Crown of Feathers

by Nicki Pau Preto

  “What’s your issue with the lordling?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the arch Tristan had just passed through. Her gaze was knowing as she sprinkled flour onto the stone table, pressing a roller over the ball of dough, her strong arms flattening it in several short strokes.

  “He’s the one with the issue,” Veronyka said. She knew she was responsible for some of his animosity; she shouldn’t have commented on his magic—or pried into it at all, even if it was mostly by accident—and she probably shouldn’t have stepped in that morning at the training exercise. But it was clear he held other resentment toward her, thanks to her arrival on his patrol route and the questioning that came after it, and Veronyka refused to take the blame for that.

  Morra laughed. “Oh, he’s not all bad. He’s got more of his mother in him than his father. Those of us who knew her see it—as soon as he sees it, things will go easier.”

  “What do you mean?” Veronyka asked. “Who is his mother?”

  Morra absently rubbed the thigh of her amputated leg and reached for a mug of pungent herb tea she often drank to dull the pain.

  “Tristan’s mother, Olanna, came from a very old Pyraean family. Most think only Cassian can claim a noble lineage, being an ex-governor, but the history of the lesser kingdoms is young compared to the bloodlines of ancient Pyra. Olanna was a Flamesong, and their family tree goes all the way back to the First Riders.”

  Veronyka’s heart leapt; she loved hearing about the First Riders. They were part of the Phoenix Rider creation story, legendary figures that were chosen by Axura in her fight against Nox.

  Val had shown Veronyka a giant fresco in Aura Nova that had escaped the council’s purge of phoenix-related artifacts, hidden between two old buildings in a narrow alley. The plaster was peeling and the colors were faded, but it was still the grandest thing Veronyka had ever seen. It showed the battle between light and dark—Axura’s flaming phoenixes pitted against Nox’s darkness, depicted as ink-black birds trailing wisps of shadow. Strixes, Val had called them, and the word had caused a chill to crawl up Veronyka’s spine. They were more than just death and darkness personified; they were harbingers of the end of the world.

  The entire thing sounded more myth than history to Veronyka, but until this day Phoenix Riders claimed descent from those mighty warriors. Val said the First Rider Queen was an Ashfire, the start of an unbroken line that ruled for a thousand years—starting in the Queendom of Pyra and then in the Golden Empire, up until the Blood War tore everything apart.

  “Cassian’s family ruled Ferro—as kings in the beginning, and then as governors,” Morra continued. “It was some great-great-great-uncle of his that married Elysia and ruled as king consort when the empire was founded and then elevated his brother to the role of governor in his homeland. Tristan’s certainly got the look of his father, but right here”—Morra tapped a finger to her chest—“he’s his mother. It’s from her that he gets his compassion and his sense of right and wrong. His temper, on the other hand, is Cassian through and through.” Morra leaned in, lowering her voice. “They say there’s Stellan blood in the commander’s line, and that’s where he gets his love for plots and politics—though I’m sure he’d deny it until his dying breath.”

  Veronyka smirked. Stellans had a reputation as troublemakers and warmongers. At least, that’s what Val had told her. Stel was the largest and most powerful of the provinces, and before it was part of the empire, it was a commonwealth of more than a dozen kingdoms. The kingdoms spent centuries warring among themselves as much as with their neighbors—usually Ferro, with whom they shared a border—and had difficulty reaching satisfactory terms with Queen Elysia’s growing empire. Stel was the last region to join and had apparently been heavily involved in the Blood War, backing Pheronia—who was Stellan on her mother’s side—against Avalkyra and providing military and financial support.

  “Did Olanna fight in the Blood War?” Veronyka asked.

  “Oh yes. She served the Feather-Crowned Queen, same as her husband, and even when the final battle was lost, she continued to fight. While Cassian met with the council, asking for clemency and offering up information in order to keep his governor position, Olanna was helping hide Riders and their families. It wasn’t just Avalkyra’s soldiers being captured and killed—anyone with animal magic was in danger. Olanna smuggled hundreds out of the valley and safely into Pyra. She smuggled me out, even though it looked like I might die from my wound. She was a good woman, Olanna.”

  Morra cleared her throat and got to work on the next lump of dough, her movements jerkier than before.

  “Wait,” Veronyka said, putting aside the cutter and facing Morra directly. “The commander tried to cut a deal while his wife was out risking her life? He ratted to the empire?” She couldn’t contain the sneer that curled her lip or the contempt that tainted her voice.

  “There’s many who saw it that way, it’s true,” she said, putting aside the roller. “But it wasn’t as simple as that. He and Olanna disagreed on methods, but their goals were the same. He thought if he could just retain his position on the Council of Governors, he could save us . . . he could save her. The magical registry was only an idea then, but it was easy to see how such a law could take hold amid the rampant fear and hatred after the war, and we needed someone on the inside, someone who could represent us and our interests on the council. So, he turned himself in. He offered information, but he didn’t have anything of real value—mostly names of people already caught and condemned or bases long abandoned. But his efforts were for nothing.”

  Something about her tone made dread uncoil in Veronyka’s stomach. “What happened to Olanna?”

  “She was caught,” Morra answered with a heavy sigh. “What she did was risky, and it was only a matter of time before she was brought in. Tristan had been sent away to live with some servants in the Ferronese countryside. But Cassian was still in the empire’s custody when she was captured, and he attended her trial. All his connections, all his political maneuvering, and he couldn’t save her. Olanna was deemed too dangerous to be kept alive and serve her term in bondage like so many others. She was executed for treason, and her phoenix beheaded. Her death sent shock waves through the empire and scared the last remnants of Avalkyra Ashfire’s rebellion into submission. If, with all her status and wealth, Olanna could be butchered, then no one was safe. Cassian has not been the same since. They chose to spare his life but not his position on the council. I think they rather enjoyed seeing him broken and exiled . . . a once-mighty governor brought low. Perhaps they thought he could serve as an example or a cautionary tale. The council named some Stellan lord governor in Cassian’s place and banished his entire family from the empire.”

  The disdain Veronyka had been feeling just moments ago slowly ebbed away. It was so incredibly cruel, and she couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for both Cassian and Tristan.

  “Did you fight in the war?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Morra said, returning to the dough. “Though I didn’t last long.” She reached into her hair and pulled out an ash-covered feather. “I lost Aneaxi in a border skirmish. Those were dark days for me, but there’s more than one way to fight a war—Olanna taught me that. We Riders who outlived our bondmates found other ways to serve our queen. They called us Mercies. We raked the burning buildings and smoking battlefields, seeking out survivors. And resurrections.”

  “Resurrections?” Veronyka whispered. “Phoenixes can be reborn in the middle of a battlefield?” Her heart stuttered inside her chest, and the image of Xephyra’s cold ashes came back to her.

  Morra nodded gravely. “All it takes is fire and bones, and there was plenty of both. I’d only just joined, but the older Mercies had strange stories to tell. I was determined to do my part, to find someone. . . .” She glanced at Veronyka, then shrugged, sliding the dough over for her to cut. “But my unit was ambushed before we’d even crossed the border. The others died. . . . I barely escaped with my life.” She gesture
d down at her leg.

  They stood in a small bubble of silence for several moments, while the noise and commotion of the kitchens clamored all around them.

  “We’re not as strong as we once were,” Morra continued, “but nor are we as weak. The commander may seem brusque, and some of his methods are too rooted in the empire, but he is capable. Of those who survived the Blood War—with their bondmate, mind you—Cassian has the most military experience, the most wealth, and the most natural authority. Those who fought alongside him respect his ability as a leader, and there’s no one among us to challenge him. Yet,” she said with a wink. Quietly she added, “One day young Tristan will find his strength.”

  Veronyka had a hard time seeing Tristan as someone in need of strength. He was very like his father, as far as she could tell, but apparently Morra saw something else in him. As someone with shadow magic, she probably saw more than most.

  Veronyka paced next to the obstacle course the following evening, waiting for Tristan’s arrival. During the morning exercises, he didn’t so much as look at her. He just went through the course, ignoring her advice and pushing his animals hard, overexerting himself. The rest of the day passed quickly, in the way that time does when you’re dreading something.

  Morra’s words floated around Veronyka’s mind all day. She was curious about what Tristan thought of his mother’s heroic sacrifice. Did he think her brave, or did he blame her for their exile? And would he turn into the kind of leader she had been—a selfless supporter of her people—or would he be like his father, desperately clinging to his place in the valley?

  It made her think about the kind of person she wanted to be too. Veronyka had been told hundreds of stories about the Phoenix Riders in her life, about Avalkyra Ashfire and her deeds, each more amazing than the next.

  At eleven, Avalkyra was the youngest Rider in history to win both the flying and archery competitions at the summer solstice games, and she led her first patrol at twelve.

  During court functions and official council meetings, Avalkyra insisted that she and her sister sit at the king’s right hand—a place usually reserved for the queen—and forced her stepmother to sit on the king’s far-less-dignified left.

  When Avalkyra’s father died and her stepmother tried to seize control, Avalkyra flooded the council with allies, dismissing many of the regent’s confidants with threats and blackmail, allowing her to overrule the would-be queen’s every move and order.

  Even the Stellan Uprising, the largest military conflict before the Blood War, couldn’t defeat Avalkyra. She won the battle with half the recommended soldiers, ensuring Aura Nova was not left vulnerable to her stepmother’s machinations in her absence, and even brought Pheronia to the battlefield, ensuring the queen couldn’t use her as leverage or turn her sister against her.

  And when evidence came to light that the king had been poisoned by his own wife—the current queen regent—Avalkyra ensured that justice was served.

  “What kind of justice, Maiora?” Veronyka had asked late one night as her grandmother told the story. They were in their usual positions in front of the fire—Veronyka curled up on the pile of mats and cushions that acted as her and Val’s bed and her maiora seated on a rickety old stool next to her.

  “The only kind that matters, xe Nyka,” Val had said, slipping under the covers next to her. “Was Avalkyra to put her treacherous stepmother in a finely furnished cell, where she could continue to cause strife? Was she to rely on a trial run by cowardly politicians with agendas of their own? Death was the only punishment worth doling out: an eye for an eye.”

  “But what about Pheronia? I thought Avalkyra loved her sister. If she did, how could she kill her mother?” Veronyka had looked up, surprised to see Val and her maiora share a look over her head, an exchange that she wasn’t meant to see.

  “It’s not as simple as all that,” her grandmother had said. “Love and politics are like oil and water—they don’t mix. What was best for the empire, and for Avalkyra’s own claim to the throne, wasn’t necessarily the best for her sister.”

  “So she chose politics over love?”

  Val made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. “Avalkyra couldn’t let the regicide of her own father go unpunished. People respond to strength, Veronyka. She was heir to the throne and had a duty to her king to see justice served.”

  But that decision had been the schism, the moment when the two sisters—always struggling together to combat the will of the council and the machinations of the governors—finally separated.

  Later her maiora explained that Avalkyra thought the move would gain her support in her bid for the throne, but the opposite happened. People saw her as cruel and ruthless, and Pheronia gained public favor and sympathy. The sisters stopped speaking, and Avalkyra refused to attend the dead queen’s funeral.

  While Avalkyra never admitted to the murder of her stepmother, she was the prime suspect. She fled into Pyra, avoiding her own trial, and began the process of separating the province from the empire. Treaties were signed, boundaries redrawn, and Pyra became its own country again. Pheronia had not been crowned in her absence, as she was still underage, but the council ruled the empire in her stead, earning her the nickname the Council’s Queen.

  Hearing Morra recount hers and Olanna’s stories made Veronyka reconsider what she thought she knew about the Blood War. She’d always imagined Avalkyra Ashfire as a hero, going down in a blaze of glory, the war ending with her last breath. But war wasn’t one or two big moments; it was dozens of smaller ones, enacted by people like Morra and Olanna who continued to fight even after their cause had lost. Suddenly Avalkyra Ashfire’s shining flashes of greatness looked rash and foolish. Avalkyra hadn’t just fled persecution when she’d set up in Pyra. She’d turned her back on the people of the empire, leaving thousands of her supporters, as well as innocent animages, behind. Thanks to her actions, many were condemned to bondage, imprisonment, even death, and it was left to people like Morra and Olanna to make things right.

  There’s more than one way to fight a war. There were fiery battles and court intrigues, but there were also daring rescues and selfless sacrifices.

  Veronyka thought of the bondservant she’d seen outside her cabin all those weeks ago, the way his face had lit when he’d seen Xephyra, when he’d seen her—a fellow animage, living in freedom. She remembered what Commander Cassian had said about a new purpose for the Phoenix Riders, about creating a safe place for their people.

  Before, Veronyka’s visions of being a Phoenix Rider involved soaring through the air and raining arrows down on some fiery battlefield. Now that picture changed, shifted. She saw herself protecting wagons of animages, children, old folks, and everyone in between—people like her, lost and afraid and in need of a home. The idea made her skin tingle. That was a battle worth fighting.

  Lost in thought, it took her a moment to notice Tristan’s approach. His bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder, and his soft brown hair rippled in the evening breeze. Veronyka went to Wind, making sure he was properly saddled—which she’d already done at least three times.

  Tristan ignored her once more, mounting up. While he was still stiff and unsmiling, he seemed less angry than he had been the previous night—or even earlier that morning—as if his temper had finally cooled.

  With a nudge of his knees and a wordless command, he turned Wind around, called the pigeon to his shoulder and the dog to the horse’s heels. As he readied his weapon and moved to the beginning of the course, the distant sound of pumping wings told her that Rex was on his way.

  She waited for Tristan to begin, determined to avoid any further arguments. After several moments, however, she stepped forward. Why wasn’t he starting the course? Was something wrong with him, or with Wind?

  “Are you—” Veronyka began, coming up alongside him, but Tristan interrupted her.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted, staring straight ahead.

  “What?” Veronyka asked incredulo
usly.

  He sighed and looked down at her. “I said I’m sorry. It’s not—none of this is your fault. I was wrong to raise the alarm when I saw you on the mountainside, and I was the one who screwed up the obstacle course. If I were you, I’d have done what you did. Or at least I hope I would have. So can we just . . . forget it?”

  Veronyka was stunned into silence. Growing up with Val meant Veronyka was extremely unused to apologies. All she could manage was a nod.

  Tristan nodded back, cleared his throat, and began the course. He started stiffly, but soon loosened into his usual confident performance.

  Veronyka stuck a hand into her pocket. She’d woven her shorn braids and their attached trinkets into something resembling a bracelet and had taken to carrying it around like a talisman. She often fidgeted with it, and she did so now, her fingers running along the familiar beads as she studied Tristan from a distance.

  Ever since they’d met, he’d been nothing but angry, mean, and arrogant. It was hard to believe this calm, apologetic version of him was the same person. Of course, he’d been under a lot of strain, and his description of the commander’s behavior had reminded her all too much of Val. Clearly his father had wanted to teach Tristan a lesson, and Veronyka had been drawn into the mess.

  Now not only was he apparently sorry for his previous behavior, but his entire energy and demeanor were different.

  “Nyk?” he said hesitantly, his voice carrying from the far end of the course.

  Veronyka jogged over. “Yes, Apprentice?” she said.

  The words seemed to irk him. He scowled for a moment before clearing his throat. “You can call me Tristan,” he said.

  “Oh” was Veronyka’s response. What was with him?

  He sighed. “Can you—I’ll need you to do that distraction thing again. With the stick?” he added.

  She hesitated. Was this some kind of test? “You want me to distract the animals again?”

  “If I’m going to do all this”—he gestured around the field—“extra practice, I might as well push myself. We both know I can do this course, but that’s not the point. The point is to keep calm in the face of distraction, to be able to command a large group of animals without losing focus or control. You might have inadvertently made a fool of me before, but you deliberately made a fool of me last night. I don’t like to be bested—whatever the contest.”