- CHAPTER 12 -
TRISTAN
TRISTAN’S FAVORITE PLACE WAS soaring through the sky on the back of his phoenix. His not-flaming phoenix, of course.
The pump of Rex’s powerful wings beneath him, the gusts of warm air that floated up from the rocky earth below, and the vistas that showed him mountains and rivers and endless trees as far as the eye could see—that was, when his eye wasn’t fixed on the back of his bondmate’s head.
Unlike usual, Tristan didn’t scan the ground below for danger, as he was supposed to do, or gaze into the distance, where mountain ranges enclosed the valley like a sturdy rock palisade. He didn’t even try to see his old home in Ferro—an impossible feat from this distance and angle, but something he did almost every time he rode.
No, Tristan hunched in the stirrups of his saddle, muscles rigid and hands clenched tight on the reins, as if riding a stampeding horse, not floating above the ground in wide, elegant arcs. He refused to enjoy his late-afternoon flight, preferring to scowl at Rex’s feathers and stew in silence.
Rex tossed his head, taking Tristan’s irritation and making it his own—one of the negative effects of the bond. The phoenix dipped suddenly, beating his wings with an impatient flap and jolting Tristan out of his distracted thoughts. He realized his stiff, awkward riding position was as uncomfortable for his bondmate as it was for him.
“Sorry, Rex,” Tristan murmured, settling more comfortably in the saddle. With a heavy sigh and a twist of his neck to work out the kinks, Tristan took in the familiar landscape that unfolded below them, running a gentle hand down the silken feathers of Rex’s bright red neck, warmth bleeding through his gloves.
Tristan was dressed in his full Rider regalia—leather gloves and armguards, fitted tunic, a thick woven breastplate, and padded riding pants tucked into boots, all coated with a fire-resistant resin. The layers made Tristan hot and uncomfortable, and he much preferred to fly without them—but today’s ride wasn’t for leisure. Today he and several of the more senior apprentices were participating in the local patrols along with the Master Riders.
It should have made him happy—and it did at first. Tristan had begged and pleaded for the chance, and at last the order had come through. Finally, after months of asking, he’d get the opportunity to prove to all the Master Riders—including his father—that he was ready to become one of them, that he belonged among their ranks.
Tristan should have known better.
He’d been assigned the easiest, tamest area to watch, a segment of the surrounding land that was so safe, they usually didn’t patrol it at all. The opportunity he’d so longed for immediately became an insult.
It was a useless post, and Tristan knew his father was behind it.
Ever since that day on the bluffs two weeks ago when he’d failed to make the jump, Tristan had been waiting for his father to bring it up, to use it against him in some way. Never mind that Tristan had since completed the exercise correctly nearly a dozen times; he’d known that one slipup would come back to haunt him.
And here it was.
Tristan had seen the look on the other apprentices’ faces when his patrol was announced: Several clearly pitied him, while others smirked at what they saw as a deflation of Tristan’s overlarge ego. The reaction of the Master Riders was worst of all: They stared openly at Tristan and his father, seeing it as an example of favoritism. Like his father was trying to give him an easy path.
It only proved how little they knew him.
Tristan pushed the thoughts from his mind, imagining them floating away on the wind that whipped across his skin. He tried to focus on his patrol, urging Rex to fly in the crisscrossing pattern they’d been taught, but there was nothing to see.
As a rule, they stuck to the air above the very upper reaches of Pyrmont, not wanting to draw attention from the empire or the villages on the lower rim. They flew only one daylight patrol, soaring so high up that they appeared as no more than distant specks—perhaps a particularly large eagle or falcon—to anyone on the ground. The rest of their patrols were at night, which allowed them to fly lower, but of course the landscape was more difficult to see in the darkness, no matter how superior a phoenix’s eyesight. This left them blind to a lot of what was happening in Pyra, and in the empire beyond.
This was why Tristan had pushed for more horse-mounted patrols. He had also pushed to accelerate the apprentice program, so they could put together a third patrol group. He had been rebuffed at both turns.
And now, just when he’d thought things were happening for him, he’d been sent to float above the Pilgrimage Road like a kite in an Azurec’s Day parade.
With an unspoken command, Rex banked hard, and together they set their sights to the east. Tristan had long since memorized their patrol grid and knew where there were gaps in their surveillance. The road didn’t need watching; the wilderness did.
The moment Tristan deviated from his orders, a bubble of exhilaration inflated inside his chest. Rex flew faster, and they surged up and down with every powerful thrust of his wings. This was the land of Tristan’s Pyraean ancestors, and right now he felt as if he claimed it for himself. He wanted to discover its secrets, to know the mountain better even than those who were born here. As he soared through the sky, he wasn’t the son of an exiled governor; he was a Phoenix Rider, like the legendary warriors of old.
He identified familiar landmarks as he flew: the domed houses of Montascent, the last still-occupied village before the thrust of rock that led to the ruins of Aura; the serpentine twist of the River Aurys, snaking down the mountainside; the staggered row of carved phoenix statues that lined the path on the way to the village of Petratec—and the lone figure, cutting through the long grasses between the village and the river, making their way toward the bridge that led to the Phoenix Riders’ hidden base.
Tristan almost fell from his saddle.
While Rex tucked his wings and dove for the skulking traveler, Tristan fumbled for his horn. The ringing sound drew the person’s gaze, but they didn’t run or wave; they simply froze, openmouthed and gaping, neck craned toward the sky.
The instant Rex landed, Tristan leapt from his back, drawing his spear and leveling it at the intruder. They locked eyes—and Tristan’s heart sank.
It was just a boy, some kid barely into adolescence, scrawny and dressed in rags.
He was definitely Pyraean, with large, deep-set eyes and dark brows. His mess of straight black hair was cut in a jagged cap around his head, and his brown skin was smudged with dust and dirt.
They stood in awkward silence until the thump of beating wings echoed from above. Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. The nearest Rider patrol had answered his call and were about to discover that he’d raised the alarm over this child—and of course, the nearest patrol just happened to include the commander. Dreading what would come next, Tristan fixed his gaze on the boy as the Riders—including Ronyn and Elliot, the other apprentices chosen for patrol—descended, kicking up grass and leaves in a gust of warm wind.
Rex shook his wings and edged closer to Tristan, puffing out his chest in an attempt to assert dominance as phoenixes landed all around them. There were eight new Riders in total: a full patrol, plus the two apprentices and everyone’s mounts. The phoenixes retained their flight formation, feathers bristling and heads tossing as they stood in a rough V shape, and every single Rider had a bow or spear drawn. They scanned the area, ready for a threat, and it took them several moments to notice the boy Tristan held captive.