close to the surface. “I have you grossly outnumbered, Commander. All I need do is say the word, and you’ll all be dead.”
“Along with your ambitions,” the commander said, all the more calmly in the face of Rolan’s fury. It reminded Tristan uncomfortably of the way they interacted at times—Tristan all temper and bluster, and his father, ever stoic and patient. “We will not accept that trade. Now, offer something else instead.”
“You dare to push me while my man has a knife to your son’s throat?”
“I’m not pushing you, Rolan; I’m negotiating. You may need to reconsider your odds when my reinforcements arrive, and what a victory now will do to your odds of a victory later.”
These words seemed to permeate Rolan’s bad temper. He glanced at Tristan, and his fervent, kinetic energy was replaced with wary consideration.
“And, Rolan,” Cassian added, his voice somehow both whisper soft and dagger sharp, “if you kill my son, you will not leave this pavilion alive.”
His eyes bored into Rolan, who was first to lower his gaze. Rolan glanced around, as if sensing that the power had shifted between them, and he scrabbled to reclaim it. He sniffed and tossed his shoulders in a determinedly careless gesture. “You know what I want, Cassian. And since you will not deign to give it to me, I fear we are at an impasse.”
Tristan’s pulse leapt in his throat, as if in anticipation of the blade. Unless he intended to hand Tristan over for nothing, a stalemate was a very bad thing. If they didn’t come to terms now, Tristan would be hauled away who knew where for who knew how long. Or things would devolve into another fight, and not everyone standing in this pavilion would survive it.
“I never said I did not intend to give it to you,” the commander said, and all the warm feelings Tristan had been feeling for his father turned to ice in his chest. “You would make a smart match for an heiress,” he continued reasonably, but the words were like poison, snaking through Tristan’s body, filling him with dark despair.
“No!” he burst out, unable to rein in his anger. “No, Father. That isn’t for you to decide! You can’t do this. You can’t—”
“Quiet, boy,” Rolan hissed in his ear, nodding at his soldier, who raised the knife and tightened his grip.
The tears that had stung the back of Tristan’s eyes swam before his vision now as he looked from his father’s cold, calculating face to Veronyka’s expression of shocked horror, which surely mirrored his own. Both their lives were on the line, and they were powerless to stop it.
“What did I ask you before we came here?” his father said quietly. Tristan wavered. His father had asked Tristan to let him do the talking. He’d asked Tristan to trust him.
Tristan took a deep breath and nodded.
The commander turned to Rolan once again. “An arrangement could be made, if the right terms were proposed. You can’t expect me to trade a princess for an exiled governor’s son, even if he’s my own. You’ll have to sweeten the deal considerably.”
Rolan considered Cassian’s words. He licked his lips. “The Grand Council will go as planned,” he began, “and you will not attend. Your people will be deemed dangerous and a threat to the empire. The armies will march into Pyra to find you… and if, in that chaos, you help to put myself and the Ashfire girl on the throne, I will grant the Phoenix Riders full immunity in my new regime. You will be my royal guard and given positions of wealth and status.”
“While the rest of Pyra burns and animages across the empire continue to suffer? Not good enough, Rolan.”
“And,” Rolan added, speaking faster now, “in exchange for your loyal service, I will lift the magetax and free every bondservant currently under term for magic use.”
The commander’s brows rose, and looks of surprise colored the features of the soldiers who surrounded them. But Tristan was skeptical. They would have to fulfill their side of the bargain first. What would stop Rolan from betraying them once he had his throne and his bride?
“I will see you and your Riders after the Grand Council meeting, after the empire marches into Pyra. We’ll make the exchange once the Nest has been taken.”
The commander lifted his chin. “Agreed.”
Tristan’s heart plummeted, and Veronyka’s head snapped around. She looked stunned, angry—mutinous—but then the commander bent his head and whispered into her ear. Bracing words of comfort?