Tristan grunted. “Honestly, we probably would have, but Keely asked us to let you be.”
Tor let his head drop between his elbows, his black-and-red tattoos blurring into fiery brands over his folded arms. Keely was still protecting him, despite everything.
Tristan picked up his pen and tapped it on the desk, the noise jarring in the quiet room. “Did you know that your father had written to me?”
“What?” He lifted his head to stare at Tristan, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.
“Your father,” Tristan repeated. “He would like positions for your two younger brothers in the Blues. He feels that the family should be considered given its—” Tristan looked out the window as if recalling the exact words. “—long and exalted history. He wants a meeting.”
“What?” That didn’t make any sense at all. Tor was in the Blues. Did they think Tristan hadn’t noticed? Were they planning to work side by side with him and still pretend he didn’t exist?
“They’re hoping to come back to court,” Tristan continued. “They’ve petitioned for a place for all four of them, with their two sons in the palace guard.”
“Their two sons,” Tor repeated helplessly.
“Fuck.” Tristan wiped his hand down his face. “Sorry. You know what I mean.” He looked warily across at Tor. “I take it that you didn’t know?”
“No… I….” He took a breath. Let it out again. “No.”
Gods. How did they do this to him? Make him feel so small and worthless when all he’d done his entire life was work himself to death trying to be good enough. Trying to make them proud. Scrabbling for….
Gods. For their approval. Just like Keely had said.
Tristan dipped his chin, his scales smoothing into skin. “I’ll write back and say no.”
Tor let his hands drop to the table, allowing Tristan’s words to settle. He could ask Tristan to let them come and then use the opportunity to try and build something with them once again. Could make it known that they were only there because of him. Take the chance to recreate himself as the son of Pellin, son of Bar-Ulf. Pieces falling into place, one after the other.
Or he could let it all go, everything he’d once thought he was, and do the only thing that made any sense to him.
He imagined Keely, standing in her shift and defying the king. She would have fought for what she thought was right.
Gods. Shehadfought. She had fought for him. She had told him what she wanted in the woods, looked him in the eye and told him she would stay with the Hawks if he wanted her to, if he could see some future for them. And she had asked him to go north with her to Verturia. And he had let her go. Both. Fucking. Times.
But now the fog was clearing. “They can come if they like. I’m not going to be here.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?”
“I need to take time off. Urgently…. Please.”
Tristan snorted, but his eyes were understanding. “Actually, the queen has already approved a leave of absence for you. She’s even provided you with a letter, under her seal, commanding all outposts between here and Verturia to provide you with anything you need. You can travel fast, changing horses, maybe catch them before the border.”
Tor stood, surprised and grateful and desperate to get on the road. “Thank you. And please give my thanks to the queen.”
Tristan put his hand out to shake. “You’re still our brother, Tor. Be careful up there—the reports I’m getting aren’t good. When Geraint ended the war, he stripped back the barracks to skeleton staff only, calling most of the senior officials back to Kaerlud. When they left, they took their protection and their money away with them. The reivers are worse than they’ve ever been, and one man alone on the road will be an attractive target.”
Bloody hell. That was what Keely was riding toward. He had to get to her.
But Tristan wasn’t finished. “And Tor, be careful with Keely.”
“Yes,” he answered immediately. “I will.” It was more than an answer to Tristan, it was a vow.
He had to find her and convince her that he was worth forgiving. It would be bloody difficult after everything that had happened between them, but she was worth the risk. And, if nothing else, he would be with her, watching her back as she traveled through those beautiful, bleak, dangerous moors and into the mountains of her homeland.
He stood and brought his fist to his heart—the Apollyon way of recognizing Tristan as family—and then turned to go. Keely’s letter crackled against his chest as he jogged out the study and down to the barracks to pack.
Chapter Eleven
Keely layin the dark listening to the ancient wood of the abandoned farmhouse creaking in the wind. The whole structure shuddered and moaned, reminding her of the hideous days she’d spent retching on theStar of the Sea. Who knew someone could throw up so many times and still function?
