Veronyka dropped her hand, and Tristan turned to the others. “There will be a town meeting in the cookhouse this morning. All are invited. I’ll need someone to take notes—Lysandro?” he asked, looking to his cousin, who nodded at once, a satchel with ink and paper already in hand.
“What about the rest of us?” asked Ronyn, glancing uneasily around at the villagers who were now drifting out of their homes, whispering and pointing at the newcomers or walking purposefully toward the cookhouse. There was an air of hostility—or at least wariness—in the way they regarded the Phoenix Riders, as if wondering what new harm they might bring down on the village.
“We’ll get started,” Veronyka said, looking between them. She didn’t know about the others, but she had lived through tenement fires, burglars, raids, and riots before. She’d lost count of how many times she’d scavenged wood from junk heaps to repair broken window shutters or helped her maiora scrub ash and charcoal from their walls. They were so used to the possibility that everything could go to pieces overnight that they buried their valuables—such as they were—into the dirt floor, ensuring no harm from fire or thieves could come to them.
When they all turned to her with blank stares, she continued. “We’ll need to clear out the damaged wood, figure out what can be salvaged or repurposed and what can be burned. If we can get our hands on some distilled vinegar—the cookhouse or anyone who’s willing to donate from their reserves—we can make a solution with water and lemon and get scrubbing some of these stone exteriors….”
Tristan looked like he could kiss her. His face softened, his eyes bright with suppressed emotion—half gratitude, half relief. She knew that if the Riders were out here working—no matter how seemingly menial the task—everything would go easier for him inside.
Her cheeks heated at the intensity of his emotion and the way it begged to push through the barriers of her mind, but in truth, she wasn’t doing this for him.
She was doing it for the people of Vayle.
No matter how bleak things had felt whenever a wave of fires decimated an entire sector of the Narrows, it was in the moments after, when neighbors joined together to clean and build and salvage what they could, that Veronyka had felt truly connected to the world around her. When she felt she belonged somewhere. It was fleeting, perhaps, but it had taught her the power of togetherness.
The villagers had made a start—patches of buildings showed evidence of scrubbing, and most of the burned wood and debris had been cleared away—but it was easy to see how they’d been derailed. With no bridge, Vayle’s trade and commerce with the other villages must have screeched to a halt. That wasn’t to mention the way most of Pyra would have suffered when news of the empire soldiers spread through the countryside. Travel was practically nonexistent with or without a functional bridge, and many had been wounded—or worse—during the attacks. Villages like Vayle were trying to get back to business as usual, which for some meant rebuilding livelihoods from the ground up. It was still summer, but no doubt their winter stores were taking a hit as the people tried to piece their lives back together.
“Yes.” Tristan nodded vigorously at Veronyka before turning to the others. “Let’s get it done,” he said, before straightening his shoulders and striding toward the cookhouse with Lysandro.
To her intense surprise, Ronyn, Anders, and Latham turned to her, as if awaiting orders. “Any of you cleaned anything before?” she asked.
Anders and Latham glanced uneasily at each other, and Ronyn rolled his eyes. “My maiora had me scrubbing floors before I could walk,” he said, and Veronyka grinned.
“Okay. Anders and Latham, go get your axes and gloves from camp and start taking down what’s left of this bridge. Separate the wood into three piles: good, salvageable, and scrap. Make sure to save any metal nails or hinges. Once that’s done, see if the villagers will let you take down their damaged doors and shutters. Ronyn, you’ll come with me. Time to see if those muscles are good for more than just fighting.”
Ronyn gave a wolfish grin. “There won’t be a spot of soot when I’m through.”
“Good,” Veronyka said, smiling widely. “We’ll make your maiora proud.”
* * *
They worked well into the evening, until darkness prevented them from continuing. While the day had begun as a solitary effort by the Riders, by afternoon, children were gathering nails and refilling water buckets, while strong young adults helped carry planks of wood and scrubbed buildings and old folks were forcing cups of water and fresh crusts of bread into their hands. The atmosphere in the village had shifted from one of tension and mistrust to the satisfied companionship of a team effort.
Tristan and Lysandro were still locked away inside the cookhouse; Tristan had left the building once at midday, ensuring that the Riders were fed and that there were no squabbles and concerns in the village before returning, tired-eyed but determined, to his meeting with their leaders.
Back at camp they’d built a fire in the ring of ruins. The tents were pitched around it, their canvas walls rippling in the evening breeze.
Veronyka had been nervous to be alone with Tristan’s patrol now that the work was done, worried that her presence as an outsider would make things a bit awkward or tense. But the long day—and the fact that Veronyka had been an integral part of their effort—had forged a sense of camaraderie between them. The others seemed less wary of her presence, and they shared food and drink as if it were natural for her to be among them. As if she were accepted.
Later, while the others were settled inside their tents or slouched just outside, staring drowsily into the flames, Veronyka sat near the mouth of their camp so she could see down the slope toward Vayle, where golden lantern lights twinkled in the darkness. Rex and Xephyra were nearby, gnawing quietly on fallen branches from nearby walnut trees, keeping their beaks sharp as they tried to get to the sweet sapwood underneath.
Rex stopped abruptly, dropping his branch onto the earth with a thud as he raised his head, staring in the direction of the road. Footsteps and low whispers could be heard as Tristan and Lysandro finally made their return.
Rex leapt forward to greet his bondmate, while Lysandro’s mount, a more hesitant creature, fluttered excitedly just behind. Tristan clapped Lysandro on his back when they parted ways just outside the light of the campfire, murmuring words of thanks, and Lysandro’s face lit with pride as he joined the others.
“Hey, Rex,” Tristan said, patting his phoenix gently along his neck and receiving an affectionate nuzzle in return. After a quick survey of his bondmate, Rex ruffled his feathers in satisfaction and tried to return to his branch—but Xephyra had taken it up in his place and was now trying to keep both branches to herself. The two scuffled and squawked—Xephyra standing guard while Rex tried to bait and draw her out—until eventually Rex managed to steal Xephyra’s original branch, and she kept his—leaving them right back where they’d started, with a branch apiece.
“How did it go?” Veronyka asked, starting to get to her feet, but Tristan was slumped down on the ground next to her before she could stand, leaning against the heap of packs and supplies that Veronyka had been using as a seat. Their backs were to the fire, where Lysandro could be heard recounting the day’s events to Ronyn and Latham, who poked their heads out from their tents, trying to listen over the sound of Anders’s snores.