Heart of Flames Page 3

  She still didn’t know.

  It had been too dangerous to risk when she was young, her shadow magic wild and unpredictable. And now? Avalkyra had given Veronyka pieces of what she needed, but not the whole picture. Until she had a plan of her own, revealing to Veronyka her true heritage would only complicate matters.

  Avalkyra thought she’d had a plan—hatch a phoenix, raise it until it was big enough to fly, then start gathering her allies and make her move on the capital. This had been her plan for years. For a lifetime. And it had failed repeatedly, spectacularly, over and over again.

  Avalkyra needed a new plan, but no matter how she looked at it, she needed a phoenix. What kind of Ashfire queen would she be without one? She’d be like poor, powerless Pheronia.

  No, Avalkyra needed a phoenix to ride into battle, a fiery beacon to light the night and warn the empire of her second coming. Without that, she’d be a shadow of her former self. A pale comparison.

  Maybe she already was.

  While her shadow magic was as strong as ever, honed over two lifetimes, her animal magic felt weakened. Whisper thin. Whatever she’d gained in shadows, she’d lost in her desperate bid for new life. She could not give these phoenixes what they sought. No matter how much life she gave them, no matter the heaps of bones and white-hot pyres, they refused to come forward.

  Then, as if summoned there by thought alone, the endless, haunted silence was punctuated by a distant, steady pump.

  Wingbeats.

  For a wild moment Avalkyra thought it was Nyx—a stupid, foolish thought. Nyx had not come back. The bond endured—Veronyka and her phoenix had proven that. If Nyx were alive, Avalkyra would feel it.

  No, this phoenix was larger than Nyx. Older. A female, her long purplish feathers marked her as a centennial—possibly many times over, so dark was her plumage—and her beak was narrower, her neck longer. As for the crown atop her head… well, it put Avalkyra’s crown of feathers to shame.

  A surge of anger blossomed in her stomach. She would fashion a new crown and take the feathers from this phoenix’s corpse if she wanted. She was Avalkyra Ashfire. She was a queen. None would shine brighter or burn hotter than her.

  Avalkyra glowered at the creature as it landed before her, anger still bubbling in her stomach and clawing its way up her throat.

  Though the phoenix was impressive in both size and age, she did not seem… stable. There was something broken and fractured in her eyes, in her twitching, erratic movements. She kept tilting her head or darting her gaze this way or that… as if looking for something, and Avalkyra was not it.

  Unlike most phoenixes, who emanated light and warmth and sparking energy, this creature felt dark and cold and wary.

  “Who are you?” Avalkyra asked. Minutes passed, and when the silence continued to stretch on, Avalkyra pushed out with her magic. Tell me who you are! she demanded, but the phoenix’s mind rebelled against her touch. She had impressive strength, and yet there were also gaps along the barriers of her mind… cracks and fissures. These weren’t born from ineptitude or inexperience. No, the weakness in this phoenix’s defenses came from trauma.

  Centuries of trauma.

  And deep within Avalkyra came the knowledge that while the body might endure or be resurrected anew, the mind did not survive so many lives unscathed.

  “What do you want?” she asked instead, though she wasn’t sure why. Why should she care what this old bag of bones wanted? “I am your queen, phoenix, and here in my domain you will answer me.”

  Those words got the firebird’s attention. Her gaze, which had been wandering off to the side, snapped back onto Avalkyra with sharpened focus.

  Ashfire, she said. Not a question.

  “Yes,” Avalkyra said faintly. The word had boomed inside her mind, loud, clear, and echoing, like a massive bronze bell.

  More ash than fire, the phoenix said, fixing her with a single, unblinking stare, before shifting her wings and looking around once more.

  Avalkyra stared. She’d never heard a phoenix speak like that, playing with words and meanings like a human would. And yet there was something otherworldly about this creature’s voice too. It was cold—detached in a way that felt like hatred, and Avalkyra knew hatred.

  Then the phoenix added, almost as an afterthought, It is no wonder that you fail.

  Was she…? Had the phoenix seen Avalkyra’s attempt at hatching an egg? Fury pulsed through her veins. She lashed out, a searing pulse of shadow magic that met against the phoenix’s fractured walls and broke through.

  The phoenix reared back, shaking her head and screeching loudly.

  Avalkyra reveled in the sound.

  “I am ash and fire, and Nefyra’s blood runs in my veins, phoenix. Remember to whom you speak.”

  There was silence for a time, and the phoenix seemed almost… stunned.

  Nefyra, she said carefully, as if relearning the word. She shook her head again slowly, then more violently, before taking to the sky with a sudden screech and the flap of angry wings.

  Avalkyra watched her go, wondering how many more broken things she’d find in Aura and sickened to realize that she was one of them.

  A part of her had expected to find dozens of phoenixes in the ruins, living here in retreat from the world. But if there were others, they remained hidden.

  Like cowards.

  Like her.

  What was she doing up here anyway? There was no luck to be found, no magical cure to her inability to hatch an egg and claim a bondmate. Instead there was this decrepit old phoenix here to taunt her. To show Avalkyra what she could never have again.

  She thought back to the cold ashes of Xephyra’s resurrection pyre, when Avalkyra had managed to use her connection to Veronyka to exploit the bond between the girl and her phoenix.

  Avalkyra had found a way to control Xephyra without a bond of her own; even with her animal magic failing, she had done it.

  Why not again?

  Of course, that had been different. She’d utilized Veronyka’s bond to Xephyra and her own bond to Veronyka, which connected them all in unexpected ways. As far as Avalkyra could tell, the creature she’d just met had no Rider, and even if she did, Avalkyra would not be bonded to them.

  But there were other ways to control… ways that involved shadow magic. Shadow magic was typically the realm of human minds, but she’d broken through the phoenix’s mental barrier just now, hadn’t she? And she’d done that not with animal magic, but with shadow.

  While the magic of the living was the realm of light and life and bonds, the magic of the shadows created a different kind of link. A bind. It was one way, a claiming rather than a union. And while it cost the binder less than a bond—they didn’t have to give access to their own mind in return—the results were similar enough for Avalkyra’s purposes.

  She stared after the phoenix, still visible in the distance. A wavering speck, the creature silhouetted against the stars—a flicker of potential and possibility.

  “Come back,” Avalkyra said. The words were quiet, and though there was no immediate response—and the phoenix surely could not hear her at this distance—Avalkyra was certain that she would return. Their paths would cross again, and Avalkyra would make it count.

  Calm certainty settled over her.

  What had she done all her life when the world refused to give her what she needed? What she deserved?

  She had taken it.

  Maybe her plans weren’t so unattainable after all: first a phoenix, then Veronyka… then, the empire.

  Perhaps it was time for Veronyka to know the truth after all.

  Maybe with the knowledge of who she was, Veronyka would finally accept her place at Avalkyra’s side. Then she’d leave those so-called Phoenix Riders—leave the Eyrie and her protections—and together they’d finish what Avalkyra and Pheronia had started a lifetime ago.

  She would need proof, though…. It had taken her signet ring and a carefully chosen memory to validate her own truth to Vero
nyka, and so Avalkyra would need more than just words. There had been too many years and too many lies between them for Veronyka to trust anything she said.

  Yes, Avalkyra would need proof.

  And she knew exactly where to get it.

  Unwanted, they called her. Ordinary.

  Powerless. And she believed them, believed

  the lies they told her about herself.

  - CHAPTER 3 - SEV

  SEV SAT ALONE IN the small chamber. In truth, it wasn’t small at all—it was actually a series of rooms with a bedchamber, a sitting room, and a private washroom—but everyone called it the small chamber, since it was the smallest of half a dozen long-term-care rooms in the infirmary wing of the palatial estate of Lord Rolan, governor of Ferro.

  Sev shook his head, trying to understand how he’d gotten here.

  When he’d left the Phoenix Riders, his confidence that he could do what he’d promised faltered with every step. He was willingly returning to the empire, to his position as a soldier, when he’d only just gotten free of them. It was hard to believe he’d volunteered for this.

  As hard as it was to believe he’d gotten involved with Trix, the Feather-Crowned Queen’s spymaster, and her ridiculous rebellion. The thought brought a rueful smile to Sev’s face. It had been the best decision of his life, and his footsteps had lightened somewhat after that.

  Before he’d left the Eyrie, Commander Cassian had helped him form a plan, including a travel route that would avoid the Phoenix Rider sweeps. They’d decided together that Sev should return to the Vesperaean Caves—the place where his regiment had congregated before the attack—in order to scrounge for supplies and see if there were any survivors.

  “We can’t give you anything,” the commander had warned, “or have you looking too well cared for upon your return. We’ve salvaged what we could of your original clothing, but the tunic was too far gone. You’ll have to claim you pilfered one from a corpse—or stole one from a traveler.”

  Sev had sighed then, beginning to realize what exactly it was that he’d signed up for.

  “And your shoulder wound will rouse suspicion,” the commander had continued, unaware of—or maybe uninterested in—Sev’s distaste for what lay ahead.

  “It couldn’t be any more authentic,” Sev argued, looking down at his bandaged shoulder, which was stiff and aching, though the bone-deep heat that radiated from it was lessening somewhat. “It proves I was a part of the attack and not some turncoat or deserter.” Or spy.

  “Yes, and it was expertly tended by Greta, a priestess of Hael, a healer you couldn’t hope to find anywhere in Pyra—nor could you afford her even if you did.”

  A sense of foreboding had uncoiled in Sev’s belly. “I could say I found a village healer, or went to a temple near the border—”

  “And if you find one of your fellow soldiers at the caves and don’t get the chance?” the commander said, shaking his head. “I’ve spoken with Greta. Your wound has done well, and she thinks it’s healed sufficiently enough that you likely won’t risk true infection if you remove the bandages and replace them with dirty scraps of linen. You will also apply this salve periodically,” he said, unscrewing the lid of a small ceramic jar. The scent was quite nice, floral and sweet. “It is made from ivy and bleeding heart. Apply it to the surface of the wound only. It will cause the skin to redden and swell and prevent it from knitting together for the duration of the journey. Ensure you lose it before you enter the empire’s border. This will set you back several weeks, but it is our best option to avoid suspicion.”

  Sev took the salve, already dreading the increased pain that was sure to come.

  “You will tell them the arrow shaft was removed by one of the empire’s healers during the battle, before he was killed. There were a handful positioned within each regiment—we found several bodies near the switchback stair and down by the bluffs. We’ve retrieved one of their bags, though they were woefully undersupplied. Bandages, thread and needle for stitching, and a poppy tincture to numb pain. You will carry one of their bags with you as evidence.”

  After that Sev had donned his dirty, bloodstained clothes and rubbed his skin with dirt. Before he knew it, he was making his way back down the mountain.

  Now he was tucked into a four-poster bed, a plush down-filled mattress beneath him and soft wool covers piled three high overtop. These rooms were meant for use by the estate’s residents, with all the comforts a governor’s family would expect in case they were forced to spend weeks under care by a healer.

  A pitcher of mint-and-lemon-flavored water sat on his bedside table, and Sev was scrubbed and fed and wrapped in fresh bandages. Ever since his arrival he’d been treated kindly, graciously—like a valiant hero come home from war. Because of the nature of his recovery, Sev had been assigned this private chamber, had a healer checking in on him twice daily, plus servants he could summon with the shake of a bell.

  Sev knew he was being treated better than most soldiers who returned from battle, no matter their wounds, and it made him extremely uneasy—like a beast fattened up before being sent to the slaughter.

  But today, at long last, he was to meet directly with Lord Rolan. He had been in the capital when Sev first arrived but had apparently left word that any returning soldiers from Pyra be given the best possible treatment. Sev had gleaned since that there had been quite a few survivors before him who had already been questioned and sent to their new posts, not to mention the one he’d arrived with.

  When Sev had first returned to the Vesperaean Caves, they had been deserted. Or so he’d thought. The Riders had already been through to burn the corpses and dispose of the spoiled food, and the llamas had gone as well—though Sev wasn’t sure if they’d broken free to roam Pyrmont or if they had been snatched up by surviving soldiers or the Riders. A part of him had been hoping to see some evidence of Kade, to find some hint or hope that he might have gotten away, but there was nothing. He’d even searched for Kade’s tags among the ashes in the funeral pyre, dread heavy inside his chest, terrified of what he might find. When his search turned up empty, he’d released a shaky sigh of relief.

  He’d just been considering camping in the caves for the night when a voice had rung out in the growing twilight.

  Sev had whirled around, pain lancing through his reaggravated wound, to find himself face-to-face with an unfamiliar man covered in angry red burns and with a short sword in hand. Sev scrabbled for his own weapon, but he needn’t have bothered. He was a soldier, the same as Sev, and had been a part of the supplementary forces that had arrived the night of the botched poisoning. He’d taken one look at Sev’s wound, said, “Better cold steel than hot fire” with a wolfish grin, and the two had traveled together for the rest of the trip back to the empire.

  Over the following days Sev had thought often of Trix and Kade. It made him feel worse sometimes, but once he moved past the darker memories that would cause his breath to hitch and his throat to ache, he’d remember something that made him smile or laugh. Trix’s sharp tongue and Kade’s quiet humor. He’d remember the point of all this, and sleep would come a bit easier.

  After years of fear and complacency, hiding among those who should have been his enemies, Sev’s life now had purpose and direction. He was hiding again, but this time it was for the greater good. It had been devastating to lose Trix and Kade, and the only thing Sev could do to make it hurt less was to finish what they had started: protect the last remnants of the Phoenix Riders—the order his own parents had died fighting for—and bring down men like Lord Rolan.

  He’d been the one to send secret forces into Pyra with the express purpose of slaughtering the Phoenix Riders, and it was generals like him who had sent swarms of soldiers to kill his parents.

  If Sev was going to be the one to survive, his life had to mean something. It had to. How did he deserve life when people like his parents, like Kade and Trix, did not?

  Despite their wounds and their meager supplies, Sev and the soldier
made good time, walking through the gates to Lord Rolan’s estate in the center of Orro a mere three weeks after the fighting had finished. The other man had been in much better shape than Sev, and after a quick perusal by Hestia, the healer, was smeared with ointment and sent back out again. Sev’s wound required more thorough treatment. Even after Hestia had done what she could to bring the severe redness and swelling down on the injury, Sev had very limited movement in the shoulder, as well as a constant, radiating ache that caused the surrounding muscle to tighten with tension along his neck and back. She’d given him the kind of look that told Sev he’d never be fully healed again, but she still visited daily to apply poultices and salves and help Sev stretch the stiff joint.

  After one extremely painful session that left Sev sweating and dizzy, Hestia gave him a heavy dose of sedative and left him to his spiraling fears that he’d be no good to Rolan without his arm, and that he’d be discharged or locked in jail to serve out his remaining years owed to the empire.

  Sev couldn’t let that happen. He needed to be here, where he could be useful for the Phoenix Riders. Commander Cassian had asked for evidence, proof that Lord Rolan had planned the attack on the Riders and employed a spy of his own—an apprentice named Elliot—after kidnapping the boy’s sister to blackmail him for information. If Sev wasn’t near Rolan, he would be utterly useless, and he would have handed himself back to the empire’s military for nothing.

  As the medicine had dragged him toward sleep, Sev closed his eyes and thought of Trix and Kade until the darkness closed in.

  That had been several days ago, and now Sev waited inside his rooms for the governor himself to arrive. For his fate to be decided.

  A servant knocked before opening the door and announcing Lord Rolan, governor of Ferro.