Tristan turned to the nearest guard, the one who had helped the boy from the top of the way station stairs. “Why did we just take the enemy into our protection?” he asked.
The guard wiped his sweaty brow and straightened. “Says he has information about the attacks.” He waved at the arrow wound. “I don’t think he parted with his comrades on good terms.”
Tristan had to agree—the raider was in rough shape. His tunic was so bloodied it appeared dark brown in color, when the hemline told Tristan it had once been closer to white. A satchel hung loosely off his good arm, and red lacerations from the strap crisscrossed the exposed skin of his neck. Whatever burden he bore, it was heavy.
Still, Tristan didn’t want to take any chances, and he waved for several guards to keep their spears trained on the raider as Tristan knelt before him. A healer approached, and Tristan nodded, allowing her to press a skin of water to the boy’s lips. Drinking seemed to bring him somewhat back to life, even though it was clear that every swallow caused him pain. As he drank, the healer examined his wound.
“What’s your name?” Tristan asked, drawing the boy’s attention. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blinking as he tried to focus.
Tristan scanned the crowd, then spotted Ian, a wizened old guard. At a word from Tristan, the man produced a small flask. As soon as Tristan unscrewed the lid, the pungent stink of liquor singed his nostrils. It was petravin or “rockwine,” a distilled Pyraean liquor aged with a blend of local herbs and flowers, and made only in Petratec, the small village’s claim to fame.
“Try this,” he said to the boy, despite the healer’s objection.
The smell alone made him sit straighter, and he choked a mouthful down. He muttered darkly, but when he handed the flask back, his eyes were clearer. He nodded his thanks to Tristan.
“Your name?” Tristan prodded.
“Sev,” the boy said, his voice rough and thin. “I’ve . . . come . . . to warn you,” he said, gasping as he fought to say the words. “There are soldiers . . . coming up the mountain, and—”
He stopped abruptly, clutching at his shoulder while the healer peeled aside the stiff, blood-soaked fabric that stuck to his skin.
“We know about the raiders,” Tristan said, drawing Sev’s attention back to their conversation. “They’ve struck two villages, and our best Riders have flown out to meet them.”
“No,” Sev said, eyes widened in alarm. “They’re not raiders—they’re soldiers, sent by the empire.”
Silence met his words. Tristan was oddly frozen, unable to react. Soldiers sent by the empire . . .
“They’re coming here,” Sev continued through a grimace. “Those others—they must be traps. Tricks or decoys.”
Before Tristan could think of what to do or say, Elliot burst to the front of the group.
“Was there a girl with them?” he demanded, speaking directly to Sev. He flung himself to the ground and gripped the front of Sev’s shirt, eyes frantic.
When Sev gaped at him, clearly stunned, Elliot’s face contorted with rage, and it looked like he might start shaking him. Tristan had never seen Elliot lose his temper. He was always cool, distant—detached, even. There was usually a stoic rigidity to him, but not anymore.
His shock subsiding, Tristan lurched to his feet and grabbed Elliot’s arm, drawing him back. “What are you doing?” he demanded, but Elliot fought against his grip.
“Did they have a girl? A hostage?” Elliot continued, still speaking to Sev. “Her name is Riella. She’s only thirteen—”
“A hostage?” Tristan repeated sharply, jerking Elliot around to face him. “Your sister was taken hostage? When?”
Elliot blinked, focusing on Tristan for the first time. His eyes bulged, as if he’d only just realized what he’d done. He took a long, shuddering breath.
“It happened right after your father recruited me.” Elliot seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumped and his head drooped. “The man was a captain in the military and said he was working on behalf of one of the empire’s governors—but he never said which one. They were watching my family because of my father’s work with the Office for Border Control. Suspected him of ‘animage sympathies’ and of helping people cross into Pyra undocumented. When they saw Beryk, a known Rider, make contact with my father, they told me I had to go with him. I was actually happy, at first,” he said, his voice hollow. “I didn’t understand what they really wanted until the commander denied my sister. They were going to take our father, but then they took her instead. They said if I didn’t do what they wanted, or if my father or I told anyone, they’d kill her.”
“Why did they take her, Elliot?” Tristan asked, forcing his voice to be smooth and steady despite the jagged edge beneath it. Hostages were taken as a guarantee. . . . What was it that Elliot had promised to deliver?
Elliot looked up, tears rimming his eyes. “They wanted me to tell them about the operation here. Where it was . . . how many Riders . . . procedures and protocols . . .”
“So you were their spy,” Tristan said, his voice cold now, but he could help it no longer. Elliot’s interest in being steward, all the errands and letters supposedly on Beryk’s behalf—all of it had been a lie, a cover, so he could move about the stronghold unquestioned.
“They said they would kill her,” Elliot repeated, tone pleading.
“You should have told us. My father has connections in the empire. We could have gotten—”
“If your father reached out to anyone, they’d know I told. Tristan, please—I tried to back out. The last time Beryk and I went to Vayle . . . I met with him, the captain who had my sister. I told him I needed proof that she was okay before I gave them any more information. But they didn’t bring her,” he said desperately. “Just gave me some letter, could have been written by anyone . . .”
Tristan released Elliot roughly, his voice shaking with frustration. “You never should have done that alone. We could have helped you. We could have given them false leads, invited your sister here, come up with some excuse to extricate her—anything would have been better than this. What did you think would happen here, Elliot? What did you think they were going to do with the intelligence you fed them?”
The tears fell down Elliot’s cheeks now, and they made Tristan’s throat tight. He couldn’t afford to get so emotional, but it was hard to look at the face of the person who had doomed them.
“I didn’t see her,” Sev piped in hoarsely from his place on the ground. “There was no girl with us, no hostage. Maybe they were lying.”
Elliot squeezed his eyes shut, his face crumpling.
Tristan raked a hand through his hair. With a nod, he ordered two guards to escort Elliot away for further questioning.
Low murmurs broke out as he left, and the other apprentices exchanged stricken looks. Nyk stared at Elliot’s retreating back, his expression bleak. Tristan ignored everyone’s reactions and drew a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He tried to channel his father, his sense of unflappable confidence and infinite capability.
Instead he felt like a child marching around in his father’s oversize Riding boots.