hung with colorful tapestries and populated with the kinds of carved wooden tables and shelves of scrolls that Veronyka saw only in her dreams.
At last they were directed into a large chamber, the imposing stone walls brightened by sconces casting pools of molten light. Taking up the majority of the space was a long table made from a single slab of wood. Veronyka had never seen anything so fine, the light from the lanterns highlighting the contrasting wood grain and the delicately carved details along the corners and legs. It was surely Arborian-made; the province was famous for its massive trees and talented woodworkers. A dozen matching chairs surrounded the table, though only one was occupied.
The commander sat at his leisure, and the rest of the Riders from the clearing stood behind their leader, including the boy who’d caught her. He was stiff and scowling, and as she entered the room, he turned his bitter gaze in her direction.
Veronyka stared at her feet, trying not to slump or fidget as Beryk briefed the commander on the journey back. Her tiredness had resurfaced, yet her growing nerves buzzed like wasps inside her mind.
“He needs some sleep, Commander Cassian, and a proper meal. I can call Morra in the morn—”
“We’ll deal with this now,” the commander said, cutting off the end of Beryk’s sentence. He turned to Veronyka. “You’ll answer our questions now, and you’ll be truthful. Depending on how you do, you will either sleep in a guest room or in a cell—do you understand?”
“Yes, Commander, sir,” Veronyka said.
“It will do you no good to lie, so I’d advise against it,” he added, and something in the tone of his voice made a finger of dread slip down her spine.
Following Beryk’s lead, the others in the room left, except for Veronyka, the commander, and the boy. He projected his anger and frustration, so potent that it bumped distractingly against Veronyka’s mental defenses. Was this how Val had felt when Veronyka was careless with her emotions?
The room was silent, and Veronyka didn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands. The commander had a way of filling the space, of making Veronyka feel crowded and small. He was a large man—well over six feet, she would guess—with big hands and wide shoulders, but it was his attitude that was imposing. He radiated superiority and power, but it came across as elegant rather than brutish. He was olive-skinned, his wavy, salted brown hair receding slightly from his proud forehead. He had changed from his armor into a magnificent embroidered tunic, patterned with a Ferronese crossed-dagger motif picked out in silver thread, and several golden rings glimmered on his hands as he knit them together. He looked every bit an empire governor, exiled or not, and reminded Veronyka of the wealthy merchants and noblemen she’d seen in Aura Nova being carried through the narrow city streets on palanquins.
The boy, on the other hand, had his arms crossed over his chest and his feet spread wide, as if bracing himself. While his posture was rigid and unmoving, his gaze flicked restlessly around the room. He had the look of someone with at least a bit of Pyraean ancestry, though his hair was a soft, curling brown, and his golden skin had olive undertones.
Veronyka couldn’t figure out if he’d chosen to be there during her questioning or if he was being made to stay now as punishment. Maybe he wanted to make sure she was proven guilty to redeem himself in some way. The result of this interrogation would affect him almost as much as her, after all. If she truly was a threat, his apparent disobedience from earlier would be forgiven. If she turned out to be harmless—which she was—he’d look all the more foolish. Her success would mean his failure, and the dichotomy left her feeling like there was no way to really win.
Veronyka was oddly relieved when the woman named Morra arrived. She wasn’t what Veronyka was expecting—some wealthy lady with fine clothes and a noble look, like the commander. Instead she was short and stocky, with strong arms and a plain, no-nonsense kind of face, and she brought with her the warm, comforting scent of fried bread and spices. Her hands were calloused and blistered, and her forearms bore scars that certainly hadn’t come from the kitchens. She was Pyraean, her braided hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, the strands thick with adornments that