Tristan (The Tristan Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

H i. I’m Tristan Kanes. At least I was once upon a time. Tomorrow, who knows who I’m going to be?

But I digress. I’m getting ahead of myself as usual. I’ll back up a bit. I thought it would be a good idea to attempt to run away from my destiny, but destiny tends to follow a person.

I’ve reached the upper ridges of Markaytia’s North Wood and I’ve been gone for several hours. Lucca will come after me soon. I creep to the edge of the plateau and look out to her, to Markaytia. Tomorrow, I’m to marry an Elven Prince. I know it sounds luxurious, every boy’s dream and all, but it isn’t that simple.

I must give up my entire life for this man.

It’s not long before I hear footsteps I recognize behind me. I’m certain of whom it is. I don’t even turn to look, until the tree branch pokes into my back.

He wants to fight me today, does he? I jump up with lightning speed, conditioned from the day I could stand on two feet and because I always take reconnaissance of my surroundings, I know there is a stick for me to use against him, two feet away. I snatch it up and take a defensive stance against my assassin. I strike, slice, slash, pierce, and segment his pathetic battle strategy—well, pathetic against mine. My cousin is a formidable swordsman—I outsmart him at every turn with my dexterous footwork and accomplished foresight.

We’ve fought in many battles since the time we were fifteen and trained together from almost the moment we sprang from the womb—it’s in our blood. Peace is a warrior’s mission, yet in succeeding, he renders himself useless. It makes him no less driven to battle. Peace is a fleeting season, even for Markaytia, and I sense that this season of peace has had its turn and war is on the horizon. Either way, everywhere is dangerous now and the people need protection. War will continue to happen whether I want it to or not and when it does, I want to be the one leading the troops.

Now to convince my husband-to-be of that.

“You see, Tristan? You’ll make a great Warlord someday,” he says, not caring how miserably he’s failing.

“You know the truth as well as I do, Lucca. I’ll never succeed my father as Warlord.”

He knows this is a sore spot for me, but of course Lucca pushes me, as usual. He hates my brooding. Enough with this game. I draw the real sword I have at my hip (the one I’m not supposed to have) and cleave his fake one in two. “There. You lose.”

“Did I? Got your mind off things for a moment.” That damn pompous tone of his leaks right into his expression. I can’t deny he’s right. It did feel good to move like that—my dark hair whipped with the snap of my movements, my nimble muscles contracting powerfully to move my sword in any arc I desired.

“Okay, you did—but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re not still sore about it, are you? It’s not like you’re the first royal to have a marriage arranged for him,” he teases.

I scowl at him.

Arranged marriage. Why is my father so old fashioned? Especially when he and Papa married because they love each other. I wanted to fall in love someday. Perhaps on the battlefield like them. I would be Warlord and he would be my second.

“Come. If we are going to misbehave today, let’s do it in style. I have a place I’ve been meaning to show you.”

Even my father, Markaytia’s current Warlord, doesn’t leave the palace without an armed guard. It’s certainly not a good idea for his son and the Crown Prince of Markaytia to do so either, but Lucca and I do it often. It’s far too cumbersome having several members of the guard along on every outing.

I follow behind him, not caring where he’ll take me so long as it’s far away. Maybe Lucca and I can run away together. He’d do it for me if I asked him, but I would never ask that. He’ll be king someday. The people of Markaytia need him.

“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to the small lake nestled in the summit of the hilltop. Trees mingle around the perimeter, and open in the right places for the sun to glisten off the water. The place is alive with character, pristine enchantment mixed with na?ve innocence, holding secrets from times long turned. There’s an eerie aura in the air that prickles my skin, one that suggests we are not the only ones to find this place, but we are of a select few. The water is not the usual aqua, it swirls with blues and purples. It bubbles and boils and steam rises from the surface.

“Lucca, how did you find this?” I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the tranquility of this place.

“Let’s just say it involved a horse, a deranged ironsmith, and his daughter,” he says, winking.

Knowing him, he and said ironsmith’s daughter have fucked in this mystical pool. I shake my head at him, jealous more than anything. We both peel off our clothes and jump into the water, splashing at each other.

The water is lovely and warm. I dip under, drench my long, black hair, resurface, and sweep it off my face. Lucca closes his eyes as he lazily floats on his back, and I stare not too directly at the bright sun.

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” he says .

I flick a little water toward him. “And why is that, exactly?”

“When I am king, I shall simply order you to come back.”

I roll my eyes. Now he’s just being ridiculous. “Somehow, I don’t think that applies to betrothals.”

“I’ll buy you back if I must, then.”

He’s making me sound like cattle, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. “If it were about money, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.”

Distress mars his beautiful features. It’s as desperate a face as I’ve ever seen on my dear, sweet cousin, and it tugs at my heart. In a flash, he throws himself on top of me, clinging to my torso, and sobs.

“I know. I know the truth well—I’m never to see you again. How will I live without you?”

I smooth his wet blond hair off his face and kiss his forehead. “You’ll do fine Lucca. You’ll go onto achieve great things.”

“Do you think he’ll let you visit?”

“He might,” I say, forcing a smile to filter through my doubt. Appeased, Lucca leans back and floats away from me again, exposing himself to the sun.

I remember the day I was called to the Great Hall alone, which set off all kinds of warning bells. Lucca and I were attached at the hip then and were usually called to the Hall together. In hindsight, I think it was because my uncle, King Amarail Kanes, knew Lucca would react poorly when he heard the news.

I walked into the hall with my stomach already churning and when I saw that my father and uncle were not alone, it plummeted like it had been shoved in ice-cold water.

That was when I saw him for the first time.

The power of his features came from what wasn’t there, rather than from what was. The man was devoid of imperfections; not one thing about his face or his body hinted to a deficiency. There was no weakness in his impenetrable demeanor—the man was used to winning and getting what he wanted. His cold purple eyes knew no warmth or sunshine and sat as sentinels atop the high bridge of his patrician nose, complementing the supercilious manner that surrounded him. Without a smile on his face, he looked cruel and stony. At the same time, there was no darkness in him, whatsoever. Gold hair flowed long over silver robes that were open to reveal porcelain white skin; unmarred, and solid. The breezy, pretty robes did nothing to diminish the restrained force of his chest and abdomen muscles—he seemed to dominate the effeminate attire, as if he’d already defeated it. Not a body built for fieldwork, but for blood— war .

My cock stirred for him and made it impossible to deny that I was attracted to this ice mountain of a man—I blushed. This was not the place I wanted to have an erection. I shifted my eyes away from the prince, down to my boots, placing my hands over my crotch.

“King Vilsarion, Prince Corrik. This is Tristan, my son,” Father introduced me.

“Welcome,” I said, giving a deep bow to each using the Markaytian etiquette Papa taught me, then I took my place beside Papa.

“Tristan,” my uncle said. “We are honored to announce that we have reached an alliance with Mortouge.”

I smiled my best smile. Absolutely, bloody fantastic! The Elves didn’t align themselves with just anyone and knowing what I knew of the recent unrest in the Northeastern Plains, since we helped them a while back, I knew it was best to have as many strong alliances as possible, if the Kanes were to maintain our hold of Dragon’s Rock. For the first time in millennia, we had to take extra measures to protect Markaytia’s crown city.

“That is excellent, Sire.” I turned to the Elven king. “I’ve been named as successor to my father at my coming-of-age ceremony, and as future Warlord, I will look forward to dealings with your Warlord. We Markaytians could learn from your teachings. I’ve read much about your weapons—I know you forge the best ones,” I gushed.

I wage for peace, but war is inevitable and the prospect of fighting alongside an Elf was exciting. All I knew of Elves at the time was of their weapons and great wars. I had little interest in their other qualities. The Elves are a beautiful, mysterious race, but I didn’t see much use getting involved in their politics or anything else about them since they were also a private race who didn’t often allow outsiders into their grand kingdom.

I didn’t expect the Elven king to frown at my words. The smile on his face lit up the room before, and especially standing next to his grouchy-looking son, the contrast was far reaching. I turned to look at Papa, confused, and he took a sharp breath, ready to cry. Father stepped between us; his dark eyes pinned me in place.

Uncle continued. “The alliance will be sealed with a marriage, Tristan. You to Prince Corrik.”

The displeasure must have been plain on my face, though I tried for the life of me to hide it.

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Tristan,” Uncle continued, trying to sell me on the idea while complimenting the Elven royals. “You will get to move to Mortouge. It will be so lovely. You are lucky.”

How could Uncle give me away and try to convince me how wonderful it would be? He knows how much I love Markaytia. Worse. He knows of the struggles and hardship I endured to earn the honor of being named future Warlord at my coming-of-age ceremony by my father.

If he wasn’t the king and my uncle, I would have told him to stuff it, but as it were, I couldn’t do that. I respected him too much, even if he’d momentarily gone insane. I listened with rising dread and tried not to smash anything.

“You will follow Elven law,” he rambled on.

Obviously .

He said other stuff too, but I stopped listening. When the initial shock wore off, I cut him off to ask, “But how will I become Warlord if I move to Mortouge, Uncle?” I already knew the answer to this, but I wanted him to say, in front of everyone, I wanted everyone to know what I was giving up.

When Uncle’s smile vanished, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut, but it was too late, and my words brought him to what he’d been avoiding. “No, Tristan. You will never succeed your father as Warlord of Markaytia, I’m afraid.”

I looked over at Father, hoping he would say something contrary to this whole debacle of me marrying the Ice Prince, but his face lacked emotion. It was the same face I’d endured through my youth, unyielding to anything that stood in the way of the kingdom he’d sworn to protect. Marrying Prince Corrik was a chance to obtain something no other land had: the protection of the Elves of Mortouge. Which did bring to mind , why us? Whatever their reason, this arrangement was of great value. Markaytia would be undisputed, and it was the greatest gift I could give to Markaytia and to Dragon’s Rock.

More than what I could give as Warlord.

No matter how much I was attracted to the Prince when I first set eyes on him, I hated him for choosing me. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for members of the royal family to have to submit to an arranged marriage. I just thought that if it happened, I would remain in Markaytia with two feet firmly planted in Dragon’s Rock.

I thought Uncle would never stop speaking. I stood there, fuming, wanting his speech to end, but it went on and on. By the Gods! I couldn’t look at anything, or anyone, fearing I would end up saying something I would regret later. When he finally finished speaking, the Elven prince came over to me. I froze.

Like it or not, this man was going to be my husband, and I was no fool. I would be obeying him rather than the other way around. I was the one being married off . I was the payment for services rendered. He would be my Lord.

“You will wear this, Tristan,” his smooth voice commanded in Markaytian, which is a common enough language, one many provinces and kingdoms knew at least a little of, but I was surprised to see the Elven prince so proficient. “It is customary in my kingdom for you to have a mark of good faith placed upon you.”

He opened his hand to reveal a ring. It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, even if I hate what it represents. A band of delicate twining circles on upside down, three-leafed-clovers, and a large blue stone set in the middle of the Elven crest. “May I?” he said.

Seeing no other viable option (I did contemplate running), I nodded. He took up my left hand and slid the ring onto the fourth finger. It fit perfectly. I didn’t know what to do after that. I probably should’ve thanked him, but I couldn’t. Instead, I stood there hating him for choosing me. There were plenty of men in Markaytia, couldn’t we find him someone more suitable, with less important ambitions? I have the blood of a dragon and I’m not easily tamed. He has no idea what awaits him on the other side of the leash he placed upon me.

“You will not touch yourself—this is also a custom where I’m from—unless I permit it. I understand you are a virgin?”

I was already blushing by that point. “Y-yes.”

How dare he ask such personal questions in front of my family? Unlike Lucca, I had decided to wait for someone special as Papa had, at least for my first time. I’d been on many dates and had a couple of short romances, but never found someone worthy of my virginity. Now I’d have to give away my coveted virginity to this domineering prick—beautiful, but a prick, nonetheless.

“Good. You are to remain innocent until I deflower you. I will be the only one to enter you.” His voice was no nonsense and to be obeyed. It was as if he already owned me—I hated that, too. It was embarrassing, standing there, being talked to like that. We are not so blasé about sex in Markaytia. Not to mention, I was meant to be Warlord, not a concubine.

“Do you understand, Tristan? I could make it easier for you. Perhaps a chastity device of some sort could be arranged. ”

He looked genuinely concerned about it as he conferred with his father for his opinion. I finally found my voice and interjected quickly.

“I understand. Really, that won’t be necessary. No touching myself without your permission, no sex with others. I’ll do whatever you ask.” Just stop bloody talking. I needed him to be finished so I could leave and destroy something with my sword. I couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than his assumptions. Did he think me to have so little self-control? I’m a Markaytian.

His eyes were fierce as he regarded me. I didn’t know a thing about him, but I got the impression that he would much rather take me with him in that moment than have to wait until our wedding day. Which begged the question, “When?” I looked at my uncle.

“Next spring. You will be married next spring,” Uncle said.

I nodded. “May I be excused, Sire?” I ripped my hand from the Elven prince’s.

“Tristan Arcade ,” Papa began in his scolding voice, but I didn’t care. Nothing seemed as embarrassing as Prince Corrik discussing my deflowering like it was an ingredient in a cake recipe.

“Let him be, Eagar,” Father said to my surprise.

The king nodded his permission. “We will discuss the rest, Tristan. You need not be here for that.”

Of course not. Why would anyone need my opinion on the rest of my life?

I gave respectful bows to the Elven king and my soon-to-be husband before I allowed my dragon’s blood to rage and stormed out of the Great Hall.

Father was not pleased and spent several hours later that evening explaining to me why we do not storm out on Elven royalty. I was too angry to care about his lecture and made the mistake of telling him so. Since, according to Father, ‘my brain had taken leave of its senses,' he decided to impress upon my backside the same lesson.

Painfully.

I was barely cooled the next day; both my blood and my bottom were still warm when I arrived at the training fields. My father was there, of course. I expected his cold demeanor, but I did not expect was the anxious look on his face.

“I’m to relieve you of that and your current duties. Go play.” He reached to grab the sword out of my hand. My sword. The same one he’d given me on my seventh birthday.

“Father, I know I was unforgivable yesterday. I’m sorry for that. I’m going to marry him with good form, I promise. Please don’t do this.” We each had a hand on the hilt. The sword sat between us with the point of the blade aimed at the ground.

“ I am not,” he snapped. “It has been decreed by your intended. You are not to hold a sword again. Since you are not to be named Warlord, he saw no need for you to fight any longer. You are dismissed from the royal guard, and he would like you to be treated as the prince you will be.”

“Princes fight all the time! Look at Lucca.”

“For whatever reason, it was his wish. Your uncle agreed to it.”

I knew what he was saying, though he would never admit to it: he hadn’t agreed. That meant more to me than anything. Father had never shown me kindness. He was strict and uncompromising, but knowing he would choose me over anyone else to be Warlord, seemed to make up for everything. He made it clear on many occasions that he didn’t have to choose me and once upon a time, he almost didn’t. I proved myself worthy and when he told me he decided to name me as his successor, it was easily the best day of my life.

The day he took my sword was the worst.

We looked our identical sets of eyes into each other's.

Mine are a sapphire blue, while Father’s are such a dark shade of blue, they sometimes look black, but we’ve often been told that despite the differing color of our irises, it’s that feature which defines me as the son of Arcade Kanes. We stared at each other for several hard moments until I finally let go of the sword and I walked off his training fields forever.

“If Tristan allows the Elven prince to live past their wedding night for taking his sword, I shall be surprised,” I overheard Father say to Uncle one night as I snuck in late and passed the Great Hall.

Father and the king often discussed many things over a flagon of wine in the quiet of the dark night.

I smiled at that. My father was only taken to humor around Uncle and Papa. I felt better knowing there was the one thing between Father and I no one could touch. He knows I can fight and wanted to protect Markaytia and that me being declawed—well, it was a bloody crime is what it was.

“ T ristan, your face is going to freeze like that if you’re not careful.”

My scowl grows deeper. He can be such a cheeky brat sometimes. It’s a wonder I’ll miss him at all. Knowing he’s irritating me, he pushes me further as he always does and flicks water in my face. “Who knows Tristan, maybe you’ll like it?” he adds before he swims away to keep safe from my pending retaliation, but I don’t retaliate.

“What do you think I’ll like?” I yell after him.

“The sex, of course!”

“ Lucca! ”

“Well, what kind of a person gets his husband to send for permission to masturbate?” Lucca pauses, a twinkle in his eyes. “A kinky kind of person, that’s who.”

Ugh. He may have a point. Uncle once told me: the Elves are creatures; they are of a different breed than us Markaytians .

His warning did not urge me to intrigue. I haven’t made it a priority to study their culture, and that would include their views on erotica. I wanted to remain in denial while I could.

Lucca defiantly lies on his back, an impish grin on his face, as he floats above the water, acting like we have a thousand tomorrows together instead of just the one. He closes his eyes and hums a tune that reminds me of lighter days where having fun was all we need care about. His song calms the rage inside me before I fall back in the water and lay face up like Lucca. My long, dark hair floats around my face, my bare chest soaks up the sunrays. For now, I will take my cousin’s lead, relax, and enjoy my last day in Markaytia.

Tomorrow, I will marry Prince Corrik Cyredanthem.