said, relieved to think that she didn’t actually regret kissing him. He tried to smile. “I’m fine, and everything’s okay.”
“Everything is not okay!” Veronyka said, rounding on him. “You regained consciousness with a knife to your throat, Tristan! What if Val had given a different order? What if you were dead while I was years away, a lifetime away, stuck in one of her memories? What if I sacrificed you so that I could learn just one more thing about my family?”
Her chest was heaving, tears glittering in her eyes. He wanted to hold her, to cling to her, because it felt like irrevocable damage had been done. That somehow he’d already lost her.
“Look, I get it,” he said, voice shaking, “and we’ll do better. We’ll go back to what we were doing before. I’ll learn to guard my mind against her. I’ll—”
“It’s not her you have to guard against,” Veronyka said, expression bleak. “It’s me.”
He stared at her, at a loss for what to say. “Please,” he said, because he didn’t have any other words. “We’ll find a way.” We have to.
She smiled, but it was a miserable thing. “Don’t you see, Tristan? I’m letting this happen—I’m letting you in, and I’m letting Val in too. If I keep dragging you with me, you’ll wind up killed.”
“You’re not dragging me anywhere, Veronyka!” Tristan shouted. It was unfair. She was taking all the blame, yes, but all the responsibility, too. Didn’t he get a say in any of it? “Don’t act like this is all your fault, like I’m some helpless thrall you’re leading around against his will. I know the risks, and I’m choosing to go through this with you. Wherever you are is where I want to be.”
Her face was like a knife to Tristan’s chest. The more he poured himself out to her, the more she grimaced, the more she shook her head.
“Tristan!” came a voice from the other side of their campsite. Tristan and Veronyka stepped apart, though of course they weren’t even touching.
Anders ran into view. “You have to come to the refugee camp straightaway.”
Tristan shook his head. “Not now, Anders. I—”
“There’s trouble with those farmers. The phoenixes were getting too close to the village, and…” He raised his hands helplessly.
“And what?” Veronyka asked sharply, her anger obviously still close to the surface.
“The farmers have got them cornered against the back wall of an inn, and they’re throwing rotten food at us and the phoenixes. It’s taking everything we have to stop them from igniting and making things worse. I only got away because I was inside when it started and snuck out the front.”
“Stay here,” Tristan said to Rex, who was fluttering anxiously nearby, Xephyra beside him. He added internally, I’ll call if I need you.
“You too, Xephyra,” Veronyka added.
They paused at camp only long enough to arm themselves. Veronyka picked up her bow and quiver and a medic kit while Tristan grabbed a set of practice spears, tossing one to Anders, who was slinging a medic kit over his shoulder. Tristan didn’t want to escalate the situation, and the practice spears were just simple wooden staffs—good for clearing a path or blocking a blow, but not for taking lives.
As they walked through the refugee camp, the jovial atmosphere from earlier was gone. Many of the occupants huddled together near their tents, watching the commotion near the village.
Tristan spotted the remaining members of his patrol at once, the Riders and their mounts pressed up against a building at the corner of the thoroughfare that led between the refugee houses and Rushlea.
It was clear they’d been ambushed on their way out of the inn; metal tankards of ale lay forgotten on the cobblestones, their contents spilled over the ground, while the door behind them had been barred from the inside, probably to protect the other patrons from the splattered eggs and rotten vegetables that limned the entryway and covered both Riders and phoenixes.
Ronyn was at the front, and he had suffered the worst personal damage—there was a cut along his cheek, and his chest and arms were covered in filth as he held them wide, trying to protect the other Riders and calm the seething crowd. Lysandro and Latham, meanwhile, were focusing their attention on calming the phoenixes—a battle they were losing. The eaves of the inn were smoking, and pulses of heat and feral shrieks—along with snapping beaks and shifting wings—emanated from the center of the group.
As Tristan drew nearer, he spotted Latham’s pale