“Of course I want!” Veronyka blurted, taking an unconscious step forward. “But . . . why would you give up your savings for me?”
He shrugged, as if determined to keep things light. “Sponsorship isn’t all fun, you know. You’d have to run my errands, help me care for my weapons and armor, clean my rooms . . . all on top of your own training.”
When he finally looked up again, he seemed surprised at the way Veronyka was gaping at him. But how could she not? He was offering up her dream on a silver platter and then apologizing that it wasn’t gold.
She’d take her dream if it were served in a bucket.
“Tristan,” she said with a breath, hands trembling as she adjusted her towel. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he said, smiling hesitantly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He beamed, his dimples reappearing, and Veronyka bit her lip to fight her own stupid grin. A swell of happiness was rising in her chest. She was bewildered by his kindness and kept trying to figure out why he would put himself on the line for her. Then she remembered Sparrow. . . . Not everyone wanted repayment or needed a reason in order to help someone.
Still smiling, Tristan dropped his rolled-up towel next to the nearest pool. Then, to Veronyka’s dismay, he began to peel off his tunic.
She gaped, her heart pumping as she realized what was about to happen. Not only was Tristan not leaving her alone to dress, but he was undressing himself. He obviously hadn’t come to the bathhouse to talk; otherwise he wouldn’t have been surprised to see her. Which meant he planned to stay awhile. To bathe. Naked.
This is normal, she kept telling herself, her cheeks hot. Men and boys bathe together, just as girls do. No problem.
But no matter how she tried to calm herself, Veronyka’s eyes went wild, darting from Tristan’s bare chest to the door, back to Tristan, and around the entire bathhouse. Where was she supposed to look? How was she supposed to get dressed with him here? There was no escape. There was nowhere to hide. When his fingers reached the strings on his pants, Veronyka felt light-headed and stared resolutely at her feet, though she barely saw them. Her gaze wandered up again, as if dragged there by some uncontrollable force.
He wasn’t standing naked before her, but had already immersed himself waist-deep in the pool. He’d walked in calmly, making barely a sound, rather than splashing in as she had. It was a relief to have some kind of barrier between them, even though the steaming water didn’t entirely obscure the dark trace of hair that trailed down his muscled stomach and into the water below.
He submerged his head, and when he came back up, water streamed down his body. He smoothed his hair back and blinked at her. “You should get some sleep, Nyk.”
Then he turned away, sinking onto the bench with his back facing her. He reclined and closed his eyes.
Veronyka sagged against the wall, her muscles trembling. She dressed at top speed, stumbling into her pants and fumbling far too long with the laces. She slipped out the door and ran to the barracks, determined never to have another bath again.
Day 5, Third Moon, 169 AE
Xe Onia,
I know you are angry with me, but we can’t fall apart now. This is what they want. Don’t you see that?
I have sent this with Nefyra, my best messenger pigeon. Your response will get to me in two days.
Please respond.
—Avalkyra
I was banished, chased from the very empire my foremothers had built. Was I to give up then and fade away into obscurity? Was I to fall onto my knees and beg?
- CHAPTER 22 -
VERONYKA
TRISTAN’S PROMISED HELP WITH training began early the next morning and continued doggedly over the following days.
Rather than taking her to the target range or teaching her combat moves with knife or spear, Tristan took her running. Veronyka was severely disappointed, but he insisted that fitness and stamina were more important.
And so every morning before dawn, they met in the courtyard. He would lead her over the village walls and up tightly winding stairs to the higher fortifications that enclosed the stronghold. He took her along narrow tracks that ran all over the mountaintop, through bushes and long grasses, and down the steep inclines of the cliffs that surrounded the plateau. Veronyka knew he slowed his pace for her, but it was still the most exhausting thing she’d ever done.
Tristan was eternally patient, nudging her if her eyes began to droop while they stretched and taking frequent breaks to “catch his breath” that were obviously just for her.
Nearly a week into their new routine, Veronyka’s sluggish start had them returning a bit late for their regular duties. As they jogged through the gate into the stronghold, the sun had already risen, limning the mountain in gold, and the other apprentices were gathering in the training yard, preparing for their own early morning lesson.
They saw Tristan and waved him over, and Veronyka followed. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and her legs were unsteady beneath her. Tristan, on the other hand, had a fine sheen of sweat on his face but appeared otherwise relaxed and at his leisure. Veronyka, gasping with her hands on her knees, hated him for it.
“Who’s your shadow, Tristan?” asked Anders, separating from the rest of the apprentices. He had the cool, light-brown skin of Arboria North, and his dark hair curled around his rather large ears. His parents were part of an acting troupe, and Anders had certainly inherited their love of theater and entertainment, if not their talent; his less-than-stellar singing voice could often be heard from the apprentice barracks, the dining hall, or from high above as he and his phoenix soared by. Arborians were famous for their arts, and beyond music and theater, they made the best furniture and woodcarvings in the empire, as well as fine leatherwork. Anders had a pair of thick leather cuffs etched with songs, poetry, and family motifs, though he wore them only at dinner. The commander forbade any embellishments that didn’t follow his strict apprentice uniform, which included matching practice tunics and armor on patrols, and hair that was kept neat and short and faces that were clean-shaven. Even in their prime, the Phoenix Riders employed a similar dress code for their apprentices, and only the Master Riders had earned the right to wear braids and whatever cultural or personal ornamentation they pleased.
“Oh, this is Nyk—he works in the stables,” Tristan said.
“Since when do stablehands train with apprentices?” asked Latham. He looked a good deal like his brother, Loran, with the same fair skin, spun-gold hair, and dark-blue eyes common in the south where they were from.
“Since the commander said so,” said Elliot helpfully, reminding everyone of Tristan’s punishment, to which they’d all been witness.
“Ah, yes!” Anders said with his usual broad smile, shooting Tristan a mischievous look. “The commander’s most recent disciplinary decree. Tell me, Nyk, have you gotten this poor apprentice up to scratch yet?”
Tristan just shook his head, a faint smile on his face as he stared at the ground. Veronyka wondered why he would take their joking without retaliating—he certainly had no problem arguing with her—when she realized his awkward place here. It was his father they were talking about, and his position of power over them put Tristan in a tough spot. He couldn’t be a regular apprentice, because they would always see him as the commander’s son, and yet he wasn’t technically in a position of authority. No wonder he was so eager to be promoted, to have the lines more clearly drawn.