CHAPTER 18 TYCHO
TYCHO
By the time the sun sets, we have a weak plan that’s full of holes.
I’ve been to Gaulter’s tourney before, and I first battled Nakiis right in the middle of the arena, so I don’t just have to worry about Syhl Shallow’s nobility.
It’s been months, so I doubt I’d be recognized by any of the regular citizens, but Journ, the man who runs the tourney, would definitely remember me. We worked together when I was young.
Malin, Sephran, and Leo are going to walk the crowd and attend as spectators.
Some of that is part of our original mission: to see what kind of gossip they’ll hear in the stands.
But some of it is outright caution. If I’m recognized, or if this “meeting” goes badly in any way, I don’t want to have to fight my way out alone.
I hate that the sun hasn’t fully set, and I’m already thinking about this ending in a battle.
“You’re very quiet,” Jax says as we wind through shadowed alleys toward the tourney.
We’re alone again, because we don’t want to be seen with the soldiers now, but there’s a part of me that wishes we’d kept the others with us.
I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched, that there’s magic in the air, that something is off about Gaulter that I haven’t yet figured out.
But maybe none of that is true. Maybe I’m just hot and tired and anxious.
“Tycho?”
“Sorry.” The air is so humid and still, and despite the heavy clouds, it hasn’t rained all day. I’d give anything for a breeze. “I was just thinking of everything that could go wrong.”
“Oh, good. I thought maybe you were worried.”
His tone makes me smile, and I glance over.
Jax has re- pinned his hair in a tight knot at the back of his neck, and he’s wearing a few more weapons than before, adding to the illusion of a soldier.
No sword, because it’s weight he doesn’t need if he doesn’t have the skill to use it, but a longer dagger hangs from his belt, and two knives are strapped to his thigh.
I left my quiver with Mercy’s gear, but he’s got his buckled over one shoulder, his bow crisscrossed over the other.
A faint sheen of sweat glints on any exposed skin, revealing the curved muscle of his forearms, the first slope of his biceps, the way his neck disappears into his tunic.
I didn’t realize it until now, but it’s more than just the armor broadening his frame. It’s just . . . it’s just him. Likely from the months of training with the soldiers. Or maybe months of eating better food than whatever he and his father were able to scrape together— which I know wasn’t much.
“What?” he says, and I realize I’m staring.
I jerk my eyes forward. “Sorry,” I say again, but now I’m tongue-tied, flustered. “I was just— I mean you— you look—” I break off and make the mistake of glancing over, and his eyes are dark and beguiling, making me wish we could go anywhere else and do anything else. I swear under my breath.
“I look . . . ?” he prompts, but there’s a hint of mischief in his voice.
I shake my head and keep my eyes on the alley. “You changed so much, Jax.”
He bumps me with his shoulder, and when I look over, he smiles. “You changed, too.”
I was in the midst of smiling back, but this takes me by surprise. “Yeah?”
He nods— and he clearly wants to torment me, because he says nothing.
“How?” I demand.
His expression twists a little, as if he needs to consider that. “I’m not sure how to explain it. Less . . . something. More . . . something else.”
“Oh. Well.” My eyes flick skyward.
He bumps me with his shoulder again. This time he gives me a stronger push, so I shove him back.
It’s playful, but Jax has never backed away from a little rough- and- tumble.
Neither have I, so for a second, we scuffle in the alley.
But when his fingers brush my arm, there’s a different intent to the touch.
“Don’t start that,” I warn. “We’ll never make it to the tourney.”
He must agree, because he sighs regretfully and hooks his thumbs in his weapons belt and faces forward.
After a while, he says, “It’s not quite confidence.
You’ve always been confident.” His tone is musing, so I keep my mouth shut, because now I’m curious.
But after a moment, he says nothing, and I glance over.
“Tell me,” I say.
He shakes his head a little. “I’m really not sure.”
“Jax, you are killing me.”
He grins. “Is that the tourney?”
We’ve turned a corner, and he’s right. The tourney is just ahead.
The building is larger than I remember, and it’s early enough that people are milling about in all directions.
We’ll be able to lose ourselves in the crowd easily enough— though a Syssal accent will be obvious as soon as we speak.
My heart gives a little kick. I don’t usually play the role of a spy, and my thoughts keep whispering about the million ways this evening could unravel.
But Jax is by my side, and he just called me confident. My heart is thrumming with pride, too. I don’t want to prove him wrong.
“That’s it,” I say briskly. “Let’s go.”
When I was here last winter, the tourney was crowded yet tolerable.
Now that it’s the dead heat of summer, the space is packed and stifling.
As Jax and I move among the people, I have no idea how we’ll find a meeting at all.
I have no idea how we’ll find anyone. An hour ago I was thinking about escape, but now I’m more worried about getting trampled.
Jax presses close, and at first I thought it might be a necessity from the dense crowds, but when his hand brushes mine, he grips my fingers for the barest second.
I’m not sure what about the motion catches my attention, but I glance over.
His expression is steady and cool, but his eyes are flicking from face to face, and a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
“Doing all right?” I murmur in Syssalah.
“It’s so many people,” he says. “I’ve never been anywhere like this.” He shakes himself a little. “Was it like this when you were young? At your tourney in Rillisk?”
I grimace, then nod. “Yeah— but I could hide in the stables.”
He looks over at me when I say that. Jax knows my history— and everything I ever had to hide from.
“With Grey?” he says, and his voice is so low I can barely hear him over the crowd.
But he’s right— and as soon as he says it, the memories flare.
I’m suddenly fifteen again, feeling the press of unfamiliar people all around me, smelling the tang of spilled ale that’s gone sour in the heat, hearing the low rumble of slurred voices that meant people wouldn’t be thinking clearly.
The man who ran the tourney in Rillisk was known to take a coin for pretty much anything, and I remember the spike of fear in my heart the first time I heard someone ask, “How much for an hour with the boy?”
I wait for that same spike of fear to find me now, because it always does when these memories invade my mind. Sparks and stars always flicker in my blood, my magic responding to the burst of panic.
But for the first time, there’s no fear. Because I’m not fifteen, I’m nearly twenty. And I’m not hungry and hiding in the shadows, I’m strapped full of weapons and backed by soldiers. I don’t need to hide behind the king anymore. I don’t need to hide behind anyone at all.
Maybe this is what Jax meant when he said that I’ve changed.
I look into his hazel- green eyes and nod. “Yes. With Grey.” I brush my hand against his, and this time, I give his fingers a squeeze. “Come on,” I say, tugging him toward the outer wall. “Let’s see if we can head toward the weapons rooms. We’ll never learn anything this way.”
He follows as I tug him through the crowd.
Once we pass the narrow walkway that leads into the stands, the press of people thins out somewhat.
The vendor stalls are back here, craftsmen and tradesmen calling their wares.
I recognize a girl selling small painted figurines from the last time I was here, and I give her stand a wide berth.
The whole time, I listen carefully for Syssalah, and I look for signs of wealth and nobility. Unfortunately, all I hear is Emberish. All I see are sweat- stained tunics and dusty boots. The only coins that spark in the light are copper.
No one mentions a meeting, or the Truthbringers, or even the king.
I heave a sigh and look at Jax. “Nothing yet,” I say to him.
He frowns. “Maybe the meeting isn’t here?”
I shake my head a little. “The barmaid seemed so—”
I break off as a little scuffle erupts to our left. A boy of ten or eleven is shoving between people, and a middle- aged woman sourly grabs for his tunic.
“Come back here!” she snaps irascibly.
The boy slips past her, all but falling over his own feet as he tries to weave through the shifting crowd. “Sorry! Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m late for the stables, madame— whoa!”
A man sidesteps to get out of his way, but clearly not quickly enough.
The boy trips over the man’s leg and stumbles forward, trying to catch himself before he goes sailing into the dirt.
When the woman shouts, “Stop him! Someone needs to give that young man a good lashing!” the boy abruptly changes direction and whirls, digging in his heels to bolt.
But instead of finding an opening, he slams right into Jax— who stumbles into me.
Luckily, the boy’s slight enough that he doesn’t send us all to the ground.
I manage to steady Jax and grab hold of the boy’s arm, keeping him upright.
He recoils instantly, spinning away from me, trying to jerk free like a lassoed horse.
His teeth are gritted, his eyes wild. He looks over his shoulder like he can’t decide who’s the greater danger: the woman shouting about a “good lashing” or the armed man who’s got him by the wrist.
“Easy,” Jax says. He casts a disdainful glance in the woman’s direction. “We not hurt you.”