“Yes, or they could fly away,” Tristan agreed, irritated at the assumption that that was all he cared about, though of course it was a large part of it. The commander would be livid if he returned to find no female phoenixes. That was, if he returned at all, and if the Eyrie was still standing. He sighed heavily. “They have no bondmate to keep them loyal, and we’ve shackled them. Leaving should be their very first instinct.”
“You’d be surprised,” Ersken said, staring at the phoenixes through the bars. He might not be bonded with them, but Ersken knew the females better than anyone else in the stronghold. “Their first instinct is to protect their bondmate, and after that, it’s to protect each other. Why do you think the empire never tried to lure Phoenix Riders to their side during the war? When it comes to a real battle—not squabbles over territory or mating displays—they won’t fight against one another.”
“Fine,” Tristan said, stepping around Veronyka to take hold of the lock. “They can fight for us, for the other phoenixes, or for no one at all. I suppose that’s their right.” He turned to Veronyka. “They might be shot down before they get past the walls of the stronghold—your bondmate included. I hope you’re prepared to face that possibility.”
“I’ll do it,” Ersken said, shoving Tristan aside. “Get back up there; you’ll see once they’re loose. Doubt they’ll stay put and play nice like your trained males up there, so be ready with your command.”
Veronyka wavered, and Tristan could tell she was afraid, that she wanted to stay behind and release her phoenix herself.
“You can stay, but I have to go,” he said. She hesitated another moment, then followed him up the stairs. They ran, Tristan’s lungs burning with exertion. The tunnel was cool and damp, cut off from the noise of the battle, the only sound the steady pant of their breathing and the slap of their footsteps against the stone.
They were just emerging at the top level when a series of musical cries echoed from the bottom of the Eyrie. Peering over the edge, Tristan saw Veronyka’s phoenix soar out first, quickly followed by the other two. As Ersken predicted, they didn’t await an order or circle low in hesitation. They rose like fireballs, ripping through the sky and bursting into a glorious shower of sparks. Like their feathers, they burned with a hint of violet and indigo, staining the sky with all the colors of a mountain sunset.
Rex, he thought, staring at the perch where the males gathered, ruffling their feathers and shifting their feet in response to the females soaring past them. Now.
Rex burst into a blazing red-gold inferno, the flame rippling off his feathers and cracking like a whip. The rest of the phoenixes lit up as well, one after the other, like a series of torches catching fire. With a bone-chilling cry, the males answered the females, launching into the air.
The females weaved in between the males, mixing their colors and creating a spectacle a thousand times more magnificent than the solstice dance he’d shown Veronyka. This was primal battle magic.
This was the stuff of legends.
Their whirling spiral of light split, and they turned their flight toward the battle for the stronghold, sparks trailing in their wake.
War is costly. Even in victory, there is a price.
- CHAPTER 39 -
VERONYKA
AS SOON AS THEY passed through the archway and the chaos atop the battlements came into view, Veronyka’s insides went cold. There were soldiers inside the stronghold, wielding axes, crossbows, and short swords, their edges tipped in blood. Bodies littered the walkway across the wall and the ground beneath it, while a distant glow to the east told her that the village gate was burning.
The possibility that they might lose became real to Veronyka for the first time. And she had convinced Tristan to involve Xephyra and the rest of the phoenixes. Veronyka might lose her bondmate all over again. Her legs became wobbly stems beneath her, and she drew air in quick, shallow breaths. The stronghold was flooded with fear, her own most powerful of all, and Veronyka thought she might drown in it.
High above, a phoenix screeched, and Veronyka looked up to see Xephyra burn a brilliant violet streak across the sky. Rex and the other phoenixes joined in, and as the stronghold’s defenders clapped and cheered, the heavy press of emotion lightened. Veronyka knew then that she’d made the right decision. Not only had they brought hope to their flagging defenders, but the phoenixes were true warriors—if anyone was qualified to fight the soldiers tonight, it was them.
Tristan dove into the fighting as soon as they returned, helping two of his fellow apprentices reclaim a section of the wall as Rex and the others soared by. The defenders waved their weapons in the air, heartened by their reinforcements, while the soldiers stared at the firebirds with openmouthed fear. Maybe they thought all the phoenixes had been drawn out by the diversions, or maybe they’d never faced them in battle before.
Rex and the other males flew together in circles high above the battle, slowly building their heat, while Xephyra and the females were far more erratic. Veronyka was relieved to see that neither of the unbonded phoenixes had used the opportunity to flee—at least not yet.
Rex was the first to break the pattern, igniting as he dove toward the attacking forces. He whipped past the walls, trailing fire in his wake and causing soldiers to duck and cry out, only to topple from the wall or be cut through by a defender. It took several passes for the phoenix fire to actually burn the ropes, thanks to the pyraflora resin, but with each sweep of flaming wing or tail feather, the ropes frayed and weakened. The rest of the males followed after him, orbiting the stronghold with swathes of flame until it was lit to almost daylight brightness.
Veronyka glanced at Tristan, worried for how he’d react to so much fire, but he was focused on the fighting. His mental safe house must be holding up well. She’d sensed him working on it inside the Eyrie, and some instinct—or maybe the information Val had given her about how she’d controlled Xephyra—told her that she could lend Tristan her strength, that she could help him through their connection. She didn’t know if it had worked, only that Tristan’s erratic breathing had slowed and the tension in his mind cleared.
Taking up her serrated knife once more, Veronyka found an untouched rope and got to work. She still wore a quiver of arrows, and her bow was strapped to her back, but the weapon made her feel like a fraud. She could barely draw the string or hit a stationary target, never mind kill a man in the middle of a battle. She tried to let Tristan’s reassurances wash over her: You have other strengths, you know.
Like hacking at ropes?