Tristan was eternally patient, nudging her if her eyes began to droop while they stretched and taking frequent breaks to “catch his breath” that were obviously just for her.
Nearly a week into their new routine, Veronyka’s sluggish start had them returning a bit late for their regular duties. As they jogged through the gate into the stronghold, the sun had already risen, limning the mountain in gold, and the other apprentices were gathering in the training yard, preparing for their own early morning lesson.
They saw Tristan and waved him over, and Veronyka followed. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and her legs were unsteady beneath her. Tristan, on the other hand, had a fine sheen of sweat on his face but appeared otherwise relaxed and at his leisure. Veronyka, gasping with her hands on her knees, hated him for it.
“Who’s your shadow, Tristan?” asked Anders, separating from the rest of the apprentices. He had the cool, light-brown skin of Arboria North, and his dark hair curled around his rather large ears. His parents were part of an acting troupe, and Anders had certainly inherited their love of theater and entertainment, if not their talent; his less-than-stellar singing voice could often be heard from the apprentice barracks, the dining hall, or from high above as he and his phoenix soared by. Arborians were famous for their arts, and beyond music and theater, they made the best furniture and woodcarvings in the empire, as well as fine leatherwork. Anders had a pair of thick leather cuffs etched with songs, poetry, and family motifs, though he wore them only at dinner. The commander forbade any embellishments that didn’t follow his strict apprentice uniform, which included matching practice tunics and armor on patrols, and hair that was kept neat and short and faces that were clean-shaven. Even in their prime, the Phoenix Riders employed a similar dress code for their apprentices, and only the Master Riders had earned the right to wear braids and whatever cultural or personal ornamentation they pleased.
“Oh, this is Nyk—he works in the stables,” Tristan said.
“Since when do stablehands train with apprentices?” asked Latham. He looked a good deal like his brother, Loran, with the same fair skin, spun-gold hair, and dark-blue eyes common in the south where they were from.
“Since the commander said so,” said Elliot helpfully, reminding everyone of Tristan’s punishment, to which they’d all been witness.
“Ah, yes!” Anders said with his usual broad smile, shooting Tristan a mischievous look. “The commander’s most recent disciplinary decree. Tell me, Nyk, have you gotten this poor apprentice up to scratch yet?”
Tristan just shook his head, a faint smile on his face as he stared at the ground. Veronyka wondered why he would take their joking without retaliating—he certainly had no problem arguing with her—when she realized his awkward place here. It was his father they were talking about, and his position of power over them put Tristan in a tough spot. He couldn’t be a regular apprentice, because they would always see him as the commander’s son, and yet he wasn’t technically in a position of authority. No wonder he was so eager to be promoted, to have the lines more clearly drawn.
“He was already up to scratch without my help,” Veronyka said stoutly, and Tristan flashed her a surprised, grateful look.
“Well, if they want to send servants over to help the apprentices, I’d be more than happy to let one of the washer girls whip me into shape,” Latham said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. “Or maybe one of Morra’s kitchen maids . . .”
“Poor Latham, always pining for company. Almost as bad as Elliot here, going on and on about the girls back home,” said Anders, slinging an arm around him.
“I’m not pining,” Elliot protested, blushing as he shrugged Anders’s arm off his shoulders. “And I don’t go on and on—it’s my sister I talk about, not—”
“Leave him alone,” said Ronyn, sounding bored. He was one of the older apprentices and had clearly had his fill of Anders’s and Latham’s antics.
“Nyk here agrees, don’t you?” Anders asked, tossing his arm around Veronyka instead. “You’d like to see more girls about, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Veronyka said. The others laughed in delight, but she didn’t mean it the way they meant it—she just wanted to see female Riders. She cast an exasperated glance at Tristan, but to her surprise, he avoided her gaze. His face seemed oddly flushed; was he embarrassed by her being there? Veronyka didn’t mind the teasing—it was far less malicious than Val’s constant jibes and sarcastic remarks—but it seemed that Tristan did. She felt the need to change the subject.
“What I meant,” Veronyka said, copying Elliot and throwing Anders’s arm off her, “is that there should be girl apprentices. For training.”
“Well, there’s something you and Elliot can agree on,” Anders said, still smirking. “So, is that why you’re here?”
Veronyka’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “To train?”
“Oh—yes. Well, sort of. I . . .”
“I’m helping him get in shape for the next recruitment,” Tristan said.
“What’s the point?” said Ronyn.
“What do you mean?” Veronyka asked. She couldn’t tell if his tone was negative or just disinterested like before.
His gaze flicked to Tristan and the others. “There, well—”
“We don’t have any eggs,” Anders cut in, the jovial attitude missing from his voice for the first time. “Haven’t found any in months. You’d have a better shot laying one yourself than finding one here.”
The tone of the group changed, the laughing and joking replaced by a somewhat strained silence. Veronyka was staring at Tristan, but he wouldn’t look at her. He’d known this all along. Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he pretended she had a chance—offering extra training and even promising to sponsor her—when he’d known there was no way it would actually happen? Maybe that was why he’d done it. . . . It was a debt he’d never have to repay.
When Beryk walked into the fenced area and called them to attention, Veronyka took the opportunity to slip away, past Tristan and out of the training yard.