CHAPTER 11 JAX
JAX
When I lived with Da in Briarlock, we might’ve been poor, but we never had occasion to sleep on the ground.
Aside from my week of travel to Ironrose Castle, I haven’t had much experience with a blanket and a bedroll.
Since the moment we rode out of camp, I’ve felt Tycho’s tense focus, and combined with the hard riverbed, I can’t get comfortable.
It’s as if his anxiety is a silent companion that won’t stop kneeing me in the back.
As it is, I don’t really drift off until the first sparks of sunlight appear on the horizon, just as the soldiers begin to wake, donning their gear and tending the horses.
From behind me, someone gives my hair a gentle tug, and for a breath of time, I think it might be Tycho. My heart gives a wary little skip, hopeful. But then Sephran says, “Time to wake up, Archer.”
I turn my face into the wool of my bedroll and make an unhappy sound. I don’t want to be the only one lazing around, so I throw my blankets to the side and sit up.
And there’s Tycho, sitting across the fire, tying his boots.
His gaze is locked on his hands, every movement sharp and precise as he pulls at his laces, snapping them sharply around each boot hook, tying them off with cool efficiency before he jerks at the leather strap to fasten the buckle overtop.
He is very deliberately not looking at me.
Just like last night, when he was also very deliberately not looking at me.
Everything has unraveled so quickly between us.
Yesterday, I showed up in the courtyard, wearing the new armor Prince Rhen had delivered to the Shield House, my stomach dizzy with butterflies.
I was wrestling with excitement and uncertainty about being included with the others, especially since I don’t have a clearly defined role here.
I’m not a soldier— but I’m not just a blacksmith anymore either.
But Tycho’s tone was so chilly when he asked me to join them. Does he resent my presence here? Maybe. He’s hardly said a word since the moment we left— and even then, he wasn’t exactly friendly. He issued orders like we’d never met, and his voice was so cold. Do you need me to repeat it?
Then again, maybe that’s my fault. I did snap at him in the forge when he offered to translate.
My heart feels twisted up in knots.
I don’t realize I’m staring at him until his eyes flick up and meet mine. For an instant, his gaze burns. My breath nearly catches.
But then he looks away, planting his boots in the dirt to stand.
I scowl and reach for the false foot and my own boots. It takes me longer to strap everything onto my right leg, so I can’t go after him. I’m not even sure I want to.
My hair is a tangled mess from sleep, and I angrily twist it into a knot, jabbing a length of steel through it to hold it in place. Then I push to my own feet and head into the woods to take care of human needs.
It’s only once I’m there that I realize Tycho would’ve seen Sephran tug at my hair. He would’ve heard his comment and the warmth in his voice.
Guilt flares in my chest. Against my will, I think of the night Sephran pressed me against a tree and kissed me.
It was nothing. It meant nothing.
You are not happy, Sephran said. My pulse thumps, confirming that.
When I return to the fire, it’s clear that I’m slower than the others. They’re fully armed, their horses mostly tacked, their bedrolls put away. Only Tycho is still saddling Mercy. My own breastplate and bracers are still in the dirt beside my abandoned bedroll.
Heat flares on my cheeks, and I rush to tug the armor on.
“Hey,” says Sephran. “Slow. It’s all right. Here.”
I look up, and he’s holding out an apple, along with a chunk of cheese that looks like he broke it off a larger piece. I give him a sheepish smile. “Thank you.” I shove the food in my mouth, holding the apple with my teeth while I finish buckling the armor into place.
Malin was banking the fire, but he watches this interaction, saying nothing.
I can’t read his expression, and I’m still not entirely sure what to make of him.
I’ve heard a lot of fond stories from Sephran, but not as many since Malin returned from Syhl Shallow with Tycho.
It’s clear that his new role has caused a little friction between the two of them.
Last night, when Malin tossed the wild turkey in the dirt, Sephran waited until he turned away, then leaned close to me and muttered, “I guess the new captain is too good to pluck a bird.”
I don’t know if they’ve spoken to each other this morning, but based on the current chilly silence, I’m guessing not. Clearly the tension between me and Tycho isn’t the only conflict among our group.
My bedroll is knotted tightly, so I pick up my things and head for the horses. Despite what Sephran said, I don’t want to delay them.
When I get to the tie line, I discover that Tycho has saddled Teddy for me. He’s just finishing the last buckle on his bridle.
I stop short, unsure what to make of this. Is this a kindness? Or subtle reproach for taking too long?
Tycho must have heard me moving through the grass, because he looks back. I have no idea what expression is on my face, but his demeanor darkens, and he gives Teddy a pat on the neck, then moves to pass me. In silence. Again.
I catch his arm.
He goes rigid, just like at the forge, and I think he might jerk free. Everything about him is braced for a fight.
I don’t give him one. “Thank you,” I say softly in Emberish.
The words hit him like a blow anyway, because it seems to knock the wind right out of him. He deflates— or maybe he sags.
But it’s only for a second, because his face shifts into that perfect soldier neutrality again.
“You’re welcome.” He hesitates. “It’ll be a long day if we’re to make it to Gaulter by sundown. The terrain is rough as we get closer to the mountains, and if there’s been rain, it will slow us down. We might need another night on the road.”
I’m frowning, trying to parse out the unfamiliar words among the ones I do know. But after last night, there’s no way I’m asking him to translate now.
Tycho can surely tell, because he hesitates, studying me. A prideful part of me wants to turn away. Any softness has already been erased from his expression, and anything he says is likely to be just as abrasive.
But his brown eyes are full of sunlight, and I still haven’t let him go.
A hint of contrition flickers through his gaze, and then he switches to Syssalah to repeat every word.
He’s very fluent, but his accent is always thicker when we’re in Emberfall.
The low timbre of his voice is pulling at memories, making heat crawl up my neck.
My mouth opens, but I have no idea what I’m going to say. A pulse in my chest makes me wish we were alone. I’d grab hold of his armor and drag him into the woods and we could resolve everything right now.
Before I can say a thing, he pulls free of my grip. Then he claps me on the shoulder like I’m just another soldier and turns away. “Mount up,” he says in Emberish. “We’re burning daylight.”
It’s like a bucket of ice- cold water, shocking and sudden. For an instant, I can’t tell if I’m grateful or annoyed. Either way, it’s clear that the order wasn’t just for me, because the other soldiers are swinging aboard their horses, preparing to ride out.
So I take hold of Teddy’s reins and do the same.
We take the same riding positions as we did yesterday, with Malin at the front, followed by me and Sephran, with Leo riding at the back.
Again, Tycho takes outrider, and sometimes he’s so far that he’s a blur on the horizon.
I wonder if that’s deliberate, as if he’d completely abandon our group if he had the option.
I know he’s used to making this journey on his own, and the only person who doesn’t seem affected by the tension is Leo.
Regardless, Malin continues setting a hard pace, making conversation impossible— though I don’t really mind today.
I’m not used to this much riding, and every muscle on my frame aches.
As the day wears on, the midsummer sun beats down, and I begin to hate the armor.
Combined with my lack of sleep and my uncertainty about Tycho, it doesn’t take any time at all for my mood to turn to shit.
By midday, Malin calls for a break, and I’m grateful.
A sick, cloying scent has been following us for miles, making me wonder if an animal died nearby.
It’s probably rotting in the sun. The horses’ flanks are all damp, and Teddy thrusts his muzzle into the water as soon as I give him a loose rein.
I swing off his back to scoop a handful of water to splash over the back of my neck.
Sephran appears beside me. His freckled cheeks are flushed from the heat, his sandy hair threaded with sweat. “Tahlas ?” he says, which means good in Syssalah. It’s one of the first words I taught him and Leo, and it’s become a common back- and- forth between us. We have a variety of responses now.
Tahlas. Men tahlas. Nah tahlas.
Good. Very good. No good.
Just now, none of those seem to fit. I grunt noncommittally and scoop another handful of cold water to splash over my neck. I’m used to the heat of the forge, but this is altogether different.
Leo appears on my other side. He’s also flushed and sweating. “Nah tahlas,” he says, scrunching up his face at either the heat or the smell. He takes a handful of water and pours it directly over his head. “Ugh. Did a whole herd of deer die out here?”
Malin must be on the other side of Sephran’s horse because I see another equine muzzle splash into the stream. “Tycho is checking it out,” he says, though his voice doesn’t reveal any strain. “We’ll break for half an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Sephran says, his tone brisk. Somehow he manages to sound both respectful and mocking.