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.
“Why?” she demanded, swallowing around the lump in her throat.
The sky was a dark, dusky gray, and the flickering lanterns on the gallery above—along with the reddish glow from the lit phoenix beacon—limned Tristan in a halo of red and gold. His face was shadowed, but when he took another wary step forward, his grim features came into clearer view.
“Look,” he began hesitantly. “This wasn’t . . . I didn’t—I made a mistake.” Veronyka blinked in surprise. He looked around, as if trying to find words, and then gripped his hair with both hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Can’t you see that?” he practically shouted, his composure crumpling. “I don’t how to run this place, and what if the commander—my father—never comes back?”