had her by the arm and was yanking her down behind part of the wall with the water goddess.
Veronyka staggered after her, confused, until faint voices drifted through the trees, followed by the steady roll of a wagon’s wheels.
Her mind immediately went to raiders, then to the soldiers she’d found outside her door. But when Veronyka peered around the edge of the wall, she could see the approaching people through the trees.
There was an older man, past middle age, and a teenage boy, both sitting at the front of a wagon pulled by a pair of sturdy mountain horses. They were dressed simply, like many of the local villagers, in short tunics and cropped pants, though Veronyka spotted knife hilts on both of their belts. It was common enough to carry a weapon while traveling, but the younger of the two had a bow across his back as well. While the older man looked like a local, the boy had coloring similar to Sparrow’s, his light-brown hair shining gold in the sun.
When the older of the two spoke in a low, barely audible rumble, Sparrow visibly relaxed.
“It’s just the steward,” she said, though she made no move to pop up and say hello. That was probably for the best, given the boy’s bow and wary expression. Maybe he was the man’s personal guard?
“Steward for what?” Veronyka asked, still watching their slow progression. As far as she knew, stewards ran households for rich lords and merchants in places like Marble Row, where the empire’s wealthiest lived. Veronyka remembered seeing the stewards and their attendants at the local markets, purchasing all the best food, wine, and finery for their employers. The concept of a manor household filled with staff wasn’t something that had ever taken hold in Pyra—even the wealthiest of Pyraean merchants, farmers, and tradespeople employed only a bare-bones staff: a cook, an animage or animal keeper, and maybe a household attendant to clean and maintain the home.
Sparrow had turned away, leaning her back against the wall as she picked at a bit of twine on her spear. “For that exiled governor’s house. They say he’s an old hermit, walled inside his country estate, and he sends his steward to the villages every month or two. Sometimes they come looking for stablehands or . . .”
Veronyka stopped listening to Sparrow. The steward’s voice was growing louder, and she was shocked to hear the man speaking ancient Pyraean. It hadn’t been an official spoken language in at least a hundred years, slowly phased out in favor of the Trader’s Tongue.
But Veronyka knew it. It was still part of upper-class education, and so her maiora had learned it, thanks to her status as a Phoenix Rider. She had been common born, just like Val and Veronyka, but being a Rider elevated you to the highest echelons of society. Or at least it used to.
It took a moment for Veronyka to understand what they were saying—she hadn’t spoken it much since her grandmother was taken from her.
But there was one word she would never forget—one that Val made sure she always remembered.
Phoenixaeres.
Phoenix Riders.
Veronyka lurched to her feet, seeking out their faces, hoping to better hear their conversation. They continued to speak in Pyraean, but seeing their lips move helped Veronyka puzzle through it.
“. . . enough for everyone, including the underwings. We ran out last month.”
Veronyka’s heart was beating very fast now. Underwings were Apprentice Riders. These travelers were here on behalf of Phoenix Riders.
The lane twisted away before she could hear any more, and they soon passed out of sight.
“He always goes to the Vayle market,” Sparrow said, getting to her feet.
“The market . . . ,” Veronyka muttered, turning on the spot and looking back down the hillside. “Where—”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Sparrow said, and Chirp agreed, trilling loudly before zipping forward to lead the way.
Sparrow didn’t bother with the road. She cut directly through the trees, down the sloping ground like water over a riverbed, swift and smooth, either very well connected to the bird who flew just in front of her, or so familiar with her surroundings that she didn’t need guidance. She used her spear like a walking stick, poking aside brambles and stepping over rotten logs.
Veronyka did her best to keep up, stumbling over gnarled roots and getting her hair snagged on branches, her mind whirling.
The steward’s arrival provided Veronyka with some much-needed hope—and focus. The outpost had been a bust, but all was not lost. He’d