approval. “You will work closely with Captain Flynn, and send a pigeon immediately if anything should change here. If all else fails, light the beacon.”
He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, gripping it tightly for a moment, before following his patrol to the Eyrie.
Tristan watched in stunned silence as, several long minutes later, the Riders flew from beyond the archway, leaving a blazing trail across the cloudy sky.
“Tristan,” said a voice near his elbow, and Tristan turned to find Nyk standing there. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said at once, arranging his face in his best approximation of calm self-assuredness. “Of course.”
Nyk lifted a brow at him, and Tristan knew his efforts at bravado were wasted. He glanced around, looking for something matter-of-fact to do or say, but he was distinctly overwhelmed. Guards were rushing back and forth across the courtyard, their weapons clinking together and their boots thudding on stone as they called out reports and took up new positions. Servants continued about their work, though they watched the commotion with wary stares.
Tristan faltered; what did someone do when they were in charge?
The question was soon answered for him when a guard summoned Tristan to the top of the wall.
Happy to have something to do, he mounted the steps near the front gate, and Nyk followed. The guard pointed to the edge of the field, at the top of the steps to the way station.
A ragged figure was visible, helped by a guard across the grassy plain toward the village gates. As they watched, three more guards poured from the village to meet them. They surrounded the newcomer just as he fell to his knees, a bulky satchel weighing him down.
Tristan frowned. He looked like a raider.
As the raider and his guard escort made their way through the village, Tristan barreled down the staircase, where more guards and servants milled around the entrance to the stronghold. He forced his way through, Nyk close to his back.
The boy was being helped through the double doors. His clothes were ripped and sweat-soaked, his skin bruised and smeared with dirt. His eyes were hooded—not exactly closed, but unaware of his surroundings. His skin was ashen around the shadows of his eyes, and his breath rattled unevenly—probably thanks to the arrow protruding from his shoulder. He was unarmed, and yet his leather-padded tunic, tall boots, and weapons belt marked him for what he was: a fighter. Given that he wore no uniform or crest indicating an employer, Tristan could only assume he was a raider.
A small crowd gathered to have a look, and Nyk stood among them, staring down at the raider with surprising intensity.
Tristan turned to the nearest guard, the one who had helped the boy from the top of the way station stairs. “Why did we just take the enemy into our protection?” he asked.
The guard wiped his sweaty brow and straightened. “Says he has information about the attacks.” He waved at the arrow wound. “I don’t think he parted with his comrades on good terms.”
Tristan had to agree—the raider was in rough shape. His tunic was so bloodied it appeared dark brown in color, when the hemline told Tristan it had once been closer to white. A satchel hung loosely off his good arm, and red lacerations from the strap crisscrossed the exposed skin of his neck. Whatever burden he bore, it was heavy.
Still, Tristan didn’t want to take any chances, and he waved for several guards to keep their spears trained on the raider as Tristan knelt before him. A healer approached, and Tristan nodded, allowing her to press a skin of water to the boy’s lips. Drinking seemed to bring him somewhat back to life, even though it was clear that every swallow caused him pain. As he drank, the healer examined his wound.
“What’s your name?” Tristan asked, drawing the boy’s attention. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blinking as he tried to focus.
Tristan scanned the crowd, then spotted Ian, a wizened old guard. At a word from Tristan, the man produced a small flask. As soon as Tristan unscrewed the lid, the pungent stink of liquor singed his nostrils. It was petravin or “rockwine,” a distilled Pyraean liquor aged with a blend of local herbs and flowers, and made only in Petratec, the small village’s claim to fame.
“Try this,” he said to the boy, despite the healer’s objection.
The smell alone made him sit straighter, and he choked a mouthful down. He muttered darkly, but when he handed