The commander cleared his throat. Veronyka looked up at him and realized she must look and sound truly pathetic, for he wore a soft, almost regretful expression when he spoke.
“For the record, I think you’re handling things remarkably well.”
That struck a chord inside Veronyka—getting his approval was important to her. Not just as her commander, but as his son’s father.
“Tristan would have thrown a fit by now,” he said then, his tone lighter. “He would have raged at me, to be sure, and broken something too.”
Veronyka’s lips twitched. “The raging, maybe… but I’m not sure he’d break anything.”
“No,” the commander agreed. “He doesn’t pull those kinds of stunts anymore. Not since you.”
She swallowed thickly, blinking away sudden prickling moisture in her eyes. It sounded like praise, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. Tristan was wonderful on his own. It had nothing to do with her.
“He’s become a man all of a sudden, and you’ve been a good influence on him. He’s been lucky to have you.”
An edge of unease crept into her heart at his words. He made it sound like past tense, like something that was already over. Like their time together couldn’t last—and she thought she knew why. She was an Ashfire, heir to the throne, and with that came certain… expectations.
Hadn’t they already addressed this?
Almost as soon as they’d returned to the Eyrie, Veronyka had made it plain that she wouldn’t marry Rolan—and Commander Cassian had completely agreed. He had called it a poor political move to hitch her wagon to a man making a violent bid for the throne when it was hers by right anyway. Plus, they intended to rescue Tristan and betray their agreement long before the question of following through on their promises would even matter.
Since she’d more or less gotten the answer she’d wanted out of him, she hadn’t bothered to argue that it wasn’t the “political move” that made her refuse with such venom. She didn’t want to marry anyone as a political move. Once she came forward and revealed herself—which she would very likely need to do, in order to get the council under control—there would be other suitors. She didn’t flatter herself that they’d line up for her because she was some rare beauty.… They’d line up because of the title, the power, and the position that was at stake.
Did Cassian assume she’d feel obligated to make some other match, even if it wasn’t Rolan?
No. Her mother had resisted it, and she would too. Of course, her mother had also died in a war she’d been unable to stop.
There had to be another way to secure peace. Tristan was the only person she wanted. They were magically bound, and so were their phoenixes. Plus, he had cared for her before he’d known who she was. In fact, that statement was true on multiple fronts. He’d liked her as Nyk the stable boy, as Veronyka the poor apprentice, and even now, as the Ashfire heir.
“He’ll always have me,” Veronyka said. She would not be a pawn in the moves and machinations of others.
“Then he is truly lucky indeed,” the commander said quietly. He turned to go, but Veronyka stopped him.
“Commander?” He waited as Veronyka searched for the words. “Do you think it’s possible…? Could the empire survive without a king or queen?”
She was impressed by his self-control. The question was so obviously personal and hugely relevant to them all, but he didn’t fix her with a panicked stare or immediately try to talk her down. He took his time considering her question, as if this were up for a philosophical debate and not Veronyka asking for advice.
“Yes,” he said, surprising her. “Though it’s not as simple as that. The throne would always be a lure to those who seek power.”
“Of course,” Veronyka said softly, though she didn’t truly understand that desire. Power wasn’t something she’d ever wanted—at least, not on such a scale. She’d wanted the power to protect herself and others… and she supposed that’s exactly what the throne was, if in the right hands. But in the wrong hands, it was an excuse for more fighting, and the reason for more war. “I know it can’t be Val,” she said quickly. Better Veronyka than her, despite her reservations. “But if we make it through this war, if she’s no longer a threat”—Veronyka tried not to think what that might actually mean—“could the Ashfires just… fade away?”
“Maybe,” he conceded, his voice strangely melancholy. Not the raw, personal sadness of true grief or loss, but something closer to regret. “Though there would be hurdles. If we manage to neutralize Rolan and his cohorts, the council would be on more even footing. But it would always be an uphill battle, even for simple things like opening the borders to Pyra and reestablishing basic animage rights.”
“I see,” Veronyka said, wilting slightly.
“I understand your reticence,” he said kindly. “I myself have thought long and hard about how the empire might function without such an institution. It was thanks to a bad queen that the empire was torn apart in the first place.” Veronyka nodded, the whole thing feeling impossible and insurmountable. “But a good queen?” He smiled, dimples flashing so he looked more like his son than ever before. “She might be able to piece it back together again.”
But my mother had a sister, and she was darkness and shadow, cold and hunger. She knew my father too, and had children of her own.
- CHAPTER 8 - TRISTAN
WHEN TRISTAN SENT SEV in search of the governor’s library and household records, he’d expected the task to take several days—if it happened at all—and that it might be even longer until he spoke to Sev again and learned what he had discovered.
What he hadn’t expected was to see Sev the very next night with the builder’s plans in hand and without Tristan’s usual guard in place. It was the overnight shift, and Mal and Ian were nowhere in sight.
Tristan stood, peering out into the empty hallway. “Did you…?” he began, his throat a bit rough from another day of no talking. He swallowed and tried again. “Did you kill them after all?”
Sev smiled, and it was a somewhat chilling sight—until he spoke. “Mal and Ian are safe in their beds—and breathing.”
“But how?”
Sev gave a familiar, crooked shrug. “I have friends in high places.”
“How high?” Tristan asked dubiously. “Does Rolan know you’re here?”
“No, he does not,” Sev said with a firm shake of his head. “Actually, I thought he’d be visiting you himself from time to time, considering who your father is.…”
Tristan snorted. “And their past.”
He gave Sev a quick rundown on the background of his father and Rolan’s relationship, in case it helped Sev to better understand Rolan and figure out his next moves. But as Tristan spoke, all he could think about was how petty and incompetent the man was. He was more than happy to make Tristan and Veronyka—and Pyra and the empire, for that matter—suffer for not only the supposed sins of their parents, but the sins of their distant ancestors as well. It was absurd. Worse was the way he handled his business. He just barked out orders and let other people handle his dirty work—like imprisoning a thirteen-year-old girl just to have leverage over her father, or letting Val capture and coerce Veronyka into a betrothal. Thus far, Tristan had received similar treatment—locked away, out of sight, while Rolan busied himself with his more legitimate political maneuvers.
Sev whistled softly. “He definitely hasn’t forgotten about you, that’s for sure. I guess he’s just got more pressing things on his mind.”
“Like forcing Veronyka into marrying him and overthrowing the empire?” Tristan asked, his tone scathing.
“Exactly,” Sev said, but then his gaze turned appraising, and Tristan suspected he saw more than Tristan wanted him to. “We won’t let that happen,” he added quietly.
Tristan was surprised at the emotion rising up his throat. He knew the deal with Rolan—the one that promised him Veronyka and Phoenix Rider support in his bid for the throne in exchange for Tristan and the fr
eedom of animages in Rolan’s new empire—was one the commander had had to make. He also knew, thanks to Sev, that they intended to try to free Tristan before such a deal could be acted upon. But… no one had said to Tristan outright that Veronyka would not have to go through with it. No one had promised it would not happen. Tristan knew Sev spoke for himself, not the commander, but it meant something to hear the words anyway.
Because there was no guarantee that things would go the way they wanted them to, and when push came to shove, his father might have to choose. The wishes of his son and the girl he loved over the good of every Phoenix Rider under his command? Could he walk away from the promise and the power of an Ashfire bride?
Tristan couldn’t voice all those fears, so instead he simply said, “We might fail.”
“We might,” Sev conceded. “But, I mean… she’s an Ashfire,” he said, sounding half-shocked, half-reverent. Tristan understood that feeling intimately. “I’m pretty sure she’s going to do what she wants. And marrying Rolan isn’t it.”
Tristan actually smiled. Sev was probably right. Veronyka wasn’t afraid of his father the way he was. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Sev lifted the rolled-up papers he held in his hand. “Once we get you out of here, he’ll no longer have you as a hostage. She’ll have no reason to even pretend.”
Tristan nodded again—kept nodding over and over, staring unseeing at the document Sev handed him, the weight on his heart refusing to lift.
“If it meant protecting people…” Tristan thought of the battlefield they’d flown over on the way to Ferro, the devastation Veronyka and Avalkyra had wrought in order to save the animages held captive by Lord Rolan’s soldiers. Tristan wasn’t sure what Veronyka would and wouldn’t do anymore, but he thought that saving innocent people’s lives would be reason enough for her to risk almost anything.
When he didn’t finish his thought, Sev nodded down at the piece of paper in Tristan’s hand. As he unrolled it, Sev disappeared down the hall, his return heralded by a growing glow of lantern light.
Tristan laid the paper out on the cold stone floor, kneeling next to it and using the metal cup and plate from his dinner tray to hold the curling corners in place.
Sev put the lantern on the ground next to him as he sat, while Tristan leaned back on his heels and took in the floor plan. It showed the entire eastern wing of Rolan’s estate, divided into three floors, including the dungeon.
“The renovations match the layout and exact dimensions of the upper floors,” Sev began, indicating the top two schematics. “They’re accurate down to the number of floor tiles used per room. But the basement…” He trailed off, frowning. “It doesn’t match. This hallway,” he continued, leaning back to indicate where he now sat. “It should extend beyond this cell, past two more cells, before wrapping around the north side of the building and leading to an additional exit. But as you can see…”
Tristan followed Sev’s gaze, but he already knew what was there—the hallway ended right after his cell bars with a blank gray wall. No windows or doorways. Nothing but the same rough-hewn stone that surrounded him on all sides except for the barred opening between him and freedom.
“I don’t know what’s back there or why he walled it off, because the door on these plans doesn’t exist on the outside, either, as far as I can tell. Obviously Rolan made more renovations after this, or else changed the initial plans and forgot to update the records.…”
“Maybe,” Tristan said, frowning first at the wall and then down at the plans. “Or maybe he did it on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?” Sev asked. “Not update the records?”
“Or never created any to begin with. Stel used to be made up of at least thirteen different kingdoms, and they were always warring with each other. Assassinations and subterfuges happened practically every other day. The kings became increasingly paranoid and secretive—about their plans, their alliances.…”
“And their home renovations?”
Tristan smiled. “In a word, yes. King Hal actually built an entire decoy castle where a decoy king sat on the throne, and I think it was King Orl who had his home built like a labyrinth and then had the architect killed after it was complete so no one would know the way through but him.”
Sev looked bewildered, but he recovered quickly enough. “So you’re saying that Rolan did this on purpose so that someone like me wouldn’t be able to discover the layout and free his precious prisoners?”
“It’s more likely than the alternative. Even if they did make additional renovations, this layout doesn’t make sense. Whatever weird setup he might have wanted down here, there should always be two exits in a belowground structure.”
“In case of collapse?” Sev asked.
“During construction, for sure. But also… in case of fire.”
Tristan had, unsurprisingly, become well versed in fire safety over the years.
Ever since the time he’d nearly set his father’s study ablaze, Tristan had begun to wonder what he would have done if that servant hadn’t rushed in and stamped out the burning rug. There had been large windows, an obvious choice for escape—or so he’d thought, until he’d learned that oxygen fed a fire, and throwing open the shutters would likely have sealed his fate even more quickly than the ancient, flammable rug could have done on its own. But the thickly woven curtains beside the windows? They could have stifled the fire, if he had the guts to approach the growing, licking, consuming flames.
The easiest option would have been to move his frozen feet and run for the door, but what if the exit had been blocked? Tristan started paying more attention to his surroundings after that. Every time he entered a room, he noted all the windows and doors, monitored crowded spaces, and picked out clear paths. When his tutors taught him about art and architecture, Tristan paid particular attention to building codes and floor plans.
When he and his father moved in with his cousin Lysandro’s family, they were forced to live in the basement so they could hide in case soldiers came. That development led Tristan into a rather panicky redesign of the belowground chambers, locating a secondary door and ensuring their boxes of possessions were well out of the way in case they needed to make a hasty exit—because of the soldiers, he’d assured his father, who still did not know of Tristan’s terrible fear of fire, and never would if Tristan had his way.
Sev sighed. “Unless I can find a way behind that wall or discover some concealed doorway, these plans are all we have. And they’re not much use if they’re wrong.”
Tristan’s instinct was to fight his way out, but not every problem could be solved with anger and physicality. He tried to channel his father instead, the man who had a plan for everything, who used his wits and his cunning to make other people do what he wanted them to do. The man whose endless patience made Tristan want to break something, but who could also strategize and outmaneuver the best of them.
“Tell me about this high-placed friend of yours.”
* * *
Tristan had been extremely impressed to learn that Sev’s ally was one of Rolan’s own captains—and the person in charge of the prison wing itself.
Rather than focusing on sneaking around or understanding Rolan’s bizarre dungeon layout, they turned their attention to the floors above. They couldn’t act without coordinating with their Phoenix Rider associates, but they could sort out when the best time of day to escape was, which soldiers would need to be taken out or discreetly relocated, and how long Tristan’s absence could go unnoticed.
They couldn’t control everything—Captain Yara had authority only over the prison wing and not the entire estate—but they could still work whatever advantages her position gave them. She also had access to information that Sev would have to beg, borrow, and steal to attain.
“Our best chance would be at nighttime, during my shift, obviously,” Sev said. It was the following night, and he was seated on the floor outside Tristan’s cell again, a lantern next to him and ano
ther roll of paper—this time the guard positions and schedule—laid out in front of Tristan on the opposite side.
Tristan nodded. “The phoenixes will be invisible in the dark, and the ideal place for a pickup would be the roof, but we’d have to get there first.”
“Getting you up to the roof unseen might be harder than getting you out the front door,” Sev said, leaning back and stretching out his legs. “We’d pass more soldiers that way, at any rate.”
Tristan opened his mouth to reply when the scuffing sound of boots on stone told him they had an unexpected visitor. He snatched at the papers and lunged to stuff them under the corner of his mattress while Sev lurched to his feet, accidentally kicking over the lantern.
It rolled onto its side and into the wall that was proving the bane of their existence. The stone was obviously not flammable, but Tristan’s heart clenched so tightly it was like a fist had reached into his chest and squeezed.
“Teyke’s cat,” Sev cursed, leaping for the lantern and hastily uprighting it. The flames left a smear of soot against the stone, but otherwise there was no damage. No cause for fear or alarm.
Tell that to the sweat dripping down Tristan’s back. Tell that to the pulse hammering in his veins.
“Felix,” Tristan muttered, his mind disassociating from his body.
“What?” Sev hissed.
“Teyke’s cat is called Felix.” It was a fact, a truth—something to cling to when his thoughts barreled out of control. “It means lucky.”
Sev looked at him like he’d gone mad, but before he could reply, their visitor appeared.
“No need to stand on ceremony,” said a woman in her forties with scars across her face and neck. Burn scars. Tristan swallowed.
“Captain Yara,” Sev said, voice faint with relief. So this was his friend in a high place. The person who was helping get Tristan out of this cell. Her cool gaze flicked over him before returning to Sev.
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