Wings of Shadow

by Nicki Pau Preto

  A second bell rang as Doriyan swung the door wide, and Veronyka stepped into the courthouse.

  They entered on the topmost level of a sunken room featuring rows of stone benches that descended to a judge on a podium at the center. Every head in the room swiveled to look at her—expecting Rolan, perhaps?

  She’d taken barely two steps before guards, posted on either side of the door, reached for her and Doriyan.

  “Who are you?” echoed a voice from below. The judge.

  Be brave, she told herself.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a single syllable, a shriek tore through the silence. A phoenix shriek.

  Above, perched in the open-air oculus, was Sidra of Stel mounted on Oxana. With a flap of her wings, the phoenix caught fire, eliciting cries and gasps from below.

  “What is this?” the judge asked, looking between Veronyka and Sidra—as if this were a coordinated effort. As if they were allies. “How dare you interrupt a meeting of the Grand Council? Guards!”

  All around the room, guards lifted their weapons and aimed them at Sidra. The hands holding Veronyka and Doriyan gripped tighter. No one attacked, however, waiting for the command.

  Sidra paused, weighing their threat, and Veronyka suspected her position at the top of the dome put her out of the crossbows’ range. Since she was shooting down, however… she had no such limitations, and an ideal vantage point besides.

  Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Sidra drew her bow and nocked an arrow, aiming it at the judge.

  “Sidra, no!” Veronyka cried out, stepping forward. She was going to ruin everything, to set their plans on fire when they were already torn to tattered shreds. The guard holding her shoulder pulled back roughly, while the judge flapped his hands at the archers all around, ensuring they didn’t get him killed.

  “I bring word,” Sidra said into the silence, her voice carrying easily in the domed space. “Rolan of Stel is dead”—Veronyka’s heart stopped; had Sidra seen their scuffle outside?—“and Avalkyra Ashfire lives. Ring your bells and rally your troops. The war has begun.”

  Then she lit her arrow and loosed it. The first hit the judge, who toppled from the platform, and then chaos broke loose. Flaming arrows fell like rain, landing in tables and chairs and bodies, while crossbow bolts flew ineffectually upward, unable to connect with the rapidly moving target as Oxana dove, trailing fire that set velvet banners and woven tapestries ablaze.

  The council members made a mad scramble for the doors, but as they tried to run out, more soldiers were pouring in, blocking the exits.

  Doriyan put a hand on Veronyka’s shoulder, tugging her back the way they’d come. They’d been forgotten by the guards who’d stopped them and had a clear path to the door.

  She took one last, regretful look at the burning Grand Council meeting, watching their hope at avoiding this war go up in flames.

  Before, we had each other. Nefyra was a different kind of sister—one chosen, not made.

  - CHAPTER 29 - TRISTAN

  TRISTAN WAS DROWNING. HIS head was underwater, and his hands were soaking wet.

  But no. That wasn’t the tide roaring in his ears but his own heartbeat. And that wasn’t water on his hands, it was blood. His father’s blood.

  Tristan might not be drowning, but he was definitely in a bubble. Things were happening all around him, but he couldn’t seem to hear or understand. He thought he preferred it that way. There was something urgent and terrible pressing on his chest, but the bubble kept it at bay.

  Alexiya had directed him to put pressure on his father’s wound, so that was what he did. Simple, immediate tasks. That he could do. But anything beyond that… His father, the commander, looked shockingly pale. His eyelids twitched and fluttered, the only outward sign of life from his prone figure—but Tristan latched on to it all the same.

  Alexiya came in and out of his bubble; she had called Ximn to their side, making room in the saddle for a body.

  No, Tristan thought savagely. Not a body, a person. A living, breathing person.

  Alexiya knelt down next to Tristan to help lift his father. “What’s going on?” she asked someone—Tristan didn’t know what she was talking about or who she was talking to, but she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Sidra,” came the flat response. Tristan knew that voice, felt it as if it came from inside him.

  He turned to see Veronyka, drawn more by the sound of her than what she’d said. But as he met her eyes, the bubble around him burst. People were spilling out the doors to the courthouse in a rush of terrified shouts and thundering feet, and the smell of smoke was heavy on the air.

  Wait—Sidra was here? That fierce shriek, those cries of fear… that was because of her? Sidra belonged to Val. Was Val here too? His hands clenched, and he realized he’d removed the pressure on his father’s side.

  “It’s just Sidra for now,” Veronyka said aloud, answering Tristan’s unasked question. Alexiya cursed, and Doriyan began muttering under his breath. Distantly, Tristan heard wingbeats and wondered if the world was ready to fall apart right here, right now, with his father bleeding out on the cobblestones.

  He bent over once again, reapplying pressure, and then Veronyka was next to him. “Maximian is here, Tristan. We have to lift him.”

  Max. So those weren’t the wingbeats of impending death but of salvation.

  His father’s phoenix was soaring down for a landing, his movements rigid and edged in panic, while Rex and Xephyra fluttered down anxiously just behind him.

  Maximian bent his head toward his unresponsive bondmate and nudged him frantically. Tristan placed a hand on Maximian’s face. The large, dark eyes latched on to his and held, gaze steady even as his body twitched and shifted with fear and urgency. Tristan felt connected to his father’s phoenix in a way he never had before—they were in this terrifying place together. Tristan dropped his hand, leaving a bloody print on the phoenix’s great golden beak.

  “Hold this,” said Alexiya, handing Tristan a wad of bandages from Ximn’s medic pack. Tristan pressed them against his father’s side, while Alexiya wrapped a length around his middle to hold it in place.

  The instant the bandage was tied, Doriyan took the commander under his arms. Tristan took his father’s feet, and together they got him into his saddle, Alexiya reaching for the straps to tie him in place.

  “Mount up,” said Doriyan, nudging Tristan toward his bondmate. He was reluctant to leave his father, but soldiers had spotted them, and it occurred to Tristan that they would not know the difference between him and Sidra. This attack would be pinned on Phoenix Riders in general, and according to the empire, the war had officially begun.

  As Tristan climbed onto Rex and Veronyka onto Xephyra, Doriyan withdrew his bow and quiver from Daxos.

  “I’ll cover you,” he said over his shoulder.

  Alexiya, already mounted on Ximn, opened her mouth to argue.

  “Go,” Doriyan insisted, his expression determined. Sidra had been his partner in crime, quite literally, as well as his closest friend before the war. He would cover their retreat, Tristan was certain, but what would he do after that?

  Alexiya’s expression was grim, but Veronyka nodded her approval at Doriyan and took control of the situation. “Tiya Alexiya,” she said sharply, drawing her aunt’s attention. “You know the way?” Alexiya turned away from Doriyan and nodded. “Then lead.”

  Rather than soaring as high as she could to get them out of the empire’s crossbows’ range, Alexiya flew low, weaving between buildings and narrow alleyways. The tight quarters protected them just the same, but it had the added benefit of not giving away their position. If they flew over the city, everyone in the capital would know they were here. As it was, they alarmed the citizens walking the streets or looking out their windows, but those were isolated occurrences.

  Tristan didn’t doubt the soldiers would be hot on their heels, but this strategy would buy them time.

  Alexiya flew them to Rol
an’s Marble Row town house, where they landed in the courtyard, their presence concealed from the street and their pursuers by the building’s ivy-covered walls.

  Servants spilled outside as they landed, but Hestia soon pushed her way to the front. Her face paled at the sight that greeted her—the commander, slumped and unconscious in his saddle, covered in blood, while the yard filled with bristling phoenixes.

  “All of you, inside at once,” she said, her voice even and her tone authoritative. She was surely one of the most senior servants in his household, and no one dared to question her. She exchanged a look with her assistant. “My travel case,” she said, and the girl hurried off into the house. Then she turned to someone who looked like a steward or butler. “Delay them.” The woman nodded and departed.

  “Guards?” Alexiya asked, shifting in her saddle and reaching for her bow.

  Hestia moved about the courtyard, slamming the doors that led inside, as well as the shutters. “Osha will buy us a few moments.”

  She had just reached the last door when her assistant returned, hauling a sizable bag. Hestia took it from her and shooed the girl back inside.

  “Where is the lord of the house?” Hestia asked idly, opening her bag and withdrawing clean bandages. Alexiya dragged over a wrought-iron chair from the gardens for the healer to perch on as she examined Cassian’s wound.

  “Dead,” Veronyka said simply.

  Hestia sighed. “Well, that simplifies things. Is this his handiwork?”

  Alexiya nodded and gave her a brief rundown of what had happened. Tristan remained rooted to his seat, hands clenched painfully around his reins as he watched Hestia work.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  When at last she drew back, her expression was grave. “I need to get him into emergency surgery. We don’t have time to fly all the way to Pyra or even Ferro. I’d do it right here, right now, if I weren’t afraid of being interrupted.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Veronyka agreed. “Soldiers were on our trail the whole way here. They could find us at any moment.”

  Hestia enlisted Alexiya’s help to wrap the fresh dressings around the commander’s midsection as tightly as possible, creating a rigid support to keep the wound protected and the commander upright in the saddle.

  “We could go to Arboria,” Alexiya said hesitantly, once Hestia was done with her. “I haven’t been able to locate my brother, but my mother is there.”

  Tristan was still thinking about the words “emergency surgery.” He didn’t care where they went, so long as Hestia had the time she needed.

  Then he remembered that Alexiya’s mother would be Veronyka’s grandmother, and he darted an anxious look in her direction. He’d been so preoccupied with his father that he’d forgotten this had been a hard day for her, too. And it looked like it was about to get harder.

  Veronyka nodded. “The river will slow down the soldiers should they try to follow us. Given how some Arborians feel about Phoenix Riders, they’ll surely expect us to fly north once we cross the Godshand. It may prove to be the ideal place to lie low for a while.”

  It was a sound decision. Yes, she might want to meet her grandmother, but Tristan knew she was doing this for him, too. And for his father. Tristan met her eye, knowing he’d never be able to put his feelings into words—and relieved that for once he wouldn’t need to.

  She nodded, her large eyes glassy but clear, her heart open and aching for him.

  “I should ride with Cassian,” Hestia said, closing up her supply bag and standing. “I can monitor his breathing and his heart rate and ensure there aren’t any sudden changes.”

  Tristan, Veronyka, and Alexiya looked at each other, uncertain. Surely it would be safer for her to ride with one of them, being that she was not only an inexperienced flyer but getting on in years as well.

  “I am sturdier than I look,” she said practically. “Just strap me in good and tight.”

  With a shrug, Alexiya helped the woman up into the saddle, while Veronyka leapt from Xephyra’s back to grab Hestia’s healer’s bag, adding it to her own supplies. Tristan knew he was being quite useless, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move. His gaze was fixed on his father’s slumped form, and he was afraid that if he looked away, he’d miss something important… afraid that if he climbed out of his saddle, he’d crumple to the ground and be unable to stand again. Exhaustion was lead in his veins, weighing him down.

  As Alexiya finished her work and mounted up, Veronyka moved to Maximian’s side. “If something goes wrong,” she said quietly, perhaps hoping Tristan couldn’t hear, “pat Maximian’s neck three times. He’ll let me know, won’t you?” She turned the question to Max, stroking his feathers to draw his attention. She got a melancholy croak in response.

  This time, as soon as they rose into the sky, shouts and cries went up. Soldiers were crawling over every street within a two-mile radius, marching down Marble Row in small units, knocking on doors, while horse-mounted riders galloped through the main thoroughfares, sounding the alarm.

  “Vollancea,” Alexiya called over her shoulder. It was a spear flight pattern, which really just meant single file. Flying in arrowhead or triangle patterns worked well for attacking, but their goal now was to break through the enemy lines as quickly as possible, and flying in a row meant giving the soldiers on the ground fewer targets. It was also used as an escort flight pattern, keeping vulnerable targets—like the commander and Hestia—out of the attacker’s line of sight.

  Tristan was still in a daze, but Rex flew hard as they turned east, following Alexiya’s breakneck pace and complex route.

  The river came into view, the bustling docks filled with boats and sailors unloading their wares. There was always a heavy military presence there, where theft and smuggling were commonplace, but there were even more soldiers present with renegade Phoenix Riders on the loose.

  Alexiya, it seemed, had expected this—she launched several carefully aimed arrows, which caused crates and boats to burst into flame, providing a perfect amount of distraction and chaos. Several return volleys made their way into the sky, but they had already flown out of range.

  The river whipped by below them in a blue-gray blur, and then there was nothing but endless trees on the horizon. Tristan turned in the saddle, seeing soldiers try to commandeer merchant boats, but they’d never catch their flying quarry. And like Veronyka said, the Riders would be expected to turn their flight north once they’d evaded pursuit, so the odds of soldiers crossing the river at all were minimal.

  They were safe.

  For now.

  Together, we were more.

  - CHAPTER 30 - VERONYKA

  IT WAS A RELATIVELY short flight across the Palm of the Godshand and into the dense forest of Arboria North. Even with Xephyra’s superior eyesight, Veronyka would have had a difficult time navigating the towering wooden sentinels were it not for Alexiya leading the way. With the commander bleeding out in his saddle, hovering somewhere between the earth and the stars, they needed to travel with all haste.

  It was lucky, too, that Veronyka had these grave concerns to keep her occupied. Between keeping her eyes on Alexiya’s winding flight in front of her and Cassian’s prone form at her side—not to mention her bowstring-taut attention on Tristan’s mental state—she didn’t have much brainpower left to think about what was to come. They were going to Alexiya’s mother’s house… which made it Veronyka’s grandmother’s house. The word “maiora” popped into her head, but of course, Alexiya’s mother was Arborian, not Pyraean. Veronyka didn’t even know the word for grandmother in their native tongue… or if this woman would want Veronyka to call her that in the first place. Perhaps she’d blame Veronyka and her mother for what had happened to her family—divided by the war and estranged ever since. And she wasn’t wrong. The Ashfire legacy seemed to grow bleaker to Veronyka with each passing day. All she wanted was to do good in the world, but would anything she achieved even matter when it could never make up for what her
own family had already done?

  It would matter, she told herself firmly. She had to believe it was possible to change things, to make a new legacy.

  Possible, Xephyra said definitively. Like resurrection. To start over again.

  They were deep in the forest when they slowed their pace and Alexiya signaled for them to land—in fact, the trees were so tall and their growth so dense that it felt like twilight, though Veronyka knew it was closer to midday.

  The trees that surrounded them were a good deal larger than those in the Silverwood, their roots turning the ground into rippling, undulating hills, while their trunks were easily as wide around as ten people with their hands linked together. Their color was different too, their bark a rich sandy brown, while the leaves were a bright, lush green—seemingly untouched by the coming winter.

  The silence was dense, but there was the familiar wilderness chorus of chittering animals and buzzing insects, plus the sway and rush of leaves far above.

  As Veronyka craned her neck, she couldn’t see any signs of civilization, but when Alexiya dismounted, she strode purposefully toward a particular tree at the edge of the clearing.

  That was when Veronyka noticed a set of stairs sticking directly out of the trunk and twisting around to lead up into the shadowy boughs where a small house sat among the leaves. With no connecting pathways or platforms in sight, she supposed this would be considered living in the “backcountry,” isolated and away from neighbors. She glanced around at her fugitive, firebird-riding companions and was glad of it.

  “Stay here,” Alexiya advised, something like fear—or maybe dread—in her voice. “I’ll call down to you when it’s safe to fly him up. Oh, and Veronyka?” she added, lowering her voice so that Veronyka was forced to slide from the saddle and close the distance between them. “She will be shocked enough, seeing me, and she is not a young woman. I think it would be best, considering the circumstances…”