It was a while before Veronyka realized that the reason they were so completely in sync with each other was because the channel between them was wide open again, their minds and bodies moving as one. They both spotted the target. They both stepped into position—and they both loosed the arrow.
Rather than jarring her out of the moment or sending her into another faint, Veronyka embraced their unity. She was seeing the battle through Tristan’s eyes, despite being hunched over behind their makeshift shield, and was able to anticipate what he needed even before he knew it himself.
And that was why, when he moved to line up a shot at a distant attacker—noticing too late that, nearer at hand, a soldier had broken through and was barreling down on them—it was Veronyka who changed his shot. In the space of a breath, Veronyka leaned her body into Tristan’s, guiding his arms to the side just as the arrow loosed from his fingertips.
It landed true, directly in the middle of the oncoming soldier’s chest.
Tristan blinked at her, stunned, and Veronyka had the surreal feeling of experiencing his emotions through their connection at the same moment she saw them on his face. Shock, confusion, and then a blazing surge of gratitude. His chest swelled, and he laughed in bemused delight.
Their connection broke at last, but he didn’t sense it. To Tristan the entire thing had been an act of serendipity, Anyanke’s hand or Teyke’s blind luck. But to her it was so much more. It was possibility.
While he fired off more arrows, Veronyka marveled at the uses for shadow magic that she’d never considered before.
Despite how hard they fought, the only reason the soldiers hadn’t broken through their ragtag defense was Xephyra and her constant fiery dives across the mud-churned and body-riddled field. Every time she whipped past, Veronyka held her breath, wondering if this would be the time she took an arrow, if this would be the time she died.
As the gray light of predawn filtered through the smoke, the world became oddly dreamlike, sounds muffled and colors muted.
Over time Xephyra’s blistering charges became more infrequent as exhaustion settled in, and the soldiers saw their opportunity. They rushed forward immediately after she flew past, taking advantage of the time she took to arc back up to the sky.
The shadowy horde barreled down on them, just visible through the mottled haze. Veronyka and the other defenders stood their ground, but she knew that this time the soldiers would break through. Their number was too great, their timing just right.
Veronyka tossed aside the piece of wood and crouched down, grabbing an abandoned spear—dinged and bloodied, but still intact. Tristan did the same, ditching his bow for an enemy ax. As they took up their new weapons, their eyes met.
The connection opened between them again, and his feelings pulsed like a heartbeat. She was his friend; she was his comrade—she was his equal. Her wish had come true, her impossible fantasy realized.
And he didn’t want to see her die.
So he ran—away from her, into the smoke, toward the oncoming soldiers. Toward death.
Veronyka opened her mouth, reaching for him with both mind and body—but the instincts that had moments before saved Tristan’s life had become sluggish with fear. She moved too slowly, and her hand swiped at empty air, her mind at the trailing wisps of him as he passed. In an instant he was gone, and she was stuck staring at his retreating back.
Veronyka made to lurch after him when something collided with her shoulder. She was shunted aside, struggling to regain her footing as Wind leapt through the gate and thundered after Tristan. Someone, perhaps Jana or one of the other stablehands, had put him in his full battle armor, the gleaming bits of metal and leather dully reflecting the misty light. The soldiers faltered, and Tristan turned, confused by their apparent fear, just in time to see Wind mow down half a dozen of them. The horse swept around Tristan in a tight arc, protecting him on all sides, while Tristan could do nothing but stare, his ax held loosely in his grasp.
Wind circled, charging down a handful more attackers before slowing his pace, giving Tristan a chance to leap onto his saddle.
As Wind carried him back toward the gate, a horn sounded.
It was so quiet that Veronyka wasn’t sure she’d heard it. Everyone around them slowed, then paused—even the soldiers stopped in their tracks to listen. Then second, third, and fourth blasts echoed across the mountaintop.
Veronyka found Xephyra in the sky above, and the phoenix let out a long, clear note—a call.
A heartbeat of silence, and then a faint, distant reply. It wasn’t a sound of alarm or defense. . . . It was a greeting.
The rest of the phoenixes in the stronghold repeated the sound, and soon the music of phoenix song filled the air.
Tristan twisted atop Wind’s back, trying to get a better view. Clouds stained pink and purple streaked across the sky in the distance, making way for the coming dawn. But closer at hand, a dozen small, wavering dots approached, trailing glittering threads of fire. Tristan let out a loud, joyful whoop.
The Riders had returned.
Of the fierce and formidable First Riders, none are so beloved as Nefyra and Callysta.
The heroics! The splendor! They flew together like the wings of the same bird and fought like the arms of the same warrior.
So flawless, so complete was their union, that they became one being, one person, connected for all eternity.
—“Wings of the Same Bird,” as sung by Mellark the Minstrel, circa 116 AE
There was so much blood. . . . My arrow, why did it have to be my arrow? The agony of regret, the sorrow of loneliness; I let the pain of it consume me.
- CHAPTER 41 -
VERONYKA
BY THE TIME THE Riders reached the stronghold, the soldiers had begun to scatter. Those who didn’t were attacked with renewed vigor from the defenders, encouraged by the sight of their shining warriors come home.
Tristan’s face shone when he saw his father among them, dirty and bloodied but alive, leading his troops with expert precision. It seemed that most had returned, though Veronyka had trouble getting a clear count. Their patrols were divided: One secured the stronghold, and the other gave pursuit to the soldiers fleeing back down the mountainside.
By the time the sun had crested the distant peaks, the last rope was severed and the final enemy soldier was cut down. Veronyka looked around, stunned to realize that the battle was won.
Her ears were ringing slightly, the shouts and screams and clashing metal of the fight now replaced with low voices and heavy footsteps. The guards and villagers took stock of their surroundings, while the apprentices called their mounts away from the stronghold, back to the Eyrie. It took only a shared glance for Veronyka to know that Tristan had to stay behind and speak with his father.