Heart of Flames Page 7

  “Tristan,” Veronyka scolded, but she was smiling. No damage would come to it, and Tristan could get it tomorrow.

  They were still pressed together, Veronyka leaning across his body, Tristan with one arm wrapped around her—at first to pull her back, but now that arm held her close. Her body coiled with tension, as if always ready for action… or prepared for attack. Tristan knew it was Val who had made her this way, and his anger toward the girl flared again, hot and fierce.

  Veronyka finally looked up at him, their eyes catching and holding. He felt something, a pull or tug that seemed to reach deep down into the pit of his stomach. Next to them, Xephyra crooned softly, and Veronyka pulled away.

  “I’m not mad,” she said, putting the lid back onto the jar of resin and wiping her hands on a rag. “Not at you.”

  “At who?” Tristan asked, sitting up and fixing his tunic, which had been pulled askew. He wanted to touch her again, but her demeanor was still distant. She was talking to him, at least. “Not yourself.”

  “No. Yes. I…” She blew a puff of air out through her lips, causing pieces of her hair to flutter. “I’m mad at everyone and everything. Aren’t you?”

  Tristan was taken back by the question, but before he could answer, Veronyka continued.

  “I just want to be able to contribute.”

  “But you will—you already do,” Tristan protested.

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Tristan… nothing’s happening. People are missing, the villages are crumbling… and I’m just sitting here. We’re just sitting here. And when something finally does happen, if I’m not a Master Rider… if I can’t even compete with the Master Riders”—she darted a glance at him before continuing—“then what? I don’t want to be left behind.”

  Tristan sighed and leaned back, his head resting against the stone wall and his legs stretched out before him. Her concerns were valid. His father was cautious almost to the point of inaction, though Tristan knew in his heart that Commander Cassian was no coward. He did things for a reason, but he rarely let people in on those calculations. They were too limited in number to strike back at the empire—at least in the military sense—but surely there were other things to be done. They could recruit foot soldiers or hire mercenaries, set up a border defense or take residence in one of the remaining outposts from before the war. Their existence now felt like the taut string on a drawn bow, and Tristan wanted to be ready when the arrow was loosed.

  But of course, Tristan also knew that when the time came, the commander would be unlikely to allow new recruits to join in the fighting. Unless the circumstances were dire, like the surprise attack on the Eyrie. Ten fully trained Riders were more potent than fifteen untrained, and the more practice and experience the apprentices got before their next battle, the more likely that they would survive beyond it.

  “Well, like you said, nothing’s happening, which means there’s still time.”

  This didn’t seem to please her. He supposed it was small consolation, the kind of assurance his father had given him over and over again as he strove to rise in the Rider ranks.

  The kind of reassurance Tristan had hated too.

  “It’s not just that,” Veronyka said, staring down at her hands where they sat in her lap. “Why did you hold back during the last match?”

  “So you are mad at me,” Tristan said, and she didn’t contradict him. “I…,” he began, searching for words. He’d expected this from her, but he still didn’t know what to say. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  She cast him a pointed look, crossing her arms, and he knew he’d have to do better than that.

  He cleared his throat. “I was tired, and everyone was watching, and…”

  “Were you trying to make it easier for me?” she asked, agitation coloring her voice. “Were you trying to let me win?”

  “No, I never intended—I wasn’t thinking. I just hesitated for a sec—”

  “You didn’t think I could win, did you?” she demanded angrily. “You thought I was destined to lose, and you didn’t want to embarrass me in front of everyone, so you went easy on the poor, incompetent girl.”

  “No! I didn’t go easy on you,” Tristan said at once. “I know that I hesitated,” he added quickly, “but I fought hard before that. And I didn’t hold back because you’re a girl,” he said, hurt that she’d think so little of him. “It was because you’re you.”

  Her rage faltered. “What do you mean? I don’t want special treatment.”

  Tristan looked away from her, heat crawling up his cheeks. He was glad it was dark. “I knew how much you wanted to win—how hard you’ve been working. And I guess that compromised me.” She continued to stare at him, uncomprehending, so he plowed on. “I know you don’t want special treatment, but you are special—to me.”

  Her lips parted, but no words came out. She turned away, looking toward Xephyra and Rex, who were huddled together several feel away. Both their glows had dimmed; the only light came from the lanterns hung on regular intervals along the walkway, and the distant, icy stars.

  When she finally did speak, her voice was soft, a whisper across his skin. “The thing is… you’ve always hated the way your father treated you differently. Good or bad… it feels like you’re protecting me. But that’s not—that’s not why I’m here. That’s not what I want from you.”

  What do you want? Tristan was desperate to ask, but he was afraid of the answer. They’d spent hours alone together since the battle for the Eyrie, when her secrets were laid bare and they had grown closer to each other. But once the dust settled, nothing more had happened between them. And he wanted it to. He hated when they were apart and couldn’t wait until she graduated and joined his patrol. They were short one Rider, and Tristan had yet to name a second-in-command. That position was Veronyka’s, and it would be waiting for her whenever she was ready.

  Tristan wanted her by his side always. Did she not want the same?

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, avoiding her gaze.

  She nodded, though it seemed more in resignation than anything else. “Latham’s always saying how you favor me, and I overheard him whispering to Petyr after the match that you were afraid to hit me.”

  “I hit you all the time!” Tristan said, outraged, and her lips twitched in a smile. “In training, obviously,” he muttered, realizing the way his words sounded. He’d accidentally given her a black eye two weeks ago, and the barest hints of green still colored her golden-brown skin. He’d been horrified at first, but Veronyka had only touched the swelling gently before smiling, wearing the purple bruises like a badge of honor. “And Petyr’s just jealous.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Veronyka said. “This place is too small, and everyone loves gossip. One day I’m the stable boy Nyk, the next I’m a girl, a brand-new apprentice—and the commander’s son’s favorite. You know what they’ll say, how they’ll spin it. They’ll say that we’re—that you and I…”

  She trailed off, and silence fell between them.

  “So what if we were?” Tristan asked, and when her eyes widened, he hastily continued. “I mean, it used to happen all the time, didn’t it? Mated pairs, or whatever.” Her eyes were round as plates now, and Tristan’s cheeks were hotter than Rex in a fire dive. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, glancing away from her and forcing a determinedly nonchalant shrug. “Let them talk.”

  The truth was, the other apprentices had been gossiping about Veronyka and Tristan since she’d first arrived. While Latham would occasionally moon about girls and Anders would laugh and tease and try to push everyone’s buttons, Tristan had always been more reserved. He’d never shown much interest in the others—for friendship or romance—but then Nyk the new stable boy turned up and the two became inseparable. It didn’t matter that it was his father’s order that started it; they’d seen the way Tristan looked at Nyk, noticed the change that Veronyka never could because she hadn’t known him before. No matter how innocent their relationship—even though T
ristan had long wished it were otherwise—something about being the commander’s solitary, standoffish son made him an entertaining target, and they loved to try to get a rise out of him.

  “It’s different for you,” Veronyka said. “You’re the one in power. I’m the one who looks like I’m clinging to your phoenix tail.”

  Rex let out a reproachful croak and shuffled forward; Veronyka smiled at him, patting his outstretched beak.

  Tristan watched them, thinking over her words. He realized it was exactly how he’d felt being the commander’s son, as if no matter how hard he worked or how well he performed, everyone would assume he’d been given an easy path.

  “Anyone who sees you fly will know that you’ve earned every single thing you have—and you’ll earn much more, before all this is done,” he said, hoping to reassure her, but there was a heaviness settling into his stomach. If just being friends compromised Veronyka’s integrity and her hopes for the future, how could Tristan ever hope for anything more?

  “All my life,” she began, “my s-sister”—she stuttered slightly on the word—“treated me like I was made of glass. Not precious, but fragile. Useless.”

  “I do not think you’re useless,” Tristan interrupted, and she smiled widely. His stomach leapt at the sight.

  “I know,” she said, before the grin slipped off her face. “I just… I hate this, Tristan. I hate sitting here… I feel useless.”

  Her voice was tired now as she leaned back against the wall, staring off into the distance. Heart fluttering, Tristan reached for her, his fingers crawling across the cool stone to find hers in the dark. She stiffened at first, only to grip his hand hard.

  “Yeah,” Tristan said, sliding closer to her and gently tracing his thumb across her knuckles. “Me too.”

  * * *

  After walking Veronyka back to the apprentice barracks, Tristan roamed the stronghold. It was well after dinner, and the place was deserted.

  He was considering walking the ramparts or visiting Wind in the stables when he spotted his father cutting across the cobblestones toward the dining hall. Tristan hastened his footsteps to catch up to him, surprised to see him out so late. His father usually retired early to work, the lantern glow from his chambers spilling out the windows and into the courtyard well into the night.

  His father turned at the sound of Tristan’s footsteps. “Tristan,” he said in surprise, his brows furrowing. “What are you doing out here at this late hour? Did Beryk send you?”

  “No one sent me,” Tristan assured him. “I was just…” He trailed off. He wasn’t really doing anything.

  The commander’s gaze roved his face, and in a surprising act of perceptiveness, he nodded toward the dining hall. “Care to join me for a nightcap?”

  “Sure,” Tristan said, slightly dumbfounded as he followed his father through the doors and toward the high table. Late-night drinks were for the commander and his second, or maybe Fallon, the other patrol leader. With a jolt, Tristan realized that he was a patrol leader now, on the same level as these other Master Riders.

  A servant was wiping down the long tables that filled the hall, but otherwise, the place was deserted.

  “Some rockwine, if you please,” the commander asked when the servant wandered over, “and whatever is left from dinner—there’s no need to reheat.”

  While his father took a seat at the head of the high table, Tristan sat next to him, the long planked surface stretching out before them. The servant returned quickly, carrying a tray of assorted cakes and meat pastries, along with two ceramic cups and a chilled decanter dotted with beads of condensation from the warm summer air.

  His father took the liberty of pouring—a healthy measure for himself and a lesser amount for his son. Tristan smirked, but he took the cup gratefully. They’d never shared a drink like this before, as if they were old friends. As if they were equals. It made him think of Veronyka.

  “How did you manage being my father and my commander these past years? How did you remain neutral?”

  His father wore a somewhat dubious expression, popping a bite of a pastry into his mouth and dusting his hands. “I’m not sure I did,” he said, casting his son an appraising look. “I’ve tried to be fair, and when I knew I couldn’t be, well… I didn’t go easier on you, did I? I went harder. I asked more of you than of anyone else, so there could be no question. An imperfect solution, but I knew you were up to the challenge, no matter how much you resented me for it.”

  The corners of his father’s mouth quirked, and Tristan copied him. It did seem funny, now that he was on the other side of it. But this was where he’d gone wrong with Veronyka, inadvertently or not. He’d tried to make things easier for her, and that had made everything worse.

  “What about you and my mother? You were the governor, plus her patrol leader. Didn’t people whisper and gossip? And what about other mated pairs? Did the First Riders resent Queen Nefyra for having Callysta as her lover and her second?”

  The commander considered Tristan over the edge of his cup. “Your interest in this subject matter… it has to do with our stable-boy-turned-apprentice, Veronyka?”

  Tristan nodded stiffly, embarrassment tingling up and down his neck. He’d never in his life talked to his father about anything so personal, but the fact that his father guessed so easily meant that it wasn’t just the new masters and young apprentices who’d noted his and Veronyka’s behavior.

  His father took a drink, studiously avoiding Tristan’s eyes as he asked, “Are you a mated pair?”

  “No!” Tristan blurted, wanting to melt away into the floorboards. “No, I mean… not yet. Maybe never. I just…” Axura above, he was talking to his father about mating with Veronyka. Mating, like animals. The prickling sensation crawling up his back was almost painfully hot. “We have a relationship outside of our roles as Riders, and I’m in a position of authority over her. I need to find a way to make it work so that people don’t think I’m favoring her in some way. I don’t want them to grow to resent her—especially after the whole ‘Nyk’ thing.”

  Tristan knew that Riders had romances with one another all the time. That wasn’t the issue. If he were an apprentice, there would be no issue at all. Or maybe he was kidding himself. He was still the commander’s son, wasn’t he? Maybe there was no way for Tristan to become entangled with another Rider without causing some kind of scandal.

  “You know your mother and I fought alongside each other for years before it became something more. In truth, I was meant to marry a Stellan girl—some councilman’s daughter. My father had set it up for me, but then I met your mother. Well, I’m sure you remember that Olanna was not a woman to be ignored.”

  His father smiled wistfully, and an ache radiated from Tristan’s chest. Sometimes he thought he could remember his mother, but other times he was certain he’d invented an image of her, pieced together from stories told by his nursemaid and his father, or people like Morra. He supposed that it might even be better than the real thing, because their words were colored with love, but he couldn’t help but feel grief for the lack of his own memories.

  His father pushed aside the plate of pastries and refilled his cup. When Tristan slid his forward, Cassian hesitated before smiling slightly and topping him off as well—a larger pour than before. “We were never a mated pair—our bondmates were not suited to each other—but our romance was well known. I won’t say that it was easy. In fact, it was exceedingly difficult trying to stay away from your mother—if only for a time. Not that she would have me, at first. She was beloved among her fellow Riders, talented and bright and beautiful. Well born too, with ancestors all the way back to Oriyana Flamesong. I was one in a long line of hopeful suitors. So rather than press her, I made my case over time. Looking back, I think this is why we made such a strong match. We developed a friendship, a foundation, and didn’t allow our feelings to distract us from our duty. There was no resentment or regret. Just as Callysta earned her reputation as a dazzling flyer and d
evastating warrior before she devoted herself to Nefyra, your mother was Olanna Flamesong long before she was my wife.”

  Tristan drank from his cup. He’d never heard his father say so much about his mother, about the time before the war. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was a newfound closeness he was feeling, but the blazing embarrassment that had burned his flesh moments before now felt as warm and comfortable as a hearth fire.

  His father spoke easily, but now his tone turned hesitant. “If it is real, Tristan, and not a passing fancy,” he began, and waved off Tristan’s openmouthed attempts to deny anything so frivolous. “I said if. If it is real, it will be all the sweeter for the waiting.”

  Waiting. The thought was not an encouraging one. Weren’t they doing enough of that already?

  “Has there been any news from the empire?” he asked, changing the subject.

  His father cast a wary gaze around the dining hall, but the servant who had brought their meal was gone, and they were alone. Commander Cassian knew that when Tristan asked for news, he meant news from the spy, Sev. It had taken a while to get the information out of his father once Tristan realized the soldier was gone and had left no word of his plans or whereabouts. It had actually been Fallon who’d let it slip during a Riders Council meeting, and Tristan had the sinking feeling that if Fallon hadn’t brought it up, he still wouldn’t know what had become of the animage soldier.

  But after their conversation tonight, Tristan felt like he and his father had crossed some invisible barrier—that the commander was finally starting to see Tristan as a man and not a boy.

  “Nothing of note,” his father said dismissively, but seeing the look on his son’s face, he sighed good-naturedly. “These things take time, Tristan, and often the information we glean takes even longer to piece together into something usable.”

  They left the dining hall soon after, his father to his rooms inside the administrative building that had become his home, and Tristan to the Eyrie.