By the time he reached the last obstacle, sweat dripped down his temples, and his chest was rising and falling in erratic, rapid bursts. Wind’s ears were twitching in agitation, Rex was flying faster, and the dog’s tail was tucked between his legs.
Veronyka hesitated. Tristan was projecting his thoughts; she’d only have to open a crack in her defenses, and she’d know exactly what was bothering him.
“Are you okay?” she asked instead, clamping down on the urge to use her shadow magic, no matter how innocent her intentions. If he wanted to tell her his problem, he would.
He was frozen at the end of the course, as if waiting for Rex’s descent—only the phoenix was still circling above, making no move to dive or ignite.
“Tristan,” she said, coming to stand next to him. He was staring straight forward, his jaw clenched. Apparently he hadn’t heard her the first time. “Hey—are you okay?”
He started, twisting in the saddle, and they locked gazes.
One way to strengthen a magical connection was to make eye contact, and Veronyka hadn’t been prepared to defend against it. In one blinding flash of insight, she understood. She looked away, severing the momentary link.
Tristan was afraid of fire.
It was so surprising, she hardly believed it, and yet it explained why the course had gone so badly for him that first day—and only at the end, when Rex ignited. And now that she thought about it, she remembered sensing a surge of fear from his direction when Maximian burst into flame. Surely it wasn’t impossible for a Phoenix Rider to be afraid of fire, especially when they weren’t bonding as young children, like they had in the old days.
“Let’s just call it quits for now,” Veronyka offered, unnerved by his wide-eyed, tense silence. “It’s been a long day.”
Wordlessly she called Tristan’s other animals—the hound and the pigeon—and packed up the supplies, trying to cover the silence.
“I . . . ,” Tristan began, still seated on Wind in the same place he had been before. His head drooped shamefully. “I can’t do it.”
“You’re tired,” Veronyka said, forcing nonchalance into her voice. “Next time . . .”
“No—you don’t understand,” he said, and when he lifted his head, moisture glistened on his bottom eyelids. He stared at the sky, at Rex still soaring above, and choked out a strangled laugh. “I’m a Phoenix Rider who’s afraid of fire.”
When he’d collected himself enough to look back down at her, his expression was wary, as if he expected her to laugh or belittle him.
Instead she came to a stop next to him, patting Wind’s neck, and shrugged.
“Bellonya the Brave lost her dominant arm as a child and had to relearn her fighting skills with her other hand. She became the fiercest spear thrower in history. King Worrid was deaf, so he designed a special saddle to allow him to fly without losing his balance. He also set up the Morian Archives, making sure the empire’s histories were recorded by the priests and acolytes of Mori and not just passed on verbally.”
Tristan frowned at her. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that you have a condition, and now you have to deal with it,” she said, realizing with chagrin that her gender was her own “condition” to overcome.
“I can’t just deal with it. I’m a Phoenix Rider—fire comes with the territory. It’s not like I can coat myself in pyraflora resin and carry on with my day.”
He dismounted in a huff, and Veronyka actually smiled at the mental picture of him covered head to toe in sticky fireproof sap. She tried to fight it back, but luckily, when he caught sight of her over his shoulder, he smiled too.
A moment later, he sighed. “This is serious, Nyk.”
“I know it is,” she said. “But maybe you’re thinking about it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the problem isn’t out here.” She gestured to the world around them. She hesitated, then took a step toward him. “It’s in here,” she said softly, tapping his temple, his hair dark and curled with sweat. The touch sent a lightning bolt of awareness through her, and her entire body lit up as if her nerves were on fire. She’d never touched him before and was shocked at how intimate it felt—her fingers against his warm skin, their faces mere inches apart. . . .
She yanked her hand back, and he watched her sudden movement with wide eyes.
“I could try swallowing pyraflora sap instead?” he asked, his voice slightly breathless.
Veronyka forced a smile, avoiding his gaze and trying to shake the tingling feeling that was still crackling through her body. She was conscious of him now in a way she hadn’t been before, how the breaths moved in and out of his chest and the way the sweat from his skin left her fingertip damp. She rubbed her hand against her leg and stepped back from him, trying to focus on their conversation.
“I have this thing I do when I don’t want to think about something,” she said as memories of Xephyra flickered before her eyes. “It’s a way of keeping bad thoughts and feelings locked up inside my mind. Maybe you could do the same thing but put your fear there instead.”
“Locked up?” he asked, frowning.
“Yeah. I call it my mental safe house,” she said, explaining the method she’d used to bury her grief for Xephyra and to pass her interrogation with Morra. She steered clear of mentioning shadow magic and just focused on how she visualized her stone wall, how she put whatever she didn’t want to think about inside and carefully stacked protective stones all around it. “I know it’s sort of silly,” she said as they moved to pack the rest of the supplies, “but it works for me. This way, whatever you don’t want to think about isn’t running rampant in your mind—it’s trapped, cut off from everything, even yourself.”
Tristan was nodding thoughtfully. She’d thought he’d scoff at the idea, but it seemed he was willing to try anything.
“It makes sense,” he said. “I mean, we do it subconsciously all the time, don’t we? Hiding from stuff we don’t want to face or think about. But doing it on purpose . . .”
Veronyka nodded. “I hope it helps.”
“Thanks,” he said, expression earnest. “I . . . No one else knows,” he blurted.
Veronyka gaped for a moment, taken aback—but pleased—that he’d trusted her. She tried not to let her surprise show and smiled reassuringly. “And they won’t.”
Some tension released in his shoulders, and he smiled back. “Where did you learn all that?” he asked, waving back to where they’d been standing when she’d described her mental safe house.
“I sort of came up with it on my own, I guess.” She thought of Val, constantly berating her for projecting her emotions, and supposed her sister deserved some of the credit—or blame.
It had been strange without her, these past weeks. Veronyka was capable of taking care of herself—she’d known that all along—but it had meant something to prove it to herself. To prove it to Val . . . even though her sister wasn’t here to see it.
“I had some trouble with magical control,” she continued, “so, locking away certain feelings and emotions helped me find balance.”
Val had been a hard teacher, but Veronyka had to admit that she’d learned from her and the cautionary stories she’d told.
“I heard that in the Last Battle, half the animals in Aura Nova went mad,” Veronyka said softly as Tristan took a swig from the waterskin. The Last Battle was Avalkyra Ashfire’s final stand, when she sent all of her troops to the capital city in an attempt to seize the Nest, the empire’s royal palace and seat of power. “The Riders couldn’t contain their magic, and their volatile emotions fell like rain from the sky. Horses broke through their stalls, cats clawed themselves bloody, and dogs ran down their masters.”
Tristan finished his drink and trailed a hand absently along Wind’s neck. “I wonder if it wasn’t on purpose. . . .”
“What do you mean?” Veronyka asked, trying to clear the disturbing images from her mind. Ever since she’d heard the
story, she’d dreamed of it from time to time, soaring over the carnage on phoenix-back. Her parents had died that night, and though Veronyka had no idea of the details or circumstances, she hated to think of the terror and bloodshed they’d had to endure in their last moments in this world.
“You have to admit, it’s a potent siege tactic, turning half the occupants of the city against their human masters. It’s like doubling your army.”
Veronyka’s stomach churned. “But . . . so many animals would die.”
“Yes, they would. But humans died too, didn’t they? And phoenixes?”
“But they chose to fight,” Veronyka protested.
Tristan shrugged, his expression thoughtful when he said, “Maybe the animals did too.” Veronyka frowned, and he gestured down at Wind. “Their devotion to the animages who feed and care for them is powerful. . . . If phoenixes have the desire to fight on behalf of the humans they love, why not other animals as well?”
Veronyka had never thought about it that way. What if the animals had joined in willingly? What if it wasn’t a command or a pulse of anger that had drawn them into the fray, but love and loyalty of their own? Maybe the animals had fought to protect people like her parents. The idea warmed her heart and helped to banish the bloody images from her mind.
In the distance the hourly bell chimed, announcing the change in watch shift.
“Ten bells already. I’m sorry for keeping you so late,” Tristan said, dismounting. “I should have sent you back in hours ago. Once the sun sets, the commander won’t know I’m out here alone.”
“It’s okay,” Veronyka said, and she meant it. Working with Tristan was the most fun she’d had since she’d arrived, especially now that they weren’t fighting.
“What if I made it worth it for you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Tristan paused as he put away his arrows, considering her. “Well, I can’t promise I’ll be made patrol leader—or that you’ll become an apprentice when I do—but I can help you prepare. There’s more to Riding than bonding with a phoenix. Combat, archery . . . You said yourself you didn’t know any of it. I just thought . . . maybe I could help you, like you’re helping me. What do you think?”
“I think . . . yes, of course,” she said, stunned by his generosity.
Tristan beamed, all uncertainty gone. “Good,” he said, sliding the last arrows into the quiver.
As they walked back to the village, Veronyka’s good mood turned dark.
“How does sponsorship work?” she asked. That would be the final hurdle she’d have to face if they decided to recruit in the near future. She could practice all she wanted, but if she couldn’t afford the supplies or convince a Rider to sponsor her . . .
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “Well, usually a Rider recommends a friend or family member for recruitment and offers to cover the costs of training. If they show aptitude and pass some basic tests, then they’re admitted.”
“Oh,” Veronyka said, her heart sinking. She had to have a sponsor in place before she would even be allowed to take the tests?
As they arrived at the stables, Tristan opened his mouth to say something when Elliot emerged, followed by a flutter of wings as a pigeon took to the sky out the rear window of the pigeon coop.
Elliot started at the sight of them. “Oh, Tristan,” he said, looking between them with a strangely accusatory stare. “I was just sending an order for new leathers for Anders and Ronyn.”
He paused, as if he were expecting Tristan’s approval or permission.
“Oh, right.” Tristan glanced at Veronyka. “We were just training.”
Elliot made no move to smile or greet her. Veronyka glanced at Tristan, but whatever he’d been about to say when they arrived, it was clear he didn’t intend to say it in front of Elliot.
Veronyka fought a pang of disappointment that their night was cut short so abruptly.
“I guess I’ll see you later,” she said to Tristan before grabbing Wind’s reins and leading him inside.
Later, Veronyka tiptoed through the shadows of the courtyard.
The stronghold was deserted, save for the sentries posted atop the walls, and she avoided even their notice as she scurried toward the bathhouse.
She’d been too afraid to go up until this point and had taken to washing with a rag and a bucket of cold water from the well. But it had been more than a month since she’d first arrived, and she couldn’t hide from it any longer.
The bathhouse was a low stone hut between the servant and apprentice barracks. There were two doors, one for men and one for women. Veronyka edged through the men’s entrance and peeked inside.
The hut was filled with steam and burning incense—but no naked men, thank Axura. A fireplace burned in the wall that divided the bathhouse, heating both sides, while small oil lanterns hung from the ceiling. There were three round tubs sunk into the ground, each big enough to fit five or six people. Wisps of steam sat on the surface of the water, along with the pale, fragrant petals of the sapona plant.
Veronyka grabbed a towel from one of several woven baskets, then paused, listening for approaching footsteps. All was peaceful, save for the constant trill of crickets and frogs.
With a deep breath, Veronyka stripped naked, stumbling out of her dirty tunic and pants. She flung herself into the nearest tub, sloshing water onto the stone floor, washing as quickly as she could. She scrubbed furiously, watching the water fill with streaks of grime and foamy bubbles from the soaptree petals. The interior of the tub had a carved bench for soaking, and as she watched, the dirty water was sucked out a hole near the side, while fresh, clean water bubbled up from another hole in the ground. The water stayed warm as well, somehow heated or perhaps coming from a natural hot spring.
The water eased Veronyka’s aching muscles and relaxed her breathing. She hadn’t had a proper soak in a bathhouse since they’d lived in Aura Nova. And considering her secret, it could be some time before she’d be able to enjoy them with any frequency. Her true body was now a burden, and her secret to bear. She’d already had to steal scraps of linen for her monthly bleeding and to hide behind a dressing screen to bind her breasts every morning, causing the other servants to tease Nyk for his “shyness.”
It would be a worthy sacrifice, though, if it gained her a place among the Riders. And with Tristan’s offer to help her train . . . surely she’d be one of the best new candidates.
Veronyka blinked, realizing that she’d lost track of time.
Footsteps sounded from the courtyard beyond, growing steadily louder, and Veronyka’s insides tensed. She leapt from the tub, splashing more water everywhere, and hastily dried herself off. She struggled frantically with the towel, only just managing to drape it around her shoulders like a cloak when the door swung open.
Tristan stood in the entryway, his face obscured by the mist and incense of the bathhouse.
“Nyk?” he said in surprise, letting the door swing shut behind him, the gust of air dispensing the cloud that surrounded him. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I . . .” Veronyka’s voice was so high, echoing in the domed hut, that it hurt her own ears. She cleared her throat and tugged the towel more tightly around herself. “Why aren’t you?”
“Oh—I couldn’t sleep,” he said, walking over to the linen baskets. When he turned around again, he held out Veronyka’s dirty, sweat-soaked tunic. She must have flung it there in her haste to undress.
Face burning, she took it from him with a nod of thanks.
“Are . . . are you cold?” Tristan asked, eyeing her curiously as she clutched her towel tightly to herself. The room was stiflingly hot, and people usually walked around naked inside bathhouses, not wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
“I . . . yes,” Veronyka stammered, as a single drop of sweat trailed down her temple.
Tristan nodded dubiously, then took a towel for himself, staring at the rolled-up cotton in his hands.
“What if I sponsor
ed you?” he asked abruptly.
“What?” Veronyka said, hardly daring to believe her ears.
“I’ve been thinking. . . . I have some savings, and when the time comes, I could put your name forward, if you wan—”
“Of course I want!” Veronyka blurted, taking an unconscious step forward. “But . . . why would you give up your savings for me?”
He shrugged, as if determined to keep things light. “Sponsorship isn’t all fun, you know. You’d have to run my errands, help me care for my weapons and armor, clean my rooms . . . all on top of your own training.”
When he finally looked up again, he seemed surprised at the way Veronyka was gaping at him. But how could she not? He was offering up her dream on a silver platter and then apologizing that it wasn’t gold.
She’d take her dream if it were served in a bucket.
“Tristan,” she said with a breath, hands trembling as she adjusted her towel. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he said, smiling hesitantly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He beamed, his dimples reappearing, and Veronyka bit her lip to fight her own stupid grin. A swell of happiness was rising in her chest. She was bewildered by his kindness and kept trying to figure out why he would put himself on the line for her. Then she remembered Sparrow. . . . Not everyone wanted repayment or needed a reason in order to help someone.
Still smiling, Tristan dropped his rolled-up towel next to the nearest pool. Then, to Veronyka’s dismay, he began to peel off his tunic.
She gaped, her heart pumping as she realized what was about to happen. Not only was Tristan not leaving her alone to dress, but he was undressing himself. He obviously hadn’t come to the bathhouse to talk; otherwise he wouldn’t have been surprised to see her. Which meant he planned to stay awhile. To bathe. Naked.
This is normal, she kept telling herself, her cheeks hot. Men and boys bathe together, just as girls do. No problem.
Crown of Feathers Page 23
