Thread of Gold

Ch. 13: a beautiful dream

Ryne made it as far as the carriages before footsteps sounded behind him. Isaac, he thought, without turning around — his bodyguard never left him alone for very long. But, no; the footsteps were too light.

"Ryne! Stop where you are."

He closed his eyes. Tristan. Ryne knew his voice even before turning around, even before he saw the furious golden eyes. That voice used to tease him over cards and sing silly songs in their drawing room. That soft voice comforted him after his father's death when he couldn't get out of bed. Ryne, it's okay. I won't leave you.

There was nothing soft about Tristan now.

"What?"

"What?" Tristan was breathing hard. "That's all you have to say to me?" Two red spots burned on his cheekbones. "After the shit you pulled in there—"

"I pulled?"

"It was a joke!" Tristan exploded. "A bit of Hallow's Eve fun. How was I supposed to know that you're so protective of your mistress?"

Ryne resisted the urge to flinch. There was fury in Tristan's voice, and something else. A bone-deep, aching hurt that made him want to apologize profusely. But he wouldn't. Ryne couldn't show any compassion.

Not ever.

Ryne shrugged. "I was bored."

"You were bored?"

"Yes."

"You were bored?"

"Gracious," Ryne said mildly. "Are you going to repeat everything that I say all night? Because then I'd announce that I'm an idiot with an appalling taste in waistcoats."

Tristan fiddled with a lump in his pocket. He was visibly trying to control his temper, and he looked at everything at once: the rain-soaked carriages, the rotting signpost, the frozen earth.... Everything but him, Ryne realized.

"What happened to you?" Tristan's voice was low. "We were friends once, Ryne. But now, I feel like I'm looking at a stranger."

"You know what happened."

"No." Tristan's breath curled between them. "I don't. Explain it to me."

Ryne shoved his hands into his pockets. He knew they were both thinking of that day when they were fourteen, just after his father had passed away. Tristan had come down with a horrific flu, unable to choke down anything but broth. Sweat had clung to his temples, matting his dark hair.

Ryne had gone to visit him in the infirmary. He remembered the whole scene in horrific detail, remembered how Tristan sat up as he approached, his golden eyes glittering with fever. The heavy weight in Ryne's heart.

You disgust me, Tristan.

Now, Ryne felt exhausted. "What do you want from me, Tristan?"

"An apology."

"You're going to be disappointed, then."

Tristan's jaw was working. "I never thought that being king would change you, Ryne, but you've become a real bastard. You know that, right?"

"Better a bastard," he said softly, "than a lovesick moron."

Tristan flinched. For a moment, Ryne thought Tristan might hit him, but then a voice called his name. Isaac strode out of the tavern, his dark collar pulled up against the wind. His sword flashed silver at his hip.

"What the hell was that?" Isaac demanded. "You made Tris look like—" He stopped, taking in both of them. "Oh. Am I interrupting?"

"No," Tristan said. "I'm going back inside."