She paused, and Nadya held her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time Jeta had spoken this much to her.
Jeta held up the breastplate. “Respect it, not because it keeps a blade from slicing your skin, but because of what it is. What it symbolizes. What it protects. Remember who you are when you wear the armor, and respect that.”
“The Iron Phoenix,” Nadya said quietly.
“Good. Because if you don’t, no one will. And it will be your own doing.”
Nadya swallowed hard, but her throat remained stubbornly dry. She had chosen this, accepted herself as both Nadezhda Gabori of the Nomori and the Iron Phoenix. The thought of losing it all when she had struggled to make up for the bloodshed her carelessness had caused…
“Aww, don’t scare her like that. You know how fragile Nadya can be.” Familiar footsteps echoed softly against the cut stone floor of the pavilion. Shay walked up to the two of them, smelling of sweetened smoke as she always did. She slung an arm around Nadya, who leaned into the familiar embrace. “Shoot her with a musket and she barely flinches, but raise your voice, and she bawls like a newborn lamb.”
Nadya relaxed. Shay’s teasing was as constant and as comforting as the rattle of the old steam pumps that kept Storm’s Quarry free of floodwaters. “Thanks,” she whispered with a wry smile. “I’d almost swooned before you galloped in to save me.”
“Much as I try, I can’t help but be your knight in shining armor,” Shay said, planting a kiss right below Nadya’s earlobe. Shay’s touch was warm, hot even, as the fire that burned within the other nivasi roiled just beneath her skin.
A loud clang broke the moment, as the forgemaster struck the edge of a newly formed pipe with her shaping mallet. “Anything else?” Jeta asked, her tone curt enough to convey that the answer had better be no.
“Um…” Nadya held up the torn hood.
Shay grabbed her arm. “Don’t try your luck, love. Get it mended in the market.”
Jeta’s intense stare lingered on Nadya for a moment longer before she turned her back on both of them. “And where have you been?” the forgemaster asked Shay gruffly. She struck the glowing metal of the new pipe with practiced movements.
“Making charcoal, or did you forget that wonderful assignment?” Shay grimaced. “Your charcoal is waiting outside, and I’m going to smell like charred logs for days.”
Shay was the only person Nadya had ever heard speak to Jeta like that. She figured anyone else who had dared to found their remains feeding her forge.
“You weren’t seen?” The edge of concern in Jeta’s voice made Nadya’s chest tighten. She was so happy that Shay had a mentor like Jeta in her life, a mother, really, who had taken the young nivasi child to spare her from the death to which Nomori tradition doomed all her kind. Nadya couldn’t imagine the patience, and the ability to dodge angry firebolts, it had taken to raise Shay, but watching them work together, conversing casually in the way only made possible by a decade of bonding, Nadya’s heart ached with jealousy. Her father, Shadar Gabori of the Duke’s Guard, might have accepted her nivasi nature, but it had come years late.
“Of course not,” Shay was saying. “Kipperwell’s tiny enough. Plenty of places to burn wood without being spotted.” She snapped her fingers, ignoring Jeta’s disapproving glare. The ghost of a flame sprouted from them and disappeared. “Easy as sweetpie.”
“As sweetpie?” Nadya asked with a giggle. Shay made it all too easy to forget the things that troubled her, seemingly without trying at all.
Shay shrugged. “It’s a thing they say here. And we would not be subjected to such unrefined colloquialisms if we moved on from this tiny town and headed out to one of the big cities in the South Marches,” she said with a suggestive look to Jeta.
The forgemaster didn’t even look up. “If you do not want to be given a task to make more charcoal, I suggest you both leave me in peace.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shay grinned at Nadya as they left the forge area and made their way into the market proper. “You know, she likes you a lot,” Shay said when they had left the heat of the forge behind.
Nadya snorted. “Hardly. She rarely says more than two words to me. And did you see her? I thought she was going to eat me alive.”
“If she didn’t like you, she most certainly would have. I’ve seen her tear people apart who showed far less idiocy,” Shay said, cuffing Nadya lightly in the arm.
“Thanks.” Nadya caught her hand, threading her fingers between Shay’s. Soot stained, as well, she thought with a small smile. One day, they would be as callused as the forgemaster’s own. As much as Shay grumbled about her work with Jeta, Nadya knew she harbored fierce loyalty to the older woman and cherished her position by her side.
“She thinks you’re good for me,” Shay said, suddenly.
“Oh?” Nadya frowned. “I thought she wanted you to focus on your work, not go off every night with another nivasi.”
Shay dodged out of the way of a string of children chasing a stray dog. Their shrieking laughter filled the nearby market stalls, and more than one shopkeeper sent them a disapproving glare as the bunch sprinted past. “Little cretins,” Shay said, but she was smiling. “Hard to believe that was once us, running through the streets of Storm’s Quarry.”
Nadya nodded. It seemed like a lifetime ago, the two of them as children, making mischief in the damp alleys of the Nomori tier. Hiding colored pebbles, digging for treasures in the dust, dodging the chores their mothers hounded them about. Such memories were bittersweet, as Nadya knew what came after: Shay disappearing without a trace, her kin denying her existence. Only years later did the two reunite. Nadya, disguised as the Iron Phoenix, had confronted a nivasi in the streets of Storm’s Quarry. Unbelievably, that nivasi revealed herself as Nadya’s childhood friend.
A turn of fate Nadya could not be more grateful for.
“She doesn’t necessarily approve of all the vigilante work, and she thinks the names are ridiculous.” Shay turned to Nadya. “Which you know I agree with. The names are a bit much.”
Nadya gave her a playful tap on the nose. “The names were given to us by Storm’s Quarry. You were talking about Jeta.”
“Yes, right. Well, she doesn’t like the whole Dragon and Phoenix thing, but she likes you. She thinks you’re good for me. You’re…steady. And I need that.” Shay squeezed her forearm, entwining their arms to walk side by side through the market.
“I didn’t know that.” Of the two of them, Shay had always been the fiery one, her nivasi nature—her ability to conjure fire and focus it into blades of light—and her quick personality feeding off one another. Nadya did not know if that made her the steady one. She could be, had been, just as quick and careless. And she had blood on her hands for it.
“Don’t think too hard on it, Nadya.” Shay gave her cheek a brief peck. “Try to have a little fun this morning, all right?”
“I think I can manage,” Nadya said as they wandered through the crowds of Kipperwell’s market square.
Nadya marveled at just how unremarkable they were here. Nomori—the once nomadic psychic people who traversed the world’s waterways, now the newest inhabitants of the city of Storm’s Quarry—were uncommon here, true, and their golden-brown skin and dark braids earned the two women a curious glance or two as they threaded their way through market stalls, dodging eager sellers brandishing their dried meats and wool skeins. But their clasped hands, the way Shay rested her chin on Nadya’s shoulder when they stopped to examine some embroidery, the small touches that had become all too easy over the past months—those did not draw a second look from any of the merchants or Marchers alike. In the Nomori tier of Storm’s Quarry, such intimate familiarity would be the subject of gossip and ostracism. In the Nomori tradition, women married men, bearing children and carrying on the leadership of their families. They did not wear capes and hunt crime after nightfall; certainly, they did not share kisses with another woman.
Only Nadya’s mother, Mirela Gabori,
knew of her preference, knowing even before Nadya had confessed her feelings for Kesali Stormspeaker, her childhood friend and now wife of the city’s heir, during the last Great Storm. Mirela had accepted her daughter without question then. That changed, of course, when she learned of Nadya’s nivasi blood.
Nivasi were the bane of Nomori society, children born with unnatural powers outside the traditional psychic gifts of their women and preternatural fighting ability of their men. Once discovered, nivasi children were taken away and disposed of for the protection of all.
Given the past destruction caused by nivasi, Nadya could not blame her people. Even if she and Shay found themselves branded as the same dangerous menace as the others.
“Oi, stop dwelling,” Shay said, cuffing Nadya’s shoulder and drawing her out of her dark thoughts.
“I’m not,” she tried to argue, but Shay shook her head.
“Don’t lie, Nadya. I can see it in your eyes, when you start thinking of it all. You’ve left it behind. Let it stay there.” She put a hand on either side of Nadya’s face. Her skin radiated warmth, fueled by her natural nivasi fire.
Nadya closed her eyes, letting Shay’s warmth soothe her tightened throat, calm her restless hands. It had become so familiar that her body’s reaction was instinctive. She took a deep breath. “I know.”
Shay gave her a quick kiss, tasting ever of smoke and metal. “You don’t, but you will one day. Let’s get your hood mended before it gives Jeta chest pains.”
Letting herself be led off by Shay, who seemed determined to distract her, Nadya couldn’t help the wandering nature of her thoughts. Back to Storm’s Quarry, to the only home, the only Natsia—her Nomori long road home—she had known before Shay. To its ancient walls and the salty scent of the Nomori tier, to the old Gabori house and her loft, to the Nomori fountain where she and Kesali had shared their first kiss and danced under the stars.
To the bloodstained courtyard of the Duke where she, under the influence of a mad and powerful nivasi, slaughtered dozens with her bare hands. Her heart pounded from within her chest as it always did when the memories surfaced. But now, Nadya had something to defend against them.
“Nadya, love,” Shay said, touching her arm. Grounding her in the present.
Nadya gave a weak smile. “I’m fine.” She should be. She should be more than fine, happy even, Nadya knew. She had love, adventure, freedom all at her fingertips. No longer did she live under the threat of those who hunted nivasi, or wished to see the Iron Phoenix hang. No longer could the ghosts of Storm’s Quarry haunt her every step.
As the midmorning sun warmed the edges of the pavilion, the market hit its peak, with nearly all of Kipperwell’s one thousand citizens in the central square. Languages, from the dozen tongues of the South Marches to Erevo and even Cressian, echoed against each other as patrons conducted heated barters. The oversweet scent of sugar dough wafted through the line of market stalls; it overpowered the softer smells of the native fruits and vegetables of the March lands on display. Despite all the activity around her, Nadya was an island unto herself. A deep ache rattled her bones as the differentness of this place squeezed down upon her.
Natsia…
“Nadya?” Nadya looked up to see the worry in Shay’s black eyes before the other woman hid it with a smile. “Come, I know a tailor from the last time our caravan came through here. And maybe we can get one of your favorite pastries on the way?”
She should be happy, Nadya knew, so she put on a smile of her own and nodded and followed Shay.
Chapter Two
Shay was no fool.
Perhaps—most assuredly—Jeta would disagree with her assessment, but Shay trusted her instincts, about Nadya most of all. And she was hurting terribly and doing an equally terrible job of hiding it.
Shay bit her lip as Nadya’s half-hearted smile faded the instant Shay made to look away. She kept walking alongside Shay through the market. Every once in a while, the sight of a juggler or a beautiful dress would bring out a little smile, but those moments quickly faded. Even speaking to the tailor, whom Shay had contracted before, elicited nearly nothing from Nadya. Shay backed away as the tailor drilled Nadya with questions about the mending job, keeping her partner in the edge of her sight as she headed to a nearby stall.
Shay could have found the place by scent alone. Spiced pumpkin flooded her senses as she gazed over the display of delicate pastries and hearty breads. Two men watched over the stall, both wearing easy smiles.
“Can we tempt you today, ma’am?” one asked in the thick language of the South Marches, of which Shay had some basic knowledge.
“Easily,” she replied. “Two rolls, please.”
She paid a silver for both and turned away from the stall, nearly running into Nadya. “Stars, you need to make some noise. Give me an early death of fright.”
“I see you left me for the food,” Nadya said, raising an eyebrow at the bundle of rice paper in Shay’s hands.
“I was keeping an eye on you, never worry. Here, it’s worth it.” Shay handed her one of the wrapped rolls.
Nadya sniffed it. “I can’t place the fruit.” She took a bite of the steaming orange bread. “It’s good, but what is it?”
“Pumpkin. Large orange fruit. Grows in winter down here. It’s the best damn thing about this part of the Marches.” Shay ate her roll in three bites, hardly savoring the cinnamon-tinged pumpkin bread. “I used to spend all the pocket money that Jeta gave me on pumpkin pastries when we traveled in this part of the world.”
Nadya snorted. “I can believe that.”
They wandered the market, pointing out bits and pieces to each other, passing the time as the tailor mended Nadya’s cloak. It was easy and comfortable, and Shay knew that it was all too much a facade.
Sadness still hung around the edges of their conversation, in the way Nadya hesitated before speaking, her faraway stares.
It wasn’t the first time in the months since they left Storm’s Quarry that Nadya had succumbed to the stupor that came with thoughts of the city. It seemed to always float just above her, ready to swoop in and overtake her at any moment.
Shay had never quite figured out how to pull Nadya back out from it.
The first time it happened, Shay did not handle it well.
“Do you even want to be here?” she had yelled, throwing her arm out. Poor choice of phrase, since at the time they had been arguing in a cow field of a cluster of farms on the far northern border of the Marches, a place no one really wanted to be.
“Of course I do!”
“Then why does a single mention of that cursed city have you gazing longingly north, like a lovestruck courtier? Why can’t you just leave it in the past? Move forward in your life? Move forward with me?” Shay added, her voice rising in pitch and breaking.
Nadya reached out to her. “There’s good there as well as bad, on both sides, and I need time to untangle it all. You got a clean break from Storm’s Quarry, from our people. I didn’t, Shay.” She must have realized the error of her words, and quickly added, “It was horrible, what happened to you. I’m not saying—”
“Yes, you are.” Shay drew a ragged breath. The air around her burned with heat. Tufts of grass, worn down by roaming herds, burst into flames at her feet. Shay knew she should clamp down on the fire, but at the moment, she didn’t want to be in control. She wanted the anger. “You still seem surprised that I hate them. Well, I do. And I always will. I didn’t save the whole stars-cursed city for the sake of it. I did it for you. If that’s not enough…”
“It is, Shay, it is, I just—”
“You just wish you were back there. Wish it would have all worked out differently.” Her words dripped with a poison that fueled the unruly fire within her. “Wish you could have stopped her wedding.”
Nadya stepped toward her, taking her hand despite the flames that danced around Shay. “I chose you, Shay. I chose you, and I have not regretted it once. I wish you would believe me,” she whispe
red.
Later that evening, Jeta had cuffed Shay upside the head. “Do not be foolish.”
“Why do you care about my love life?” Shay had replied, keeping her temper under control. Jeta brooked no mistakes when it came to her nivasi gift.
The forgemaster was silent for a long time. “Because she steadies you. And now you need to do the same for her.”
“This was supposed to be her happy ending, don’t you get it? She’s supposed to put all that behind her and live her life. With me, without me”—those words had hurt, but she meant them—“it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she finally gets to be at peace.”
“Maybe she does not believe that she deserves peace.”
“Oh,” was all Shay could say at the time.
Now, months later, Shay kept returning to that conversation every time she needed to understand why Nadya could not sever whatever tied her to Storm’s Quarry. Knowing that Nadya did not regret her choice to travel south with Shay was not the same thing as knowing how to comfort her partner when the past overcame her.
“Just give it enough time,” she muttered. Another few months away from that cursed city, and maybe Nadya would finally accept that her life was now good.
And that she deserved it. It and a damned sight more.
“Time for what?” Nadya asked, breaking Shay out of her thoughts.
Cursing the other nivasi’s supernatural hearing, Shay shook her head. “Time to get that cloak mended. Can’t let your secret identity get out. What would the neighbors say,” she teased gently.
“Nothing worse than what’s already said of us.” Nadya paused. “Or has been said.”
Shay bit back a sigh. It was not Nadya’s fault that she twisted every word to feed her dark thoughts. “Try not to dwell too much on that.” She paused. The middle of a crowded market in a godsforsaken town in the South Marches was not perhaps the best place to bring up Nadya’s melancholic tendencies, but Shay clasped the tendril of courage and began, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about. I know how hard—”
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