Tristan had replayed the scene over and over in his head since he’d left the obstacle course, and he was convinced that if the boy hadn’t stepped in, he could’ve gotten things under control. The fire made him panic—that was nothing new—but given another moment, Tristan would have told Rex to quench his flames, commanded the horse to stand down, and called back his dog and pigeon. He could’ve fixed it, but instead that runt of a boy ran into the middle of the scene, seconds away from being trampled and burned, and did the very thing Tristan hadn’t yet managed to do—regained control. Almost effortlessly, it had seemed.
This boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
Tristan dropped his head into his hands, his hair curling around his fingers. As if being embarrassed in front of his fellow apprentices wasn’t enough, he’d seen that familiar look in his father’s eye. This mistake would be his excuse for holding Tristan back for weeks—months, probably. No matter how strongly Tristan performed from now on, his father would remind him of this failure.
Not only would he suffer, but the Riders would suffer too. The commander’s opinions of him didn’t change the fact that they needed more patrols—finding Nyk had only proven that. They needed to survey the areas of Pyra where empire spies and raiders might lurk, the lower rim and the Foothills and the wilds that weren’t traveled by the locals.
Now, because of Tristan’s mistake, the commander would hold back on what they desperately needed, just to prove a point. Just to humble him.
“You win, Father,” Tristan muttered, getting to his feet. “I am humbled.”
Several hours later, however, Tristan’s weak grasp at humility slipped away with every step he took toward the obstacle course. How could his father do this to him? He was the best apprentice they had, and still he wasn’t good enough. Sure, he’d made some mistakes, but only because his father pushed him to that brink.
By the time he reached Nyk, standing anxiously next to Wind, Tristan’s mood burned hotter than Rex in a fire dive.
Calm as the mountain, he told himself, but the words held no meaning.
He didn’t speak to the boy, who looked up at him with hair and eyes as dark as charcoal. He had a smudge of dirt on his short nose, and his servant uniform was filthy and ill fitting. Still, he had to be magically powerful, to pull off the stunt he did during the obstacle course. To calm a horse as wild as Wind and to approach Rex in full flame without fear or hesitation . . . He had the stuff of a Rider, Tristan had to grudgingly admit. But all the raw talent in the world didn’t make Nyk an expert, and the commander assigning the boy to help Tristan—that cut more deeply than his fragile ego could bear.
Scowling, he snatched the reins, mounted up, and called his other animals. Without a word he began the course, leaving the boy behind.
Halfway through, however, Nyk caught up.
“I . . . I thought I was supposed to help you?” he asked, wide-eyed and uncertain.
Tristan paused before the target up ahead. “Do you ride?” he asked.
“What—horses?” Nyk said.
Tristan’s nostrils flared. “Yes, horses,” he said, forcing his voice into politeness. He knew the boy didn’t ride horses, or phoenixes, or llamas for that matter.
“No,” Nyk said, and Tristan nodded.
“And have you any skill with a bow?” Tristan indicated the weapon in his hands.
“No,” the boy said again, looking down.
“No,” Tristan repeated. “Have you used a messenger pigeon? Hunted with a hound? Have you done anything that I am doing in this obstacle course?”
Nyk shook his head, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“I didn’t think so,” Tristan said, focusing again on the target several yards away. He knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t seem to stop. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Father? To make me more like you?
“Why did he assign me to help you, then?” Nyk asked, looking up at last. Tristan felt an unwilling stab of compassion for him.
“That was just the commander toying with you. You’ll get used to it—or not. I thought I had, and now look at me.”
A rush of blood burned Tristan’s cheeks—he hadn’t meant to say so much, to reveal his true feelings. But to his surprise, when he glanced down at Nyk, there was deep understanding in his expression, as if Tristan’s words hadn’t been the nonsense ramblings of the commander’s privileged, misunderstood son, but something he could completely relate to.
“What do you want me to do, then?” Nyk asked after several silent moments. As he stared up at Tristan, his eyes landed on the knuckles of his right hand—raw and bloody from his punch to the wall.
Tristan moved it out of sight and straightened in the saddle. “Just keep quiet and stay out of my way.”
“Will you do the finish?” Nyk asked, gesturing toward their stack of supplies, which would certainly be in danger of catching fire if Rex ignited nearby.
“No,” said Tristan, more sharply than he intended, “I—no, not tonight.”
Nyk nodded, a slight frown on his face, and stepped aside.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t face Rex in full flame again, not so soon after his screwup this afternoon, but he had to be more careful. Being on edge only made everything worse.
With a slow breath out his nose, Tristan straightened his shoulders and continued.
The course was exhausting, especially for the second time that day. Though he did his best not to show the strain—a habit he’d picked up after being constantly scrutinized by his father—sweat dotted Tristan’s brow, and his concentration was waning. Keeping a firm grip on three animals, as well as a connection to Rex as he soared overhead, was draining. He soon began cutting corners, telling Rex to circle but not encouraging him to give reports on the landscape or goings-on in the stronghold’s grounds.
Nyk became increasingly agitated, following along silently but clearly dying to say something. He opened and closed his mouth, gripped his hands tightly together, and kept moving closer only to jump back again.
Tristan couldn’t take it. “What?” he demanded at last, coming to a stop. He didn’t care much for what the boy had to say, but he needed a break, and he figured that if he let Nyk speak his mind, he’d stop fidgeting and Tristan could finish before the sun set. As it was, the glowing orange ball was cresting the mountains in the distance and would be out of sight in minutes.
Nyk hesitated. “It’s just—you’re, well, you . . .”
“Spit. It. Out.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine. You’re doing it wrong,” he snapped, before adding, “sir.”
Sir. Given the fact that his father was the rightful governor of Ferro and Tristan was his heir, he should be addressed as “my lord.” But as another man currently laid claim to that position, Tristan supposed that “sir” was the best he could hope to get. Still, it was wrong.
“I’m no sir. I’m an apprentice. Yes, Apprentice. No, Apprentice. Got it?”
“Yes, Apprentice,” Nyk answered, his voice flat.
“Doing what wrong?” Tristan asked, looking down at himself. His technique, his form, everything was perfect.
“The way you use your magic,” Nyk said, gesturing to the animals. “You push too hard. Take Storm,” he said, indicating the dog at Wind’s feet. “Instead of telling him what you expect and guiding him through it, you force your will on him moment to moment. You keep constant pressure on him, draining yourself unnecessarily, and the second you let up, you’ll lose him.”