Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 2: A Land of Trickery

Tristan closed the book.

Sunshine streamed through the stained-glass windows, colouring the table in crimson and buttery yellow. The worn leather cover — dusty, puckered like a child that had tasted something sour — was warm to the touch. Tristan traced his fingers over the golden words: What We Know About Faerie.

Which, as it turned out, was diddlysquat.

Tristan sighed, placing the book back on the shelf. The Stillwater Castle library contained only a small section on faerie; he'd been working his way from left to right, pulling out titles one-by-one: A Glimpse Below-The-Hill; A Faerie-ly Good Life; and An Intimate Guide to Faerie, which contained no relevant information, but included a juicy story about a faerie duke that had been caught with his boxers down at a Full Moon summoning.

Tristan picked up another book.

A door shut.

Tristan whirled. His arm gave a painful throb, and he winced. His shoulder was improving, but he was in no condition to fight anyone. If it was one of Lucia's men... Tristan shrunk back into the shadows, his heart hammering.

"Easy," a male voice called. "It's just me."

Ryne emerged from behind a bookshelf. He was still dressed in his black riding cloak, although he was barefoot now. His green eyes looked bright in the dim light.

Tristan exhaled. "Stars, Ryne."

"Sorry," Ryne said, not looking particularly sorry at all.

Tristan cradled the book to his chest. Ryne drifted closer to the table. The surface was littered with various objects — a half-eaten cucumber sandwich, a quill, two pots of ink — but it was the copper ball that Ryne reached for.

Ryne weighed it in his hand. "This feels like an outside toy."

Tristan sighed. "Did you need something?"

"Let me guess," Ryne mused, holding the object up to the light. "A copper-rigged nano bomb? This would take out the entire library. Probably the stables, too, which is a pity. I just bought a new pair of leather riding boots."

Exasperation filled him. "Ry. What do you want?"

Ryne set down the explosive. "What are you reading?"

His voice had taken on an edge of curiosity. Not the sort of feigned curiosity that Ryne employed with dignitaries and visiting royalty, Tristan thought, but real curiosity, the sort that Ryne reserved for chess matches and discussing war strategy.

Tristan hugged the book. "Nothing."

Ryne's eyebrow arched. "Fascinating. I've never seen a book with no words in it."

"I haven't started it yet," Tristan said, which was technically true.

Ryne held out a hand. "Go on. Give it here."

Tristan's throat felt dry. "No."

"Show me," Ryne said.

Tristan held his gaze. "Is that a royal order?"

They considered each other. Ryne's green eyes were unreadable, remote as the rolling hills of Salvatoria. Then — with no warning — Ryne lunged. Tristan swore, backpedalling; the cucumber sandwich clattered to the floor. He slipped on a bit of cheese, almost colliding with a bookshelf, and Ryne wrenched the book from his hand.

Tristan glared. "Damn you."

Ryne retreated to the other side of the table. "You've gotten slower."

"I'm wearing a sling," Tristan said, aggrieved. "It's very difficult to move in a sling."