Tristan said, answering his father, though his eyes remained on the man who’d challenged him. “Isn’t that right?” Tristan pressed.
The man scowled mightily. “That’s right,” he said eventually, as if he’d finished weighing his odds and decided he’d best play along. He shrugged as he hooked his thumbs in his belt, nonchalantly dropping a mushy brown apple into the dirt. “It’s all cleared up now,” he added, fixing Tristan with a beady-eyed stare before slinking off into the dispersing crowds.
“What are you doing here?” Tristan asked his father once the farmers were out of sight. It was just the Riders in the square now, plus a handful of onlookers from the refugee camp. There was a good deal of noise coming from the other side of town where the celebrations carried on unawares, but the usually packed corner upon which they stood had temporarily been deserted in the face of the almost fight. “Has something happened?”
Tristan’s father ignored the question, gesturing to his guards, who rode past the refugee camp in the direction of the perimeter watch. Maybe they were here to relieve the original group or to bolster their numbers.
His first task done, the commander took another step forward, surveying their group closely, picking up on every smear of filth and speck of blood. Tristan remained still, refusing to look cowed. He’d been caught in a bit of an embarrassing situation, but he hadn’t done anything wrong here—he’d had it under control. Mostly.
“Nothing has happened. I’m here because I was requested,” the commander said at last.
Tristan stared. Requested… by whom?
“Lysandro, see if they’ll give us a private parlor, will you?” the commander said, nodding in the direction of the inn behind them. “Tell them they will be compensated for their generosity—and for the damages,” he added, his gaze flicking over the building and landing on Veronyka’s arrow embedded in the wood.
Lysandro nodded, ducking his head and avoiding Tristan’s gaze as he waved for the proprietor to let him inside.
“The rest of you,” the commander continued, and Tristan slowly turned around to face him again, “see to your phoenixes and your wounds. Then get this cleaned up.”
While the Riders attempted to wash the filth from their skin and Anders swung the medic kit off his shoulder, Tristan bristled. His father had been here for ten seconds and already he’d taken over command and relegated Tristan to a slack-jawed bystander. “I—we’re—” he stammered, but his father had said everything he would have.
Lysandro slipped back outside and nodded to the commander, who strode forward and opened the door. “Tristan?” he said, pausing on the threshold. “You have ten minutes with your patrol. Then I’ll see you inside.”
Before Tristan could speak a word, the door slammed shut, leaving them all standing in silence.
They avoided looking at one another; Ronyn, Anders, and Lysandro examined their bondmates for wounds and wiped them down as best they could before sending them back to camp. Tristan reached out to Rex, warning him of their approach, and received an earsplitting mental screech in response. Tristan rubbed his temple, promising to come back as soon as he could.
Veronyka had a wad of bandages in hand, unearthed from Anders’s medic kit, and after giving several to Ronyn for the cut on his face, she hesitated halfway to Latham. It was clear by her stiff posture and uneasy glance that she either hadn’t yet asked Latham if she could help tend Xane, or she was wary to do so. Latham was still hunched over his bondmate’s wing, though he no longer dug for bits of glass in his wound. Instead his blood-smeared hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
“Latham,” Tristan said, walking toward him and gesturing back at Veronyka. “Veronyka has bandages. Let her—”
“I don’t care what she has,” he said viciously, and Tristan froze midstep. He knew Latham didn’t particularly like Veronyka, but his reaction was still surprising. He turned away from Xane at last, and after a hesitant shake of his wings, the phoenix took to the sky, leaving only Riders behind.
Something about his confrontational stance and the way he glared at Veronyka… it was all Tristan needed to fly off the handle.
“Is there a problem here, Latham?” Tristan demanded. Latham drew himself up, but before he could reply, Anders cut in.
“Hey, guys,” he said, hastily stepping between them. “Come on, we’re all a little upset, and the commander—”
“Speaking of the commander,” Tristan said, seizing on the subject change. “What is he doing here? Who requested him?” He