threat. “You met her outside the inn, about a week ago?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Beryk said, nodding, though he still seemed troubled. “You’re a long way from home, lad.”
“What is your name?” the commander asked, cutting into the conversation.
“Nyk,” the boy answered, his voice quaking slightly. He seemed . . . not scared, exactly, but distracted by the group around them. Obviously the boy had never seen phoenixes before, never mind so many all at once.
“Where are you heading, Nyk?” the commander asked. “Montascent is farther north, and Petratec’s behind you.”
“I came to find you, sir—to find Beryk and the master he served. I came to find the Phoenix Riders.”
Ringing silence greeted his words.
The commander glanced at Beryk, who raised his hands helplessly. “His sister came asking . . . wanting to serve us, heard us speaking Pyraean. I turned her away as best I could, but . . .” He shrugged.
The commander sighed. Secrecy might have been their greatest defense when they’d first set up, but word traveled down the mountain, no matter how careful they were. Beryk needed to purchase supplies, and even if he didn’t, people turned up occasionally—lost travelers or traders—and of course they had servants and guards working for them. There were too many loose strings, too many variables to constantly monitor and keep track of. It was only a matter of time before the entire mountain knew they were here, and the empire wouldn’t be far behind. They’d want the Phoenix Riders, the so-called rebels, snuffed out for good. With them gone, there would be no one to challenge the governors’ rule or to put an end to the magetax and the persecution of their people.
This was why they needed more patrols. They were essentially sitting ducks.
“I don’t know what your sister told you, what she might have guessed or overheard, but we are not the Phoenix Riders your parents told you about. I am a private citizen, and these Riders are my personal guard. This is not a government-funded military order.”
“But . . . ,” Nyk said, taking hold of the commander’s arm as he turned to go. “What if I paid for my own supplies and training, and—”
The rest of the Riders stiffened, as if preparing for possible danger for the first time. Tristan didn’t understand their concern at first—until he saw the glint of steel. The boy had drawn a knife. Apparently he was armed after all.
Realizing his mistake, Nyk released the commander’s arm and stepped backward, holding the knife in the palm of his hand. It was a dagger, small but finely wrought. “I only meant . . . Maybe I can trade this for enough gold to join?”
Everyone in the group stared at the blade. It wasn’t just steel; it was Ferronese steel, stamped to mark its origin and authenticity. It was quite valuable, though it would hardly be enough to fully fund a new Rider. Still, it wasn’t the value of the object that was the trouble; it was the fact that this humble Pyraean child possessed it. Where had he gotten such a weapon? Was he a thief? An escaped bondservant or an empire spy?
“Search him,” Commander Cassian ordered.
After taking the knife and handing it to the commander to inspect more closely, Beryk took hold of the small bundle slung over Nyk’s back, while Elliot strode forward to check the boy’s body for more concealed weapons. Nyk’s jaw clenched during the search, but it was over quickly, and his pack’s contents were laid out for the commander to examine.
There was nothing more of value or interest: a small collection of roots and berries, some dried meat, and a tin pot.
Rather than waylaying their concerns, the boy’s modest belongings only drove home just how curious his possession of the dagger really was.
“How did you come by this weapon?” the commander asked, glancing at the bottom of the hilt before handing it back to Beryk. He was looking for a maker’s mark, to link the weapon to a specific metalsmith, or perhaps other signs of personal ownership.
Nyk hesitated. He must have stolen it, Tristan guessed, or he was lying about being from Vayle. Even on the lower rim, where trade was more common, no mountain-born kid without two coins to rub together could afford a weapon such as that.
“I found it . . . ,” he said, though he sounded uncertain. Tristan was torn between an odd sense of anxiety for the boy and his own self-satisfaction: He had been