, then?” Nyk asked after several silent moments. As he stared up at Tristan, his eyes landed on the knuckles of his right hand—raw and bloody from his punch to the wall.
Tristan moved it out of sight and straightened in the saddle. “Just keep quiet and stay out of my way.”
“Will you do the finish?” Nyk asked, gesturing toward their stack of supplies, which would certainly be in danger of catching fire if Rex ignited nearby.
“No,” said Tristan, more sharply than he intended, “I—no, not tonight.”
Nyk nodded, a slight frown on his face, and stepped aside.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t face Rex in full flame again, not so soon after his screwup this afternoon, but he had to be more careful. Being on edge only made everything worse.
With a slow breath out his nose, Tristan straightened his shoulders and continued.
The course was exhausting, especially for the second time that day. Though he did his best not to show the strain—a habit he’d picked up after being constantly scrutinized by his father—sweat dotted Tristan’s brow, and his concentration was waning. Keeping a firm grip on three animals, as well as a connection to Rex as he soared overhead, was draining. He soon began cutting corners, telling Rex to circle but not encouraging him to give reports on the landscape or goings-on in the stronghold’s grounds.
Nyk became increasingly agitated, following along silently but clearly dying to say something. He opened and closed his mouth, gripped his hands tightly together, and kept moving closer only to jump back again.
Tristan couldn’t take it. “What?” he demanded at last, coming to a stop. He didn’t care much for what the boy had to say, but he needed a break, and he figured that if he let Nyk speak his mind, he’d stop fidgeting and Tristan could finish before the sun set. As it was, the glowing orange ball was cresting the mountains in the distance and would be out of sight in minutes.
Nyk hesitated. “It’s just—you’re, well, you . . .”
“Spit. It. Out.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine. You’re doing it wrong,” he snapped, before adding, “sir.”
Sir. Given the fact that his father was the rightful governor of Ferro and Tristan was his heir, he should be addressed as “my lord.” But as another man currently laid claim to that position, Tristan supposed that “sir” was the best he could hope to get. Still, it was wrong.
“I’m no sir. I’m an apprentice. Yes, Apprentice. No, Apprentice. Got it?”
“Yes, Apprentice,” Nyk answered, his voice flat.
“Doing what wrong?” Tristan asked, looking down at himself. His technique, his form, everything was perfect.
“The way you use your magic,” Nyk said, gesturing to the animals. “You push too hard. Take Storm,” he said, indicating the dog at Wind’s feet. “Instead of telling him what you expect and guiding him through it, you force your will on him moment to moment. You keep constant pressure on him, draini
ng yourself unnecessarily, and the second you let up, you’ll lose him.”
Tristan pulled a skeptical expression. He had never enjoyed lording over animals, but asking them nicely when they needed to obey was simply out of the question. Even his bond with Rex, which had developed into a trusting friendship, started out as Rider and mount. Master and servant.
If there was a mental equivalent to an eye roll, Rex did so just then, his exasperation seeping through the bond. To the phoenix, their connection made them a pair, equals. His magic strengthened Tristan’s, and likewise, Tristan’s human logic and understanding of the world increased Rex’s intelligence. Phoenixes weren’t like regular animals, and their centuries-long bond with humans was part of the reason why.
With a shake of his head, Tristan pushed Rex’s thoughts from his mind. The suggestion that he could interact with a dog in the same way he interacted with a phoenix—to whom he was magically bonded—made no sense at all.
He looked up at the darkening sky; his time was running out. Nyk’s words about control nagged at him, but they obviously came from youth and inexperience. Tristan was doing what he was taught to do, and surely his father—a veteran of the Blood War—knew more about animal magic than an unbonded sixteen-year-old kid.
“While your observations are fascinating, this is how animages have been taught for generations. We need these animals to be obedient; we don’t need them to be our friends. And I will not lose him,” he said, nodding down at the dog.
Tristan continued the course, leaving Nyk behind, pushing extra hard for fear that his tiredness would prove the boy right.
As he turned the corner and prepared for the final leg, Rex’s boredom filtered through the bond, making it difficult for Tristan to concentrate. The pigeon on his shoulder itched to stretch her wings and dig for grubs, and Storm had caught wind of the rabbit cage again. The scent flooded the dog’s nostrils, and anticipation coursed through his veins.
Then, out of nowhere, a loud whack echoed through the silence. It came from across the course, where Nyk stood just below the archery target, a tree branch in hand. He’d clearly just knocked it against the wooden frame, and the distraction stripped Tristan of his hold on the animals.
With a grim smile, Nyk cocked his arm back and flung the branch as far as he could. Before Tristan could scrabble to regain control, the dog was off after it, the pigeon took flight, and the horse beneath him tossed his head and reared, almost unseating him. The only animal who remained doing what he was supposed to was Rex, whose boredom had quite evaporated as he watched the scene below.
Without so much as a glance in Tristan’s direction, Nyk strode to their supplies and readied for their departure.
Tristan didn’t bother trying to finish the course or calling his lost animals back to the starting point. He rode over to where Nyk stood and leapt from his horse.
“What in the dark realms was that?”
Rex landed next to them, and his arrival was the first thing to make Nyk turn Tristan’s way since he threw the stick. He gazed longingly at the phoenix, eyes bright with reverence.
“If you refuse to order your animals about, then tell me, how did you get the horse—”
“Wind,” Nyk interjected, whirling around to face him. “Your horse’s name is Wind. You don’t call this beautiful creature”—he gestured to Rex—“the bird, do you?”
Rex cocked his head, waiting for Tristan’s response.
“What? No. His name is Rex.”
Nyk nodded, staring at the phoenix. “Yes, that suits you, you regal-looking fellow.”
“Stop that,” Tristan snapped as Rex drew himself up straighter and puffed out his chest. Tristan’s self-righteous anger was deflating in the face of this boy’s obvious affection for his bondmate. “Scat,” he told Rex, who ruffled his feathers and took off.
Tristan turned to Nyk. “If all you do is charm and flatter the animals, then how did you get Wind to obey you so easily this morning? You’re telling me you asked nicely and didn’t force your will, your magic, on him? Only Rex has ever obeyed me like that.”
Nyk sighed, as if Tristan had asked him this question a thousand times and he was tired of answering it. He turned away before responding. “I just convinced him, is all.”
“You just convinced him?” Tristan repeated skeptically. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, thinking of his father’s constant games and deceptions. “There’s nothing worse than a liar.”
“I’m not lying,” Nyk answered hotly. “And the reason he obeyed instantly, and without hesitation, is that he was familiar with me already. If you befriend the animals, if you treat them as equals, they’ll trust you, and once they trust you, they’ll obey you. Without a command and without question. That’s what I meant with Storm today. If he trusted you, he’d have stayed by your side.”
Tristan shook his head. It was absurd. “You’re too soft-hearted for this line of work—like a little girl who wants to cuddle puppies.”
Nyk’s face contorted in outrage. “As opposed to you—too manly to admit when you’re wrong? To admit that sometimes being kind is better than being cruel? Deny it all you want, but I know you’re as soft-hearted as me, xe xie.”
With that, Nyk stomped back up to the village, the rabbit cage tucked under his arm, while the pigeon, the dog, Wind—even Rex, soaring through the air—followed like a row of ducklings behind.
Tristan gaped after him, stunned that the boy had the nerve to speak to him that way. But as the shock wore off, his mind replayed the events of that morning, when he’d first met Wind. No matter what he said to Nyk, it was his instinct to be kind and gentle to animals. His father had done his best to change this, but whenever Tristan was scared or nervous, it was his default.
“Xe xie . . . ,” he murmured, shaking his head. It was what his mother had called him as a young boy, the Pyraean words ingrained in his memory, while her face faded a little more each day. Sweet one . . . dear one . . . Tristan hadn’t realized that he’d said those words out loud before. Maybe that was why his father had punished him so severely. The commander’s ancient Pyraean was a little bit rusty, but surely even he would remember that phrase.
Tristan stood in the field for a long time, night descending around him, before finally walking back through the darkness alone.
POSTMORTEM EXAMINATION
Deceased: King Aryk Ashfire
Birth: Day 27, Twelfth Moon, 129 AE
Death: Day 6, Fifth Moon, 165 AE
Age: 35
Witness Account: Queen Lania of Stel
On the evening of Day 5, Fifth Moon, 165 AE, Queen Lania claims that King Aryk wished to retire early after dinner, citing stomach pains and exhibiting fever symptoms. When Lania joined him in his chambers several hours later, it was to find him in bed, unresponsive, with a burning fever and vomit-covered sheets.
The king was placed under High Priestess Deidra’s care, and the court sat vigil at his bedside. The sickness took him before eighth bell on the afternoon of the following day.
Witness Account: Fenton, captain of the King’s Guard
Captain Fenton claims King Aryk retired on the evening of Day 5, Fifth Moon, 165 AE, in good spirits, intending to have an early morning walk with his beloved hounds. He had no visible signs of illness or discomfort.
Physical Examination
Date: Day 7, Fifth Moon, 165 AE
Conducted by: Deidra, High Priestess of Hael, and Ilithya, Acolyte of Hael
No evidence of forced entry or struggle. An empty cup was found on King Aryk’s bedside table, as he was well-known to enjoy a glass of spiced honey wine before bed, which he would fix for himself. The cask of wine, honey, and spices were all checked for poison or spoilage, but no toxic materials or signs of tampering were discovered. Body exhibited symptoms of intense fever, dehydration, and stomach illness.
Diagnosis: Death of natural causes, possibly phoenix flu, sweating sickness, or other airborne virus.
Update
Da
te: Day 10, Fifth Moon, 165 AE
Conducted by: Ilithya, Acolyte of Hael
Empty cup examined, and trace amounts of suspicious, dark residue discovered embedded into ridges of the embossed metal. The chalice was known to be the king’s favorite, an Ashfire heirloom once belonging to Ferronese King Damian himself. Further testing required to identify the nature of the substance.
The only people with access to the king’s bedchamber—and his private collection of favored treasures—were himself and his wife, Queen Lania.
Sometimes the title of queen is given; sometimes it must be taken. And sometimes the honor becomes so drenched in blood and betrayal that it is slippery to the touch, but we reach for it nonetheless, poison on our fingers and vengeance in our hearts.
- CHAPTER 19 -
VERONYKA
VERONYKA HID IN THE kitchens during dinner.
She was still angry with Tristan, and he was definitely still angry with her, so she didn’t want to see him any sooner than she had to. Morra put her to work the moment she sidled in, but Veronyka didn’t mind. She picked at a plate of honey-drizzled sweet cakes that the cook set out for her, while using a mold to cut pastries from a flattened length of dough. She plopped the rounds onto a nearby tray, while Morra rolled the remaining bits into fresh sheets for her to cut.
As long as Veronyka kept her mind occupied, she didn’t fear the woman’s shadow magic. As far as she could tell, Morra didn’t use it unless absolutely necessary.
Of course, Morra didn’t need shadow magic to know that something was bothering her. When Tristan walked past the open archway that led into the kitchen on his way to the dining hall, Veronyka couldn’t help the scowl that crossed her face.
“I think it’s cut, lad,” Morra said dryly. Veronyka looked at the woman, confused, until she nodded down at the piece of pastry Veronyka had been cutting—and which she had ripped in half with a savage jerk of the mold.
“Oh, sorry,” Veronyka said, removing the cutter so Morra could gather the ruined dough and reroll it.
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