Trysten goes beet red and looks to me, as if I’m going to save him.
“She’s teasing you,” I say. “Obviously.” I turn to Alianor. “No, you may not keep him. He’s staying here. With his people.”
“They’re not my people,” he says again. “I was being held captive. Kind of. And I am a prince. Kind of. Like your friend said, it’s a long story but”—he drops to one knee—“to the princess of Tamarel, I throw myself on your mercy and beg for a favor, royal to royal. Take me with you. I will explain everything, and you will not regret it.”
Wilmot sighs the deepest, most put-upon sigh. Then he waves to Trysten. “Come along. We’ll take you as far as the next settlement, provided your story is sound.”
Trysten rises. “Thank you.” He pauses and then glances down at his still-bare feet. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of boots, would you?”
Wilmot sighs again and heads to the packs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dain has extra boots. They’re a bit small—but Trysten takes them with thanks and insists they’re fine, and he’s so appreciative that Dain can’t even grumble. Also, he has his dropbear thanks to Trysten, so he can hardly begrudge him the use of his boots.
As for why Trysten is barefoot, that’s the first thing I ask, once we set off. Trysten walks beside me, Malric to my rear, Wilmot in the lead, Alianor and Dain just ahead of me, Jacko hopping along beside us.
“They took my shoes,” he says. “And my boots. In winter, I’m allowed socks, but nothing more. It’s really hard to flee in bare feet.”
I blink over at him. “They refused you boots so you wouldn’t run away?”
Dain glances back. “Didn’t look like you were a prisoner the first time we saw you, standing sentry duty.”
“It’s…complicated. I won’t call myself a prisoner or even a hostage. More of a captive.”
“Same thing,” Dain says, though he doesn’t roll his eyes or snort his derision.
“Mmm, maybe?” Trysten says. “To me, you take a hostage to demand something. Sarika was a hostage. A prisoner is someone who has committed a crime. A captive, on the other hand? I think of that as someone you’re holding for a reason. We also call them political prisoners.” He glances at me. “Do you have those in Tamarel?”
“People we put in prison because they don’t like our political system? No. Not at all.”
“I mean people you’re holding for political reasons. Like two countries broker a peace deal and then exchange children to make sure both sides keep the peace.”
I nod. “We have something called fostering, which is to strengthen ties between families and, yes, sometimes to make sure there’s peace between the clans. We’d never consider them prisoners, though. My father fostered at the palace after his parents died. Alianor’s fostering there now.”
“Definitely captivity,” she says. “I’m forced to take lessons under the best trainers in the land. Forced to eat the best food and sleep in the best beds. With servants hovering about so much I can barely brush my own hair without someone offering to do it for me. The things I do for my family, all because they want a spy in the royal palace.”
Trysten looks at her.
She lifts a shoulder. “Joking and also not joking. My family is unusual.”
“Well, my situation is a little different.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I said I’m a prince, and I said ‘kind of,’ which probably makes it seem as if I’m lying.” He glances at me. “Do you know much about my country, Dorwynne? I suppose not, if you’re the monster hunter. Your brother—it’s a brother, right?—is the heir to the throne.”
“Actually, I was. I’m the older twin. We switched roles this spring.”
“Oh.” He looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I know how it can be, in a royal family. It seems like the scheming never stops. Can you still win it back? You’re a really good fighter. You can challenge him to combat, right?”
Alianor bursts out laughing and glances back at us. “Please challenge Rhydd to combat, Rowan. I’d pay to see you two battle it out.” She pauses. “No, actually, that’d be the most boring fight imaginable. The moment one of you got hurt, you’d stop. Or you’d just circle each other, not wanting to strike. Maybe a pillow fight. Can you pillow fight for the throne?”
“Rowan doesn’t want to be queen,” Dain says, irritated. “She gave it up.”
“I’m better at monster hunting, and Rhydd is better at politics. The point is that I was raised to be the heir,” I say. “So I do know a little about Dorwynne. I believe there’s a king but no queen. Not a royal consort, either. Just…wives. Plural.”
“Right. The king had three, all with children, all of them with a chance at the throne.”
I nod. “I remember that. In Dorwynne, it doesn’t go to the oldest. It’s won by combat.” I glance at him. “Didn’t you have a royal ascension recently?”
“The last king stepped down two years ago. One of his sons took over. It’s always a son. Always a king. That’s the law. Anyway, that’s also how I ended up out here. The new king only has one wife so far, and she doesn’t have any sons. So he sent away all the brothers he felt were threats.”
“Including you.”
“Well, that’s where it gets really complicated. I’m not the new king’s brother. I’m his son.”
Both Dain and Alianor stop and turn around. Ahead, even Wilmot slows, as if he’s been listening in.
“Uh, what?” Alianor says.
“My father had me when he was really young. He was betrothed to my mother. But then stuff happened, and the marriage was called off, but my mom was already pregnant with me.”
“How does that make you only
