“Yes, sir,” he agreed as he put his hand out for the sealed vellum that would contain their orders.
But the guard shook his head, his sneer growing. “A verbal commission.”
Nothing good ever came of a verbal commission. But then, nothing good had come of anything recently. “Sir?”
“We believe you knew the queen’s lover. Former Captain Lanval.”
The men behind Tristan became, if possible, even more still.
They hated Alanna. She was the one responsible for what had happened to their comrades. To their king. To their lives. But they hated Lanval for his part in it even more. She was Verturian, they expected her lack of honor,hewas a traitor.
His arms burned as his scales thickened around his wrists and flickered up to his biceps. He gave a curt nod. Everyone in the palace knew that they’d been friends.
“Good,” the guard agreed with a smirk. “I’m pleased you haven’t forgotten, out here, so far from home.”
“What do you want from us…, sir?” Tristan asked, ignoring the taunt.
“Lanval refuses to confess the details of his treachery, although we all know what he did. Before he hangs, the king would like to hear him admit the truth.” The guard’s smirk grew. “Lord Grendel feels it would help Lanval to remember if those that helped him were to join him. He wants the whole nest destroyed.”
His scales hardened as his beast prepared for battle—referring to a family of Mabin as a nest was extraordinarily offensive—but he kept his tone polite. “How can we help?”
“The traitor that supported Lanval has escaped arrest and fled. The Lord High Chancellor believes that you have the knowledge we need to resolve this most efficiently. Luckily, you’re also the closest.”
Tristan could only think of one place nearby that might be relevant, and he had planned never to go there again. Ever.
The Apollyon continued, “The Lord High Chancellor is offering you this one chance to redeem yourselves. Do this, find the traitor, and you will all be reinstated and returned to the Blue Guards.”
Returned to the palace. Blues once more. Having redeemed themselves and brought down those working with Val to betray their king. Now there was a carrot. The one thing they all desperately wanted.
There was a slight rustle behind him, but no other sound or movement. That anyone had twitched at all showed just how affected they were.
Was this some kind of test? Maybe the king and the Lord High Chancellor wanted proof that they were loyal to the kingdom and not their former friend?
Well. That wasn’t a problem. This was a test they would pass with flying colors. The Chancellor could have just asked; the entire squad hated Lanval. And they loathed traitors. They wouldn’t hesitate to take him down or the rest of his conspiracy. And then they would be the ones in the Blue tunics. Back where they should have always been.
“We would be glad to help.” He looked the smug ass in front of him up and down. “And we look forward to seeing you again at the palace.”
The guard took a sketch out of his saddlebag and passed it over. Tristan turned it round, keeping his face carefully blank as he recognized the subject.
Stupidly, at no point in the conversation had he imagined it would be her.
She was older. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a teenager. Shy, just on the verge of womanhood, growing out of her baby softness. He and Val had been visiting their families before their first campaign, both newly accepted into the Royal Cavalry, eyes already firmly set on the Blue Guards.
He’d thought her a child. Sweet and harmless. Slightly annoying. Forever following them around. He and Val had alternated between teasing her and including her in their games.
No longer a child, she was entirely a woman now. And gods, she was beautiful. Long dark hair in a loose braid, wings curled softly at her sides. Eyes wide, with a delicate, innocent look on her face, as if the artist couldn’t help capturing it.
And she was all that stood between him and getting his squad back home. A traitor who had resisted arrest and fled.
Val’s sister, Nim.
Chapter Three
The shriekingof the seagulls woke her, mournful and discordant as they flocked around the pavilion. The sun had just risen, but the heavy clouds were dark and ominous, the world still misty and blurred with slow-rolling fog in the dim early morning light.
Nim stretched wearily, her body trembling with cold and pain. Her mouth was dry and tasted of salt. Conscious that she could easily fall, she glanced down at the gray waves lapping against the iron struts and away again. No matter what happened, she would not look down again—she was going to fight.
When she was steady, she forced herself to pull her injured wing across her body and prodded the wound. Her burns were angry, blistering, scarlet welts, swollen and hot. Left untreated, infection was only a matter of time.
