It was so quiet that Veronyka wasn’t sure she’d heard it. Everyone around them slowed, then paused—even the soldiers stopped in their tracks to listen. Then second, third, and fourth blasts echoed across the mountaintop.
Veronyka found Xephyra in the sky above, and the phoenix let out a long, clear note—a call.
A heartbeat of silence, and then a faint, distant reply. It wasn’t a sound of alarm or defense. . . . It was a greeting.
The rest of the phoenixes in the stronghold repeated the sound, and soon the music of phoenix song filled the air.
Tristan twisted atop Wind’s back, trying to get a better view. Clouds stained pink and purple streaked across the sky in the distance, making way for the coming dawn. But closer at hand, a dozen small, wavering dots approached, trailing glittering threads of fire. Tristan let out a loud, joyful whoop.
The Riders had returned.
Of the fierce and formidable First Riders, none are so beloved as Nefyra and Callysta.
The heroics! The splendor! They flew together like the wings of the same bird and fought like the arms of the same warrior.
So flawless, so complete was their union, that they became one being, one person, connected for all eternity.
—“Wings of the Same Bird,” as sung by Mellark the Minstrel, circa 116 AE
There was so much blood. . . . My arrow, why did it have to be my arrow? The agony of regret, the sorrow of loneliness; I let the pain of it consume me.
- CHAPTER 41 -
VERONYKA
BY THE TIME THE Riders reached the stronghold, the soldiers had begun to scatter. Those who didn’t were attacked with renewed vigor from the defenders, encouraged by the sight of their shining warriors come home.
Tristan’s face shone when he saw his father among them, dirty and bloodied but alive, leading his troops with expert precision. It seemed that most had returned, though Veronyka had trouble getting a clear count. Their patrols were divided: One secured the stronghold, and the other gave pursuit to the soldiers fleeing back down the mountainside.
By the time the sun had crested the distant peaks, the last rope was severed and the final enemy soldier was cut down. Veronyka looked around, stunned to realize that the battle was won.
Her ears were ringing slightly, the shouts and screams and clashing metal of the fight now replaced with low voices and heavy footsteps. The guards and villagers took stock of their surroundings, while the apprentices called their mounts away from the stronghold, back to the Eyrie. It took only a shared glance for Veronyka to know that Tristan had to stay behind and speak with his father.
“I’ll check on Rex,” she said before he could ask, a blur of scarlet feathers—including Xephyra’s violet-tinged ones—streaking through the sky above them.
Tristan gave her a strange look, and before Veronyka realized what was happening, he drew her into a bone-crunching hug. It was different from the last time he’d hugged her, buoyed up by adrenaline and excitement after the success of his obstacle-course performance. This time his limbs trembled, and he clung to her like he might collapse right then and there.
If their first hug was like a drink of cool water on a hot day, this hug was like the life-saving rainstorm after a wildfire.
He smelled of sweat and smoke, but he was unharmed. He was alive. They’d somehow made it through. He took a shaky breath as he held her, his chest expanding against hers, and then released her. He stepped backward, nodding his thanks before disappearing into the crowd.
She watched him go, a riot of emotions swirling in the pit of her stomach. With the fighting over, Veronyka would have to deal with the repercussions of Val’s betrayal and the possible changes to her place here. To her relationship with Tristan. Would he tell his father, or could she count on him to keep her secret? Would it even matter? She’d just ridden a female phoenix in front of the entire stronghold. . . . Surely some would begin to question who she truly was.
As Veronyka made her way toward the Eyrie, she took in the devastation. All around her was pain, some people and animals moving under their own power, others being helped or carried. It turned out the male phoenix who had been circling mournfully above the village—Xoe’s son—was bonded to Latham, who thus far been unable to get him to return to the Eyrie.