I hesitate, then nod. When I take one from the pouch, I worry that I’m going to be forced to use crutches and eat at the same time, which is never a dignified experience. But Lord Tycho stops, and he feeds the horse one of the tarts, too.
“Callyn would have a fit,” I say.
He smiles. “Our secret.” He rubs the horse under her mane, then leans back against her shoulder. “Mercy won’t tell.”
Somewhere deep in the woods, a branch cracks, and I’m both surprised and not at how quickly he whirls, pulling a bow and arrow from behind the saddle. He doesn’t aim, but he’s alert, staring out between the trees. I look, too, but I don’t see anything. Snow whispers down through the trees to settle in his hair and along the shoulders of his cloak.
I wonder if I would have been like this, if I’d followed the path my father assumed lay ahead of me. If I hadn’t lost my foot, if I’d grown up to enlist and become a soldier. If I’d be wary of loud noises in the woods instead of ignoring them in favor of finishing an apple tart.
After a moment, I say, “Probably just a branch. From the weight of the snow.”
He nods. “Probably.” But he hangs the bow over his shoulder and leaves it there, then shoves the arrow under his sword belt.
“Are you worried about whoever you fought with?”
His eyes snap to mine. “What?”
I glance at his gouged armor. “Whoever did that.”
“Oh. No.” He doesn’t say anything else, which feels deliberate.
When he starts walking again, he’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s still worried about the noise in the woods. My crutches are loud, while he moves so silently that he could be a ghost, and I wonder if he’s regretting … whatever this is. Our random walk through the woods.
He finally says, “I have a history with Lord Alek. He resents the king, and he resents the presence of magic in Syhl Shallow. He’s made no secret of that. His House is one of the most influential, and he has many allies at court. He can’t openly attack the king or the queen … and truly, he shouldn’t attack me, either, but … well.” He hesitates, and I can tell there’s more he’s not saying. “Alek is very clever. He’s very good at claiming innocence.” He looks out at the snowy woods again. “Since I saw him in Briarlock, I’ve been wary.”
Absently, I rub at my neck. The wounds Lord Alek left have healed, but they’ll scar. I remember what Lord Tycho said about Alek being a dangerous man, and I don’t disagree—but I also know what Lady Karyl said about the king and his magic and the harm it brought. I know how Callyn’s mother died, and she wasn’t the only soldier from Briarlock to fall to the monster. Knowledge of the sealed letter in my pocket burns in my thoughts. I don’t know what to believe about anyone.
Either way, it’s another reminder that these men matter, and I … do not.
“You must spend a lot of time fighting,” I say.
“Less than you’d think.” He looks over. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure. Are you a fighter, Jax?”
The question wraps a dark band around my thoughts. I keep my eyes on the icy path and say, “No. I would have enlisted once I came of age, but …” I shrug and nod down at my leg. “So now I just make weapons. I don’t really know how to use them.”
He’s quiet for a while, and it’s a weird kind of silence that I’m not sure how to read. I remember that moment in Cal’s shop when he healed my hand, how he had something that we didn’t. Offering magic was a kindness, yes, but something about it still smarted. I don’t want pandering now either. I’ve heard all the comments.At least you’re a good blacksmith. You’re lucky you’ve still got the forge. As misfortune goes, yours isn’t too bad.
But Lord Tycho doesn’t say any of that.
Instead, he says, “Want to learn?”
CHAPTER 16
JAX
Lord Tycho is mocking me. Surely.
But he doesn’t look like it. He looks like he’s waiting for an answer. My eyes flick to the sword at his waist, to the knives at his wrists, and finally to the bow on his shoulder. I can’t use a sword—even I know the very basis isfootwork—and I doubt I could hold my balance to shoot an arrow. My heart is beating at a rapid clip, but I narrow my eyes, ready to refuse.
Before I can, he jerks the bow off his shoulder and holds it out. “Here. Hold this.”
“I—yes, my lord.” My hand closes on the cold wood.
He cuts me a wry glance. “Tycho.” He tethers Mercy to a tree and feeds her another apple tart. Before he turns back, he unbuckles the quiver of arrows from behind the saddle and loops it over his shoulder.
I watch him dubiously. This would be a lot of effort for ridicule.
He pulls the arrow out of his sword belt and holds out a hand for the bow. “When Grey first taught me to fight,” he says, “one of the first things he did was ask what I was afraid of. It’s the worst question in theworld, and he wouldn’t let me get away from it. I’ll never forget it.” He lowers his voice to imitate someone more stoic and unyielding. “ ‘No, Tycho, speak your fears. You cannotchallengethem if you cannot evenvoicethem.’ ” He rolls his eyes. “But he was right. He usually is.”
