“Did you fight in the war?” she asked.
“Yes,” Morra said, returning to the dough. “Though I didn’t last long.” She reached into her hair and pulled out an ash-covered feather. “I lost Aneaxi in a border skirmish. Those were dark days for me, but there’s more than one way to fight a war—Olanna taught me that. We Riders who outlived our bondmates found other ways to serve our queen. They called us Mercies. We raked the burning buildings and smoking battlefields, seeking out survivors. And resurrections.”
“Resurrections?” Veronyka whispered. “Phoenixes can be reborn in the middle of a battlefield?” Her heart stuttered inside her chest, and the image of Xephyra’s cold ashes came back to her.
Morra nodded gravely. “All it takes is fire and bones, and there was plenty of both. I’d only just joined, but the older Mercies had strange stories to tell. I was determined to do my part, to find someone. . . .” She glanced at Veronyka, then shrugged, sliding the dough over for her to cut. “But my unit was ambushed before we’d even crossed the border. The others died. . . . I barely escaped with my life.” She gestured down at her leg.
They stood in a small bubble of silence for several moments, while the noise and commotion of the kitchens clamored all around them.
“We’re not as strong as we once were,” Morra continued, “but nor are we as weak. The commander may seem brusque, and some of his methods are too rooted in the empire, but he is capable. Of those who survived the Blood War—with their bondmate, mind you—Cassian has the most military experience, the most wealth, and the most natural authority. Those who fought alongside him respect his ability as a leader, and there’s no one among us to challenge him. Yet,” she said with a wink. Quietly she added, “One day young Tristan will find his strength.”
Veronyka had a hard time seeing Tristan as someone in need of strength. He was very like his father, as far as she could tell, but apparently Morra saw something else in him. As someone with shadow magic, she probably saw more than most.
Veronyka paced next to the obstacle course the following evening, waiting for Tristan’s arrival. During the morning exercises, he didn’t so much as look at her. He just went through the course, ignoring her advice and pushing his animals hard, overexerting himself. The rest of the day passed quickly, in the way that time does when you’re dreading something.
Morra’s words floated around Veronyka’s mind all day. She was curious about what Tristan thought of his mother’s heroic sacrifice. Did he think her brave, or did he blame her for their exile? And would he turn into the kind of leader she had been—a selfless supporter of her people—or would he be like his father, desperately clinging to his place in the valley?
It made her think about the kind of person she wanted to be too. Veronyka had been told hundreds of stories about the Phoenix Riders in her life, about Avalkyra Ashfire and her deeds, each more amazing than the next.
At eleven, Avalkyra was the youngest Rider in history to win both the flying and archery competitions at the summer solstice games, and she led her first patrol at twelve.
During court functions and official council meetings, Avalkyra insisted that she and her sister sit at the king’s right hand—a place usually reserved for the queen—and forced her stepmother to sit on the king’s far-less-dignified left.
When Avalkyra’s father died and her stepmother tried to seize control, Avalkyra flooded the council with allies, dismissing many of the regent’s confidants with threats and blackmail, allowing her to overrule the would-be queen’s every move and order.
Even the Stellan Uprising, the largest military conflict before the Blood War, couldn’t defeat Avalkyra. She won the battle with half the recommended soldiers, ensuring Aura Nova was not left vulnerable to her stepmother’s machinations in her absence, and even brought Pheronia to the battlefield, ensuring the queen couldn’t use her as leverage or turn her sister against her.
And when evidence came to light that the king had been poisoned by his own wife—the current queen regent—Avalkyra ensured that justice was served.
“What kind of justice, Maiora?” Veronyka had asked late one night as her grandmother told the story. They were in their usual positions in front of the fire—Veronyka curled up on the pile of mats and cushions that acted as her and Val’s bed and her maiora seated on a rickety old stool next to her.
“The only kind that matters, xe Nyka,” Val had said, slipping under the covers next to her. “Was Avalkyra to put her treacherous stepmother in a finely furnished cell, where she could continue to cause strife? Was she to rely on a trial run by cowardly politicians with agendas of their own? Death was the only punishment worth doling out: an eye for an eye.”
“But what about Pheronia? I thought Avalkyra loved her sister. If she did, how could she kill her mother?” Veronyka had looked up, surprised to see Val and her maiora share a look over her head, an exchange that she wasn’t meant to see.
“It’s not as simple as all that,” her grandmother had said. “Love and politics are like oil and water—they don’t mix. What was best for the empire, and for Avalkyra’s own claim to the throne, wasn’t necessarily the best for her sister.”
“So she chose politics over love?”
Val made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. “Avalkyra couldn’t let the regicide of her own father go unpunished. People respond to strength, Veronyka. She was heir to the throne and had a duty to her king to see justice served.”
But that decision had been the schism, the moment when the two sisters—always struggling together to combat the will of the council and the machinations of the governors—finally separated.
Later her maiora explained that Avalkyra thought the move would gain her support in her bid for the throne, but the opposite happened. People saw her as cruel and ruthless, and Pheronia gained public favor and sympathy. The sisters stopped speaking, and Avalkyra refused to attend the dead queen’s funeral.