If the wall had been board or stone, like the exterior walls of the barracks, he’d have broken his hand. He laughed darkly, imagining how he’d explain that kind of injury to the commander. His knuckles bled, the skin scraped clean off, and the wall had obvious damage. He’d have to get the servants to fix it and hope his father never found out.
Tristan sank onto his hammock, swaying idly back and forth. The barracks was a long, narrow building, filled with fabric slings instead of wooden bed frames or pallets on the floor. The hammocks allowed them to fit as many sleepers as possible, sometimes stacked double with stools to help climb onto the higher beds, like in the servant barracks. Since they had only ten apprentices, though, many of the slings were empty, and Tristan had chosen one low to the ground and near the back door, where there was a fleeting sense of privacy.
Most thought the commander of the Riders would show favoritism to his only son and heir, but Tristan had found the exact opposite to be true.
He’d been itching to train with horse and phoenix for months, the last major hurdle to conquer as an apprentice before becoming a Master Rider. But his father had insisted on holding him back and waiting for the other apprentices, who were nowhere near as good as Tristan.
Then that nagging feeling had surfaced in Tristan’s mind, the fear that his father knew his weakness. That his reasons for holding his son back were a lie. It wouldn’t be the first—or the last—lie his father told him, and Tristan loathed having to second-guess every conversation and interaction between them.
Tristan guarded his secret closely; did his best to hide it, to recover when he made a mistake—like the exercise out on the bluffs—and come back twice as strong. But there was always that moment of paralyzing doubt, a flash of uncertainty or hesitation that he was certain his father would see, if he knew to look for it. And what if he did? What if he learned that his son was afraid of fire, the very thing that made the Phoenix Riders who and what they were?
But no matter how it jangled his nerves and set his teeth on edge, Tristan wanted this life. He refused to lose his dream over something that was, ultimately, within his own control.
After his father demonstrated the obstacle course today, Tristan had seen it as an opportunity, a chance to show that he was stronger than any flaws his father might think he had—that there was absolutely nothing that would hold him back. He’d thought he might even be able to convince his father to give him his own patrol—Tristan’s ultimate goal.
Instead he’d made a fool of himself.
Actually, the stableboy Nyk had made a fool of him.
As if it wasn’t bad enough to hesitate, to mess up another important exercise—but to have a stableboy swoop in and save him? The very same person who had already made him look an idiot once before? Word had traveled after Tristan’s disastrous first patrol, and the apprentices had been quick to see the humor in Tristan “prematurely blowing his horn.” Every time they saw Nyk, they’d cast Tristan sidelong glances and smirks, and now with this most recent blunder, his hopes of living it down were practically nonexistent.
Tristan had replayed the scene over and over in his head since he’d left the obstacle course, and he was convinced that if the boy hadn’t stepped in, he could’ve gotten things under control. The fire made him panic—that was nothing new—but given another moment, Tristan would have told Rex to quench his flames, commanded the horse to stand down, and called back his dog and pigeon. He could’ve fixed it, but instead that runt of a boy ran into the middle of the scene, seconds away from being trampled and burned, and did the very thing Tristan hadn’t yet managed to do—regained control. Almost effortlessly, it had seemed.
This boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
Tristan dropped his head into his hands, his hair curling around his fingers. As if being embarrassed in front of his fellow apprentices wasn’t enough, he’d seen that familiar look in his father’s eye. This mistake would be his excuse for holding Tristan back for weeks—months, probably. No matter how strongly Tristan performed from now on, his father would remind him of this failure.
Not only would he suffer, but the Riders would suffer too. The commander’s opinions of him didn’t change the fact that they needed more patrols—finding Nyk had only proven that. They needed to survey the areas of Pyra where empire spies and raiders might lurk, the lower rim and the Foothills and the wilds that weren’t traveled by the locals.
Now, because of Tristan’s mistake, the commander would hold back on what they desperately needed, just to prove a point. Just to humble him.
“You win, Father,” Tristan muttered, getting to his feet. “I am humbled.”
Several hours later, however, Tristan’s weak grasp at humility slipped away with every step he took toward the obstacle course. How could his father do this to him? He was the best apprentice they had, and still he wasn’t good enough. Sure, he’d made some mistakes, but only because his father pushed him to that brink.
By the time he reached Nyk, standing anxiously next to Wind, Tristan’s mood burned hotter than Rex in a fire dive.
Calm as the mountain, he told himself, but the words held no meaning.
He didn’t speak to the boy, who looked up at him with hair and eyes as dark as charcoal. He had a smudge of dirt on his short nose, and his servant uniform was filthy and ill fitting. Still, he had to be magically powerful, to pull off the stunt he did during the obstacle course. To calm a horse as wild as Wind and to approach Rex in full flame without fear or hesitation . . . He had the stuff of a Rider, Tristan had to grudgingly admit. But all the raw talent in the world didn’t make Nyk an expert, and the commander assigning the boy to help Tristan—that cut more deeply than his fragile ego could bear.
Scowling, he snatched the reins, mounted up, and called his other animals. Without a word he began the course, leaving the boy behind.
Halfway through, however, Nyk caught up.
“I . . . I thought I was supposed to help you?” he asked, wide-eyed and uncertain.
Tristan paused before the target up ahead. “Do you ride?” he asked.
“What—horses?” Nyk said.
Tristan’s nostrils flared. “Yes, horses,” he said, forcing his voice into politeness. He knew the boy didn’t ride horses, or phoenixes, or llamas for that matter.
“No,” Nyk said, and Tristan nodded.
“And have you any skill with a bow?” Tristan indicated the weapon in his hands.
“No,” the boy said again, looking down.
“No,” Tristan repeated. “Have you used a messenger pigeon? Hunted with a hound? Have you done anything that I am doing in this obstacle course?”
Nyk shook his head, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“I didn’t think so,” Tristan said, focusing again on the target several yards away. He knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t seem to stop. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Father? To make me more like you?
“Why did he assign me to help you, then?” Nyk asked, looking up at last. Tristan felt an unwilling stab of compassion for him.