Page 23 of Tristan
The outfit’s not terrible.
Elven design, handcrafted, and clearly made for travel. It’s beautiful and I like it. I don’t like that Corrik chose it for me. It makes me feel like a doll. Corrik should know how Ifeelabout playing this dress-up game. He said I could share with him my feelings; he’s going to regret saying so.
There’s also a small pack and a sleek pair of knee-high travel boots. I dress and look for Corrik. His clothes are gone, including his grand sword. He didn’t mention I should wait for him, so I decide to take this opportunity to do something that came to mind as I bathed. Using a quiet, unused route, I transverse the hallways back to my old bedroom. I see no one on the way of course. Lucca and I became adept at using these old halls, ones no one uses anymore. There are newer, more efficient routes in use nowadays. We did lots of sneaking around in our youth.
Nothing in my bedroom has been moved; it looks as if I still live here and only spent the night in my other room down in Father and Papa’s barracks.
But I don’t live here now.
Nostalgia sweeps over me as I take in all of the items I’m not allowed to bring with me: the large, embroidered Kanes family crest on the wall, my medals and trophies I’ve won over the years for sword fighting and archery, and of course the trunk with my old battle tunics I had once used at practice. I open the trunk and pick one up, bring it close to my face and inhale the scent anchored within. It still reeks of blood and sweat, and I sigh—home.It’s not been a full hour since Corrik has practically begged me to behave,yet without guilt or remorse, I stuff the tunic into my small pack and look around for what else I should bring. I add my dagger, the one with the Markaytian crest embossed in gold over the hilt, and something Papa gave me when I became a man, the ring his father gave to him. A brilliant white gold band studded with emeralds like the eyes of all the men in his family. Inside is an inscription:‘Submit to the Heart.’I wish I could take the whole room, but it’s all I can fit in my pack without raising suspicion. For a moment, my conscience flickers, but would Corrik really be that angry over a few personal items?
If he is, do I care?
He said he’s never getting rid of me, and he seems to mean it. I should have no worries as to ruining any treaties Markaytia has made with Mortouge. Right? Fuck it. I’m bringing them.
I stroll over to the dining hall guessing I’m supposed to meet Corrik there since he left me no instructions.I freeze a few hallways short of the dining hall. There are voices ahead of me in the corridor.Father and Uncle are talking.
“Let Eagar tell him, Arcade,” Uncle says.
“Absolutely not.”
“It will help the boy.”
“Tristan is no longer a boy.He’s a man.”
I can’t help myself. My chest puffs up. Father thinks I’m a man.
“This is your last chance,” Uncle says.
“I know, Amarail. I…” Father’s voice breaks. “It wouldn’t be right. Tristan will learn that he is brat on his own. I’m sure of it. The Elven prince will help to that end. It is no one’s place to tell Tristan who he is. He must learn for himself.”
What in the Gods’ names is he talking about? And I amnota brat. I may partake in brat behavior from time to time but that’s not the same thing. I’m a terrifying Warlord.
At least I was.
I’m touched by the other things Father’s said. He’s strict and unrelenting. He drives me mad at times, but he loves me.
Uncle grunts. “Fine, Arcade. You know him best. Should I expect you at breakfast?”
“No.” And then he does that. Not bothering to show to my goodbye breakfast.“Unless you see fit to give me more advice?”
I don’t want to hear anymore and Corrik’s probably wondering what I’ve gotten up to.Lucca and I know this palace inside and out. I duck into a room, and slide behind one of the paintings into a secret passageway that leads me away from Father and Uncle’s Tristan conversation, and to the dining hall so that I can avoid them.
By the look of distress on Corrik’s face as I spot him searching for me in the hallway, I think maybe I was supposed to wait for him. I shake my head; we need to work on our communication despite his taciturn ways. He has the look I’m beginning to recognize—the one that says I’m in trouble.
“Where were you?” he says.
I don’t need to think about my answer, Lucca and I are the masters of evasion. “Lavatory.”
“For thirty minutes?”
“My stomach is upset,” I say knowing that could mean many things. Maybe I’m nervous about leaving my home, maybe I’m worried over the man I’ve married—the things he told me would frighten men less brave than I to their core—maybe I’m disappointed in our sexual escapades from the night before. Though for the record, I’m not.At all.
I’ll let him wonder.
I don’t expect his eyes to soften with concern. “Upset? How is it now?”
“I’ve had worse. I’ll be all right. I think I just need to eat something.”
