“Whose life?”
What was this about? Was Val actually curious to know the identity of the phoenix she had so brutally commanded—the one that had thrown her from her back and scarred her for life?
Veronyka didn’t intend to answer, but she recalled what Val had said to her ages ago about the breeding enclosure inside the Eyrie, and couldn’t resist throwing it back in her face. “I don’t know how you dared, when Ignix herself might be among them.”
Much to Veronyka’s dismay, Val grinned. “I knew it.”
Veronyka pulled back, but as had happened the first time, Val clung to their connection. “Let me go.”
“You sent her here, didn’t you?”
“Sent her where?” Veronyka asked.
“To spy on me—you sent her. Tell me the truth,” Val demanded, taking a step forward.
“I didn’t send her anywhere!”
Another step. “Then where is she?”
Veronyka would rather bite off her tongue than admit she didn’t know. “Somewhere you can’t touch her,” she snarled.
“We’ll see about that.”
* * *
She wrenched herself backward so hard, she hurled herself into wakefulness with enough force that she rolled over, directly into a warm, feathered body.
Xephyra. And next to her, Rex.
Veronyka had fallen asleep outside again, and while her breath puffed into the air, her skin was coated with sweat. The phoenixes were still asleep, but she sensed them stir enough to shift closer to her.
She ran a hand down Xephyra’s feathers but did not wake her. Veronyka had not slept well lately—did she ever sleep well?—and one of the worst effects was the way it also ruined her bondmate’s sleep.
She got to her feet and slipped inside Tristan’s rooms, where she had been staying since taking over his patrol, and splashed cold water from the basin onto her face. She had tried to reach for him again last night—and again, she’d found herself in a vision with Val instead. Ever since she’d dropped her last mental barriers, she had been plagued by shadow magic dreams.
There were the usual ones—wisps of feelings and memories from the people sleeping nearby, or those she had spent time with that day. She knew, for example, that Latham had his eye on one of Morra’s kitchen maids, while she spent most nights dreaming about one of the village girls who worked with Jana in the stables. Anders flirted with both girls, but it seemed he did so only to get a reaction out of Latham, and Veronyka didn’t bother trying to unravel those tangled threads.
There were also the not-so-usual ones—the dreams she’d not had since Val slept by her side. Dreams from the past. Worse, they were stronger than ever before. Was this, too, an effect of Veronyka finally lowering her barriers, or was it something else?
Besides the increased ease and clarity, these dreams were also different in that the visions weren’t from Val’s point of view, as they had always been. They actually weren’t Val’s memories at all. They were Veronyka’s.
And yet Val was always in them—both visually, in the dream, but also magically. They had these dreams together, even spoke to one another during them, but Veronyka couldn’t figure out if she was the one making it happen or if it was the other way around. Val insisted Veronyka was the one to initiate their first connection, but tonight’s dream felt intentional. There was purpose in their contact, in Val’s actions and line of questioning. This memory had been the moment Val lost Veronyka, her political pawn and bargaining chip, as well as the plans she had built around her.
She had also lost her bindmate and had been wounded terribly in the process. Veronyka couldn’t fathom what Val’s next move would be, but there was no way she would let Veronyka or Ignix off with what they had done to her. No, Val would make them pay. The question was when. And how.
The fact that she thought Veronyka had sent Ignix to spy on her showed that she believed their personal conflict was far from over.
Veronyka wasn’t surprised that Val would fixate on Ignix after her perceived betrayal, but she was somewhat unnerved by the fact that Ignix had seemed rather fixated on Val too. Veronyka hadn’t forgotten Ignix’s dire warning after she’d removed Val’s bind.
Prepare yourself. Forget your human foes. The true battle will be fought not on the earth, but in the sky.
And then, most chilling of all… Avalkyra lives, and she is hungry. Like the devourer before her, she can do naught but consume. The light will not have her, so she will turn to the darkness instead.
What did it mean? Clearly, Ignix believed Val was turning dark, but she had only just met Val. Veronyka had known her for years, and the truth was, Val had always been dark. How much darker could she truly go? Even if she managed to actually hatch and bond to a phoenix, she was still only one person—two, if you counted Sidra—and it seemed like a distraction and a waste of time to think about her when there was so much going on with the empire.
Veronyka had to be careful. It was one thing to stop hiding and quite another to let curiosity get the better of her. Still, she would have asked Ignix more, if she could. She might have even sent the phoenix spying, as Val had accused, if she’d had the opportunity. Unfortunately, after making her foreboding proclamation, Ignix had disappeared. Even Sparrow had no idea where she’d gone or what she was doing.
For now, if she wanted to know what Val was up to, all Veronyka had was their shadow magic connection, and even that was dangerous and unpredictable. During the day, their bond was quiet, though Veronyka had to admit it was not the calm of peace. Rather, it felt like the calm before a storm, charged and ominous. And at night? Val was the same as always: threatening and enigmatic, familiar and strange.
Too much interest in Val was unsafe, Veronyka knew, but avoidance wasn’t an option either. She had tried that, blocking out Val, alienating Tristan, and hiding her own identity, and it had all blown up in her face. She couldn’t run away from who and what she was, because there was always someone nipping at her heels. If Veronyka didn’t claim what she did not want, someone else would… someone worse.
It seemed a poor reason to do anything, but what other choice did she have? All she could do was trust herself, work on what she could control, and try to be ready for whatever she couldn’t.
You’re up, came a voice inside Veronyka’s mind, startling her so badly that she knocked over the water pitcher. The pewter rattled loudly against the stone floor, and Veronyka pressed a hand to her chest.
But it wasn’t Val; it was Morra.
Xephyra squawked in surprise at the noise, and Rex turned a heavy-lidded stare at Veronyka through the open door. His head had been wedged underneath Xephyra’s wing, leaving his feather crest askew, like bedhead.
Sorry, she mouthed at him, picking up the pitcher and quietly returning it to the ledge.
She hesitated before replying to Morra, who would want to practice shadow magic—which was what Veronyka should be doing. It went hand in hand with trusting herself and working on what she could control. But the stakes were higher than ever, and there was a steep learning curve. Whether it was magic or politics, there was little room for error.
Especially since the stronger she made her magic, the more easily—and frequently—she’d be able to connect with Val… whether she willed it or not.
But if she got good enough, she might be able to reach Tristan, and that was worth the risk.
Yes, I’m up, she said to Morra, tugging on her clothes for the day. Ready when you are.
* * *
They had a Rider Council meeting that night. Veronyka, Cassian, and Beryk gathered two or three times a week, with Fallon and Darius attending sporadically, since they were posted at Prosperity. The sessions were usually brief, meant to address scheduling, training, and other mundane details of running the Eyrie, but there was also the issue of preparing for war—if in fact war came. This was a difficult thing to plan for, but the commander was organized and efficient, stockpiling weapons and ammunition, repairing and com
missioning armor, and keeping a close watch on the happenings in the province and beyond. He had contacts all over the empire and in Pyra, too, and would share whatever news or gossip he gleaned.
He also shared whatever word he received from Sev. This was the stuff Veronyka was most desperate for, and though he hid it better, she knew the commander was just as anxious as she was every time a scroll arrived from their soldier-spy.
So far there hadn’t been much to report besides Lord Rolan’s—and therefore Sev’s and Tristan’s—relocation to Stel, but even though Sev’s weekly assurances that they were both alive and well gave Veronyka a swelling wave of relief, the short-lived feeling was always followed by another week of intense frustration and impatience.
At least she was being included. Veronyka had spent most of her time here fighting for her voice to be heard and to know the full truth of what was happening—and that wasn’t counting a lifetime of being underestimated and excluded by Val. Tristan, too, had struggled against his father for years, and it was strange to think that this was truly becoming their fight, their war. It no longer belonged to Cassian and Val and the older generation alone.
The excitement of being included, however, did wane over time. Much of the information shared was dull and filled with seemingly useless details, but it reminded Veronyka of her maiora, with her lockbox of scrap paper and scribbled notes. This kind of work required patience, the big picture revealing itself over time, and it wasn’t immediately evident what would become important in the long run.
“It appears the Rushlean farmers are at it again,” the commander said with a sigh, staring down at an unrolled piece of paper. Beryk extended a hand for it, and Cassian passed it over. “This time they attacked a shipment of supplies heading to the refugees rather than the refugees themselves. So I suppose that’s something.”
The farmers from Rushlea were unhappy with the Phoenix Riders—for drawing the empire soldiers into Pyra in the first place, which resulted in Rushlea being attacked and its fields burned, and for the further damages incurred when the Riders chased the soldiers off. By the time the Riders had established a refugee camp on the outskirts of their village, tensions were high. They’d officially boiled over on the anniversary of the end of the Blood War—Veronyka’s own birthday—and resulted in a scuffle with Tristan’s patrol.
Veronyka had thought that would be the end of it, but even after the Phoenix Riders left Rushlea, the farmers had continued to harass the refugees, blaming them—as well as the Riders—for a shortage of supplies for the coming winter and their general dissatisfaction with the current political climate. Their numbers had swelled since that run-in weeks ago, and they had begun to attack travelers on the roads, stealing shipments of supplies, and generally acting more like lawless brigands than simple farming folk.
“We’ll have to send a patrol,” Beryk said, scratching his stubbled chin.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the uptick in raiding that Fallon reported?” Veronyka asked.
“Unlikely,” the commander said. “There is always an increase in such criminal activity as the colder months approach, when game is scarce and travel less frequent. They want to strike now, before the heaviest rains hit and the river floods the road.”
Veronyka searched the stack of correspondence until she found Fallon’s most recent letter. “But what he describes… They aren’t just assaulting travelers and traders along the road. There have been several attacks by large, organized groups, and they’re targeting villages.”
Houses on the outskirts of Vayle had been robbed and ransacked the previous week, and Petratec’s fishing boats had been stolen or sunk.
“I agree that they are behaving with more focused desperation than we’re used to, but they still appear to be random attacks.”
“They’re not random…,” Veronyka said, thinking aloud. “What do Vayle and Petratec have in common? Us.” They’d had frequent dealings with both villages, and Rushlea had been a source of trouble and unrest for weeks now. All three were places the Phoenix Riders were known to have ties.
The commander pursed his lips. She sensed that he wanted to dismiss her concerns—either to reinforce the aura of calm and control he loved to cultivate or to reestablish his position in charge. She saw when he remembered who she was, the flicker of frustration behind his eyes. Like he’d forgotten he had to remain a politician even here, with his own subordinates—that he had to toe the line and play the part, hoping that part wouldn’t be snatched away from him at any moment.
“What do you think we should do?” Veronyka asked quickly, turning her comments into a question—deferring to his experience and expertise. It was a small thing, a tiny redirection of the conversation, but she saw his acknowledgment of it.
He wasn’t the only one reestablishing boundaries and behaviors.
Veronyka, too, was learning how to be a leader—to make people feel trusted and reassured without lying to them. To ask important questions without undermining, to show her concern without causing panic. It was, frankly, exhausting, and she admired Commander Cassian for how well he pulled it off, even if they did disagree on occasion. Then again, he’d been born into this role, expecting to lead one day, and in turn, expecting others to follow him. Veronyka, meanwhile, was in a constant state of playing catch-up.
“I think Beryk’s right—we’ll need to send a patrol. Once we’re on the ground, we’ll have a better chance at determining whether these are normal, isolated incidents or part of a greater concern.”
Veronyka smiled, impressed. Gracious. Diplomatic. And still in control. He’d nailed it.
“Why don’t you check it out?” he finished, turning to Veronyka.
Her smile faltered, panic seizing her throat. “B-but Tristan—the Grand Council—”
“Nothing will happen without you. As soon as I hear anything that we can move on, I’ll send you a pigeon.”
“A Rider,” Veronyka countered. A phoenix was faster than any pigeon.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “A Rider, then.”
* * *
After Veronyka told the rest of her patrol of their mission and they readied for an early-morning departure, she returned to the commander’s study. She meant to ask if they had any supplies to deliver, but he wasn’t there—probably in the dining hall for a late dinner.
She wandered into his library, intending to wait for him, but found herself perusing the shelves instead. Dozens of books on kings and queens… but nothing about how to rule. No one to show her the way.
Maybe that was for the best. She’d had Val, after all… and it was safe to say that her advice should be taken with a grain of salt. Val’s own mother died in childbirth, and Lania, Pheronia’s mother, was another poor example. Maybe finding her own path was the only way.
Could Veronyka do it? Could she be a queen?
Or could she fight hard enough and live long enough to ensure that Val never did? Could she be a barrier, an obstacle, but never actually take the mantle for herself?
“Veronyka,” came a voice from the doorway, making her jump. It was the commander, returned from his evening meal. “Are you here to resume our lessons?”
Several times a week, Veronyka and the commander holed up in his library to study history, politics, and statecraft. It had started by accident, with Veronyka wandering the shelves—much like she was now—somewhat at a loss, clutching at books and aimlessly seeking answers. He had first made recommendations, then provided supplementary reading, and before long, was sitting with her, discussing all manner of subjects relating to the empire, the Phoenix Riders, and their place within it.
It was no more than part of a well-rounded upper-class education, but they both knew these subjects had the potential to have a far greater bearing on her life in the future. A future that was coming both too quickly and not quickly enough.
They had studied the previous night, however, and rarely did back-to-back sessions.
&nbs
p; Veronyka shook her head. “No. I just wanted to ask if you needed any supplies delivered tomorrow.”
He nodded. “I believe Beryk is handling it.”
“Okay,” Veronyka said, but she didn’t move. There was nothing else to do for the day, which meant it was time for sleep. And Veronyka didn’t want to face the quiet of the stronghold or the noise inside her mind. She didn’t want to face the lack of Tristan and the presence of Val.
The commander leaned against the doorframe. His eyes were very like Tristan’s in color and shape, but always colder and more distant. Now they raked over her with a sharper, more focused attention than she was used to. “How are you feeling?”
“What do you mean?” she asked warily. Despite their frequent conversations and their lessons, they never discussed how Veronyka felt about any of it.
“Besides the brewing war with the empire and the threat posed by your resurrected sister-aunt, there’s the looming Grand Council meeting, the deal with Lord Rolan that promises you as his bride in exchange for my son—a person you care deeply for—oh, and that’s not considering the fact of your identity and how it will shape your present and your future. What I mean is, I imagine you’re feeling a bit, uh… overwhelmed.”
Veronyka blew out her cheeks. “How can you tell?”
He smiled gently. “You’re gripping that book like it holds the answers to all the questions in the universe. But it doesn’t, I can promise you.”
Veronyka looked down in surprise. She did indeed have a clawlike grip on one of his Ashfire history books. She gave a shaky laugh and released the leather-bound volume. The truth was, most days Veronyka felt like she was hanging on by a thread. She was trying to do everything right, to work as hard as she could, but sometimes she felt like she had nothing left to give.
“I am a bit tired.”
He barked out a laugh. “A bit?”
Veronyka smiled, then scrubbed at her face. It had been days since she’d had some decent sleep—and only complete and utter exhaustion did the trick. If things didn’t change, if she didn’t save Tristan soon… She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.
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