His arrival had been shocking enough—not to mention his dire message and Elliot’s betrayal—but nothing thus far had surprised her more than his last two words.
Veronyka thought her heart might have actually stopped.
Ilithya Shadowheart.
It was her maiora’s name. Well, the first half, anyway. When Veronyka was a child, Ilithya was too difficult to say, so she had simply used “grandmother” or “maiora.” Veronyka had never heard her called Shadowheart before, but something about it made a prickling awareness shoot through her.
And she wasn’t the only one to react so strongly.
“How do you know that name?” Morra demanded.
Veronyka stared between the two of them, breathless in anticipation.
“She was a bondservant with the soldiers’ party—working against them from the start. She tried to poison them all . . . to stop the attack, but . . .” He halted, panting, and Veronyka saw more than physical pain on his face. Nothing he had said confirmed this was the same Ilithya she’d been raised by, but nothing had contradicted it either. “I came instead to warn you and to deliver these.” He twitched his good arm, and the bag slid from his shoulder. He opened the flap, revealing that it was packed full of smooth gray stones.
Veronyka inhaled sharply at the familiar sight. It couldn’t be . . .
“Miseriya’s mercy,” Morra muttered under her breath, leaning closer. She turned to Tristan. “Are those . . . ?”
Tristan reached for the bag, hastily examining the contents before closing it again. He didn’t say a word, but his entire body crackled with suppressed energy. The crowd pushed in, but most hadn’t seen what was in Sev’s satchel—and it was plain that Tristan meant to keep it that way. Now was not the time to lose focus. If what the boy said was true, they had a small army coming for them.
Still, a bag full of phoenix eggs—a dozen by Veronyka’s count—was hard to ignore in a place like this.
Her arms tingled with something as bright and glittering as the sun on the River Aurys.
It felt like possibility. It felt like hope for the future . . . if they could survive the night.
Morra turned back to Sev. “Why would Ilithya choose you and not a fellow animage?”
“I am an animage.”
“An animage soldier?” she repeated skeptically, and Veronyka knew she was probing in his mind, using her shadow magic to discern if his words were true or false. She soon nodded, expression apologetic.
“Where is she now?” Morra pressed. “Ilithya?”
Sev opened his mouth to speak before swallowing thickly and shaking his head.
Morra swayed slightly, eyes glazed over—as if she was seeing something the others could not. Something from the soldier’s mind.
“Is she dead?” Veronyka whispered, looking between them. She itched to use her own shadow magic but knew she couldn’t risk it.
Sev nodded, and all the air left Veronyka’s lungs. If it was truly her maiora Ilithya, and she’d been alive all this time . . .
Veronyka thought back to the day Val had told her their grandmother was dead. Veronyka had figured Val had seen it, heard it—knew it—in the way she knew all manner of things Veronyka did not, and like a fool, she had taken her sister’s word as truth. Veronyka should have known better, even then, and was frustrated with herself as much as with Val. She scanned the surrounding faces for her sister, wanting to speak with her that instant, but she was nowhere to be found.
Morra straightened, blinking as she came back to herself. “Everything he says is the truth.”
A ripple of reaction spread through the crowd, as those at the front whispered what she’d said to those behind, while still more questions and concerns bounced back again.
“But how could a number so great move this far up Pyrmont unseen?” one of the guards asked, looking around the group. “A smoke signal should’ve been lit weeks ago, when they first started their climb.”
“They’d know better than to travel the main routes,” said a villager, while others nodded or murmured their agreement.
“Elliot’s information likely helped them avoid our scouts,” added Ronyn, his voice somber.
“They also traveled separately,” Morra said, echoing what Sev had said earlier. “That helped them draw less notice and placed them in strategic positions across the mountain. The closest regiment made camp in the Vesperaean Caves. They’re no more than half a day’s walk from the Field of Feathers, which means they could be here before nightfall.”
“Apprentice Tristan,” interrupted one of the guards, pushing through to the front of the group, Captain Flynn next to her.
“Yes?” Tristan said, clearly sensing her urgency.
“There’s a party of armed soldiers making its way up the Pilgrimage Road,” she said, slightly breathless. She spoke only to Tristan, but the onlookers leaned in to hear. “They will reach the way station within the hour.”
A bucket of icy water cascaded into Veronyka’s stomach. One hour?
“And it’s barely seven bells,” muttered Morra.
“What are their numbers?” Tristan asked.
“Near three hundred,” the lookout answered, face grim. “But there could be more under cover of the trees.”
Sev had told them to expect four hundred, so the soldiers must have divided their forces again, possibly planning separate or staggered attacks. The courtyard had gone quiet, the guards, servants, and villagers who stood nearby awaiting Tristan’s command.
He lifted his chin and drew himself up to his full height. He looked just like his father in that moment, and seemed to expand to fill the space around him.
“I want all villagers inside the stronghold immediately,” he told the lookout, who nodded and ran off. “Captain,” he continued, turning to the man the commander had put in charge alongside him, “I suggest you send your men to aid in the evacuation, as many as can be spared. As for the village gate . . .”
“I’ll see to it personally,” the Captain said. “We’ll barricade the doors, and I’ll choose a contingent of my best fighters to stay behind and defend it. The rest I’ll send up to the stronghold.”
Tristan nodded. “Use a runner to keep me informed, and ask Jana to ready the pigeons. We’ve got messages to send. In the meantime,” he continued, raising his voice over the noise of his orders being carried out, “I want every willing, able-bodied servant and villager lined up in this courtyard in fifteen minutes. We’ll hold the fort until the commander and the Riders return.”
The group around them began to disperse; Captain Flynn sent guards running this way and that, while servants hurried to prepare provisions. Morra left to question Elliot, hoping to glean more details about the coming attack.
Amid the tumult, Tristan crouched down in front of Sev. “Thank you,” he said, gesturing for the healer to relocate him to a safe place. “We are forever in your debt. These . . . ,” he said, gesturing to the eggs, “keep them with you, for now.”
As Veronyka moved to get out of the way, Sev’s gaze latched on to her. His eyes flickered with some distant recognition, but they were hazy with pain. Before Veronyka could react, he was lifted from the ground and carried out of sight.
She rubbed her aching temples. If Sev recognized her, if he asked after that girl he’d once met . . . It was a complication she did not need right now.
When she looked up, Tristan was already walking away, making straight for the temple. She frowned. “Where are you going?” she called.
“To light the beacon.”
As the courtyard buzzed around her, a surge of adrenaline coursed through Veronyka’s veins. So much was happening, so much was at stake. Soldiers and traitors and phoenix eggs. But with an army on their doorstep, one thing was for certain: Tristan had called for volunteers to protect the stronghold, and Veronyka intended to fight.
The courtyard was chaos as the battle preparations began—villagers being ushered into the empty barracks, clutching their chil
dren and whatever worldly possessions they could carry to their chests, while guards rolled barrels of grain across the cobblestones and servants hoisted sloshing buckets of water to the kitchens.
A small girl bumped into Veronyka—a girl with wild hair, a bird on her shoulder, and a homemade spear clutched in both hands.
“Sparrow?” Veronyka said incredulously, but already the girl was lost in the crowd. When had she come to the Eyrie? Had she arrived with Val and the minstrels, or had she been here even longer, skulking around the village and gathering all the gossip she could get her hands on?
Before Veronyka could locate her again, a loud crackling sound, followed by a searing hiss, filled the air.
She thought one of the phoenixes had ignited at first, but when she searched the sky, a flare of light drew her eye to the golden statue atop the temple. Apparently it doubled as a beacon, but rather than black smoke, like the village signal fires, whatever special leaves or grasses the Riders burned changed the smoke into vivid scarlet, tendrils of it crawling over the statue’s surface like a phoenix in a fire dive.
As Tristan made his way down the ladder, people moved swiftly in and out of the building below, carrying bedding and crates of supplies. The sacred space was being transformed into a kind of infirmary, and Veronyka wondered if Sev was in there now, and how many more would join him before the night was out.
Meanwhile, the courtyard was filling with volunteers—cooks, villagers, servants, and stablehands—and Veronyka lined up next to them.
She wiped her sweaty palms against her thighs, her heart hammering, and tried her best not to think about the reality of what was happening—of what volunteering to fight would mean. It felt like crossing some imaginary line, as if by participating, she was deciding to stay here once and for all. Whether or not that was true, she couldn’t just stand aside while Tristan and the others risked their lives, and she didn’t want to see the empire strike another blow to the Phoenix Riders.
As Tristan crossed the cobblestones, Veronyka caught sight of Val, standing in the shadow of the temple. She watched the volunteers with idle curiosity, but she made no move to join them. Veronyka fought against a pang of disappointment. Since when did Val shrink back from a fight? But then again, her sister didn’t think this fight was theirs to begin with.
Tristan’s face was grim as he surveyed the group. A few stragglers joined the ranks, and he began his progression along the line of volunteers. Next to him, a guard pushed a wheelbarrow of weapons, helping the new fighters choose a sling or crossbow or whatever best suited their abilities and size.
Veronyka couldn’t hear more than a low murmur, but one by one volunteers were given weapons and assigned positions. There were some children from the village that Tristan gave safer duties, like running messages or carrying waterskins, and Veronyka thought she spotted Sparrow among them.
At last Tristan turned to Veronyka.
“I’m ready to fight,” she said, not waiting for him to speak.
He took a long time to respond, so long that the silence between them grew from a breathless moment to a yawning chasm. Was he going to deny her? The thought hadn’t even occurred to her until now, and for once his emotions were locked up tight and out of her reach.
He forced a smile and laid a bracing hand on her shoulder. Veronyka knew immediately that this was not going to go as planned. Her breath came more shallowly, and she was suddenly aware of the dozens of eyes on her.
“You’ve only just begun your training,” he said quietly. “I can’t expose you to danger atop the walls, knowing that it was my decision that put you there. We could use more runners, or—”
“A runner?” she repeated, her voice flat. “Like the children?” Her neck and ears tingled with heat as whispers broke out around them.
“Nyk,” he said, but she didn’t let him continue.
“We’re all in danger here,” she said, hands gripping the rough fabric of her trousers to stop them from shaking.
“Nyk,” he said again, leaning in close, “there are plenty of other important tasks, not just running messages. Ersken will need help tending to the phoenixes in the Eyrie—not just the females.” He said this last bit as if he thought it would cheer her up. Maybe, a couple of days ago, it would have. She remained stony before him.
“Please don’t make this harder than it is,” he begged, eyes glittering with some suppressed emotion. Guilt? Pity?
She couldn’t believe he would deny her this in front of everyone, shame her in front of the other apprentices who watched nearby. He’d promised to help her and had told her that she belonged among them. That she’d make a good Rider. Now he was treating her like someone weak and useless and in need of protection.
He was treating her like Val always did.
Veronyka’s throat tightened with unshed tears, but she forced out her next words.
“Harder for who?” she asked, not bothering to keep her voice low. With that, she pushed past him and ran from the courtyard.
Veronyka went to the Eyrie. Not to carry out Tristan’s wishes, but because she didn’t know where else to go. She kicked a water bucket and screamed every curse she’d ever picked up at the Narrows docks or border village cookhouses.
Xephyra cocked her head at Veronyka, curiosity filtering through the bond as she tried to decipher the swear words that Veronyka barely understood herself.
Footsteps approached, and Veronyka knew who it would be.
She got to her feet and stared into the shadows. It was already dark in the depths of the Eyrie, the day’s muted, overcast light quickly fading away.
“What do you want, Val?” she demanded as soon as her sister emerged from the stairwell. She halted at Veronyka’s words.
“Don’t be angry with me because your precious Tristan didn’t want you fighting by his side. I told you this would happen, Veronyka. I told you these aren’t our people.”
Val meant to wound her on purpose, Veronyka knew that, and still her words cut deep—because there was truth in them. Tristan didn’t want her by his side.
“Tell me what happened to maiora Ilithya that day,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What?” Val asked, frowning, though Veronyka knew it was a performance. She hadn’t seen her, but she felt strangely certain that Val had been there hiding somewhere out of sight when Sev arrived. Val was like the rain—sometimes, when Veronyka paid attention, she could feel her presence like an ache in her bones.
“That soldier said he was working with a woman called Ilithya,” Veronyka said, pointing up to the courtyard. “He said she was a bondservant and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Veronyka. There must be hundreds of women with that name.”
“Ilithya Shadowheart.” There, a flicker—something shifting in Val’s eyes. Veronyka wished she knew how to properly use shadow magic, so she could reach out and snatch the truth from her sister’s head. “Our grandmother. You told me she was dead.”
Val actually rolled her eyes. “She was not our grandmother, xe Nyka. You know that.” She paused, chewing her lip. “She was dead to us either way. Her bondage was a life sentence.”
Veronyka squeezed her eyes shut, her blood pounding in her ears. All those years, lost. They could have looked her up, found where she was working and tried to visit her. They could have written her letters. They could have done anything—anything and everything was better than the nothing they had actually done.
“I know you’re upset, Veronyka,” Val said, her tone soothing. “Everything has come undone. But this is for the best. Fate led these soldiers here; they were guided by Anyanke’s own hand. I’ve tried to be patient, to give you as much time as possible, but this is what I’ve been waiting for—this is our chance to escape. To get both you and your bondmate out of this cage the Riders have built for you. Now, while they’re distracted with the defense preparations, we’ll free your phoenix and escape. We’ll free the other females too, if we can manage it, and then we’ll
sneak out through the underground service entrance.”
Veronyka stared at her sister. As a child, Veronyka always said that Avalkyra Ashfire was her hero, the person she most wanted to be like. But in truth, Val had been the one she’d looked up to. Whenever they were in trouble, she knew Val would get them out of it—and she did, though Veronyka often disagreed with her methods. Val had always seemed fearless, and maybe that was what Veronyka most admired.
Now she couldn’t help but look at her sister and see a coward. It wasn’t fearlessness that guided her sister; it was selfishness.
Veronyka thought of her maiora, who had sacrificed herself so the girls could run to safety. Even at her lowest point—her family lost, her phoenix gone, her life in bondage, and her queen dead—she still fought.
That was what a warrior did, a true Phoenix Rider. Val and the others were wrong. It wasn’t some rank to be earned, some standard to be met or a legacy to be lived up to. Phoenix Riders were the protectors of their people, warriors of light, and right now the empire soldiers represented the darkness come to swallow them whole.
Maybe Veronyka had been wrong to look up to Val and the Feather-Crowned Queen. Maybe she’d had a much better hero, her maiora, all along.
“Nyk?”
A voice echoed down from the stairwell. Both sisters jumped, but Val recovered first. She stepped backward, gaze darting around, as if looking for a place to hide—or a position to attack from.
Ersken had left a stack of storage crates lined up next to the enclosure. Val trailed a hand along the makeshift wall, then, discovering a narrow opening between the boxes, slipped into it and vanished.
“Val, where are you—” Veronyka began, but she froze when Tristan emerged from the mouth of the stairs. He strode purposefully toward her, but faltered halfway, his expression wary.
Veronyka tried, but she couldn’t conceal the pain the sight of him produced. Everything else faded away, and it was like she was back in the courtyard again.
Crown of Feathers Page 38
