Wings of Shadow

by Nicki Pau Preto

  “We can wait for introductions,” Veronyka agreed, secretly ashamed of the way the knot in her stomach loosened. For now, she could be Veronyka, just another Rider… not an heir or a queen or a long-lost granddaughter. It was a staggering relief.

  Alexiya nodded and began her ascent.

  Tristan remained in his saddle, staring at his father’s prone form, chest heaving as if he’d just run a mile.

  Veronyka sidled over and reached for his hand—he squeezed back tightly, refusing to let go. She ran her thumb along the back of his knuckles, sending soothing thoughts through the bond as they waited. Xephyra did much the same for Rex, preening his feathers and crooning softly.

  The silence was broken by shouts and shattering glass. Veronyka caught only snippets of the conversation, but even without the words, she’d have had no trouble deciphering their tone.

  “Twenty years—show your face—thought you were dead—twenty years—”

  And then, in response, “Hands aren’t broken—could’ve sent a letter—not a child anymore—”

  A door slammed loudly, and then Alexiya shouted down to them from what appeared to be some kind of balcony.

  “Mom’s thrilled to have company,” she said flatly. “Maximian, bring him up. Tristan, you come too—no doubt we’ll need the extra hands.”

  “Extra hands?” came a sharp voice from behind Alexiya. “It’ll be crowded enough as it—”

  “And, Ximn, why don’t you come as well?” Alexiya shouted over her mother, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the house. Ximn cocked her head but remained where she was.

  Max took to the air, and Tristan released Veronyka’s hand to do the same, leaving her behind without a backward glance. Veronyka’s heart went with him, but eventually she withdrew.

  “I guess we’ll keep watch,” she said with a sigh, and Xephyra crooned.

  * * *

  Together they flew several short routes, familiarizing themselves with the area and determining likely approaches for soldiers on foot. They were deep in Arboria North, and since they had flown, their path would be impossible to track. As the day wore on and there was no sign of pursuit, Veronyka allowed herself to believe that they had made a clean escape.

  Once back in the clearing, she turned her attention to the phoenixes. They milled around the forest floor, anxious and agitated, though Maximian was worst of all. He had tried to remain with his bondmate, but he was far too large, and surgery was careful, delicate work. After tossing his head and expelling gusts of sparks in angry bursts, he now remained rooted in place like one of the vast trees that surrounded them, keeping watch on the small house suspended above, where lamps now glowed from the windows.

  She did what she could for him. After setting up food and water troughs and unsaddling each of the other phoenixes in turn, Veronyka came up beside him and gently patted his neck. Despite his rigid posture, his feathers twitched and trembled like leaves in a high wind.

  Soon the others joined her. Xephyra was quite scared of Maximian in his disconsolate state, and Veronyka suspected Ximn and Rex felt similarly, but eventually they sidled up to him, offering their presence, their warmth, their support. He eventually calmed enough that Veronyka thought it was safe to remove his saddle, which was spattered with blood, and set to work cleaning and preparing it for his Rider. She couldn’t bear to think of what would happen—to Maximian, to the Phoenix Riders, to Tristan—if the commander didn’t survive this.

  The others came in and out of the house in shifts—first Alexiya, stomping down angrily to “get away from that woman before I strangle her.” Then “that woman” herself came out, nodding distractedly at Veronyka and muttering darkly as she drew water from a nearby well. There was a rather ingenious pulley system suspended above the water source, allowing her to fill three large buckets, load them onto a wooden platform, then tug twice on the rope. Someone above pulled the water up and out of sight.

  On her next visit, Alexiya informed Veronyka that they’d be camping on the ground since her mother’s house was too small and Cassian and Hestia would need what little room there was available. Proper dark was closing in around them now, and together they gathered wood and started a fire.

  The one person Veronyka wanted to see who didn’t leave the house—besides the healer and her patient—was Tristan. Rex was almost as anxious as Maximian, and Veronyka understood. She could feel the gut-wrenching terror funneling through their bond. She tried to soothe Tristan, to take the brunt of his fears and draw them from him like poison from a wound, but she didn’t know if she succeeded. It seemed he didn’t want to feel better, but rather, stoked and nurtured his anguish.

  Guilt, she realized. He was doing his best to blame himself for this—if he hadn’t gotten captured, if he had paid better attention to Rolan… but Veronyka had played such games with herself all her life. If she hadn’t been young and weak, she could have protected her maiora. If she hadn’t been so trusting, she could have prevented Xephyra’s death.

  If she hadn’t let Val coerce her into abandoning her duties and attacking Rolan’s army, Tristan would never have had to come rescue her in the first place. His guilt was her guilt too.

  Xephyra nudged her then, a gentle butt of the head. Veronyka patted her absently, still dwelling on her failures, until her bondmate gave her a proper shove, practically knocking her over.

  “Hey!” Veronyka cried out, annoyed. Xephyra bumped her once more for good measure.

  Making things worse, she chided. Veronyka wanted to give her an angry retort, but Xephyra was right. She was supposed to be helping Tristan, lightening his load, not adding her own on top of it. Rex was positively drooping despite Xephyra’s continued ministrations, and though Tristan wouldn’t know it was coming from her, Veronyka’s dour mood would only worsen his.

  When at last he did come outside, it was because Hestia forced him to. Apparently there had been nothing for Tristan to do after his father was lifted onto a table and the surgery began, but still he had remained, forgoing meals and rest in favor of brooding darkly and pacing the small house.

  He continued his restless movement at the foot of the stairs, and when Veronyka held out both water and bread, he only shook his head and continued his march.

  So she took a seat across the fire from Alexiya, and they waited.

  It was barely an hour later when Tristan stopped abruptly in his pacing, and Veronyka looked up to see Hestia descending the stairs. She didn’t keep them in suspense.

  “The surgery was a success,” she said, and the tension in Tristan snapped like a twig. His knees buckled until he was sitting on a log near the fire, his head in his hands. “He is stable for now. I will monitor him throughout the night, but I believe the worst danger is over.”

  Alexiya handed the woman a cup of tea from a pot she’d recently brewed, and Veronyka rushed forward.

  “Surely you need to rest? You’ve been working all day.”

  Hestia shook her head, blowing on the scalding tea. “I am quite used to burning the midnight oil. Agneta is watching him now, but I’ll return shortly.”

  Veronyka realized with a jolt that that was her grandmother’s name—she hadn’t thought to ask. “After you’ve eaten?” she prompted, and Hestia smiled gratefully.

  Veronyka busied herself with the food, moving stiffly after a day of flying and a still-healing wound of her own. As she handed the healer a piece of hot flatbread and cold cheese, Tristan watched her, lifting his head so his eyes reflected the firelight.

  Before long Hestia left, patting Tristan gently on the shoulder as she passed. He got to his feet to follow her, and they shared quiet words outside the light of the fire. Veronyka thought he might have hugged her, but it was hard to see, and she didn’t want to intrude with shadow magic. Alexiya stood as well, stretching and announcing she’d keep watch.

  “You two sleep,” she ordered sternly. “I’d rather sleep in the morning, when that one’s awake,” she muttered, jerking a thumb up
to her mother’s house.

  With a flap of wings that caused the fire to stutter and spark, Alexiya and Ximn took flight, leaving Veronyka and Tristan truly alone for the first time since her birthday nearly two months ago.

  Tristan turned to her, and the instant their eyes met, they were moving toward each other. This hug was gentler than their last—more a surrendering, an offer and a promise to hold each other up, rather than a frantic clash of bodies. Still, being close to him again brought about the usual stomach-squirming, heart-pounding feelings, no matter how exhausting and trying their day.

  “I’m so sorry,” Veronyka murmured into his neck, perched on her toes in order to get closer to him.

  Tristan held her just a little bit tighter. “Thanks,” he whispered.

  When he drew back and looked down at her again, he was staring fixedly at her neck. Veronyka remembered that the edge of the bandage across her chest was visible. She would have to ask Hestia to change the dressings for her sometime soon. The wound felt itchy and hot, and she was certain she’d done more damage to it with the excitement of the past day.

  “What happened?” Tristan asked.

  “It was Val,” she said, matching his quiet tone, though her voice wobbled slightly.

  “But you weren’t there,” he said sharply, as if fearing he’d been lied to.

  “No, I wasn’t.” Veronyka swallowed. “We’ve been… talking. At night—through dreams. Through magic. After the attack, I was so angry at her, I confronted her through our connection. I wanted to shake her, to hurt her, but then she whirled around, and she was the one…” Veronyka shook her head. “It was a spear, and she… I don’t think she even realized what was happening—that it was even possible—but…” She almost killed me.

  Tristan stared at her for a long time. Even his mind was silent. Eventually he nodded toward one of the tents Veronyka had set up. He was hesitant when he said, “Will you show me?”

  Veronyka’s eyes widened. The cut sliced her from abdomen to collarbone. In order to show him…

  She felt herself nod, and Tristan took her hand, pulling her after him into the darkness of the tent. Rex and Xephyra were huddled together just outside it, while Maximian was perched on a branch above, keeping his silent vigil.

  The tent muffled the sounds of the night, and as Veronyka took a seat on the already-laid-out bedrolls, Tristan ducked outside again. He was picking through their packs, searching for something, and returned with a kettle of hot water from the fire, a medic kit, and a lantern. He knelt to light it, then twisted to face her, uncertain, but the sight of the healing supplies made it easier for Veronyka to sit up and start pulling at the laces of her tunic.

  Like the attack that gave her the wound in the first place, baring herself was an echo of the past. Tristan had seen her this way before—exposed—but that had been Val’s doing. An involuntary reveal. This time Veronyka willingly bared herself to him.

  Despite her newfound calm, her fingers fumbled at the strings as she went lower and lower. Then a hand covered hers, and she looked up from her struggle to see Tristan staring at her, his gaze warm and open. He knew what eye contact meant—what touching meant. He was exposing himself to her too.

  And then it was simple, because they were bonded, and there was no one she’d rather be vulnerable with than him. No one she trusted more. He was a part of her, and her of him.

  He helped her with the last few ties and carefully drew the cloth over her head. His touch was gentle but not lingering, and he hadn’t yet looked down—as if steeling himself for the moment. He took her tunic and folded it with unnecessary care, then busied himself getting out fresh bandages and a washcloth. As he moved to pour the hot water into a basin, Veronyka crossed her arms over her chest. She did it unconsciously—the nights had grown cold—but Tristan noticed, and she sensed that he took it as a reproach. His shoulders tightened, and he kept his back to her as he soaked a towel, then wrung it out, steam rising from the surface of the bowl.

  “You should remove the bandages, if you can, and I’ll…”

  Veronyka wanted to see his face again. Wanted him to know that it wasn’t that she didn’t want him here, but rather, that she wanted him here very much—too much—and that was a scary thing, the wanting.

  She reached for his shoulder, pulling him until he turned to see her uncrossed arms, the wound and the bandages—and the bare skin on either side—revealed to him. His eyes were soft again, but something else stirred inside their darkened depths. Desire, anger, and fear warred within. She saw the struggle, felt it, knew it just as she knew her own.

  “Help me?” she murmured, reaching for the lengths of linen that wrapped around her chest, holding the thicker bandages in place. He did, taking out a knife and cutting where the knots were too tight to unravel and gently peeling the last scraps of protection—of armor—away with them.

  Now she was truly bare from the waist up, and the emotions inside him rose to the surface. He didn’t say anything, but she felt his anguish as he trailed a featherlight touch across her skin.

  She lay back, and he set to work.

  She watched as he wiped at the tender skin, which was red and still bleeding in places. The wound stung, both from the open air and from the scrape of fabric, but she closed her eyes and focused on the quiet and the dark and the feeling of being alone with Tristan, one less barrier between them.

  The healing salve burned worse than anything so far, and Veronyka hissed when his fingers touched her skin. He drew back at once, but she snatched his wrist.

  “Just—be quick about it, will you?” she asked breathlessly, and he nodded with a small grin.

  He cut clean strips of bandages and pressed them against her chest and stomach, cautious not to touch her anywhere he didn’t need to. Veronyka was charmed by his gentlemanly restraint, but when he asked her to lean forward so he could tie the fabric behind her back, she deliberately pressed against him, her chest brushing his elbow.

  He froze, then fumbled to tie the knot. They remained like that for a heartbeat; then he cleared his throat. “Done.”

  Their faces were inches apart, Tristan’s breath stirring her hair. She took his hand and pressed it to her chest, against her wound and above her heart. “Thank you.”

  He smiled, then shifted as if he meant to take his hand back and put space between them. But Veronyka didn’t want space. When he opened his mouth, she swallowed his words, pressing her lips to his and pulling him down on top of her.

  He braced himself on his elbows, but Veronyka only arched underneath him, kissing harder and pulling him nearer. He drew back again—Veronyka made a frustrated noise of protest—but he was moving purposefully, determinedly, trailing kisses down her jaw and neck, and then lower.

  His touch was almost reverent as it followed the trail of bandages down, across her abdomen to her hip bone. He looked up at her then, and the expression in his eyes was no longer careful or cautious. It was intense, raw, and potent—like a physical blow that sent her stomach swooping in response. The bond between them quivered and shook, rebuilding its strength after weeks apart.

  And for once Veronyka didn’t fight it; instead, she dragged Tristan’s mouth up to hers and let the rush of feeling drown them both.

  A single bond is one thing—perfect in its balance and reciprocity—but the apex bond, the group bond, is something else.

  - CHAPTER 31 - AVALKYRA

  IT HAD BEEN THREE days since half of Avalkyra’s flock—led by Onyx—departed for Aura.

  With only two claws apiece to carry them, the strixes were forced to make multiple trips to get enough eggs to satisfy Avalkyra’s ambitions. It was less than efficient, but it gave her a chance to test her range, and it gave the strixes a much-needed outlet for some of their pent-up energy and aggression.

  Avalkyra would have liked to get hatching as soon as the first eggs arrived, but the shadowmage had advised against it. Better to do it all at once, she said, so that Onyx could remain nearby during
the hatching, and form strong early bonds. And despite the power of the apex over the flock, Aura was too far to send the flock without Onyx. They were likely to get distracted or forget their purpose, so the apex had to remain with them to keep them on task.

  Every time she stared at the sky and awaited Onyx’s return, Avalkyra told herself they would begin hatching as soon as she got back… but then the strixes would add their eggs to the pile growing in the center of the courtyard, and she’d change her mind. Her impatience to get started warred with her desire for an army large enough to blot out the sky, a true horde, and so she’d tell Onyx one more trip, over and over, then watch hungrily as the pile grew larger still.

  After days of this, Avalkyra decided she’d had enough. Onyx and the others were just delivering their final cargo, dropping their eggs onto the cobblestones before settling among the cracks and crenellations of the stronghold’s walls, when Sidra turned up.

  Avalkyra was annoyed by the interruption at first, until she remembered that Sidra would have news of the empire and the Phoenix Riders.

  “My queen,” Sidra said, dropping to her knee as soon as she’d dismounted. Once again, her phoenix hastened as far away from the strixes as possible, finding a village rooftop to perch on.

  Sidra’s eyes widened at the sight of the eggs, but Avalkyra redirected the woman’s attention at once. “The Grand Council meeting?”

  Sidra straightened, smiling proudly. “I arrived just in time. I killed the judge and a few others and set the chambers on fire. I told them you lived and that the war had begun. The council’s out for Phoenix Rider blood.”

  Avalkyra nodded distractedly. Sidra, foolishly expecting praise, wilted slightly.