“Where do you come from, Nyk?” Morra asked, speaking over the boy’s reaction.
“From lower down the mountain, miss. Just outside Vayle.” Again this was a truth, even if the full truth was that Veronyka was born in the valley, in Aura Nova. That, too, was hidden in her safe house. She knew, somehow, that any mention of the valley or the empire would compromise everything.
“Why, then, do you not speak with a Pyraean accent?”
Veronyka swallowed. “I . . .”
“Pyraeans on the lower rim speak with a certain lilt,” Morra continued thoughtfully, “and have a tendency to draw out their vowels. It’s very distinctive. Of course, there are more and more now living in Pyra who weren’t born or raised here. Traders and travelers, refugees . . . spies . . .”
Veronyka clenched her fists. Her maiora had spoken in a rough Narrows accent, and her years of education with the Riders had never quite cured her of it. Val had insisted that Veronyka speak properly—like the noble classes of the empire, without accent or dialect—but it had never occurred to her how that would stand out in a place like this. A hundred excuses sat on the tip of her tongue, but she feared a trumped-up lie would raise more suspicion than the truth.
“My grandmother raised me, and she was educated in Aura Nova.” She had been the one to teach Veronyka reading and writing, but Val was the one who’d drilled pronunciation and syntax into her, making up for what she saw as the old woman’s shortcomings.
“Is she still with you, your grandmother?”
“No,” Veronyka said, her voice wavering slightly.
“Have you any other family?” Morra asked.
Veronyka swallowed the surge of emotion. “Just my sister.”
“Ah, yes, your sister. Beryk said there was an uncanny resemblance. . . . Are you twins?”
“No,” Veronyka said carefully, keeping her thoughts and memories of Val as vague as possible, not wanting to reveal her face—or Veronyka’s true feelings toward her at the moment—to Morra’s prying magic. Being twins might better explain away her close resemblance to the girl who had approached Beryk in Vayle, but Veronyka didn’t want to lie unnecessarily. At least now, if Morra did see Val’s face pop up in Veronyka’s mind, it wouldn’t contradict her story. “We’re a year apart.”
“And this sister . . . She told you to come here? Why?”
“Yes. She overheard the steward, Master Beryk, speaking ancient Pyraean, and—”
“That’s impossible,” the boy burst out, cutting her off. He’d stepped forward and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “How could a country girl from Vayle know ancient Pyraean? It hasn’t been spoken since the Reign of Wisdom and is only taught in empire classrooms or by tutors in noble households.”
Clearly he desperately wanted her to be wrong, to be dangerous or devious so that he could justify his earlier actions. She felt sorry for him, but if only one of them was going to make it out of this interrogation unscathed, it would be her.
“My maiora taught me, and she was educated in Aura Nova,” Veronyka repeated flatly, substituting the Pyraean word for grandmother to prove her point. It was true that most Pyraeans knew only a handful of words in the ancient tongue. It was considered a dead language, learned by the priests of Mori—god of knowledge and memory—to study ancient texts and by the empire upper classes as part of a well-rounded education. The Phoenix Riders used it as well, and many of their formations, training techniques, and communication cyphers were dependent upon understanding ancient Pyraean.
“Tristan,” the commander said in a low, dangerous voice, and the boy stepped back from the table at once, as if scalded. “We will let Morra handle the questioning.”
“What did your sister tell you?” Morra pressed, once the commander had nodded that she should continue.
“She said she’d heard mention of Phoenix Riders. When she spoke to the steward, he denied it, but he told her that when he did recruit, he was only looking for boys. So she thought I might have better luck.”
“You traveled an awfully long way on such scant information.”
“We don’t have much, my sister and I,” Veronyka said, speaking with complete honesty. “I want to be a Phoenix Rider. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t care about anything else.”
Veronyka swallowed and looked down, avoiding Morra’s eye so she could gather herself. Xephyra was fluttering against the walls of her safe house, trying to escape, but she couldn’t let her break through. If she told them about Xephyra, then she’d have to tell them what had happened to her. Who in their right mind would give a phoenix to a girl who’d allowed her last bondmate to be murdered by her own sister?
“You don’t have much, but you have a Ferronese steel dagger?” Tristan jumped in, apparently unable to help himself.
“I found it,” Veronyka said, more firmly than she had to the commander when he’d first asked her. Tristan’s aggression was making her own temper rise, but she was relieved to get to the heart of the interrogation. She might be lying about some things, but she was no spy. She focused: In her mind she pictured the knife lying in the dirt and clamped tight on her memories of the cabin that surrounded the dirt, closing out Val and Xephyra and the soldier and all that came before it.
“He’s lying,” Tristan said, looking between Morra and the commander. His tone was scathing, making it clear what he thought of liars. “That’s an army-issue dagger. Look at the bottom of the hilt—that’s a soldier identification number.”
Veronyka frowned, glancing down at the knife where it lay on the table between them. Indeed, there was a series of numbers carved into the grip.
“There’s no way he just found it. Best case, he stole it—it’s probably worth more than his house.” He looked away at his last words, as if recognizing that they were cold and uncaring—and probably true.
“It is,” Veronyka admitted, her voice trembling slightly as she stared at the dagger. “I could have traded it, bartered it for gold or enough food to last my sister and me for a couple of months. But instead I saved it, hoping it was worth enough to buy a place here. I guess I was wrong.”
Veronyka knew she was exaggerating and bending the truth, but she needed them to side with her.
When she looked up, there was pity in Morra’s and Commander Cassian’s eyes—and to her surprise, regret in Tristan’s—and though she hated to appear weak and vulnerable, she knew it helped her cause.
So let them pity her. Let them believe her small lies and big truths. Let it be enough.
“You forget yourself, Tristan,” Morra said in a low, disappointed voice. “You forget your roots.”
“Leave us,” the commander said to Tristan, his tone holding none of Morra’s polite censure.