“Do what?” Val asked, staring down the length of her nose at Veronyka.
Veronyka shoved her, relishing the idea of getting into a fight, of releasing all the anger and heartbreak that was building up inside. “Those ashes were cold and dead when I left that cabin. How is she here?” Veronyka demanded, fighting to keep her voice from rising to a shout. “What did you do?”
She thought back to that day, sitting in front of the empty hearth. She was certain she’d failed, had felt nothing from her bondmate, nothing in the weeks since . . .
Actually, that wasn’t true. She’d put Xephyra in her mental safe house, blocked her presence and shut her out. Veronyka had thought she’d been stifling painful memories, but she’d actually been shutting out her bondmate’s newly reborn attempts to connect with her.
Val stared at the place where Veronyka had dared to touch her, but she made no move to retaliate. “Don’t blame me for the threads Anyanke has woven for you. I had nothing to do with your bondmate’s resurrection.”
Veronyka scowled. It was all too convenient, too awful, to have happened by accident. But the logistics of it weren’t easy to dismantle, not when Veronyka was already so mentally drained. It was impossible to control a phoenix you weren’t bonded to, let alone travel with one for weeks. Val couldn’t have done this. “Since when do you believe in the gods?”
“Since always. Believing is one thing—worshipping on bended knee is something else.”
Veronyka rubbed her arms, trying to banish the chill night air.
“Have they kicked you out, then?” Val asked, a determinedly light note to her voice—as if it was of no importance to her at all.
“No, they didn’t. I’m . . .” The hollowness in Veronyka’s chest was spreading, clawing its way up her throat and making it difficult to speak, to breathe. “They’re putting her in the breeding enclosure. And I’m to work there as well.”
Saying the words out loud was like a slap across the face, and the gravity of what was happening finally caught up with her.
A breath escaped Val’s lips, as if she’d been hit in the stomach. “Do they know that you’re bonded?”
Veronyka shook her head. She was oddly grateful for Val’s shock, relieved to have someone on her side—but she dismissed the idea at once. Val was only ever on her own side.
“They think I have a gift with calming animals. I did the same thing with a horse once, and . . . they want to keep Xephyra in a cage, force her to mate, and . . .”
Her throat hitched, tightening painfully until she couldn’t speak at all. Against the cold numbness of her body, hot tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You cannot stand for this,” Val said, taking a step toward her. “You must free her.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Veronyka demanded.
“Xe Nyka,” Val said softly, reaching for her, but Veronyka dodged her touch.
“This is all your fault,” she snarled, before running to the servant barracks, leaving her sister standing there, her arm outstretched.
That night Veronyka dreamed for the first time in weeks.
She sat in a crowded, smoky room, at the foot of a large wooden bed.
She held a hand in hers and was unsurprised to find that it belonged to the same dark-haired girl as in her last dream. She seemed older now, in the early years of her womanhood, and their hands fit perfectly. Together they bent their heads in somber silence.
There was a man in the bed, apparently unconscious, buried in fine blankets and propped on embroidered pillows. His skin had a sallow tinge, and his brow was dotted with sweat.
He was dying.
In her dream Veronyka knew this, even without recognizing the black-robed priests of Nox or noticing the veiled mourners in the background. Incense burners filled the room, choking the air with their bittersweet smoke.
Dream-Veronyka had fond feelings for the dying man, but she loathed the woman who stood next to him with a hatred that made her stomach churn.
Dozens of others stood vigil in the room. Men and women, all dressed in the finery of the wealthy Golden Empire elite. One of the courtiers caught Veronyka’s attention, and the recognition she felt was almost enough to jolt her from the dream.
Tristan.
No, that couldn’t be right. This man was older than Tristan, but he had the same eyes, the same strong nose and stiff posture. Something in her mind clunked into place, and she knew this was Cassian she looked at. A much younger Cassian, but the distinctive widow’s-peak hairline was evident, along with the indents that would become dimples on either side of his mouth when he smiled.
What she was seeing . . . it must be the past, then—but whose past? She looked at the girl next to her again. There was something familiar about her, but of course, Veronyka had been visiting this girl in her dreams for years.
A low rush of murmurs drew her attention. A stillness had come over the dying man, and a healer moved forward, checking his hands and neck before shaking her head and drawing the blanket up over his face.
The hated woman let out a wail, but it was nothing to the fierce chasm that had opened inside Veronyka. She clutched at the hand she still held as all around the room, the richest and wealthiest people in the empire turned in her direction and bowed. . . .
Veronyka awoke in the dark. She was more tired than when she’d fallen asleep, and her eyes were dry and puffy. The dream had been strange, but what had come before it had been stranger; Azurec’s Day had delivered Veronyka the pieces of her old life again, except they didn’t fit back together as they once had.
Xephyra’s arrival had helped clarify things, putting Veronyka’s position into perspective. Her bondmate did not belong in a cage, and if that meant Xephyra didn’t belong here, with the others, then neither did Veronyka.
It made her ache to think of leaving Tristan behind, of what they might have become together if things were different.
But as she’d said to Val: If things were different, she’d be a Phoenix Rider.
Veronyka slipped out of the barracks before sunrise. She doubted Tristan would come by for their predawn run, but she wanted to avoid it in case he did. There was no point in pretending or getting her hopes up, and she wasn’t ready to see him just yet.
The stars were still out, her only companions as she made her solitary way through the stronghold. She had several hours until she had to report at the Eyrie, and she sensed Xephyra sleeping comfortably through the bond. Her time was her own.
She started in the grassy field in front of the village, where the remnants of the previous day’s celebrations still remained. The obstacle course was gone, but after so many nights spent going through the exercise, Veronyka could still see it in her mind’s eye. This was where everything had changed for her, and it was where she felt most at home at the Eyrie.
Though the sky was growing paler to the east, Veronyka could pretend this was any other night, that Tristan was by her side, and everything was as it had been. But in that scenario, Xephyra was dead. So instead Veronyka imagined a new reality, one where she and Tristan did the obstacle course together, Rex and Xephyra by their sides.
Her heart lifted, and she let the vision dissipate.
Next Veronyka wended her way through the village. She spotted Old Ana hunched over her summer squash, tugging up weeds, and Lars, the metalsmith, waved as he started the fires for his day’s work.
The stables were dark and quiet, the calming rustle of sleeping animals the only sound to punctuate the silence. Veronyka soaked it in, running her hands along horse flanks and murmuring soothing words as she passed. She poked her head into the fenced area where the dogs slept and received several sleepy tail wags in response.
The dining hall was mostly empty, so Veronyka took her time over a warm meal of oats and honey. Morra was busy getting started on the baking for the day, though she paused long enough to give Veronyka a wink and to slip an apple into her hand as she passed.
Veronyka forced her muscles to smile and kept h
er mind guarded as tightly as she could as she said her silent goodbyes.
At first light Veronyka reported to the Eyrie for duty, just as the commander had instructed.
She was eager to see her bondmate. Maybe once she did, she’d have the strength to do what needed to be done.
The man who tended the female phoenixes was a local animage named Ersken. He and Beryk had grown up together in Petratec, and he was an expert at breeding hunting falcons, which was why the commander had enlisted him—with Beryk’s help.
It was clear, however, that Ersken was out of his league in trying to breed phoenixes. He was grave but honest, telling her that most of his chores involved feeding the birds and cleaning the enclosure. They also needed to be exercised daily, preferably when the other phoenixes were out flying. The so-called breeding happened only once a month, for a week, and with virtually no success—unless you counted the single egg that was probably fertilized outside the enclosure anyway.
Though the Eyrie was open to the clear blue sky several hundred feet above, the bottommost levels were shady and cool, untouched by the early morning sun.
Ersken led her around, pointing into workrooms and storage areas, but Veronyka was too distracted to pay much attention. All she cared about was seeing Xephyra.
At last they climbed down the stairs of the gallery, which ran the length of the circular space, and into the courtyard below.
The enclosure stood before them.
While the area was large and clean, it was still a cage, excavated directly from the stone of the mountain, with bars that enclosed it on both sides: where it opened into the Eyrie, and at the back, which gave a view of the gorge and steep mountain cliffs beyond. There appeared to be a matching enclosure next to the first one, but it was dark and unused—awaiting more females, Veronyka thought darkly. The pair of them reminded her of prison cells.
A rustling sound from the first enclosure drew her attention—phoenixes stirring in the shadows—then suddenly Xephyra lurched forward to greet her. The space inside was high enough that they could perch out of sight in cracks and crevices and wide enough that they could stretch their wings and fly from side to side. Ersken seemed surprised by Xephyra’s warm welcome of Veronyka and took the chance to fill the phoenixes’ water trough from a nearby barrel.
At the sound of the sloshing water, the two other females came forward, but with far more wariness than Xephyra. The nearer of the two was just a bit smaller than Veronyka’s bondmate, eyes bright with curiosity. The one behind was larger, her purple crest and tail almost black at the tips, and emanated nothing but cold, fierce hate. She puffed out her feathers, making herself look even bigger, and returned to the shadows of the enclosure after inspecting Veronyka with a detached stare. Veronyka had the sense that she was very old, though she couldn’t be certain—the phoenix’s mind was locked tight.
Xephyra’s beak pushed eagerly between the wide bars, and with a glance to make sure Ersken was occupied, Veronyka stroked it gently. Even after everything, Xephyra still wanted to be near her, still loved her. Veronyka tried to think of words, of apologies and reassurances and regrets, but she found that she didn’t need them. Xephyra knew. They were bonded, after all, and while they might need time to mend the strong bridge they’d once had between them, it was still there, and Xephyra knew her heart.
There were endless questions to ask as well—about where her bondmate had been and what had happened in their time apart—but Veronyka let them rest for now. They had forever to catch up.
The feathers along Xephyra’s neck were smooth and silky, and with a bit of searching, Veronyka located the barest hint of a scar in her shoulder joint, where the arrow had grazed her wing the previous night. Phoenixes healed quickly, and the wound had been superficial.
The relief Veronyka felt at being here with Xephyra, seeing her safe and unharmed, was powerful. She actually had to grip the bars for balance, pushing slow, steady breaths through her nostrils. It was okay. Xephyra was okay. She had known it, would have felt it through the bond if Xephyra had been harmed, but it still meant something to see it with her own eyes.
Suddenly everything else seemed more manageable. Veronyka and Xephyra were together again. Truly that was all that mattered.
Still, Xephyra was confused by her confinement, and her mind was somewhat frantic and scattered. Val’s face kept popping up, but Veronyka supposed that her sister’s actions had left their mark on her bondmate. She had died, after all. Veronyka wondered if Xephyra even understood what had happened to her. It had been about two months since she’d been poisoned, and their weeks apart had put a bit of a communication barrier between them, as if Xephyra’s development had been stunted without constant contact with her bondmate.
Finished with the water, Ersken straightened up, and Veronyka stepped back from the bars. He explained that they always exercised after eating in the morning, and that he used the food to lure the phoenixes close and distract them so they could be fitted with cuffs linked to coils of chain. This allowed them to fly but not escape. They were fed well, at least. The bowls of dried fruit and nut porridge looked very much like the breakfast they’d served in the dining hall that morning, flavored with a heavy dose of honey. Phoenixes could survive on almost anything, but they tended to prefer sweeter fare.
Veronyka watched uneasily as Ersken placed the leashes on their legs. Like the metallic net that had ensnared Xephyra, these cuffs were treated with flame-resistant resin made from the sap of the pyraflora—the Fire Blossom tree—which protected against the intense heat of phoenix fire. The petals of the Fire Blossoms, sometimes called Phoenix Flowers for their fiery red color, could also be made into a vicious poison. Veronyka wondered if that was the same poison Val had used on Xephyra. Surely it was the most readily available in the wilds of Pyrmont.
There was an old Pyraean song her maiora used to sing about the pyraflora tree, and though Veronyka couldn’t remember every word, fragments of it ran through her head as Ersken uncoiled the chains.
. . . feathers red and petals dead, ash and bone make up its bed,
fire bright as blood soon bled, ever will you rest your head . . .
When the metal cuff slid onto Xephyra’s leg and clanged shut, she reared back in confusion and alarm, the chain rattling loudly against the bars. Veronyka tried to soothe her, while fighting to keep her own emotions in check. Tears stung at the back of her eyes, and rage simmered in her stomach.
“It always takes a bit of gettin’ used to,” Ersken said, seeing the pain in Veronyka’s face as she swiped at her cheeks. “For them an’ you.”
Veronyka nodded, though she couldn’t keep her eyes off Xephyra. She might be well cared for, safe and unharmed, but this was no life for a phoenix. The sight caused a crackle of clarity to shoot through her mind.
Veronyka had two choices: tell them the truth and suffer the consequences, or flee with Xephyra in secret. She couldn’t decide which option was scarier. It seemed that running away would be easier now—and certainly less daunting than facing Tristan, Morra, and the commander and admitting that she’d lied to their faces repeatedly—but what would happen to them in the long run? Where would they go?
But if she told them now, they might decide that, after proving herself to be an untrustworthy liar, they would be better off without her. They might force her away—or worse, lock her up as some kind of criminal, the way they’d tried to do when she first arrived. And what would happen to Xephyra then? Why not avoid the hurt and disappointment on Tristan’s face—and the danger to herself and Xephyra—and just sneak out of here in the middle of the night?
Of course, while telling everyone the truth presented the possibility of leaving the Eyrie, ashamed and alone, running away now guaranteed it. Veronyka didn’t think she could handle the smug look on Val’s face if they rejected her after she revealed the truth of who she was, but slinking away like a coward felt wrong. It might save her the judgment of the people she’d come to care about, but would it
save her judgment from herself? The fact that it was most certainly what Val would do made Veronyka want to do it even less. If she ran away, wouldn’t she and Xephyra just wind up with Val again, settling back into their old pattern?
There was also the matter of the other female phoenixes to think about. If Veronyka found a way to release Xephyra, surely she’d have to release the others as well. She owed it to them, and yet . . . would she be dooming the Phoenix Riders forever? Dooming Tristan?
Once Ersken finished with Xephyra, he fitted the other two phoenixes with cuffs, introducing them as he worked. “This sweet lady is called Xolanthe, though I call her Xoe, more often than not. She’s right curious—and a bit impulsive, truth be told,” he said fondly, patting her neck after the leash had been secured. Xoe twitched and ruffled her feathers as the cuff was fastened but otherwise allowed him to do his work.
“Her Majesty Xatara, on the other hand,” Ersken said with a sigh, “likes to make trouble.” He frowned as he tried to reach the leg of the older, larger phoenix, who was spreading her wings, forcing her smaller competition away from the food. “She’s fierce as fire and twice as hungry. Her Highness demands respect, and so I give it to her. Best to cuff her last. That way—” He cursed, drawing his arm back as a cut opened near his elbow, courtesy of Xatara’s sharp claws. He reached back in with clenched teeth, closing the clasp with a snap before stepping back and reaching for a rag. “That way if you’re wounded, you can tend to it straightaway.”
He mopped at the blood and examined several bright red burn marks. He wore a leather jerkin and armguards to protect himself, but they didn’t cover the entirety of his skin. The exposed flesh near his elbows and hands was covered in pale scars and partially healed scabs.
“Xolanthe and Xatara?” Veronyka asked. They matched the names of two warrior phoenixes from The Pyraean Epics, an anthology of songs and poems written during the Reign of Queens. Val had memorized the collection and used to recite it when they were trapped inside for days during the cold, rainy winters. “Are they sisters?”
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