Crown of Feathers

by Nicki Pau Preto

  Since Tristan had none of his own lessons or duties to attend to, he joined Nyk down in the enclosure with the female phoenixes. The birds were riled up and restless, snapping when Nyk slid the food through the slot and even more agitated as the day wore on and they weren’t allowed out for their exercise.

  Nyk seemed less upset to be down there than he had the previous night, Tristan watching with a smile as the new phoenix interacted with one of the other females—Tristan was pretty sure his father had named her Xolanthe—and actually laughing when the two playfully nipped and trilled at each other. Tristan’s heart lightened at the sound. He had done the right thing standing up to his father against the breeding cages, no matter what it cost him personally.

  Tristan did his best to assist Nyk with his duties, since Ersken was busy tending the apprentice mounts, but he sensed he was more of a hindrance than a help. Every sound from the stronghold above—the bells tolling the hour or the shout and clang of servants going about their usual work—caused Tristan to jerk upright or strain his hearing, often knocking over barrels of feed or stumbling into Nyk in the process.

  Lunch came and went, and still there was no message or word from Fallon’s Riders. Patrols rarely took this long—and if they did, a pigeon was usually sent with an update. The commander remained poised atop the battlements, and the atmosphere in the stronghold was tense.

  By midafternoon Tristan couldn’t sit still and had taken to pacing in front of the enclosure. His father had told him off for doing the same thing out on the walls, where everyone could see, so he’d returned to the bottom of the Eyrie.

  Nyk seemed stressed too, or maybe Tristan’s mutterings and shuffling feet were putting him in an agitated mood. He had accidentally stepped on Nyk’s toes more than once, and he expected he was one stomping away from being told off, when a horn blast echoed off the stone walls rising all around them.

  Tristan froze, and didn’t move again until the second and third blasts sounded.

  He stared up at the sky, brows knit together.

  “Does that mean . . . did they light another signal?” Nyk asked, looking between Tristan and the upper levels of the Eyrie. “Is there another attack?”

  Tristan shook his head slowly, uncertainly. Yes, he was about to say, though he didn’t want it to be true. What other reason would they blow the horn three times? “I have to go,” he said, and ran up the stairs. Nyk’s footsteps sounded in the stairwell just behind him, and together they emerged into the courtyard.

  Tristan’s heart sank. He could actually see the thick column of smoke that was rising in the distance, visible over the soaring cliffs to the east. This wasn’t the original signal, and it was clearly from a different village altogether.

  Two raiding parties?

  Tristan found his father and waited impatiently as he spoke to some guards. The instant they were dismissed, Tristan spoke.

  “That looks like it’s coming from Petratec,” he said. “Someone has to go.”

  The commander must have recognized the look on his son’s face, because he answered the unasked question with a forceful jerk of the head.

  “Absolutely not—you’re not ready,” he said, and Tristan deflated. “I will go.”

  Tristan forgot his disappointment at once. His father was about to go to battle. Tristan had been barely a year old the last time his father had been in combat, and the reality of the situation hit him in a way it hadn’t yet. For the commander to get personally involved . . . things must be truly dire.

  His father hailed Beryk and gave him instructions. With a nod, his second-in-command hurried back to the Eyrie with the other Riders from their patrol in tow. The swell of energy within the complex changed, anticipation crackling in the air. The commander was about to fly out to meet raiders, preparing for the first aerial battle since the Blood War.

  The Phoenix Riders were truly back.

  His father turned to him. “Tristan, you will be in charge in my stead,” he said.

  The breath caught in Tristan’s throat. “Me?” he asked faintly. The world seemed to shrink around them, until it was just Tristan and his father. A tingling, weightless sensation swept through his body. “But—you just said I wasn’t ready, and after last night . . .”

  The corner of the commander’s lips quirked ever so slightly. “I asked you to show me your leadership skills, and you did. I respect your conviction and your willingness to sacrifice your own ambition for what you believe is right. Just because I don’t want you flying blind into a dangerous situation for your very first patrol does not mean I don’t think you a worthy leader and a valuable asset to the Phoenix Riders.”

  Tristan swallowed thickly, and to his intense embarrassment, the back of his eyes pricked with coming tears.

  His father’s amusement shifted and his expression turned soft. “You’ll do well, Son,” he said at last.

  “Thank you, Father,” Tristan said, his voice as steady as he could make it. He raised his chin and straightened his spine.

  His father nodded in approval. “You will work closely with Captain Flynn, and send a pigeon immediately if anything should change here. If all else fails, light the beacon.”

  He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, gripping it tightly for a moment, before following his patrol to the Eyrie.

  Tristan watched in stunned silence as, several long minutes later, the Riders flew from beyond the archway, leaving a blazing trail across the cloudy sky.

  “Tristan,” said a voice near his elbow, and Tristan turned to find Nyk standing there. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he said at once, arranging his face in his best approximation of calm self-assuredness. “Of course.”

  Nyk lifted a brow at him, and Tristan knew his efforts at bravado were wasted. He glanced around, looking for something matter-of-fact to do or say, but he was distinctly overwhelmed. Guards were rushing back and forth across the courtyard, their weapons clinking together and their boots thudding on stone as they called out reports and took up new positions. Servants continued about their work, though they watched the commotion with wary stares.

  Tristan faltered; what did someone do when they were in charge?

  The question was soon answered for him when a guard summoned Tristan to the top of the wall.

  Happy to have something to do, he mounted the steps near the front gate, and Nyk followed. The guard pointed to the edge of the field, at the top of the steps to the way station.

  A ragged figure was visible, helped by a guard across the grassy plain toward the village gates. As they watched, three more guards poured from the village to meet them. They surrounded the newcomer just as he fell to his knees, a bulky satchel weighing him down.

  Tristan frowned. He looked like a raider.

  As the raider and his guard escort made their way through the village, Tristan barreled down the staircase, where more guards and servants milled around the entrance to the stronghold. He forced his way through, Nyk close to his back.

  The boy was being helped through the double doors. His clothes were ripped and sweat-soaked, his skin bruised and smeared with dirt. His eyes were hooded—not exactly closed, but unaware of his surroundings. His skin was ashen around the shadows of his eyes, and his breath rattled unevenly—probably thanks to the arrow protruding from his shoulder. He was unarmed, and yet his leather-padded tunic, tall boots, and weapons belt marked him for what he was: a fighter. Given that he wore no uniform or crest indicating an employer, Tristan could only assume he was a raider.

  A small crowd gathered to have a look, and Nyk stood among them, staring down at the raider with surprising intensity.

  Tristan turned to the nearest guard, the one who had helped the boy from the top of the way station stairs. “Why did we just take the enemy into our protection?” he asked.

  The guard wiped his sweaty brow and straightened. “Says he has information about the attacks.” He waved at the arrow wound. “I don’t think he parted with his comrades on g
ood terms.”

  Tristan had to agree—the raider was in rough shape. His tunic was so bloodied it appeared dark brown in color, when the hemline told Tristan it had once been closer to white. A satchel hung loosely off his good arm, and red lacerations from the strap crisscrossed the exposed skin of his neck. Whatever burden he bore, it was heavy.

  Still, Tristan didn’t want to take any chances, and he waved for several guards to keep their spears trained on the raider as Tristan knelt before him. A healer approached, and Tristan nodded, allowing her to press a skin of water to the boy’s lips. Drinking seemed to bring him somewhat back to life, even though it was clear that every swallow caused him pain. As he drank, the healer examined his wound.

  “What’s your name?” Tristan asked, drawing the boy’s attention. His eyes fluttered for a moment, blinking as he tried to focus.

  Tristan scanned the crowd, then spotted Ian, a wizened old guard. At a word from Tristan, the man produced a small flask. As soon as Tristan unscrewed the lid, the pungent stink of liquor singed his nostrils. It was petravin or “rockwine,” a distilled Pyraean liquor aged with a blend of local herbs and flowers, and made only in Petratec, the small village’s claim to fame.

  “Try this,” he said to the boy, despite the healer’s objection.

  The smell alone made him sit straighter, and he choked a mouthful down. He muttered darkly, but when he handed the flask back, his eyes were clearer. He nodded his thanks to Tristan.

  “Your name?” Tristan prodded.

  “Sev,” the boy said, his voice rough and thin. “I’ve . . . come . . . to warn you,” he said, gasping as he fought to say the words. “There are soldiers . . . coming up the mountain, and—”

  He stopped abruptly, clutching at his shoulder while the healer peeled aside the stiff, blood-soaked fabric that stuck to his skin.

  “We know about the raiders,” Tristan said, drawing Sev’s attention back to their conversation. “They’ve struck two villages, and our best Riders have flown out to meet them.”

  “No,” Sev said, eyes widened in alarm. “They’re not raiders—they’re soldiers, sent by the empire.”

  Silence met his words. Tristan was oddly frozen, unable to react. Soldiers sent by the empire . . .

  “They’re coming here,” Sev continued through a grimace. “Those others—they must be traps. Tricks or decoys.”

  Before Tristan could think of what to do or say, Elliot burst to the front of the group.

  “Was there a girl with them?” he demanded, speaking directly to Sev. He flung himself to the ground and gripped the front of Sev’s shirt, eyes frantic.

  When Sev gaped at him, clearly stunned, Elliot’s face contorted with rage, and it looked like he might start shaking him. Tristan had never seen Elliot lose his temper. He was always cool, distant—detached, even. There was usually a stoic rigidity to him, but not anymore.

  His shock subsiding, Tristan lurched to his feet and grabbed Elliot’s arm, drawing him back. “What are you doing?” he demanded, but Elliot fought against his grip.

  “Did they have a girl? A hostage?” Elliot continued, still speaking to Sev. “Her name is Riella. She’s only thirteen—”

  “A hostage?” Tristan repeated sharply, jerking Elliot around to face him. “Your sister was taken hostage? When?”

  Elliot blinked, focusing on Tristan for the first time. His eyes bulged, as if he’d only just realized what he’d done. He took a long, shuddering breath.

  “It happened right after your father recruited me.” Elliot seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumped and his head drooped. “The man was a captain in the military and said he was working on behalf of one of the empire’s governors—but he never said which one. They were watching my family because of my father’s work with the Office for Border Control. Suspected him of ‘animage sympathies’ and of helping people cross into Pyra undocumented. When they saw Beryk, a known Rider, make contact with my father, they told me I had to go with him. I was actually happy, at first,” he said, his voice hollow. “I didn’t understand what they really wanted until the commander denied my sister. They were going to take our father, but then they took her instead. They said if I didn’t do what they wanted, or if my father or I told anyone, they’d kill her.”

  “Why did they take her, Elliot?” Tristan asked, forcing his voice to be smooth and steady despite the jagged edge beneath it. Hostages were taken as a guarantee. . . . What was it that Elliot had promised to deliver?

  Elliot looked up, tears rimming his eyes. “They wanted me to tell them about the operation here. Where it was . . . how many Riders . . . procedures and protocols . . .”

  “So you were their spy,” Tristan said, his voice cold now, but he could help it no longer. Elliot’s interest in being steward, all the errands and letters supposedly on Beryk’s behalf—all of it had been a lie, a cover, so he could move about the stronghold unquestioned.

  “They said they would kill her,” Elliot repeated, tone pleading.

  “You should have told us. My father has connections in the empire. We could have gotten—”

  “If your father reached out to anyone, they’d know I told. Tristan, please—I tried to back out. The last time Beryk and I went to Vayle . . . I met with him, the captain who had my sister. I told him I needed proof that she was okay before I gave them any more information. But they didn’t bring her,” he said desperately. “Just gave me some letter, could have been written by anyone . . .”

  Tristan released Elliot roughly, his voice shaking with frustration. “You never should have done that alone. We could have helped you. We could have given them false leads, invited your sister here, come up with some excuse to extricate her—anything would have been better than this. What did you think would happen here, Elliot? What did you think they were going to do with the intelligence you fed them?”

  The tears fell down Elliot’s cheeks now, and they made Tristan’s throat tight. He couldn’t afford to get so emotional, but it was hard to look at the face of the person who had doomed them.

  “I didn’t see her,” Sev piped in hoarsely from his place on the ground. “There was no girl with us, no hostage. Maybe they were lying.”

  Elliot squeezed his eyes shut, his face crumpling.

  Tristan raked a hand through his hair. With a nod, he ordered two guards to escort Elliot away for further questioning.

  Low murmurs broke out as he left, and the other apprentices exchanged stricken looks. Nyk stared at Elliot’s retreating back, his expression bleak. Tristan ignored everyone’s reactions and drew a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He tried to channel his father, his sense of unflappable confidence and infinite capability.

  Instead he felt like a child marching around in his father’s oversize Riding boots.

  He turned back to Sev. “How many?” he asked. They needed to devise a defense strategy, but to do that, Tristan needed more information.

  Sev swallowed, blinking slowly. The brief burst of energy the rockwine had given him was already fading away. “Near four hundred, I think. We had two hundred in my regiment, and we met with a second group last night. But those village attacks . . . they must have come from another group of soldiers, traveling somewhere else on the mountain. There’s no way our party could have gotten there in time. So there could be more . . .”

  Tristan closed his eyes, nodding, as if merely confirming the number of guests at a dinner party. At least four hundred armed soldiers, coming here? When all their best fighters were gone?

  He opened his eyes again. “How do we know you aren’t a part of the diversion?” he asked, considering the boy before him. Elliot’s betrayal had shaken him, and he did not want any more nasty surprises. “You’re a soldier, aren’t you? And you betrayed them. Why should we trust you?”

  Sev stared dully at him, but made no answer. Tristan tried to think of what his father would do.

  “Get Morra,” he said, twisting to address a guard behind him.

  “Alre
ady here,” came Morra’s gruff voice as she moved her way to the front of the crowd. The guards made room for her, and she paused before Sev, propping both hands on her crutch as she considered him.

  Tristan’s father trusted Morra implicitly. He said she had an uncanny ability to tell truth from lies, a knack for sniffing out information. Tristan had heard Beryk and the others whisper the term “shadowmage,” but of course his father didn’t hold with superstitions. There was no proof or written record that shadowmages were real, but Tristan knew the stories. If even half of them were true, he had no doubt that Morra was one of them.

  It made a chill run down his spine. Tristan was honest by nature—possibly to a fault, given the trouble it had gotten him in with his father—but Morra still made him a bit uneasy. It was the secretiveness of her magic that bothered him, not the magic itself. Shadow magic could be used to sniff out lies, but it did so in a deceitful way—snooping and sneaking around. If people were just truthful, there would be no need for such magic—or for people to keep the fact that they had that magic a secret.

  Or maybe Tristan was fooling himself. His fear of fire was something he hid from others, and maybe the threat of exposure was what made him dislike the idea of shadow magic.

  Still, he couldn’t deny that it came in handy.

  “Who have we here . . . ?” Morra murmured, expression thoughtful. “Friend or foe?”

  “Friend,” Sev said. His face was clammy with sweat, but he sat up straighter as he continued. “And I was sent by another friend, Ilithya Shadowheart.”

  Pheronia was not fit to rule, and the council manipulated her every move. I had to step in.

  - CHAPTER 36 -

  VERONYKA

  VERONYKA TOOK AN UNCONSCIOUS step forward.

  She’d been in a daze since she recognized the soldier they’d dragged in, filthy and bloody but unmistakable. The boy who had saved her life outside her cottage, and in turn, whose life she had saved from Val’s wrath. By convincing her sister to stay her hand, Veronyka had allowed this boy to deliver his message and warn them of the impending attack. Her head spun.