It wasn’t long before he returned. The others were heading to the celebrations now, and Tristan had informed them that he and Veronyka would catch up.
“Do you need a bandage for that?” he asked, gesturing to her cut palm. She shook her head—it stung a little bit, but she’d already wiped away the blood and tucked the arrowhead inside the thick strands of her braided bracelet for safekeeping. “Good, come on,” he said, grabbing her good hand and helping her to her feet. “Let’s go to the village.”
* * *
Since they wanted to spend time with their phoenixes, most of Tristan’s patrol could be found in the refugee camp rather than the main village. The rows of tents and makeshift houses were always bustling with people sharing news or meals over cook fires, and it was a loud, crowded place. Tonight it was particularly rambunctious, with music and dancing and barrels of wine purchased by the commander himself.
Veronyka watched as Anders sang a bawdy Arborian folksong, Lysandro blushing furiously while Latham laughed so hard tears streamed from his eyes. Ronyn was discussing the fall harvest with several of the older refugees, all of them with cups of wine in hand, and Tristan was roped into kicking a ball around with a horde of children who liked to shadow his every step. The ball went soaring past his head—kicked wide by an over-energetic child—and he chased it down, glancing in Veronyka’s direction. There was a sparkle of laughter in his eye, and Veronyka’s stomach swooped in response, as if that glint was just for her.
Closer at hand, Xephyra, Rex, and some of the other phoenixes were playing with the youngest of the children, who tugged on their tail feathers and threw treats into the air for them to catch. The sight made Veronyka think of the animage captives, of the children who were separated from their family—possibly lost forever. She thought she spotted some of the people who had missing relatives, their faces downcast and their voices subdued.
The celebrations in Rushlea were loud as well, and despite their somewhat cold reception, people streamed to and from the village and the refugee camp, turning the two separate events into one oversize party.
In terms of their duties, the Riders had come to an agreement with their guard counterparts from the Eyrie: The Riders got the day off—until midnight—and the guards got the next day. For anyone planning to drink heavily, having the morning after off might be the better shift, but Veronyka was happy to have the day. Her birthday. She ran a finger along her braided bracelet, feeling the shape of the arrowhead through the waxy strands. She smiled.
Veronyka was just making her way over to a table laid out with food when she spotted a man standing alone on the far side of the refugee camp. He didn’t look familiar, but they were getting new arrivals almost every day. While the first two big waves of refugees had been evacuated in anticipation of an empire soldier attack, other villages along the route had seen them flee and decided to follow themselves. There were some settlements that had been attacked—like the Silverwood—as well as traders and travelers along the road who continued to find trouble farther south and so made their way north to the temporary encampment in Rushlea.
Veronyka was ready to dismiss him as just another refugee when she noticed his boots.
They came to midcalf, were dark and well worn… and treated with pyraflora resin, the fireproof sap favored by Phoenix Riders. It left a distinctive, waxy sheen that was easy to spot if you knew what to look for.
Veronyka gaped, her heart kicking inside her chest. He could have found the boots, bought or stolen or traded for them. It didn’t necessarily mean he was a Phoenix Rider.
When Veronyka drew her attention back up to his face, it was to find that he’d been watching her, too.
He turned away at once and strode into the darkness of the distant trees.
“Tristan!” Veronyka called, whirling around to spot him. He wasn’t far, and when he heard her call his name, he tossed the ball behind him and jogged over.
“Do you w—” he began, but Veronyka took hold of his arm and jerked him after her.
“I think I found him,” she said, keeping her voice low as they ran toward the forest.
“Who?” Tristan asked, bewildered.
“Doriyan.”
* * *
The sounds of music and laughter faded as they reached the trees, following the man deeper