Tristam ignored the sniggers that followed the question. “You take this formation when you are able, whether it’s because you’ve had advance warning of an attack or because your enemy has given you enough quarter to re-form. If they give you no space, then you will have to use another strategy.”
He gestured toward the four men of Flick’s unit who held cat head targets. “All right, demon cats. See what you can do.”
Shouts rose up from the trainees as they fell into mock battle. Funny enough, these exercises reminded Flick of the games he used to play as a street child. The level of chaos was certainly comparable, though the participants were a little less nimble. Flick raised his spear as a demon cat charged in, digging his feet into the mud to get a more stable stance. He got a good thrust into the center of the sack as it came at him, though he was momentarily distracted by an image of Kyra’s face as he pulled his spear back out. It was an odd duality, the thought of Kyra as both the young street urchin he knew so well and a different sort of creature altogether. Over the last few months, she’d experienced things that were far beyond his ken. Flick couldn’t keep up with her anymore, and he worried how she’d fare by herself in uncharted waters.
Loud guffaws came from the next circle over. Apparently, one of the target holders had tripped and fallen on his face. The fallen man regained his feet, covered in mud, and joined in the laughter. Tristam’s lips tightened with impatience as the ranks dissolved, but Flick understood the compulsion to laugh. The wallhuggers might have been raised with the expectation of riding out to battle, but this type of danger was new to the men in this unit. They needed to laugh, if only to dispel their fear.
“Hold it together,” said Tristam. “You could be facing live ones tomorrow.”
That quieted them down. Orders had come in the morning that their unit was to start trial sweeps of the forest the next day. It was much earlier than anyone had anticipated. Even Malikel, usually so stoic, had failed to hide his surprise.
They drilled like this a while longer, then Tristam called out a break. “Get some water. Sir Rollan will take up your spear training in a quarter hour.”
The recruits laid down their weapons and gratefully made their way to the edge of the field. Malikel was there, handing out ladles of water. Flick had to give the Defense Minister credit. Malikel had been at the training fields almost every day, and not just ordering his subordinates around. He’d been in the thick of things and had spoken to every man in the unit at least once.
There was a rustle behind Flick. He turned to see Tristam wipe his brow, pick up a demon cat head, and stuff the protruding straw back into the sack. He paid Flick no mind.
“They still get to you, don’t they?” said Flick.
“They’re not trained military. I need to remember that,” said Tristam, his voice gruff. He moved on to the next target and retied the knot securing the bag to its stick.
“I don’t mean the recruits. I mean the demon cats.”
At that, Tristam stopped what he was doing.
“I see it in your eyes when you tell us about them,” Flick said. “Sometimes your hands shake. What do they call it? Battle ghosts?” Flick didn’t know much about it firsthand, but he’d heard enough stories from former soldiers. Sometimes a battle stayed with a soldier, haunting his dreams and never quite letting him move on.
Tristam’s expression closed off. “I fight the battles my commander orders me to. Whatever ghosts they create are irrelevant.” He put the target on the ground and turned toward the water barrels.
“What do you see when you’re with Kyra?” Flick asked. “Given what she is, I’m surprised that the two of you, uh…” He stopped, remembering that Kyra had cut things off.
Tristam’s jaw tightened. “Kyra’s a fellow soldier. Nothing more.” He took a few steps toward the water barrels, then looked back again. “Her bloodlines do scare me, but they frighten her much more. That’s the difference between her and the others.”
As Tristam joined Malikel by the sidelines, Flick picked up the fake demon cat head and looked it in its nonexistent eyes. “I’m beginning to think I’ve been too hard on that wallhugger.”
The hemp bag swayed back and forth on its stick. If it had any insights, it kept them to itself.
Kyra arrived at the training fields just in time to see Flick charge a straw demon cat with a spear. It went cleanly through, and he pulled it out again. He caught sight of Kyra watching from the sidelines and waved. A knight, Sir Rollan, barked an order, and Flick continued his exercises.
“How do they look?” Kyra asked Malikel. Tristam was also there, along with several knights. It was a slightly overcast day, and the sun blinked in and out of the clouds.
“Decently against straw,” said Malikel. “Against live cats, on the other hand, there is more work to do.”
She watched their progress for the next hour. Kyra was supposed to give suggestions based on what she knew of the cats, but military strategy was beyond her. While Tristam could comment on formations and tactics, Kyra could only think that these men needed to move much faster if they wanted to stay alive. It gave her a modicum of comfort that Flick seemed one of the more competent with a spear.
“When will they be sent out against live cats?” asked Kyra.
“They’re to do a training round in the forest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The knights standing around her turned at her exclamation, and Kyra lowered her voice. “You must see they’re not ready.”
“It is the wish of the Council,” said Malikel. His tone warned her not to object again.
“The Council is—”
“That’s enough, Kyra. You are dismissed.”
Kyra stood immobile for a moment, wanting to argue more, but there was a dangerous set to Malikel’s jaw, and she could see that it was hopeless. She turned and stormed from the practice fields. She’d gone maybe a hundred paces when Tristam called after her.
“Kyra, wait!”
“Don’t you have some courtiers to talk to?” she snapped. Tristam flinched at her words, but Kyra wasn’t feeling inclined to pity.
“You can’t question a commander like that in front of his men. He won’t have it.”
Kyra wondered why Flick hadn’t told her he was being sent into the forest the next day. Had he been trying not to worry her, or had he not known either? She’d spent several nights trying to track down the scribe responsible for Flick’s conscription, but the search had proved difficult. That, along with Orvin’s insight into Willem’s true reasons for conscripting Flick, had forced her to halt her efforts. Though now she wondered if she should have tried harder.
“Do you have some time?” said Tristam. “I’m off for the afternoon, and I’d like to talk a bit.”
Kyra lowered her head so he wouldn’t see her irritation. Now he wanted to talk? After Malikel had proved himself impotent and Tristam had shown himself to be untrustworthy? “Where would you like to go?” she asked.
“To my quarters?”
She nodded and turned in that direction without making eye contact. Tristam’s living quarters had been a subject of some controversy after he was demoted and could no longer stay in the officials’ dormitories. He could have lodged in the barracks, but the thought of the son of a noble house, even a disgraced one, rubbing shoulders with common soldiers had been offensive enough to influential people at the Palace that the option was ruled out. Instead, he’d moved into a small but comfortable room in a building that housed visiting noblemen.
They walked there together now, and Tristam held the door open for her. His neatly made bed sat next to the window across from a writing desk and a dresser. His sword and armor hung on racks against the wall. Tristam also had a small table, where he pulled out a chair for Kyra before sitting down himself.
“Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” she asked.
“Yes, there is.” Tristam stared at his hands and appeared to collect himself. It suddenly occurred to K
yra that he might tell her about the marriage negotiations after all, and she had no idea how to respond. She wiped her palms on her trousers. Don’t say it, Tristam. I don’t want to have that conversation right now.
“I’m sorry about Flick,” said Tristam. “I’ve been doing my very best to prepare them. We all have.”
Kyra took a moment to swallow the ball of disappointment and annoyance that was quickly replacing the panic in her chest. She was being silly, she knew, wanting one thing and then the other. “How long will the rounds in the forest be? How dangerous?” she asked.
“The first round will just be a few hours in the morning, basic maneuvers in more realistic terrain. It could very well be uneventful. But even if something does happen, the new recruits are already much better than they were when they started. I honestly think that many of them, Flick included, have a fair chance of killing a demon cat if they run across one.”
Killing a demon cat. Of course, if Kyra had to choose between Flick and any one of the Makvani, she would pick Flick in a heartbeat. But Tristam’s words still left a bad taste in her mouth.
“I wish there was some other way,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why does it have to be a slaughter? If only I’d convinced Pashla to take me to Leyus.”
Tristam drummed his fingers on the table, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I hold Malikel in high esteem, but in this endeavor I think he’s misguided. I don’t trust the Makvani to keep any promises they make.”
“I trust Pashla,” Kyra said. “And there might be others like her.”
“Pashla killed Jack. If she’s the best of the lot, then I see no reason to trust them.”
If Kyra had been in a better frame of mind, she might have acknowledged that he had a fair point. It was actually Pashla’s companion who’d killed Jack, but Pashla had allowed it to happen. Though Kyra’s own experiences with Pashla had been good, she wasn’t naïve enough to forget the disdain with which the Makvani viewed humans.
But it had been a long week with many unwelcome revelations, and there was a layer of disgust in Tristam’s voice that Kyra couldn’t ignore.
“If you don’t trust them, then why trust me?” she asked.
Tristam looked up at her, uncertain. “Kyra?”
“I share their blood. I could hunt someone down as easily as they. Why trust me if you can’t trust them?” She didn’t bother to hide the hardness in her voice.
He pushed off the table, backing away from the unexpected attack. “Kyra, I would think we know each other well enough now that—”
That was too much.
“Know each other?” she snapped. “How well do I actually know you? Do you want to tell me what you’ve actually been talking to those courtiers about all week? What that family from Parna really wants from you?” Her last word rang in the air, and then there was absolute silence in the room. The shock in Tristam’s expression slowly turned to guilt, and any last hope of a misunderstanding slowly faded away.
“How did you find out?” Tristam had the look of a criminal who’d just been handed his judgment.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
He stared at her, and several times his jaw worked as if he were about to start speaking. “You may or may not believe me, but that was the real reason I wanted to talk to you today. I knew I couldn’t keep putting it off, but I couldn’t find the courage to actually say it.”
Kyra stared at him without response.
Finally he sighed and collapsed back against his chair. “Everything I’ve told you about that family and Parna is true. They are rich and powerful, with a great deal of resources. Our manor at Brancel has been falling more often to Demon Rider attacks. In addition to our manor, we’re responsible for the protection of a small hamlet nearby, and we take those duties seriously. With our resources stretched thin, we’ve not been able to protect them. The family from Parna could help us…if we were family as well.”
“What’s the lass’s name?” Kyra asked. She wasn’t quite sure why it was important, but she wanted to know.
“Cecile,” he said reluctantly. “She’s the fourth daughter of Lord Salis of Routhian. They don’t live far from Brancel, actually, but they swear fealty to Parna. I’ve never met her, but everyone says she’s pleasant.”
The name had sharp edges that dug into her chest. “And you have to accept this alliance?” It occurred to her that maybe she shouldn’t assume Tristam opposed the marriage.
Tristam stared at the table in front of him. “It’s complicated. I’ve already brought disgrace on my family by losing my rank as a knight. I’m unlikely to gain any position of political influence because of that, at least in the near future. The only way I can serve my family now is through a marriage, and the Routhian household cares much less about my disgrace than any house of Forge would. And we do need help.”
She thought she’d been upset when she first learned the news, but it was far worse to hear Tristam talk about it, to hear him actually considering it, when two months ago, they’d held each other in the forest and kissed. He was expecting her to say something, but she couldn’t. Moment by moment, the silence between them stretched longer.
“Kyra, please say something. This is not…something that I would choose.”
He wanted her to talk to him? What could he possibly expect her to say? Kyra finally managed to clear her throat. She tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite work. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. That’s why I broke things off in the first place, wasn’t it? I guess I’d not expected to be proved right so soon.”
She saw in Tristam’s face the precise moment her words sank in, and felt a perverse pleasure as her jab hit home. She wanted to be alone. Kyra pushed her chair back from the table. “I should go.”
She left before he could stop her.
The sun had completely set now, and Kyra was glad for it. She didn’t want anyone to see the expression on her face as she rushed through the courtyard, making for the Palace gates as quickly as she could. At least the grounds had calmed now from the midday frenzy, and there were fewer people walking the torch-lit pathways. Kyra kept her head down and her steps quick. She needed to get out.
She’d just left the inner compound when someone called her name. His voice was thick with disdain, and Kyra’s stomach knotted in recognition even before her mind registered who it was. She turned to see Lord Agan’s son Santon walking toward her, flanked by his two brothers.
“Where are you going, Kyra of Forge?” he said. There was an unnatural loudness to his voice and just the slightest hint of unsteadiness in his step. A wind blew from their direction, and Kyra smelled wine.
Kyra cursed under her breath. Of all the times to run into these wallhuggers. The pathways around her were empty of passersby. Just her luck. Or had they waited until no one was around? Not tonight. I don’t need this tonight. The mere sight of them disgusted her. Kyra backed away, though she didn’t want to move so quickly that she’d appear frightened. The wallhuggers drew closer.
“Off to interfere with someone else’s business?” said Santon.
“Girl doesn’t know her place,” said his younger brother. Kyra thought he was the one named Douglass.
“Just like that gutter rat she played hero for,” said the third brother, Dalton.
Her eyes flicked quickly to the swords they wore at their belts. It was too bad that the unevenness in their step wasn’t more pronounced. They’d still be able to handle the swords well enough to give her trouble. The wise thing to do would be to run away. There were plenty of places she could escape to. At least she wasn’t boxed in by crowds as she’d been the last time, but the thought of turning tail and fleeing the cowards left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“How’s your gutter rat friend, Kyra?” Santon asked. “She healing up all right?”
Just ignore them. These noblemen weren’t worth the trouble. The building next to her had a chimney she could scale. She could
be out of their reach in a few moments. Kyra did her best to push images of Idalee out of her mind, the fearful way the girl had scanned the Palace grounds as they’d left Ilona’s care.
“Too bad the magistrate never found the people who beat the wench,” said Santon with a savage smile. Kyra gritted her teeth. She took a firm hold on the chimney and dug her fingers into depressions in the stone. It was icy cold, but she barely felt it.
“Gutter rat wasn’t worth the magistrate’s time,” said Dalton. “Her type’s only good for cleaning chamber pots and the occasional late-night sport.”
She froze.
“Better flip the order of that, Dalton. Imagine the stink otherwise,” said Santon.
Kyra lowered her hand and slowly turned back toward the wallhuggers. “Shut your mouths and go home,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet.
It took the noblemen a few moments to process her words. They hadn’t expected her to come back toward them. They hadn’t expected her to give them a command. And they were far too arrogant to heed the threat that infused every one of her words. Santon stood for a moment, and then the smile slowly returned to his face. “Girl wants to play hero again.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” said Kyra, “you’ll leave right now.” There was a spark of anger in her stomach, and she nurtured it. Even as she spoke, she was hoping they wouldn’t listen to her. She saw Idalee’s crumpled form on the ground as the wallhuggers kicked her, heard the girl’s choked cries. No, Kyra most definitely did not want Santon and his brothers to do as they were told.
“Don’t be giving threats to those above your station, Kyra,” said Santon, closing the distance between them. “You think you’re safe because you’re on Palace grounds? You’re nothing but a glorified gutter rat, and you’ll end up just like your friend.”
He struck her across the face then, his hand moving fast and sure. She put up an arm to block him, but Santon was strong enough that the blow still connected and knocked her halfway over. Kyra stayed bent over, one hand to her aching jaw, waiting for the tears to clear from her eyes. There was a coppery taste in her mouth where she’d bitten her cheek. Her dagger was in her boot, but she didn’t reach for it.
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