A Vow So Bold and Deadly (Cursebreakers, #3)(68)

Then my magic flickers against … something. A person? An emotion? Whatever it is, the sensation isn’t positive like my thoughts of Lia Mara. But it’s too quick, and I can’t grab hold of it, and my sudden focus sends my magic spiraling back to me like the crack of a whip. I stay on my feet this time, but I drop the lantern and stop short. The lantern cracks with a little tinkle of glass and goes dark. I can’t hear anything over the sleet.

Immediately, I think of the threats against Lia Mara, and I change course, striding between the darkened buildings, wondering if I should call for the guards by the woods or if that would be overkill for a feeling. Still, there have been attacks on the queen. A faction against magic has formed in the city. As Iisak said, they likely plot my death as well. Just as I’m about to turn back for the guards, I hear a raised voice near the recruit barracks. A man is speaking in Syssalah, his tone thick with anger. I sigh and wonder if I’m going to have to break up a fight.

But I turn the corner and discover it’s Solt. He’s pinning a cringing recruit to the wall of the barracks with a hand against his shoulder.

Tycho.

I should demand an explanation. I should stride right up and call them to attention.

Before I’ve thought through everything I should be doing, I’ve shoved Solt away from Tycho with enough force that I nearly get him off his feet. He recovers faster than I’m ready for—I guess he can be quick when he wants to be—and he takes a swing at me. I dodge the first punch but not the second. He catches me right in the jaw, and it sends me to the ground, but I use momentum to roll. I have blades in my hands before I’m fully upright. Solt is a second slower, his hand on his hilt, his sword half-drawn before recognition dawns in his eyes.

He didn’t know who I was when he threw that punch, but he knows now.

“Stop!” Tycho is yelling. He’s got his hands up between both of us. Sleet slicks down his face. “Stop! Nah rukt!”

Don’t fight.

Solt hasn’t let that sword slide back into its sheath. He’s never liked me, and there’s a battle in his eyes as he wars with whether we should settle this right here. I’m sure he can see the same battle in my own. Blood is a sour taste in my mouth from where he hit me. He’s stronger than I gave him credit for.

But then he straightens, letting the weapon fall back into place. He glowers at me through the weather. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

For half a second, I’m irritated that he withdrew so swiftly. But now Tycho’s worried eyes are locked on me, not Solt.

I put my weapons away and spit blood at the ground. “Return to your quarters,” I snap.

Solt salutes me sharply and turns away. After a brief hesitation, Tycho does the same thing.

I catch his arm. “Not you.”

He looks up at me. When we were in Rillisk, he always seemed so much younger than fifteen, but time and experience keep whittling that away. Noah’s warnings are loud in my memories, so I say, “Are you all right?”

He seems startled, like he wasn’t expecting the question. When he tugs his arm free, I let him go, but his eyes skip away, dodging my gaze. He bites back a shiver. “I’m fine.”

“He was pinning you to the wall. What happened?”

“No—he was—it wasn’t … he wasn’t hurting me.”

The rain pours down, well and truly soaking through my armor now. I’m ice-cold, and the inviting warmth of Lia Mara’s chambers feels like it’s hours away. “Talk to me, Tycho.”

He stares back at me steadily but says nothing. A new thought curls into my brain, dark and sinister.

“Is he threatening you?” I demand. “Is he harming you in some way? Are the others taking some kind of—”

“No! Grey.” His eyes clench closed, but only for a moment, and then he squares his shoulders and looks back at me. “Captain Solt is fine. He was—he was talking to me—”

“I could hear him from two barracks away. Try again.”

When he still offers nothing, I sharpen my tone to make it an order. “Tycho. Talk.”

He does shiver now, and I’m not sure how much is the weather and how much is me, but his eyes seem to shutter a bit. “He caught me sneaking back. It was … it was a reprimand.”

I freeze. “A reprimand.”

“He said I have an obligation to support my unit. He said that my absence will cause the other recruits to think they don’t have to follow orders.” His cheeks flush. “He said that if I hold a favored position with you, that I should do my best to prove it’s earned, not given.”

Silver hell.

His eyes shy away again, and he scowls. “He said a lot of other things, but I couldn’t keep up with all the Syssalah.”

I study him, but I must be quiet a moment too long, because he finally looks back at me, and any hint of immaturity has vanished from his expression. Just contrition and a little bit of belligerence. This is a soldier looking at a commanding officer. “I won’t miss drills again.” He hesitates, then tacks on, “Your Highness.”

I almost correct him. He’s never called me that before, and I’ve certainly never demanded it. The sleet slices through the air between us, and Tycho shivers again.

“Go,” I say. “Return to your quarters.”