Wings of Shadow

by Nicki Pau Preto

  “Phoenix Rider?” Tristan chimed in. They had pulled on hooded cloaks to obscure their telltale armor and Cassian’s recognizable face—he was supposed to be exiled, after all—but Veronyka still wore braids in her hair and weapons strapped to her belt. “Because that’s what she is. Ashfires have been Phoenix Riders since the beginning.”

  “Pheronia was not, and it is to her that we must prove Veronyka’s relation. Not her aunt.”

  Veronyka’s stomach tightened at that. She might be her mother’s daughter, but she’d never met Pheronia Ashfire. All she had were visions through Val’s eyes—and that was the heart of the issue. Veronyka had the touch of Val in every aspect of her life; everything she knew, everything she’d ever wanted had been affected by her sister. Her identity, her magic… Who was Veronyka without Val?

  The fact that she couldn’t answer that question made the prospect of taking the throne—of putting herself in a position of supreme power—all the more terrifying. Veronyka knew deep down all the ways they were different, but she knew all the ways they were similar, too. She couldn’t help but feel like the world had given the Ashfires a second chance, and it was up to her to make sure they didn’t repeat the mistakes of the past.

  She only hoped she was strong enough to do so.

  As the Nest came into view, Veronyka’s heart skipped a beat. The highest turrets gleamed white in the early-morning sun—Genya’s Tower, tallest of all—while the lower levels were draped in shadows. Though it was primarily an administrative building at this point, with meeting rooms and government offices, to her, it would always be the home of queens.

  The Grand Council met in the courthouse, which was just outside the walled compound of the palace at the base of the Rock—the thrust of stone upon which the Nest perched—making it easily accessible to the public.

  Everything looked quiet as they approached, but all the doors were shut—the council was definitely in session.

  “This way,” the commander said, leading them past the front entrance—which had guards posted—and toward the narrow alley between the walls of the Nest grounds and the courthouse. “We’ll have an easier time getting in through a servants’ door.”

  The building featured a large circular room that was dome-shaped and open to the sky in the center, while on the ground, it was surrounded on all sides by a double colonnade. The sturdy columns provided long, striping shadows for them to dart between.

  And places for people to hide.

  “I knew you couldn’t leave well enough alone,” came a cool voice from behind them.

  Veronyka whirled, reaching for her knife—but a rough hand gripped her upper arm and yanked her hand away. She stomped hard on a foot, hearing a satisfying grunt, but more hands were soon upon her, and she struggled fruitlessly against their hold. A few short seconds later, the scuffling sounds coming from Tristan and the commander were also silenced.

  Lord Rolan emerged from the shadow of the nearest pillar, striding toward the commander, who had no less than four soldiers—two on each arm—holding him back. A trickle of blood dripped down the side of his face, as if he’d been struck in the temple, though he appeared steady on his feet.

  “Very good, Rolan. Are these the Grand Council’s soldiers or some of your own?” the commander asked, sounding calm despite the circumstances.

  “The two will be one and the same by the time I am through. I see you’ve brought me my future wife,” he said, tossing a dismissive look at Veronyka before his gaze shifted to Tristan. “And liberated me of my prisoner—how thoughtful.”

  There were about twenty guards surrounding them, half holding their new captives and the rest flanking Rolan.

  “How does it feel, Cassian, to know that you are too late?” Rolan asked smugly.

  “This is not over yet.”

  Rolan affected an exaggerated, comical frown. “Why, of course it is! I already pleaded my case when the Grand Council convened last night,” he said with obvious relish, “and the final vote is happening as we speak.”

  Veronyka’s heart sank. Tristan was right—they’d lost before they’d even arrived.

  As if on cue, a bell rang from inside the courthouse.

  Despite what sounded to Veronyka as the echoing chime of their defeat, the commander straightened. The grim line of his mouth quirked slightly in the corners.

  “Ah, yes, they are calling the members to order. And if my memory serves me,” he said, head tilted to the side in thought, “the member who called the meeting and put forward the motion must be in attendance before they announce the results. And yet here you stand.”

  “I am not a schoolboy to be summoned at the whim of a bell,” Rolan snapped, sounding just like the child he professed not to be. “I will arrive soon enough, and with you in my possession. Further—albeit unnecessary—proof of your treachery and intentions against the empire. Why, they might crown me right now.”

  “Don’t count your phoenixes before they hatch,” the commander said, not at all cowed by Rolan’s words, though the other man’s lip curled at the Phoenix Rider idiom. “And never leave the sky unguarded when you have Phoenix Riders in your midst.”

  Alexiya and Doriyan descended on silent wings, the only sound the creak and twang of bowstrings being drawn back and released. Alexiya took out both soldiers holding Veronyka—she staggered from their abrupt release of her arms—and Doriyan took out two of the soldiers holding the commander, leaving him to deal with the others as they tripped and stumbled away. Doriyan aimed his bow toward Tristan’s captors next; they had already tried to flee but failed to outrun Doriyan’s arrows as he sank one after the other into their retreating backs.

  Veronyka and Tristan moved to each other, checking they were each okay before they faced the commander, who had neatly dispatched his last two guards.

  Meanwhile, both Doriyan and Alexiya had leapt from their saddles. All of Rolan’s protectors were on the ground, arrows protruding from their bodies, while Alexiya stood before Rolan with her next arrow aimed directly at the governor’s head. She was barely three feet away from him and would not miss.

  But they needed him alive. The vote was already under way, and even if holding him here would delay the announcement of the results, Veronyka doubted it would stop the vote altogether. No, in order to do that, she had to get inside immediately—with the proof Rolan had of her identity.

  Rolan’s eyes were round and frantic, seeking some ally, some way to get himself out of this. He licked his lips and shrugged, though it was a stiff movement, conveying none of the nonchalance he’d clearly hoped to embody. “No matter, Cassian. The council will vote in my favor. If you kill me here, you’ll only prove your threat to the empire.”

  As he spoke, Doriyan was moving among the bodies, removing the phoenix-feather-fletched arrows with quick, efficient movements.

  “I don’t intend to kill you, Rolan,” the commander said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, quite at his ease. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “What, then?” Rolan’s voice was petulant.

  “Obviously, we don’t want this war. You have a choice: Either you rescind all your allegations and brand yourself as the lying, scheming, overreaching villain you are, or you walk in there with us, corroborate Veronyka’s claim to the throne, and call off the vote. If you follow through, perhaps we will consider your marriage proposal.”

  Rolan scoffed. “I have lost my bargaining chip,” he said, gesturing at Tristan. “I’m not a fool, Cassian. You will use me to validate her identity, and then you’ll sweep me aside.”

  “If you cooperate, I may allow you to keep your dignity and perhaps even your position on the council. We can chalk the whole thing up to a misunderstanding rather than a malicious move for the throne. You may not wind up king”—Rolan laughed harshly—“but you also may not wind up in a prison cell. Or in the ground.”

  Rolan made an ugly face, but he was clearly thinking over the commander’s words. His gaze shifted
to Veronyka, and then his lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. “No, Cassian, you are the one who has a choice to make. The war or the crown.”

  “Explain yourself,” the commander said, and Veronyka noted that he did not look as cool as he had a few minutes ago.

  “It’s simple, really. I’ve lost my leverage in this situation, so I can’t make any deals that rely upon your goodwill alone. That, as you have demonstrated”—he waved at Tristan again—“would be a mistake. Your choice is this: Come with me, now, and I will give you the proof you require to verify the girl’s identity. In doing that, you will, of course, allow the vote to go through. The empire’s armies will march on Pyra. This way, if you do not deliver on your word, I will be able to follow through on my original plan and take the throne by force. Your other option is to storm in there, attempt to claim her birthright and stop the vote… but I will never give you the evidence in my possession. I would rather burn the proof of Pheronia Ashfire’s bastard child than bow before her.”

  Veronyka stiffened, shocked at his selfish ambition. He would doom an entire province rather than lose his chance at becoming king.

  Could they do this without him? They had bits and pieces: Doriyan could testify, and they had Pheronia’s necklace and Avalkyra’s signet ring, but nothing that could identify her definitively. If Rolan refused to give them that proof, she might never be able to take the throne. That meant no way to keep Val from doing the same, and no power to halt or delay the vote. In fact, it meant no power at all—a thing they desperately needed. If the vote went through, the Phoenix Riders would be hunted into extinction once more, not to mention all the innocent people in Pyra—animage or not—who would get caught in the crosshairs.

  “If we go with you…,” the commander began.

  “No,” Veronyka and Tristan said in unison. Tristan’s eyes were flashing angrily, but he pressed his lips together and nodded at Veronyka to speak instead. “Commander, if there’s still any chance of stopping the empire from marching on Pyra, we have to take it. We can’t afford to fight two wars.”

  Rolan frowned at that—but, of course, he didn’t know about Val’s strix army.

  “We already are,” the commander said tersely. “The only way to take control of the situation is to claim your throne. It’s an opportunity we cannot pass up.”

  “We’ll find other proof—other ways,” argued Tristan.

  The servant entrance to the courthouse was a few columns away from them, and though the door was shut, a rumble of talk could be heard from within. How long had it been since the bell had sounded—and how long until people came looking for Rolan?

  The commander turned to his son, ready with a retort, but Veronyka spoke over him. “I won’t walk away and let them march on Pyra, not if I can stop it.”

  This was the thing Veronyka had been fearing since she’d told the commander who she truly was—the moment when she might have to question his power and authority. When she might have to overstep it.

  He seemed to see it too. The anger on his face shifted, and he schooled his features into a reasonable expression. “If you go in there now, with no evidence and nothing to substantiate your claim, they could hold you for questioning for days—weeks, even. You are a Phoenix Rider, an animage.… You could be fined, imprisoned, and forced into bondage. And it won’t change the results of the vote.”

  “I’ll substantiate it,” Rolan said, a spark of anticipation in his eyes as he watched their argument. “I’ll supply everything you need—if you formally agree to the marriage. In writing. Today.”

  A spark of unease shot through Veronyka. In writing, today? In front of the entire Grand Council, too, she’d wager. How would she ever get out of a promise like that? Tristan’s fists clenched, his head moving from side to side in a sort of numb, silent refusal.

  Both of them were scrambling for a way out of this, but to both their surprise, it was the commander who whirled around in anger. “I will not make you king!” he bellowed, so forcefully that Veronyka and Tristan jumped, and Alexiya and Doriyan—who had been silent spectators—both darted a look toward the nearby doors, as if expecting a storm of soldiers to burst forward in response.

  Veronyka had never seen the commander crack like this. Of all the people to resist the marriage so strongly, she would not have expected it to be him. But she knew this had very little to do with her or the romantic interests of his son, and much, much more to do with the past between these two men.

  The commander was breathing heavily. “You know we can’t agree to that, Rolan,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not here and now. I have promised you a way out of your treasonous plans and the security of a position on the council. I have been more than fair.”

  “Fair?” Rolan snapped. “What was fair about your treatment of my sister? Or Pheronia’s treatment of our betrothal agreement?”

  “Tell me what’s fair about making innocent people pay for a blow to your ego?” Veronyka demanded.

  “My ego?” Rolan repeated, voice quivering with rage. “The slights against my family go back to the dawn of the empire, when King Rol was unjustly murdered, all thanks to the coward King Damian.”

  “You’re starting a war, gambling thousands of lives, all for a two-hundred-year inferiority complex?” Tristan asked incredulously.

  Rolan spluttered, his face red, but the commander stepped in, taking advantage of his speechlessness.

  “For the last time, Rolan,” he said, taking an angry step forward and pointing a finger at the man’s chest. Veronyka feared they might actually come to blows, but the sudden move seemed to quell Rolan’s anger. He was projecting a strange satisfaction—as if he enjoyed fighting with Commander Cassian, or maybe it was something… else.

  Her head snapped up. Rolan’s eyes were fixed on the commander, who was barely a foot away from him, but gleaming suddenly at his side was a knife that Rolan held in a white-knuckled grip.

  Move! Veronyka shouted, saying the word not out loud, but through shadow magic. She didn’t know why, only that it seemed the fastest in that instant between life and death. A word was a word, when spoken into the air between them. But a word spoken through magic could convey so much more. It could convey a thought, a feeling—a sense of danger and the direction it was coming from.

  The commander’s eyes rounded, and he reared back. Rolan lunged, blade flashing, and while Cassian had missed a direct blow, the blade sliced deep into his side, finding a gap in his leather armor.

  He cried out as the metal bit into flesh, falling to one knee, and Rolan leapt toward his prone form. His eyes gleamed in savage triumph—Veronyka suspected he’d been trying to goad the commander into stepping close enough for him to make his move—and he now scrabbled to use the man as a shield, to get the situation back under his control.

  Cassian wasn’t defeated, however, and threw a vicious elbow into Rolan’s gut. He doubled over and stumbled backward, only to lift his knife again—this time aiming directly for the commander’s back.

  The blade never made contact.

  As his arm drew back, his face screwed up in rage, Alexiya loosed her arrow.

  It landed in the middle of his chest, and Rolan collapsed to the ground.

  Before any of them could speak, the commander toppled forward.

  “Father!” Tristan shouted, diving to his knees to catch him. Rolan had managed to open a wound in the commander’s side, just below his ribs, where no bones or muscle protected him. Blood pooled on the ground and drenched the commander’s clothes, bleeding through both tunic and cloak.

  Tristan’s eyes were wild—his father wasn’t responding, his face pale and chalky—and there was blood all over his hands.

  Help me, he whispered in his mind, over and over again, and Veronyka didn’t know if it was meant for her, or if it was a plea meant for the gods themselves.

  Doriyan rushed forward, helping Tristan lower his father to the ground.

  Alexiya stared at Veronyka. “I’m sorry,” she
whispered, looking between the commander’s prone form and Rolan’s body.

  “No—you did the right thing,” Veronyka said numbly. She thought maybe she was in shock. This man had tormented them for months, assaulted Pyra, aided Val—all for some distant dream of a crown on his head. Now he was dead, lying in a puddle of blood on the sidewalk.

  What a waste of their time and energy. What a worthless distraction.

  At least he hadn’t gotten the chance to destroy the evidence of Veronyka’s heritage or given the order to anyone else to do the same. Maybe they could still find it. Maybe they could salvage this.

  “We have to get the commander to a healer,” Doriyan was saying, and Alexiya went into her saddle for a medic pack.

  Veronyka’s mind was racing.

  Tristan needed her, kneeling there on the ground. The commander needed her. The Phoenix Riders needed her.

  Is this what it feels like to be queen? Needed by everyone and able to help no one?

  She made her feet move. She reached out and gripped Tristan’s shoulder hard.

  “Get him on Daxos or Ximn,” she heard herself say. Her voice sounded calm, and maybe that contrast was what made Tristan wrench his gaze from his father to look up at her. “We need to get him away from here as soon as possible. As for a healer… He won’t be able to make it all the way to Prosperity.”

  “Hestia,” Tristan said, his voice raw and ragged. “She travels with Rolan. She’s probably in his house on Marble Row.”

  “I’ll fly ahead to check,” Doriyan offered. He had once again taken care of the body, dragging Rolan’s corpse unceremoniously into the bushes like all the rest. Veronyka suspected it wasn’t the death Rolan had had in mind for himself someday, living a long and luxurious life before being carried through the Aura Nova streets in a king’s funeral procession with music playing and his subjects weeping as he passed.

  “No,” Veronyka said. Now all of them were staring at her. Why was her voice doing that awful, flat intonation? Was that fear or strength? “You’re coming with me.”

  She turned, marching inexorably toward the servant door, Doriyan hastening to her side. She wanted to be there for Tristan and for his father, but she was no healer. This, however… This she could do. If she could delay the war, if she could stop the Grand Council vote, she could buy them the time they needed to regroup. They didn’t have Rolan’s evidence on them, but they knew it existed. They would find it.