by Sally Slater
Their unusual silence persisted over the next few days. Each day was much the same: they rode their horses till the animals tired, trained till nightfall, and then made camp only to rise and repeat on the morrow. Such a pattern wasn’t out of the ordinary for travel, but without Sam’s regular banter and Braeden’s pithy remarks, even the most trivial of activities seemed off.
Tristan didn’t know what to make of it. He’d thought Braeden and Sam had developed a camaraderie of sorts—he’d even begun to envy their closeness, at times—but something had disturbed their easy friendship. They moved skittishly around each other, retreating whenever one of them drew too near. Yet as soon as they drifted apart, their eyes invariably sought out the other.
Except for when Sam’s eyes sought out Tristan. Tristan caught Sam staring at him on more than one occasion, his expression shifting between doleful and guilty. Sam’s lingering stares agitated him, eliciting a thickness in his chest that felt suspiciously like feelings. Tristan didn’t do feelings.
On the evening of the fifth day of this nonsense, Tristan attempted to reach out to Sam the only way he knew how. After an hour of practicing their archery—one of the few fighting arts in which Tristan didn’t have natural talent—he offered to spar with Sam. “Wouldn’t want you to get rusty,” he said, handing the boy a longsword.
Sam’s face lit up, but still, he said nothing. Tristan wondered if he ought to have lent Sam his Paladin’s blade, just to hear him sing its praises.
While Sam may have repressed his enthusiasm for fine weaponry, he couldn’t stifle his competitive instincts. Once he altered his stance into ready position, pommel at his right hip and sword point aimed at Tristan’s heart, the hangdog expression he’d worn all week was replaced by one of concentration.
Tristan struck first, his blade sliding along steel as Sam parried his attack. He smacked the trainee’s sword, hard, from the opposite side, and followed it up with an immediate remise. He launched a quick riposte, and then another, but Sam’s sword was there to meet each successive attack.
There were a few reasons Tristan was considered an unmatched swordsman—his strength, his speed, and an inexplicable gift for anticipating his opponent’s next move. But Sam’s sword work had an unpredictability to it that kept Tristan quite literally on his toes.
Unaccustomed to practicing with an opponent who was worth his salt, Tristan swung his sword out in a wild, diagonal cut, a powerful but sloppy blow that left him wide open to attack. His blade whistled through air as Sam dodged out of the way, the momentum of his swing carrying him well within striking range. He shifted his feet to regain his balance, but not before Sam whipped the foible of his blade across the side of his neck.
Tristan touched his raw skin, and drew back fingers coated in blood. “You won the bout,” he said, staring at his red fingers in disbelief.
Sam’s face fell. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. I’m so sorry, Tristan.”
Tristan heard a roaring in his ears. “Are you apologizing?”
“Errr. Yes?”
“Dare I ask why?”
“Because I hurt you.”
Something inside Tristan snapped. “We were sword fighting, you clotpole! You’re supposed to hurt me!” He dropped his sword and marched so close to Sam that the boy had to crane his head backwards in order to meet his angry glare. “A fortnight ago you would have crowed victory and heaped insults upon my head. What’s going on, Sam?”
Sam looked at his feet. “Nothing, Tristan.”
“What a crock of shite! You’ve had this pathetic look on your face and you’ve barely said a word all week. I can’t stand it anymore. Have I wronged you in some way?”
“Have you wronged me?” Sam asked, shaking his head fiercely.
“Then why are you looking at me like I’m your favorite horse who went lame?”
“I am doing no such thing!”
Tristan heartened at the outrage in Sam’s tone. He was beginning to worry that he’d done something to kill the boy’s spirit, though he couldn’t imagine what. “I beg to differ.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Sam said defensively. “And my face isn’t pathetic either.”
“You can’t see your own face,” Tristan pointed out. Sam bared his teeth in response.
Tristan slapped him heartily on the back. “There’s the Sam I know and love!” Sam’s cheeks turned pink at his words. “Oh, come off it, Sam. It’s healthy to express affection for your fellow man.” He took in a fortifying breath. “I want you to know that you can come to me. If something’s bothering you, I mean.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not very good at these things, but I’ll try. We have a long road ahead of us, and I haven’t much enjoyed the last week.”
Sam kicked at a tuft of grass. “You can talk to me, too, if you want,” he offered tentatively.
Something caught in the back of Tristan’s throat. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said, reaching out to tug a lock of the boy’s hair.
Sam swatted at his hand. “I really hate it when you do that.”
Tristan tugged the lock of hair again, harder this time. “Too bad.” He bent over to pick up his discarded sword. “Let’s help Braeden make camp, shall we?” Sam flinched at Braeden’s name, but nodded his agreement. “What’s going on between you? You’ve been acting strange around each other all week.”
Sam’s face reddened again. “I’m fine. If anyone’s acting strange, it’s him.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Braeden, come here, boy!”
Braeden, who had been hammering stakes into the ground a short distance away, ambled over. “Yes, Paladin?” He carefully avoided looking at Sam.
Tristan’s glower encompassed both Sam and Braeden. “I won’t pretend I know what’s happened between you two. But whatever this is,” he said, gesturing at the space that separated the two of them, “it stops now. Are we clear?”
The trainees looked at each other, and then their feet. “Yes, Paladin,” they said in unison.
“Good. It’s settled then,” he said, clapping his hands together. That had been easy enough. “Now let’s finish making camp before it gets any darker, or we’ll be sleeping out in the open.”
“Gods, I would kill for a proper bed right about now,” Sam groaned.
“You might have to,” Tristan said. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Westergo.”
If a line were drawn down the kingdom’s middle, Catania would fall squarely on the left. But it wasn’t till a traveler reached the borders of Westergo that he could consider himself truly in the West. The West was not like the East, its weather was colder and its people harder, more willful and less tethered to the influence of the Center. And for the first fifteen years of his life, the West was what Tristan had called home.
Tristan had grown up in a village far smaller and further west than the city of Westergo, but he knew enough to tie his coin pouch about his neck and to hide a spare knife in his boot for easy access. He’d been to Westergo just once before, and the memory wasn’t a fond one.
If Catania had been unfriendly, the city of Westergo was unequivocally hostile. Sinister eyes followed the three travelers as they made their way down the wide throughway, and greedy hands pawed at their clothes and horses. Tall, rickety buildings loomed over the street on either side, casting dark shadows across the cobbled road.
The city folk were an odd amalgamation of the very poor and the very rich, although the former significantly outnumbered the latter. A fine lady in a surcoat of blue damask strolled by at a leisurely pace, but as she paused to examine a silk veil at a nearby street vendor, her sleeve fell back, revealing a bejeweled dagger strapped to her forearm. Hidden in the shadows, a young street urchin in tattered rags eyed the woman hungrily as she pulled a silver coin from her purse and paid the merchant for the veil. Tristan hoped the boy noticed the two large, hired guards who trailed the lady at a close distance, and that he wouldn’t try anything foolish.
&nb
sp; The street urchin darted out from his hiding place, weaving in and out of the crowd, his eyes never leaving the lady in blue. “Shite,” Tristan muttered under his breath. The fool boy was going to get himself killed.
Tristan dismounted and grabbed the whelp by the scruff of his neck just as he passed by their horses. “Ger’off!” the boy yelped, struggling in Tristan’s firm grip. “I ain’t done nothin’!”
Tristan spun the boy around to face him. “You were about to,” he said, jerking his head towards the young pickpocket’s intended victim.
“Wot’s it matter to you, gaffer? She’s the mark, not you.”
Tristan bent close so that his mouth was level with the boy’s ear. “Do you see the two men to your left, near the stall selling cutlery? Big fellow, and the one with the shifty eyes?” The boy hesitated, and then nodded. “Good,” Tristan said. “They’re hired guards, son, for the lady’s protection. You get anywhere near her and they’ll gut you like a fish.”
The boy shook his head. “I’s fast,” he said. “And I’s needin’ the money.”
Tristan squeezed the boy’s bony shoulders, hard enough to make the boy wince. “If you’re so fast, how’d I catch you?”
The boy glared at him mutinously. “I wasna payin’ attention to you, gaffer.”
“And were you paying attention to the lady’s men, before I pointed them out to you?”
“No,” the boy admitted, scrunching his nose. “But I’da been fine.”
Tristan looked to the heavens. “May the Gods save me from stupid boys.” He drew the leather cord out from underneath his tunic, pulling his coin pouch free. “Here,” he said, pressing a coin into the boy’s palm. “Don’t spend it all at once.”
The boy’s eyes boggled when he saw the coin was gold. “Thankee, milord,” he said solemnly, closing his fingers tightly around his bounty. He bobbed his head in a small bow, and then he scampered away.
“What’d you do that for?” Sam asked, once the boy had disappeared and Tristan remounted his horse. “The boy’s a thief.”
Tristan turned in his saddle to look at him. “Did you see the way his clothes hung off him? I’d bet my last copper he hasn’t eaten a proper meal this month.”
“But you didn’t even discourage him from stealing again,” Sam said.
Tristan dug his knees into his horse’s sides and clucked, urging the mare forward. “No, I discouraged him from getting caught.”
“Tristan!” Sam exclaimed.
“You must have never gone hungry before,” Tristan said. His stomach almost rumbled in remembrance. There was a time when he, too, would have done just about anything for a loaf of bread. “Hunger makes thieves of most men.”
Sam chewed on his lower lip, mulling it over. “I still say stealing is wrong.”
“Not everything’s so black and white, Sam,” Braeden said suddenly, bringing his horse level with Tristan’s. “You of all people should know that.”
Sam looked as though he wanted to say something, but settled for sticking out his tongue. Braeden’s mouth quirked up reluctantly. Good, thought Tristan. He would have throttled the both of them if they had returned to the weird behavior of the previous week.
Their horses clopped through the crowded street, the heavy foot traffic constraining their gait to a slow walk. The city stank of animal dung, refuse, and human sewage, the putrid odor only growing stronger as they rode deeper into the heart of Westergo.
Up ahead was a strangely discordant sight. On their left, a hundred or so small dilapidated shanties leaned precariously against one another, not all of them entirely intact. A cluster of crude workshops and factories spit out smoke and heat, which lay over the crumbling tenements in a thick blanket. Men and women with an air of desperation and children with wide, hungry stares poured out of every nook and cranny.
On their right was a sprawling palace that rivaled Castle Haywood in its size and grandeur. The marble exterior formed a large U-shape around lush gardens and two long, rectangular pools. Elegantly dressed couples meandered arm-in-arm through the maze of hedges and orange blossoms.
“Gods,” Sam swore, wrinkling his face in disgust. Even Braeden’s inscrutable features registered distaste. “Is that monstrosity where we’re headed?”
“Aye,” Tristan said, taking in the overwrought architecture. Seeing the lavish display of wealth side by side with such extreme poverty was a shock to the system. He’d seen the palace from afar the first time he had traveled through Westergo, but he’d hardly been in a position to step inside its gilded doors. “I’m told the entire Westergoan aristocracy resides here. And a few paladins, as well.”
“Friends of yours?” Braeden asked archly.
Tristan shook his head. “None I’ve met. The High Commander stationed the men out here shortly after I became a trainee.”
“And they’ve been here ever since?” Sam asked. “That seems an awfully long time to stay in one place.”
“The Westergoans have always been a little unruly,” Tristan said. “There were the beginnings of an uprising when the Paladins were first sent out here, and they had to diffuse any insubordination. Now they’re here for insurance.”
Out of nowhere, Tristan felt a small hand wrap around his left ankle. “Hold up,” he said to Sam and Braeden, yanking on his reins till his horse drew to a complete stop. He peered down at a tiny slip of a girl, her dirt-smudged face streaked with tears. Gods damn it, he hated tears. Especially little girls’ tears. The little beggar girl was going to play him like a fiddle, and he would very likely give her everything she asked for. “What is it, child?” he asked, trying to sound stern.
The little girl’s face crumpled. “ ’Tis me brother, milord,” she sobbed. “They’s beatin’ him somethin’ fierce and I’s afraid they’s gonna kill him.” She hiccupped and blew her nose into her threadbare frock. “He—he said to find you, milord. He said you’d help us.”
Tristan grimaced as the girl dissolved into a fresh bout of sobs. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else. My companions and I are just passing through Westergo. I’m afraid I don’t know your brother.”
“Please, milord,” the girl pleaded. “He’s me only brother. ’T’aint fair what they’s doin’ to him. They’s gonna whip him till he’s dead. I seen it happen before.” She sniffled, water leaking from her eyes and nose like a fountain. “I’s sure he meant for me to go and find you, milord. Couldna been anyone else.”
Tristan swung his legs off the horse and crouched down beside the girl. “I really don’t know your brother, miss, but mayhap I can help anyway. Who is this ‘they’ you keep referring to? And why do they have your brother?”
“ ’Tis the Paladins, milord,” she said. “They’s sayin’ he’s a thief.”
Tristan’s blood ran cold. “A thief?”
“Aye, milord.” She twisted her hands in the material of her dress. “ ’Tis me birthday today, and Charlie—that’s me brother—wanted to buy me one of them fancy cakes at the baker’s shop. I told him not to do it! I says to him them cakes are awful expensive. But he told me he had the money, that he’d buy it for me proper. And he showed me this gold coin—”
Tristan’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Gold coin, you say?” he asked hoarsely.
The girl nodded. “I bit it and everything to make sure it was real. And first I thought he stole it, but he promised me he got it fair and square.” Her eyes swept over Tristan. “He says he got it from a tall gaffer with gold hair and a mean scowl. He mentioned your friends, too,” she added, pointing at Sam and Braeden. They exchanged twin looks of horror.
Tristan cursed under his breath. “So what happened?”
“He tried to pay for the cake with the gold coin. The baker—he’s a nice gaffer—he woulda accepted it, too. But one of them Paladins happened ta be passing by, and he says me brother stole the coin. Charlie says that no, he was given the coin honest. But the Paladin, he just laughs, and says me brother’s now a thief and a liar. And that thieve
s and liars hafta be punished.” Her chin quivered. “Now they’s gonna flog him in the city square.”
“Shite,” Tristan swore, and then mumbled a brief apology for his coarseness. He rose from his haunches to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” Sam asked.
Tristan glared at the trainee. “What do you think?” He held out his hand to the little girl, and she tentatively placed her small hand in his. “All right, girl, just where is this brother of yours?”
The girl tightened her grasp around Tristan’s waist, sharp ribs poking into his back as they rode towards the public square. “Please hurry, milord,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”
Tristan nudged his horse into a cantor, plowing into the crowded street. “Move!” he bellowed, nearly trampling several bystanders. He could hear Sam and Braeden cursing behind him as they struggled to keep up.
The city square was really more of a rectangle, surrounded by stone and brick buildings on three of its four sides. The fourth side opened up to the street, but it was damned near impenetrable with so many people. It seemed as though the entire city had come out to witness the boy’s punishment, though it was hard to say whether they had been summoned or had come of their own volition. Whatever their reason for being there, they were in Tristan’s way and blocking his view of the proceedings.
He dismounted his horse at the edge of the square and lifted the little girl from the saddle. “Here,” he said, passing the reins to Sam. “You and Braeden stay with the horses.”
“But—” Sam protested.
“No buts. This is my doing. I’ll handle it.” Tristan kneeled in front of the little girl. “I need you to be my eyes. Can you do that?” The little girl nodded emphatically, and he swept her onto his shoulders. “Do you see your brother?”
She twisted, her knobby knees knocking Tristan painfully in the chin. “He’s up there, milord!” the little girl cried, pointing towards the platform in the middle of the square.
He restored her to the ground. “Thank you, milady,” he said gravely.