Veronyka’s escorts led her past the way station and straight for the staircase, pausing just long enough to adjust their packs before starting the climb. She worried her legs might give out beneath her, but she refused to ask for a break. Instead she focused on counting the number of stairs to the summit.
Veronyka passed under hanging vines and into the cover of twisting, gravity-defying trees, before the stair switched back and there was nothing but wide, open air between her and the ground below. During one of these open stretches, Veronyka chanced a look back down the mountainside. She felt incredibly small, the mountain stretching endlessly beneath her. Many of the peaks that surrounded the valley were lower than she was now, their jagged tops ringed with wisps of clouds. She couldn’t see any of the villages that lined the road, but for a moment she swore she could feel the distance between herself and where she’d started.
Between herself and Val.
The air became thin and sparse in her lungs, and she forced herself to look at the steps directly beneath her feet. What kind of would-be Rider got silly when it came to heights?
Two hundred and twenty-one steps later, gasping, Veronyka crested the top of the staircase. While Beryk and Elliot murmured about reporting to the commander, Veronyka took the opportunity to plunk herself on the ground and catch her breath.
They were on the edge of a gently rolling plain, enclosed by rocky spears of stone on all sides, making the plateau invisible to anyone below. It was like a little slice of soft Pyraean countryside, wedged into this hard, jagged landscape. Long grass swished in the breeze, and the sky above was vast and star strewn. At the far end of the field was a small stone village, tiered gardens of carefully tended crops butting up against the walls that enclosed it. Rising above the village was another set of walls, taller and thicker than the first, surrounding a fortified stronghold. The walls were dotted with flickering lanterns, casting the buildings and the people who walked among them into dancing shadows and silhouettes.
A magnificent temple rose behind the fortress walls, at least ten stories high and topped with a carved golden phoenix, wings spread as if about to take flight.
Veronyka remained on her hands and knees—it seemed fitting, to lie as supplicant to a sight such as this. All her life, the glory and power of the Phoenix Riders were a long-lost story, a whispered history. Now it was alive before her. She was here with her people at last, and she was ready.
Veronyka was led through the courtyard of the stronghold, past the stables, kitchens, and dining hall and around the towering temple. Behind it were a series of stone buildings, including smaller wooden structures like storage sheds.
At the farthest point in the yard, a wide set of stairs led to a carved arch. Veronyka couldn’t see anything through the doorway in the darkness, but she sensed the stir of magic beyond.
Phoenixes.
They must live and roost there, out of sight of the rest of the stronghold. Veronyka’s body crackled with a surge of warm, tingling energy, her exhaustion completely forgotten. The archway called to her, and she yearned to follow.
“This way,” said Beryk, steering her toward the largest of the stone buildings. It had the same hard gray exterior as the rest of the stronghold, nondescript and unadorned, but the inside was another matter entirely.
They were greeted by a servant and led through richly carpeted halls hung with colorful tapestries and populated with the kinds of carved wooden tables and shelves of scrolls that Veronyka saw only in her dreams.
At last they were directed into a large chamber, the imposing stone walls brightened by sconces casting pools of molten light. Taking up the majority of the space was a long table made from a single slab of wood. Veronyka had never seen anything so fine, the light from the lanterns highlighting the contrasting wood grain and the delicately carved details along the corners and legs. It was surely Arborian-made; the province was famous for its massive trees and talented woodworkers. A dozen matching chairs surrounded the table, though only one was occupied.
The commander sat at his leisure, and the rest of the Riders from the clearing stood behind their leader, including the boy who’d caught her. He was stiff and scowling, and as she entered the room, he turned his bitter gaze in her direction.
Veronyka stared at her feet, trying not to slump or fidget as Beryk briefed the commander on the journey back. Her tiredness had resurfaced, yet her growing nerves buzzed like wasps inside her mind.
“He needs some sleep, Commander Cassian, and a proper meal. I can call Morra in the morn—”
“We’ll deal with this now,” the commander said, cutting off the end of Beryk’s sentence. He turned to Veronyka. “You’ll answer our questions now, and you’ll be truthful. Depending on how you do, you will either sleep in a guest room or in a cell—do you understand?”
“Yes, Commander, sir,” Veronyka said.
“It will do you no good to lie, so I’d advise against it,” he added, and something in the tone of his voice made a finger of dread slip down her spine.
Following Beryk’s lead, the others in the room left, except for Veronyka, the commander, and the boy. He projected his anger and frustration, so potent that it bumped distractingly against Veronyka’s mental defenses. Was this how Val had felt when Veronyka was careless with her emotions?
The room was silent, and Veronyka didn’t know where to look or what to do with her hands. The commander had a way of filling the space, of making Veronyka feel crowded and small. He was a large man—well over six feet, she would guess—with big hands and wide shoulders, but it was his attitude that was imposing. He radiated superiority and power, but it came across as elegant rather than brutish. He was olive-skinned, his wavy, salted brown hair receding slightly from his proud forehead. He had changed from his armor into a magnificent embroidered tunic, patterned with a Ferronese crossed-dagger motif picked out in silver thread, and several golden rings glimmered on his hands as he knit them together. He looked every bit an empire governor, exiled or not, and reminded Veronyka of the wealthy merchants and noblemen she’d seen in Aura Nova being carried through the narrow city streets on palanquins.
The boy, on the other hand, had his arms crossed over his chest and his feet spread wide, as if bracing himself. While his posture was rigid and unmoving, his gaze flicked restlessly around the room. He had the look of someone with at least a bit of Pyraean ancestry, though his hair was a soft, curling brown, and his golden skin had olive undertones.