The one good result of the approaching Demon Rider offensive was that Malikel resumed his duties with the Council. The magistrate’s reasons for reinstating him had more to do with the city’s need for wartime leadership than with his own investigations, but any change that got Malikel back on the Council was a good one in Tristam’s book. On the first day of Malikel’s return, Tristam hung near the Council Room, hoping to speak with the Defense Minister, but Malikel’s movements were still closely monitored, and he couldn’t get a word with him alone.
Three days before the Demon Rider offensive, Robert finally folded. “I serve the Whitt house,” he said. “I’ve been carrying messages between Lord Whitt and Head Councilman Willem.” His well-tailored clothes had become wrinkled and dirty after his days in the cave, and his hair and beard were unkempt.
It took some effort on Tristam’s part not to let his relief show. “And what do they discuss?”
“They tell me very little,” said Robert. “I simply carry the letters.”
He might have been lying. He might have been telling the truth. But Tristam was running out of time. The Whitt household was one of the smaller houses of Forge, halfway to Edlan. They certainly would have had plenty of reason to encourage a Demon Rider sweep. “Will you testify to the Council that you ran messages between Willem and Lord Whitt?”
Robert didn’t answer right away, and Tristam allowed the silence between them to stretch. It was like a game of cards, interrogating a hostile prisoner, always trying to hide one’s own hand while guessing the opponent’s.
“I’ll testify,” Robert said. “But I want a guard around me at all times. I fear for my life.”
“I can arrange that,” he said. “We’ll take you to the city tomorrow.”
He kept his walk at a dignified pace until Robert could no longer see him, then he rushed out to find Kyra. The cave was surrounded by Demon Riders. Each time Tristam returned, it seemed more Makvani loitered in its vicinity—four the first time, then five, then seven. Only one or two at any given time were actually serving a shift. The rest had no obvious reason for being there.
He finally spotted Kyra farther out, walking aimlessly through and around the trees. She looked a little worse for wear these days—her clothes were dusty, and her ponytail had several escaped strands, though she still walked with that graceful, easy stride. She came toward him when he caught her eye, and something must have showed in his expression, because a cautious optimism crossed her face.
“Do you believe him?” asked Kyra after he told her.
“We can’t afford not to,” he said. “If we want to stop the offensive, we must do something now.”
“And you’re set on taking it before the Council? It could be bad for you, if they don’t believe you.” There was real worry in her eyes. The strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail blew across her face. Tristam was tempted to brush them away but thought better of it. He was to have dinner again with Cecile tonight. “It’s less dangerous for me than it would be for you.”
Kyra pursed her lips but couldn’t argue with his reasoning. “Very well, then,” she said. She squeezed his hand. “Rest well.”
The voices of the Makvani drifted after Tristam as he walked away. As much as he hated to admit it, Flick had been right about asking the Demon Riders to help. The guards had been very helpful. There was no way Kyra could have watched and sheltered Robert nearly as well on her own. He thought back again to his argument with Flick. They had primarily exchanged words over the Makvani, but it was what he’d said about Kyra that stuck in Tristam’s mind.
You think you can keep her separate in your mind from the others. You think she’s different, Flick had said. Or, more accurately, yelled. But don’t you realize Kyra doesn’t see it that way? It’s killing her to see you hate her kin like this. You’ll never truly care for her if you despise her blood.
Tristam could have argued with Flick. There were many things that made Kyra different from the others. But even if he’d brought those up, he couldn’t argue with the look in Kyra’s eyes whenever he made his true feelings about the Makvani known. He’d seen it many times, but he’d looked away.
Distracted by his thoughts, Tristam was slow to react when a yellow blur shot out from between the trees and knocked him to the ground. Before Tristam could grab his sword, whatever attacked him had disappeared back into the trees. He climbed to his feet, holding his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Had that been a demon cat? No, too small. Whatever had hit him had run into his legs.
He heard some scuffling around him, then saw a gray blur in the trees, circling him. Tristam dropped into a defensive crouch. Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned and almost dropped his sword in shock.
Lettie stood ten paces away from him, as surprised to see him as he was to see her. The girl was bundled up in a wool tunic, trousers, and a cloak. Her cheeks shone red from the cold, and she was taking in big gulps of air, as if she’d been running very hard.
“Lettie!” Tristam said. “What are you doing here?”
The girl gave him a shy smile. “Ho, Tristam.”
“Does Kyra know you’re out here?” he asked.
“Aye,” Lettie said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m playing with my friends.”
He was about to ask her to explain further when two young demon cats, the yellow blur and the gray blur, crept out and did their best to hide behind Lettie—not incredibly effective given their size. The yellow one peeked out occasionally to stare at Tristam but retreated whenever Tristam looked back.
“And these are your…friends?” Tristam asked.
Lettie blinked up at him. “Flick was worried too, but he still lets us play. All the Demon Riders watch us.” She pointed to the yellow one. “This is Libena, and her brother is Ziben.” Lettie turned to address Libena. “Tristam’s nice. You can let him pet you.”
He really would have preferred not to, but Lettie was beaming up at him and he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. It did help that these cubs had features clearly marking them as babies—large head and eyes, and soft, downy fur. The gray one crept closer, step by step, and finally rubbed his flank against Tristam’s knees. Ziben was about three times the size of a house cat, and Tristam reached out carefully to stroke his back. The kitten yawned, revealing tiny, sharp fangs.
“I told you Tristam was nice,” said Lettie smugly.
Following her brother’s bravery, Libena circled closer. She was considerably larger, standing as high as Tristam when he was on one knee. When she leaned against Tristam’s back, it took some effort on his part not to be knocked over. Both cats sniffed at him, sticking their noses in his face. Ziben’s chest was rumbling. Was that a purr?
Eventually, the two kittens lost interest. Libena moved away first, and Ziben soon followed suit. Libena stepped toward the trees and looked expectantly at Lettie.
“Good-bye, Tristam!” said Lettie, and ran off after them.
He watched them disappear, feeling as if he had come out of some bizarre dream. His cloak was covered with strands of gray and yellow fur.
“It is interesting, isn’t it?” said a new voice behind him. “How easy it is for the younger ones to fall into new patterns.”
A prickle passed over the skin of Tristam’s arms and neck, and he turned around to face Pashla. He didn’t reach for his weapon—that would have violated the unspoken truce between them. But it was hard to be civil to the woman who had stood by calmly while her companion killed Jack, and who had wounded Martin and delivered him to his death.
“I won’t lie,” he said. “I worry about Lettie’s safety.”
“As do Kyra and Flick, but the girl is stronger than she looks,” said Pashla. “Lettie and the kittens have become fast friends. There are some among our own number who object to this, but others urge them to let Libena and Ziben pick their own companions.” Pashla paused. “Kyra and Flick hope for peace between our peoples. Do you share that hope?”
&nb
sp; It would have been safest to lie to her, but to do so seemed a betrayal of Jack’s and Martin’s memory. “I hope for peace,” said Tristam. “But I cannot see how it could come to pass, if your people view us as mere animals to be slaughtered.”
“And your people, how do they view us?” asked Pashla. “Are we worthy of friendship and understanding, or are we simply monsters to be destroyed? Virtue does not solely reside with your people, nor does brutality reside solely with mine. We live and die by our honor, courage, and loyalty. Can you say the same for Forge?”
“I won’t deny your courage,” said Tristam. “But your people take pleasure in bloodshed. I’ve seen what you do in battle when your rage overtakes you.”
“And what about Kyra?” asked Pashla. “Do you shun her because she succumbs on occasion to her instincts?”
Pashla’s question silenced him. To have yet another person bring up Kyra like this…Tristam swallowed and couldn’t think how to respond.
Pashla took a step closer to him, and then another, until the two of them stood almost toe to toe. She was tall for a woman, and their eyes were almost level when she spoke again. “If you can trust Kyra, then you can learn to trust us. If you cannot trust us, then perhaps you do not really trust her.”
Tristam met her gaze and finally found his voice. “Fair point,” he said. And he stepped away.
Pashla stayed where she was, and her gaze seemed to go right through his skin. “I do understand what it’s like to lose a friend in battle,” she said quietly. “I do have sympathy for your loss.”
Was she trying to make amends? Even now, Pashla’s words brought back the sheer horror of those fateful encounters. Jack had died silently, but Martin’s screams would forever be etched in Tristam’s memory.
“Thank you.” He couldn’t give her more than that. Not yet.
Pashla inclined her head at his words. “Our ways are different,” she said. “But perhaps we can learn from the kittens.”
And then she too disappeared into the forest.
“I understand it’s been a trying week for all of us,” said Cecile of Routhian. “But I do require a minimal amount of effort from you, Tristam, if we are to carry on a conversation.”
The impatience in Cecile’s voice was mild, but it jarred Tristam to attention nonetheless. It was the first time he’d seen anything but perfect poise from her. The two of them sat in a private dining room on the Palace grounds. A servant had just brought them each a small bowl of lemon curd to finish up the meal.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his forehead. He’d struggled all evening to be present with her, but there were simply too many thoughts going through his mind: his conversation with Pashla, Robert’s confession, tomorrow’s Council meeting…“I’ve been inexcusably rude. Forgive me.”
Cecile was quite pretty, with flax-colored hair and large green eyes that shone with intelligence. She usually held herself and spoke in a way that projected serenity, though now there was strain around her eyes and a tightening at the corners of her mouth. She placed her spoon back onto the table and looked him in the eye.
“Kyra of Forge is alive, isn’t she?” she said. “And you’ve been in contact with her.”
It was only by a small miracle that Tristam didn’t drop his own spoon.
Cecile smiled sadly at his surprise. “When you’re alone in a foreign court, you pay attention to the gossip, especially when they concern your prospective husband. I’ve known from the very beginning that your heart wasn’t in these negotiations.”
Tristam lowered his spoon into his bowl. He felt like the lowest kind of human being, and he couldn’t find it in himself to keep up the pretense. He looked Cecile in the eye. “I have a great deal of respect for you, my lady, so I won’t attempt to deny anything you’ve said. And I have no excuses for myself. Though you should know that Kyra and I do not intend to…pursue our relationship, if you and I were to marry.”
Cecile took a delicate bite of lemon curd, eyeing him thoughtfully. “I believe you,” she said finally. “And that says something about my regard for you, as I would not believe those words from many other men.”
It surprised Tristam how calmly she was taking this. Sure, he’d known that she wasn’t in love with him, but it still must hurt one’s pride, if nothing else, to learn that one’s betrothed already had feelings for someone else. “If you…find that you no longer wish to continue the negotiations, I can send word to—”
Cecile stopped him with a hand on his wrist, touching him in a way that was authoritative rather than flirtatious. “Do your feelings for Kyra change your family’s need for help against the Demon Riders?”
Tristam grimaced. “No. I suppose not.”
She withdrew her hand. “Nor does it change my family’s ambitions. I was raised in the court just as you were, and I know my duties. I believe you to be good and honorable. There’s no reason to believe another match for me would turn out better.” She met his eyes with a wry smile. “We’re both affected by things out of our control. But we make the best of it, don’t we?”
Her candor was refreshing, even if her words contained unpleasant truths. “You’re a better woman than I deserve, Cecile.”
She inclined her head, smiled, and did not contradict him. The door opened, and a servant announced the arrival of the courtier who would escort Cecile back to her quarters.
Tristam left dinner with Cecile’s words circling in his head. He found he respected her more after that frank exchange, though the open-eyed pragmatism of her words seemed sad. But she was right. The circumstances surrounding their marriage alliance remained unchanged.
Tristam was marginally successful in focusing his thoughts as he made his way to the Red Shield barracks, where a few quick inquiries led him to Fitz. The young man blinked when Tristam asked for a private word with him but agreed readily enough.
“I have a favor to ask,” said Tristam when they were out of earshot of the barracks. “It would help Malikel and Forge, but it’s of questionable legality.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. “Looking to get yourself demoted again, milord?”
Tristam thought back to his earlier conversations with Fitz and hoped that his impression of the Red Shield’s character and loyalties was accurate. “I have a prisoner who has information about Willem’s misdeeds. I need someone to guard him while I speak to the Council. If things go wrong, I’ll do my best to ensure any blame falls on me, but I can’t promise I’ll succeed.”
Fitz leaned back on his heels and considered Tristam’s words. “If it’ll help Sir Malikel, I’ll do my part.” Then he grinned. “What’s a soldier’s life without risk, right?”
Tristam took Robert back to Forge early the next morning and left him in Fitz’s care. Then he attended the Council meeting, carrying the message that he, Kyra, and Flick had confiscated from Robert. At the end of every Council meeting, the Head Councilman traditionally announced an opportunity for any citizen to raise an issue before the Council. It was an old law, and admirable in its designation of the Council as a government that listened to all. In practice though, because only a very special portion of the population was even allowed in the Palace compound, much less the Council Room, the definition of “any citizen” was much narrower than the wording suggested.
Nobody paid Tristam much mind as he slipped into the Council Room. Malikel had taken the stage to discuss preparations for the forest sweep. When the discussion ended, Willem gave the customary closing. “If any citizen of Forge would like to make a petition before the Council, he may take the stage now.”
It was now or never.
“I have a petition,” he said loudly, getting to his feet. He was painfully aware of the Council members swiveling their heads to look at him. Tristam walked up the aisle with as much dignity as he could muster. Willem looked at him with thinly veiled annoyance. “A petition, Tristam of Brancel?”
“Some information has come into my possession, and I would like to present it to the Council.
”
“It is your right,” said Willem drily. “Go ahead.”
“I received word of a messenger carrying a private missive into the Palace compound. I, along with some companions, intercepted this message and found that a leader of Forge was conspiring to unlawfully influence the decisions of the Council.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Malikel sit up straighter. He dearly hoped that his commander would approve of what he was about to do.
“That’s a very vague report,” said Willem. “Who was your informant?”
“My informant wishes to remain anonymous, Your Grace, but the note itself requests gold to sway scribes, soldiers, and other people within Forge. It suggests that the Council’s vote to attack the Demon Riders was corrupted by bribery.” Tristam produced the parchment out of his pocket. “Here is the original note, if the Council would like to inspect it.”
Willem held out a hand. “Give it here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Grace.” Willem shifted in surprise, and Tristam felt his heart pound against his rib cage. Even after all this, he wasn’t used to direct insubordination, and his body was letting him know it.
“You refuse?” asked Willem.
“I refuse because the messenger entered the Palace compound from your private gate, and the note is written in your handwriting.”
The Council Room erupted in shouts. Willem pounded his gavel to regain the floor. “Let me see if I understand you, Tristam. You are accusing me of treason against Forge, the city in which I already hold the highest office.”
Tristam raised his voice. “With all due respect, Your Grace, you are indeed Head Councilman, but the Demon Rider offensive was a close vote, and there was plenty of motivation on either side to sway it.”
Lord Perce of Roll, a Council member who had voted against Willem, raised his hand. “These are serious allegations you bring against the Head Councilman. Do you have any evidence?”
“I will gladly hand over this note to a neutral third party.”
“May I see it?”
Daughter of Dusk Page 24
