But by the time Veronyka was able to scale the rocky hill above the tunnel entrance, Val was nowhere in sight, and Veronyka couldn’t see which direction she’d gone.
Veronyka tried their mental connection, but it was as silent as the world around her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it did no good—the Feather-Crowned Queen was there, staring back at her with Val’s face.
Dread crept up Veronyka’s body like snaring vines, rooting her to the spot.
Val. Avalkyra. Avalkyra.
But . . . how?
Avalkyra Ashfire was dead. She’d died at the end of the Blood War . . . sixteen years ago. Everyone said so. Avalkyra had been burned to death, shot down during the final battle and consumed by her dying bondmate’s flames. But had she stayed dead?
Morra’s words from weeks ago floated to the surface of Veronyka’s mind.
All it takes is fire and bones.
Veronyka stared into the trees, her heart thumping in an uneven rhythm. She had the feeling that Val watched her—and yet she couldn’t unstick her feet, couldn’t seem to follow or call out for her.
If she did call out, what name would she use?
Eventually that prickly sensation of being watched receded, and Veronyka made her slow return to the Eyrie, her mind still in a daze. Though she couldn’t remember deciding to go there, when Veronyka climbed out of the cellar, her feet carried her into the kitchens.
For once, things were quiet in the vaulted room. While the fireplaces that warmed the hall and cooked their food burned hot and bright, the usual dozen or so kitchen helpers and servants were gone, busy tending to other things. Morra manned several large pots that simmered over the flames, while her worktable was covered with bunches of dried herbs and a handful of mismatched jars.
The room smelled medicinal, and Veronyka assumed Morra was brewing healing potions or sedatives for the people being carted off to the temple infirmary.
She looked up at Veronyka’s approach, and her smile was full of weary relief. She released the spoon she’d been using to stir and wiped her hands on her apron before limping forward and pulling Veronyka into a warm hug.
After directing Veronyka onto a nearby stool, Morra held her shoulders for a moment and surveyed her for damage. “You’re all right,” she said, half to Veronyka, half to herself, before leaning back against the table for balance. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost—not surprising, after your first battle—but you’re all right.” She paused, staring at Veronyka’s face. “Aren’t you, Nyk, lad?”
Was she? Veronyka didn’t know, but she nodded anyway, struggling to find the words to reassure the woman.
Morra limped away, returning with a hot cup of tea for Veronyka to drink. It smelled of sticky-sweet honey and mottled herbs, and as she sipped, her head began to clear.
“Morra . . . what did you mean when you said you were looking for resurrections after the Blood War?”
Her stories about the Mercies had stuck with Veronyka, though she hadn’t been sure exactly why—until now. When Morra had said she was certain she could find someone, Veronyka had thought it was a strange way of phrasing it. As if she hadn’t been talking about phoenixes at all, but people.
Morra frowned at her before hooking another stool and dragging it over, taking a seat next to Veronyka. She scratched her chin thoughtfully.
“Phoenixes can be reborn. This you know. But if they are bonded, phoenix and Rider can do the same.”
Veronyka stared at her. She should feel shocked, completely and utterly bewildered, but after what Val had just shown her . . .
“It’s a complicated magic,” Morra continued, “and it’s happened only a handful of times since the First Riders. It takes intense magical power, a bond that neither fear nor death can shake. But if done properly, a bonded pair can die a glorious warrior’s death and be reborn together from the ashes.”
Veronyka drank her tea with a shaking hand, trying to wrap her brain around the idea. Phoenixes were magical, and their ability to resurrect was well-documented—her own bondmate had done it. But the idea that a human could do it was unbelievable.
Or at least, it would be . . . if Veronyka hadn’t just seen evidence of it with her own two eyes.
While she’d always had strange dreams, when Veronyka looked back, she realized that those dreams—the ones that featured the two girls—had always been unique. Even as other frequently seen people and places would follow her for weeks, only to disappear, never to be seen again, these girls always returned.
Veronyka had just assumed they were stubborn memories, clinging to her mind and resurfacing during moments of exhaustion or weakness. Maybe they kept coming back because they puzzled her, so crisp in detail and yet disconnected from Veronyka’s own life. It had never occurred to her to look around the real world for answers.
To look at Val, the person who always slept by her side.
Now that she thought of it, Veronyka hadn’t dreamed about the two girls once on her journey to the Eyrie or in the weeks she’d spent training with Tristan—even while other, more mundane dreams beset her. But the night of the solstice festival, the night Val arrived, she’d seen the king’s death.
Veronyka mentally rifled through all the shadow magic dreams she could remember having in her life—the ones that featured the two girls. This latest vision told her that they were the sisters Avalkyra and Pheronia. Veronyka had seen them study together, walk together, run and play together. She’d seen their father die in his sickbed, while the empire elite like Commander Cassian looked on.
And she’d seen the dissolution of their attempts at peace and coexistence, thrusting them into the final conflict of the Blood War. What had Val said to Veronyka right before leaving her at the bottom of the Eyrie?
Then I hope for your sake, Veronyka, that you’ve chosen the right side.
Sides . . . was that how Val saw things? Since Veronyka wasn’t with her, she was now against her? Was Val still fighting the Blood War, or was she trying to start a new one?
As Veronyka came back to herself, she realized Morra was scrutinizing her closely. “Has something else happened?” Morra asked, frowning. “It’s not Tristan, is it? Or one of the other Riders? Cassian told me they’d all made it back.”
“Tristan’s fine. Everything’s . . .” Well, everything was most certainly not fine, but Morra already knew that. “It’s nothing. I just . . .”
“It’s natural to wonder about resurrection and rebirth, when there’s so much death about,” Morra said, somewhat mollified, though she still seemed troubled by Veronyka’s behavior.
Before she could say more, several people bustled in, looking for ointments and salves and herb tea. Morra got up to attend to them, and Veronyka slid off her stool and went back outside.
She offered assistance everywhere she could—to the healer’s helpers who’d retrieved the medicine from Morra, to the builders and laborers who were putting out fires and clearing away detritus, and to the guards who were trying to reestablish a watch and ensure there were no further attacks forthcoming—but everyone turned her away. Even Jana, who had an arm in a sling and was covered head to toe in dust and dirt, insisted that everything was well in hand. People kept telling her to lie down, to relax, to take the opportunity to rest.