Page 81 of Tristan
“Don’t worry, I won’t take you again. I just want breakfast.”
“All right. See you in a bit then.” I slump back down on the bed.
“Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Huh?”
“You aremymanservant.”
“And?”
“You’re supposed to get the breakfast.”
“But I’m so tired. You shouldn’t have kept me up all night.Youget it.”
“Now, Tristan.”
I sigh heavily but get my sore arse moving.Corrik is alive.
The kitchens are busy; I’m still not used to them. The few times I entered the kitchens back home was when Lucca and I stole pies from the kitchens and then later when I was being punished for stealing said pies.
I’m well received here. Most of the servants in the kitchens are humans of various races, but the kitchens’ headmistress is an elder Elven female. I don’t know how I managed it, but she likes me.
“Are you here for Prince Bayaden’s breakfast?”
“And a breakfast pie for me?”
She gives me a scurrilous look. “Here you are then. You’d better eat it before you return. Bayaden has me under strict instruction not to feed you anymore.”
I put on my most charming expression. “You make the best pies, Meren.” I eat it quickly and pick up the tray meant for Bayaden. It’s filled with a feast fit for a prince. I get little to eat now compared to what I’m used to.
When I’ve returned, he sits at the table, his black hair is almost camouflaged against his black robe, streaming down it, brushed into waves around him. He’s reading again. Bayaden is always reading. I set the tray in front of him.
“Your breakfast. I’m going to have a lie down.”
“Tristan.”
“What is it?” I almost snap at him. I’m in no mood this morning for him or anyone else.
“Join me and lose your insolent tone. I’m a prince if you’ll kindly remember.”
“As am I.” I stalk past him and lie down on my bed, which is acomfortable mattress with lots of pillows and blankets and is oh so cozy. Just as I’m closing my eyes, a hand whacks my poorly clad arse,hard. I “get” to wear a pair of thin, beige pants, ones I stole a ways back. Many of the servants don’t get to wear anything. I’m lucky I have these, but they do little to protect me. I now have a stinging handprint on my left cheek.
“The Gods’ sake, Bayaden. Let me rest. I’m tired.”
“Get up! Get up, now!” he says, pulling me and the blanket from the bed.
“All right. All right,” I say as I stand up, tangled in the blanket and make my way across the room and to his table. We both take a seat, me begrudgingly and him snidely.
“So, what’s on for today?” I ask.
“Practice. You have much to work on.”
“Practice,” I say. “Why should I bother? They’re going to slaughter me like they do every day.” I notice he’s making up two plates.
