Chapter 38: Part I-2

Except for when Sam’s eyes sought out Tristan. Tristan caught Sam staring at him on more than one occasion, the boy’s mien shifting between doleful and guilty. Sam’s lingering stares agitated him, eliciting a corresponding thickness in his chest that felt suspiciously like feelings. Tristan didn’t do feelings. On the evening of the fifth day of this nonsense, Tristan attempted to reach out to Sam the only way he knew how. After an hour of practicing their archery – one of the few fighting arts in which Tristan didn’t have natural talent – he offered to spar with Sam. “Wouldn’t want you to get rusty,” he said, handing the boy a longsword. Sam’s face lit up, but still, he said nothing. Tristan wondered if he ought to have lent Sam his Scimitar, just to hear him sing its praises. While Sam may have repressed his enthusiasm for fine weaponry, he couldn’t stifle his competitive instincts. Once he altered his stance into ready position, pommel at his right hip and sword point aimed at Tristan’s heart, the hangdog expression he’d worn all week was replaced by one of concentration. Tristan struck first, his blade sliding along steel as Sam parried his attack. He smacked the trainee’s sword, hard, from the opposite side, and followed it up with an immediate remise. He launched a quick riposte, and then another, but Sam’s sword was there to meet each successive attack. There were a few reasons Tristan was considered an unmatched swordsman – his strength, his speed and an inexplicable gift for deducing his opponent’s next move. But Sam’s sword work had an unpredictability to it that kept Tristan quite literally on his toes. Unaccustomed to practicing with an opponent who was worth his salt, Tristan swung his sword out in a wild, diagonal cut, a powerful but sloppy blow that left him wide open to attack. His blade whistled through air as Sam dodged out of the way, the momentum of his swing carrying him well within striking range. He shifted his feet to regain his balance, but not before Sam whipped the foible of his blade across the side of his neck. Tristan touched his raw skin, and drew back fingers coated in blood. “You won the bout,” he said, staring at his red fingers disbelievingly. He would need to be on his guard the next time he fought the trainee. Sam’s face fell. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. I’m so sorry, Tristan.” Tristan heard a roaring in his ears. “Are you apologizing to me right now?” “Errr. Yes?” “Dare I ask why?” “Because I hurt you.” Tristan snapped. “We were sword fighting, you clotpole! You’re supposed to hurt me!” He dropped his sword and marched so close to Sam that the boy had to crane his head backwards in order to meet his angry glare. “A fortnight ago you would have crowed victory and heaped insults upon my head. What’s going on, Sam?” “Nothing, Tristan.” “What a crock of shite! You’ve had this pathetic look on your face and you’ve barely said a word all week. I can’t stand it anymore. Have I wronged you in some way?” “Have you wronged me?” asked Sam. He shook his head adamantly. “Then why are you looking at me like your favorite horse went lame?” “I am doing no such thing!” Tristan heartened at the outrage in Sam’s tone. He was beginning to worry that he’d done something to kill the boy’s spirit, though he couldn’t imagine what. “I beg to differ.” “Well, you’re wrong,” said Sam defensively. “And my face isn’t pathetic either.” “You can’t see your own face,” Tristan pointed out. Sam bared his teeth at him in response. Tristan slapped him heartily on the back. “There’s the Sam I know and love!” Sam’s cheeks turned pink at his words. “Oh, come off it, Sam. It’s healthy to express affection for your fellow man.” He took in a fortifying breath. “I want you to know that you can come to me. If something’s bothering you, I mean.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not very good at these things, but I’ll try. We have a long road ahead of us and I haven’t much enjoyed the last week.” Sam kicked at a tuft of grass. “You can talk to me, too, if you want,” he offered tentatively. Something caught in the back of Tristan’s throat. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said, reaching out to tug a lock of hair that had escaped the boy’s topknot. Sam swatted at his hand. “I really hate it when you do that.” Tristan tugged the lock of hair again, harder this time. “Too bad.” He bent over to pick up his discarded sword. “Let’s help Braeden make camp, shall we?” Sam flinched at Braeden’s name, but nodded his agreement. “What’s going on between you? You’ve been acting strange around each other all week.” Sam face reddened again. “If anyone’s acting strange, it’s him.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Braeden, come here, boy!” Braeden, who had been hammering stakes into the ground a short distance away, ambled over. “Yes, Paladin?” He carefully avoided looking at Sam. Tristan’s glower encompassed both Sam and Braeden. “I won’t pretend I know what’s happened between you two. But whatever this is,” he said, gesturing at the space that separated the two of them, “it stops now. Are we clear?” The trainees looked at each other, and then their feet. “Yes, Paladin,” they said in unison. “Good. It’s settled then,” he said, clapping his hands together. That had been easy enough. “Now let’s finish making camp before it gets any darker, or we’ll be sleeping out in the open.” “Gods, I would kill for a proper bed right about now,” Sam groaned. “You might just have to,” said Tristan. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Westergo. Westergoans will smile while they stab you.” “Wonderful. As long as they stab me after I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”