Page 27 of Tristan
When the royal Elven entourage is settled, they thrust forward and tap their horses, waving goodbye to all the attending Markaytians. Corrik joins us, and signals with a grunt for me to follow. I give a last wave to everyone as I turn my back on home.
None of it seems real until we pass through the gates of the palace and into the Markaytian village. I’ve passed through these gates many times, but never with the knowledge that this will be the last time. My heart clenches with regret at having to leave my family. I do not hold the title of warlord, but it makes me no less a warrior than I am. A warrior accepts his duty to his people, and my duty is to be a husband to the Elven prince. I don my battle face as I would my armor and bid my horse to put one foot in front of the other, steadfast into my new life.
Some distance from the palace walls, I hear shouting from behindme. I recognize the voice. It’s Papa. Regardless of the repercussions from the prince, I turn my horse. He’s shouting something at me. But I need to get closer to so I can hear it.
Corrik sees what I’m doing and turns his horse, following me.
From here, several things happen at once. Corrik grabs my horse’s lead and drags me away, Uncle latches onto Papa and holds him to prevent him stepping any further from the palace walls. Desperate, Papa shouts louder, and equally desperate, I tug harder against the strength of the Elf holding my horse back so I might be close enough to hear what Papa’s saying.
I still can’t hear. I need to get closer, so I jump off my horse. Corrik follows suit. I’m ahead of him; however, and I’m close enough to Papa I can finally make out the words he shouts over and over as the great war Elf engulfs me and drags me back to my horse.
“I’m sorry Tristan! It’s my fault!” He sobs. “I’m sorry, Tristan, it’sallmy fault!”
“What? What’s your fault?” I yell back, but he can’t hear me. I’m too far away.
The last thing I see is Papa being dragged by Uncle and several guards inside the gates. Tears stream down my face as Corrik drags me kicking and screaming and the entire Elven entourage has stopped to stare at me. I expect Corrik to yell at me, and right now I hope he does. I hope he’s angry. I hope he hurts me.
But he does none of those things.
He’s gentle when he wipes my messy tears with his thumb.
“Come D’orhai.” His voice is soft and coaxes me into a numb calm. I don’t care who’s watching, I grab onto him—he’s all I have now, even if it’s just in the capacity of master.
He lifts me onto his horse so I’m facing him when he mounts the large black stallion, and I curl into his body, slip my arms into his robes and around his torso. My skin touches his skin and I cry.
I don’t want to look at her anymore, at Markaytia as I perform my last duty to her. Leaving. I’m happy to have Corrik’s scent surround me as we ride away.
CHAPTER 7
“Are you still there, my husband?”
Corrik’s abandoned his usual taciturn ways and has been trying to get me to talk for the past hour, but he needs to get the hint; I want to wallow in my own self-pity. Thus far, he’s blathered on about his home—sorryourhome—in Mortouge but I don’t care if they have talking trees, I want to figure out what Papa’s last words to me mean.
I push away from him. “I can go back to my horse now.”
“Nonsense. You’re a mess.” It reminds me of what Father says often to Papa.
“I insist.”
Two cold, violet eyes glare down at me and suggest I tread carefully. I’m in no mood to heed them so I glare back with the same challenge. He wanted to marry a dragon? He’s got one.
“My apologies, I forgot. The world revolves aroundyourdesires,” I say. His fists tighten as do the lines of his face. I’m provoking him again.Good.“And for the record, my name is Tristan.Tris-tan! You cannot take someone’s name from them.” I’m not sure why I say that. He hasn’t called me by the other name muchsince last night, but it’s just another thing on the list I resent him for.
He growls at that, and I’ve lost all the leniency I’m going to get from him. “Sassem Ylor, kiya!”
He whips the reins, furious, and moves us beside his mother who is riding alone with guards while the Elven king rides ahead with Fera and his General.
“Take him. Take himnow.”
He thrusts me onto the back of her horse and rides ahead to join his father and uncle. I wait for the queen to scold me, but instead, her soft laughter rises from in front of me. Her omniscience is apparent with the way she conducts herself—she’s a wise maternal being. My mother has a playful way of softening the edge of her tongue when she speaks, but for the queen, it's in her blue eyes; I recall them from the wedding. I wish I could see them now.
“That is my son,” she says, the echo of her laugh still hangs in the air.
I assume she’s referring to his character and remain quiet as we cantor on behind the men of the royal family. I’m just grateful I’m not being told off.
“I shan’t tell you he’s a kind man, but he is a good man. Nevertheless, he is harsh and he’ll never feel sorry for it.”
Yet he was soft with me earlier.D’orhai. Sounded like an endearment.I’m surprised I remember the Elvish word he used when he picked me up off the ground in shambles. It was sweet and I’d say it was kind.
