A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(30)
When she turns away, I look back at Solt, then offer him a hand to pull him to his feet. He eyes it derisively for a fraction of a second but must think better of it, because he clasps mine.
I’m no fool. There’s no love lost between me and this man.
He begins to turn away, but I hold fast. “She was wrong.”
He hesitates, glancing from my hand to my face. “Wrong?”
“She said I would have ordered you to fight until you couldn’t hold a sword.” I lean in, keeping my voice low. “She was wrong. I would have tied it to your hand.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GREY
By the time I call for a break on the training fields, Tycho has not yet appeared. Solt made a comment about the scraver, but Iisak is as driven by duty as I am. He wouldn’t call Tycho away without telling me—and Tycho himself wouldn’t skip drills. He loves swordplay more than breathing.
The soldiers have begun heading back to their quarters, and I stare after them. I should return to the castle to check on Lia Mara, but concern set up camp in my chest when I first noticed Tycho was missing, and it hasn’t gone away yet.
Jake has sheathed his weapons, and he comes to my side. “I wish Lia Mara hadn’t made you stop,” he says, his voice low even though most of the soldiers have already moved off the field. “I wanted to see that guy puke on his boots.”
“Me too,” I say, and he grins.
When I don’t smile back, he says, “What’s wrong?”
“Tycho missed drills.”
“His unit leader said he was off his game this morning, and he asked for leave to skip the midday meal. Want to check the barracks?”
The youngest recruits sleep in the farthest building from the fields, near the stables and the edge of the forest that leads up into the mountains. Tycho has a room in the palace, but as the weeks have worn on, he’s spent more nights here to build a rapport with the soldiers.
We check the barracks and the stables, but he’s not there. When we walk past the armory, Solt is splashing water on his face from a bucket, speaking in low tones to another senior officer. She must call his attention to the fact that we’re nearby, because he glances over, and he swipes the water out of his eyes. His gaze could cut steel.
“Your Highness,” he says in Syssalah, his tone so cold that he might as well be telling me to dig myself a grave.
My steps slow, but Jake grabs hold of my bracer and drags me along. “Kill him later. Come on. If Tycho wasn’t feeling well, maybe he went to the infirmary.”
The palace has two infirmaries. One houses a healer named Drathea, an older woman with a pinched mouth and surly demeanor who says the healing arts are better left to the feminine mind. She wanted nothing to do with Noah, who proved himself better at curing fevers and stitching wounds and treating ailments in his first week in Syhl Shallow. Regardless of his talents, he still leaves many in the palace feeling wary and uncertain. I don’t know if it’s his supposed allegiance to me or to Emberfall, or if they believe he has some magic of his own, but Lia Mara doesn’t want to make her people uncomfortable. She gave Noah a space at the northern end of the palace, which leaves him closer to the training fields and the barracks.
I once asked Noah how many people come to him after Drathea fails to cure their ills, and he graciously said he doesn’t keep track—and then Jake leaned in and whispered, “I’ve seen his notes. He’s up to seventy-six.”
I know which one Tycho would visit.
By the time we stride through the palace, my worry has grown into a tension around my gut that I can’t shake loose. Tycho isn’t naive, but he’s young. Not overly trusting, but innocent.
I was so preoccupied with Lia Mara’s safety that I didn’t take a moment to wonder about the fate of the rest of my friends. No one would dare to hassle Iisak unless they wanted to see their skin in ribbons while taking their last breath, and Jake is more than capable of fending for himself. Noah is savvy and cynical, and he’s endeared himself to enough people here that he doesn’t face the same kind of grudging acceptance that I endure every day.
But Tycho … My breathing has gone tight and shallow by the time I stride into the infirmary. “Noah. Have you seen—”
I stop short. Noah is sitting on a bench by a low table strewn with an assortment of instruments. Tycho is right beside him. A small orange kitten is on his lap, chewing on one of his fingers.
“Grey.” Tycho leaps to his feet when he sees me, scooping the kitten onto the table. The animal hisses at me, then scrabbles at the wood, leaps to the floor, and dashes out of sight.
Tycho looks from me to Jake, then at the fading light in the window. “Silver hell.” He grimaces. “I missed second drills.”
“I knew they’d come looking eventually.” Noah glances at us. “Hey, Jake.”
“’Sup,” says Jake. A platter of nuts, cheese, and fruit sits forgotten at the corner of the table by Noah. Jake shoves it to the side to cock a hip against the wood, then grabs two apples.
He tosses one to me, and I snatch it out of the air, but I don’t look away from Tycho. He’s in an army uniform, trimmed in green and black, the colors of Syhl Shallow. His leather-lined breastplate and greaves are still buckled in place, though his sword and bracers are on the ground beside the table. His blond hair is shorter than it was when we were stable hands at Worwick’s Tourney, and his frame is a little leaner, a little more muscled from all the time he spends with a sword in his hands. But there’s a youthfulness to him that hasn’t been stolen away yet, an edge still waiting to be chiseled.