Crown of Feathers

by Nicki Pau Preto

  “For how long?” Sev asked.

  “Until I say so.”

  “What? Why can’t you just tell me?” Sev demanded.

  “Some things are best kept secret,” Trix said. Both Sev and Kade continued to scowl at her, but she seemed wholly unperturbed.

  “Secret?” Sev repeated blankly. “Okay . . . well, what do I need to do while stationed there? Surely more than my regular duties.”

  Trix only smiled. “Consider yourself on a need-to-know basis, boy. And right now you do not need to know. So, for the time being, that information . . .”

  “Let me guess,” Sev asked resignedly, “also a secret?”

  “That’s the thing with secrets,” she said. “They never really die. Just when one bursts into flames, another rises up to take its place.”

  She knew my darkness better than anyone, and always, she had forgiven me. Always, she had seen the good in me. Until the day she didn’t.

  - CHAPTER 12 -

  TRISTAN

  TRISTAN’S FAVORITE PLACE WAS soaring through the sky on the back of his phoenix. His not-flaming phoenix, of course.

  The pump of Rex’s powerful wings beneath him, the gusts of warm air that floated up from the rocky earth below, and the vistas that showed him mountains and rivers and endless trees as far as the eye could see—that was, when his eye wasn’t fixed on the back of his bondmate’s head.

  Unlike usual, Tristan didn’t scan the ground below for danger, as he was supposed to do, or gaze into the distance, where mountain ranges enclosed the valley like a sturdy rock palisade. He didn’t even try to see his old home in Ferro—an impossible feat from this distance and angle, but something he did almost every time he rode.

  No, Tristan hunched in the stirrups of his saddle, muscles rigid and hands clenched tight on the reins, as if riding a stampeding horse, not floating above the ground in wide, elegant arcs. He refused to enjoy his late-afternoon flight, preferring to scowl at Rex’s feathers and stew in silence.

  Rex tossed his head, taking Tristan’s irritation and making it his own—one of the negative effects of the bond. The phoenix dipped suddenly, beating his wings with an impatient flap and jolting Tristan out of his distracted thoughts. He realized his stiff, awkward riding position was as uncomfortable for his bondmate as it was for him.

  “Sorry, Rex,” Tristan murmured, settling more comfortably in the saddle. With a heavy sigh and a twist of his neck to work out the kinks, Tristan took in the familiar landscape that unfolded below them, running a gentle hand down the silken feathers of Rex’s bright red neck, warmth bleeding through his gloves.

  Tristan was dressed in his full Rider regalia—leather gloves and armguards, fitted tunic, a thick woven breastplate, and padded riding pants tucked into boots, all coated with a fire-resistant resin. The layers made Tristan hot and uncomfortable, and he much preferred to fly without them—but today’s ride wasn’t for leisure. Today he and several of the more senior apprentices were participating in the local patrols along with the Master Riders.

  It should have made him happy—and it did at first. Tristan had begged and pleaded for the chance, and at last the order had come through. Finally, after months of asking, he’d get the opportunity to prove to all the Master Riders—including his father—that he was ready to become one of them, that he belonged among their ranks.

  Tristan should have known better.

  He’d been assigned the easiest, tamest area to watch, a segment of the surrounding land that was so safe, they usually didn’t patrol it at all. The opportunity he’d so longed for immediately became an insult.

  It was a useless post, and Tristan knew his father was behind it.

  Ever since that day on the bluffs two weeks ago when he’d failed to make the jump, Tristan had been waiting for his father to bring it up, to use it against him in some way. Never mind that Tristan had since completed the exercise correctly nearly a dozen times; he’d known that one slipup would come back to haunt him.

  And here it was.

  Tristan had seen the look on the other apprentices’ faces when his patrol was announced: Several clearly pitied him, while others smirked at what they saw as a deflation of Tristan’s overlarge ego. The reaction of the Master Riders was worst of all: They stared openly at Tristan and his father, seeing it as an example of favoritism. Like his father was trying to give him an easy path.

  It only proved how little they knew him.

  Tristan pushed the thoughts from his mind, imagining them floating away on the wind that whipped across his skin. He tried to focus on his patrol, urging Rex to fly in the crisscrossing pattern they’d been taught, but there was nothing to see.

  As a rule, they stuck to the air above the very upper reaches of Pyrmont, not wanting to draw attention from the empire or the villages on the lower rim. They flew only one daylight patrol, soaring so high up that they appeared as no more than distant specks—perhaps a particularly large eagle or falcon—to anyone on the ground. The rest of their patrols were at night, which allowed them to fly lower, but of course the landscape was more difficult to see in the darkness, no matter how superior a phoenix’s eyesight. This left them blind to a lot of what was happening in Pyra, and in the empire beyond.

  This was why Tristan had pushed for more horse-mounted patrols. He had also pushed to accelerate the apprentice program, so they could put together a third patrol group. He had been rebuffed at both turns.

  And now, just when he’d thought things were happening for him, he’d been sent to float above the Pilgrimage Road like a kite in an Azurec’s Day parade.

  With an unspoken command, Rex banked hard, and together they set their sights to the east. Tristan had long since memorized their patrol grid and knew where there were gaps in their surveillance. The road didn’t need watching; the wilderness did.

  The moment Tristan deviated from his orders, a bubble of exhilaration inflated inside his chest. Rex flew faster, and they surged up and down with every powerful thrust of his wings. This was the land of Tristan’s Pyraean ancestors, and right now he felt as if he claimed it for himself. He wanted to discover its secrets, to know the mountain better even than those who were born here. As he soared through the sky, he wasn’t the son of an exiled governor; he was a Phoenix Rider, like the legendary warriors of old.

  He identified familiar landmarks as he flew: the domed houses of Montascent, the last still-occupied village before the thrust of rock that led to the ruins of Aura; the serpentine twist of the River Aurys, snaking down the mountainside; the staggered row of carved phoenix statues that lined the path on the way to the village of Petratec—and the lone figure, cutting through the long grasses between the village and the river, making their way toward the bridge that led to the Phoenix Riders’ hidden base.

  Tristan almost fell from his saddle.

  While Rex tucked his wings and dove for the skulking traveler, Tristan fumbled for his horn. The ringing sound drew the person’s gaze, but they didn’t run or wave; they simply froze, openmouthed and gaping, neck craned toward the sky.

  The instant Rex landed, Tristan leapt from his back, drawing his spear and leveling it at the intruder. They locked eyes—and Tristan’s heart sank.

  It was just a boy, some kid barely into adolescence, scrawny and dressed in rags.

  He was definitely Pyraean, with large, deep-set eyes and dark brows. His mess of straight black hair was cut in a jagged cap around his head, and his brown skin was smudged with dust and dirt.

  They stood in awkward silence until the thump of beating wings echoed from above. Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. The nearest Rider patrol had answered his call and were about to discover that he’d raised the alarm over this child—and of course, the nearest patrol just happened to include the commander. Dreading what would come next, Tristan fixed his gaze on the boy as the Riders—including Ronyn and Elliot, the other apprentices chosen for patrol—descended, kicking up grass and leaves in a gust of warm wind.

  Rex shook hi
s wings and edged closer to Tristan, puffing out his chest in an attempt to assert dominance as phoenixes landed all around them. There were eight new Riders in total: a full patrol, plus the two apprentices and everyone’s mounts. The phoenixes retained their flight formation, feathers bristling and heads tossing as they stood in a rough V shape, and every single Rider had a bow or spear drawn. They scanned the area, ready for a threat, and it took them several moments to notice the boy Tristan held captive.

  Cassian, patrol leader and commander of the Phoenix Riders, pursed his lips, then made a quick gesture for the rest of his Riders to stand down. Weapons were put away and arrows returned to quivers as the entire patrol—except for the commander—dismounted. Even the phoenixes relaxed their postures and quelled their battle fever.

  At last Commander Cassian turned his attention to Tristan.

  “Sir,” Tristan said, bowing his head slightly.

  The commander’s face was expressionless, yet there was a rigidity to his features that told Tristan he was much angrier than he looked. Tristan tried to square his shoulders and stand his ground, but he had difficulty meeting the commander’s eyes.

  Yes, he had disobeyed orders, but he had also found a strange traveler dangerously close to their hidden base, proving those orders were flawed. The intruder was a small, unarmed boy, but it was better to be overcautious than caught off guard.

  He hoped.

  “You’ve found a child,” the commander announced from astride his phoenix, turning his imperious gaze toward Tristan’s captive.

  “He’s an unknown traveler,” Tristan said, feeling slightly foolish for being the only one with his weapon out, as if he were afraid of the boy. He lowered it slightly. “I was only following protocol.”

  “Protocol?” the commander repeated, his voice cracking like a whip. “If you were truly following protocol, you’d still be patrolling the ninth quadrant, where you were assigned, and not raising the alarm for an underfed, unarmed child.”

  Low murmurs rippled through the group of Riders, who stood in a semicircle around the boy, their mounts looming behind them. The boy cowered slightly, and Tristan let the butt of his spear hit the ground.

  “I blew the horn before I landed, so I didn’t know . . .”

  “You. Didn’t. Know,” the commander said, emphasizing each word and loosing them like well-placed arrows into Tristan’s already wounded pride. “You didn’t know, and yet still you acted. If we blew a horn every time we saw a traveler, our patrols would never sleep.”

  Tristan’s face flushed, and Rex snapped irritably at a nearby phoenix. The rest of the patrol studied their boots or the straps on their saddles, avoiding Tristan’s chastisement.

  The commander dismounted, and as he walked past Tristan, he spoke in a low voice. “Secrecy is our greatest weapon—and our greatest defense. You undermine both by calling us here.”

  Before Tristan could answer—and truly, he had no idea what to say—Commander Cassian’s steward and second-in-command, Beryk, moved to the front of the group, a frown on his face.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked, staring at the boy before them.

  “In Vayle, sir,” Elliot interjected, straight-backed and serious. He was training to become steward one day, and so he was usually lurking somewhere in Beryk’s shadow. He’d never gotten particularly close to the other apprentices, always busy running errands or attending Beryk in meetings, and had a reputation for being a bit stuck-up. Tristan didn’t mind, though. His father had been pushing him to become steward, apparently more than happy to let Tristan remain safely buried in papers for the rest of his days. Luckily, Elliot had practically begged for the opportunity, relieving Tristan of a future stuck mostly behind a desk. The idea that his father thought he was better suited to a position as an administrator rather than a soldier was a painful blow.

  “You know him, Beryk?” the commander asked in surprise.

  “I-I think it was my sister, sir,” the boy said, his high voice confirming his youth—and complete lack of 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 right to blow the horn, even if he hadn’t known it at first.

  “His sister tried to steal from us,” Elliot piped in, looking triumphant. “They’re probably a team: One distracts while the other—”

  “My sister wouldn’t steal,” the boy snapped. “And neither would I.”

  The commander glanced up at the darkening sky, then down at Nyk. He frowned. “Take him to Morra,” he said to Beryk, and mounted up.

  “But, sir—Commander Cassian!” Tristan called before the commander could fly away. “Can . . . shouldn’t I escort the prisoner, since I was the one who discovered him?”

  “Since you shouldn’t have been patrolling here in the first place, I think I’d do better with a Rider who follows orders, rather than an apprentice who does whatever he pleases.”

  Day 12, Second Moon, 169 AE

  My sweet Pheronia,

  I hated to leave without saying goodbye, but I was chased from my bed in the dead of night. Perhaps you know this already. Perhaps it is upon your orders that I was hunted down.

  You should also know that I am not sorry for what I have done, but I am sorry for your pain.

  It has taken me some time to get settled, but I am safe now. I am ready. Let’s put this behind us.

  We’ve an empire to rule.

  Your sister, Avalkyra

  The winner in any contest is the person who’s willing to go the furthest, to do whatever it takes to succeed. That person is me.

  - CHAPTER 13 -

  VERONYKA

  PRISONER.

  The word fell like the final spark from a flint stone, setting the dormant fears in Veronyka’s heart ablaze.