Thread of Frost

Ch. 9: You Know Me Better Than Most

It was a deflection. An obvious one. Tristan sat on a log, stretching his legs out toward the fire.

"No," he said.

Owain nodded, as if he'd expected as much. "It's just over those hills. You can make it there by nightfall tomorrow if you follow the trail to the left. It's just there." He gestured to a green peak. "Can you see it?"

And Tristan — who felt it was pointless to mention that Owain had superhuman vision while he did not — leaned forward. "You're not coming with us, then?"

"I don't know," Owain said. "It depends if I'm called away."

"By who?"

Owain ignored this. Of course he did.

Tristan leaned back, resting his hands against the forest floor. "I suppose it's pointless to ask who you are."

Owain rose, brushing dirt from his trousers. "You know me better than most."

"I knew you as a cat," Tristan pointed out.

"Cat, human." Owain shrugged. "It's the same soul in different bodies."

Owain yawned, stretching his hands over his head; his tunic rode up to reveal a stretch of hard, flat stomach. There were freckles along his waistband. A slow, hot pounding began in Tristan's chest, and he averted his gaze.

"You're Salvatorian." His voice came out gruff. "You can shape-shift."

"Yes," Owain said, "and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that." Owain dropped his hands. "I'm Salvatorian, and I'm also not." He nodded at the saddlebag. "Can you pass me a knife?"

Another deflection. Still, Tristan thought, there was no use in pushing the issue; as a child, he'd sit by the maple tree in his garden, watching as drop after drop of the sticky-sweet syrup hit the metal bucket. It would take hours, sometimes. Days.

The best things took patience.

Tristan crossed to the bag, retrieving a knife. The handle was made of bone, he noted, with little golden stars and strange markings; the craftmanship was beautiful. It also looked foreign. Salvatorian, perhaps.

He hesitated. Owain held out his hand, waiting.

Tristan swallowed. "Do you remember the day that I found you?"

"Yes."

"You were trapped under a carriage wheel." The knife felt slick in his hands. "I carried you back to the castle and brought you a turkey leg. I cut it into pieces because I was worried that you'd choke on the bone."

Firelight flickered across Owain's face. "I remember."

"Were you ever really stuck?" Tristan asked.

A beat passed. Two. "I needed to gain entry to the castle. It was nothing personal."

Tristan looked down at the knife. "Why?" Owain looked at the fire, his face obscured in shadow. A surge of frustration filled him. "You were spying on Ryne, weren't you? That's why you needed entry."

"Ah." Owain's mouth curled. "Your precious Ryne Delafort. I remember when you used to write your names in the back of your sock drawer. Tristan Delafort. I found the whole thing oddly... endearing."

He lingered over the last word, as if it was a cherry pie that he was savouring. Tristan's cheeks flamed.

"Mind your own godsdamn business," he muttered.

Owain searched his face. "You're embarrassed. That wasn't my intention."

"Here." Tristan stomped toward him. "Take your bloody knife."