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 children 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