Blood Heir

14

Ana awoke slowly to the cool scent of a rain-soaked world and the crackling of a fire.

Everything hurt. She had the strange sensation that every part of her had turned to stone—heavy, cold stone—and she would never move an inch again.

Blearily, she opened her eyes. Just as reluctantly, the world came back into focus in a blur of light and shadows. She was lying on a hard stone floor. All around her, great pillars rose, curving into arched ceilings high above her head. The stone was embellished with ornate carvings, and she thought of the temples she’d frequented back in Salskoff. Men and women danced in a never-ending circle in a weaving interlude of the four seasons, from flowers to fall leaves to flakes of snow.

Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.

She was in a Temple of Deities, in the middle of the Syvern Taiga, judging from the whispers of the trees outside. Moonlight dripped through the cracked glass of the long windows, casting the world in silhouettes and light. At the top of the dome, circular windows formed a ring around the center. The windows were split into quadrants, each with a carving inside: a flower, a sun, a leaf, and a snowflake. The Deities’ Circle—the Deys’krug.

Light filtered through the carvings and cast them in overlapping shadows on the white marble floor. A slight wind stirred, and as always, when she found herself in a temple, she thought of her aunt. Mamika Morganya had always devoutly worshipped the Deities, kneeling in the Palace temple with her dark hair twined in a braid, her beautiful doe eyes closed. If Ana closed her eyes now, she could almost hear the sigh of her mamika’s silk kechyan, the soft clinks of a silver Deys’krug around her neck.

Her heart ached as she thought of her mamika. It was her aunt who had taught her to interpret the legends of the Deities, to find a sliver of relief in a world that despised Ana and her kind.

Ana pushed herself up, drawing a deep breath and wincing as she felt a sharp pain in her midriff. One hand darted to her abdomen; the other reached out for May.

Her hand clasped empty air.

Details of the previous night came crashing back. The rain. The mercenaries. The blood. Bile rose in her throat; she rubbed her eyes to chase away Blackbeard’s image, his face contorting, crimson spilling from his mouth.

Literally bled dry.

The work of the deimhov.

But… there had also been something else. Someone lifting her onto a horse, holding her steady throughout the night as they rode through a dark, rain-beaten forest. She’d lost consciousness at some point… and yet…

Ana touched the roughspun linen of her undertunic and breeches, her hands automatically tugging for a hooded cloak that wasn’t there. It lay strewn out across a stone by the fire, drying. Her rucksack sat nearby.

“Finally,” came a familiar voice, startling her. In the shadows beneath a pillar with the carving of a leaping fish, a figure moved. Ramson Quicktongue leaned into the firelight, eyes glinting, mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “I was tired of checking whether you’d died.”

Unease coursed through her. How long had he been sitting there, watching her? Last night had been a mistake—she’d overspent her Affinity and left herself defenseless. He could easily have killed her.

But… he hadn’t.

Ana narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Her voice came out in a rasp, as though someone were rubbing sandpaper down her throat.

Ramson chuckled and stood, clutching a waterskin. As he drew closer, she realized that the dark patches on his face were not shadows, but blooming bruises that were turning a nasty shade of purple. “Thank you for saving my life, Ramson,” he recited, spreading his hands and sauntering over. “Thank you for keeping me warm and dry, Ramson. Thank you for feeding me water and making sure I stayed alive, Ramson.” He paused as he reached her, and sank into a bow. “You’re very welcome, meya dama.”

She glared at him, but softened as he passed her the waterskin. As she guzzled down the cool rainwater, she suddenly realized how thirsty and how hungry she was. “How long was I asleep?”

“One day.”

The words hit her like a punch. They had lost an entire day’s time doing nothing—nothing, when they should have been going after those Whitecloaks who had taken May.

May.

Panic seized her. The world tilted sharply when she scrambled to her feet. She slammed into the wall, pain bursting in her shoulder. “We need to go,” she gasped. “We’ve lost too much time, we—”

Ramson was talking over her, his voice raised. “Calm your sails. We can’t leave now—”

“They have her!” Her voice rose hysterically. “They have May. The yaeger—he said they were going to lock her up—”

“Ana, stop!” His voice rang sharply in the empty temple chamber. The easy smile had slipped from Ramson’s face, and his hands were raised in a placating gesture. “Stop and think.”

A lump rose in her throat as she thought of May, standing alone in that empty square, fists clenched. You will not hurt her.

Tears burned behind her eyes. She had promised to protect May forever. “All right,” she said, and though her voice shook slightly, she steeled it. She was going to get May back. And she would do it Ramson’s way—by thinking through it thoroughly, and coming up with a plan and ten backup plans. “Sit.”

Ramson’s brows twitched, but he gave a seemingly good-natured shrug and sat across from her.

“You’re going to help me get her back, con man.”

“Me? Deities, who would have thought?”

“I’m not playing around. I don’t care if it isn’t part of our Trade. I saved you from whatever fate those bounty hunters had in mind for you. Since you speak so well in the language of bargaining, let me put it this way: you owe me, and you’re going to pay me back.”

“Since you think you speak so well in the language of bargaining, let me tell you this.” Ramson’s eyes had taken on a playful glint, and he leaned forward as he spoke. “If you hadn’t saved me, you would have lost your Trade and your precious alchemist.”

She would not be distracted by the taunts he threw her way. “I left you alone for thirty minutes and you were outsmarted by a bartender and two mercenaries.” Her mood perked slightly at the sullen look that flitted across his face. Ana leaned forward, mirroring his pose. They were barely an arm’s length from each other. “Why did they kidnap you? Who’s hunting you?”

“I told you. It’s the mark of an excellent crime lord to have many enemies.”

“It’s also the mark of an excellent crime lord to be able to defeat his enemies.” Ana leveled an even gaze on him. “You need me. You need my Affinity. I’m your Trade. And I’ll only uphold it if you help me.”

Ramson ran a hand through his hair. “If you want to save May, we may not make it in time to find your alchemist. Whose name and location I now have, by the way.”

He’d stolen the breath from her again. Yet Ana found herself leaning forward, reeled in by his line. “Where is he? Why won’t we make it?”

“The only way we can find him,” Ramson said, “is if we arrive in Novo Mynsk before the Fyrva’snezh. There’s an event that we should… attend.”

“Novo Mynsk,” she repeated breathlessly. “That’s where they’re taking May. They’re going to make her perform at a place called the Playpen.”

“Who told you?”

“The yaeger—the Whitecloak.”

“Ah,” Ramson said slowly. “That… complicates things quite a bit.”

“It doesn’t. Our destination is Novo Mynsk.”

Ramson sighed. “There is a name you should know. Alaric Kerlan. Remember it well.”

That name again. The Gray Bear’s Keep bartender had said it. He’d called him “Lord,” but there was something more alarming, something that hadn’t clicked until now—

“Alaric Kerlan,” she whispered. “You mean A. E. Kerlan? The founder of the Goldwater Trading Group?” It was a name most nobles in the Cyrilian Empire were familiar with. Ana had read entire tomes of Cyrilian history with the Goldwater Trading Group lauded as a turning point for Cyrilia’s modern economy. Yet for the greatest businessman in the Empire, A. E. Kerlan remained reclusive. The most anyone knew of him was that he was a nobody who had come from the gutters of Bregon and single-handedly built a thriving trading route between the then-run-down Goldwater Port and the rest of the world.

Caution flickered in Ramson’s eyes. “Yes,” he admitted, “but also the most powerful Affinite broker in the Empire.”

“What?” Her world tilted. Ana gripped her arm, nails digging into flesh. “You’re lying.” The words came out sharp as shards of glass.

The founder of the Goldwater Trading Group—the largest business corporation in the Cyrilian Empire—an Affinite broker?

“I assure you, there are plenty of times I’ve lied to you, but this is not one of them,” Ramson answered, deadpan.

Something in her was unraveling, her image of her empire crumbling into pieces and rearranging themselves into something sinister and strange and utterly unfamiliar. “How do you know?”

It sounded like such a naïve question. Did everyone around her know?

Had Papa known?

“It’s my vocation to know things,” Ramson said. “Now, as I was saying, Kerlan is the complication to our plan.” He reached for her rucksack and fumbled through it, producing her map. With a flourish, he held it up and pointed. “Novo Mynsk is Kerlan’s territory. If May is being carted there, the broker must be under Kerlan’s Order. You say she’s going to perform at the Playpen? That is owned by Kerlan. And it just so happens that your alchemist is a close associate of his.”

It was a struggle to bring her focus back to him. Ana tamped down the maelstrom of her thoughts, clearing her mind. She could think about her broken world later. Right now her sole objective was to save May. “So what’s the complication?” she asked wearily. “We’ll rescue May, and then locate the alchemist.”

Ramson continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Kerlan hosts the grandest ball for the Fyrva’snezh each year. All of his associates—all the crime lords and thieves and traffickers in the Empire—will make an appearance. And that includes your alchemist.” He gave her a pointed look. Her stomach tightened. “I can get us into this ball. But it’s going to be difficult. Dangerous, even.” Ramson’s tone held a challenge. “Are you ready for that?”

She’d been waiting for this for nearly twelve long moons. Ana leveled a cool gaze at Ramson. “I am.” She jabbed a finger at the map. “So that means we’ll have to find May before the Fyrva’snezh.”

Ramson lowered the map. “You can’t have it both ways. Rescuing May at the Playpen is like knocking on Kerlan’s door and signaling to him we’re there. We need the element of surprise when we show up at the Fyrva’snezh.”

“This is not negotiable.”

“One fish in your hand is better than two at—”

“May’s life is not negotiable!” Her voice rose to a scream.

Silence fell. Shadows danced across Ramson’s face; the flames reflected in his eyes, which were narrowed. “You need to decide,” he said at last. “What do you want?”

“To right my wrongs. What do you want?”

“I told you. Revenge.”

“Revenge against whom?” Ana leaned closer, refusing to let go of his gaze. To his credit, Ramson didn’t look away. “Why were those mercenaries bringing you to Kerlan?”

Ramson matched her stance. They glared at each other across the fire, the heat coiling around them like a living thing, embers flickering between them. “I botched a job for him. Broke a Trade. Now you see the implications?” At her silence, he sighed and stood. “Kerlan knows everything that goes on in his territory. If you try to save May, you risk losing your alchemist. Think about that.” He paused on his way out. “And, Ana, remember this. You’re not a Deity. You’re not the Emperor. You can’t save everybody. So think about what’s best for yourself.”

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To cleanse my soul.”

She watched his retreating back and suddenly wished he hadn’t left. Silence pressed in, and it was as though the entire temple, with its walls of stone figures, watched her.

Ana ran her eyes over the wall carvings. The figures might once have been gilded in gold and silver and lapis lazuli and emerald, but those had long been pillaged by thieves as the temple fell to abandonment. Still, it was beautiful. Reverential.

As always, she shrank back beneath the Deities’ watchful gazes, all too aware of what she was. Monster. Witch. Deimhov. She heard the screams from that day long ago in the Salskoff Winter Market as she sat paralyzed in all that blood, affirming to the world that she was the demon everyone believed she was.

Yet another part of her—a small part—leaned forward, yearning for the light and rightness and goodness. It was the small flame of hope that her aunt had lit in her chest all those years back, with a single sentence.

It had been in a temple just like this, the moon weeping above snow-covered grounds and casting a cold light over Mama’s new tomb. She’d been eight years old. Ana knelt beneath the statues of the four Deities, their expressions stern and ungiving. She traced her fingers over the marble, carved in the exact features of her mother’s face, long eyelashes that cast half-moon shadows over high cheekbones, and vibrant curls that had always seemed so full of life. The only thing the marble did not capture, Ana thought as she stroked the small crook between Mama’s nose and cheeks, was the rich fawn of her mother’s skin when she had been alive; the healthy glow to her smile that seemed to light the world.

Ana’s fingers drew the same patterns over and over on the marble’s cold white face, mingling with her tears.

It had only been one moon, yet with Mama’s absence, the winter that swept over Salskoff that year was cold and stark, the snows harsh and unforgiving.

“Why?” Ana’s whisper had lingered in the air between her and the marble Deities, small and forlorn. “Why did you take her?”

Stubbornly, they remained quiet. Perhaps it was true that the Deities did not listen to an Affinite’s prayers.

A warm hand slid over her shoulders, and Ana jumped. Instinctively, she swept a hand over her face to clear it of tears before turning around.

The Grand Countess’s quiet eyes, the color of pale tea, met hers. It was a few moments before Morganya spoke. “Your mother meant the world to me,” she whispered, and Ana had no doubt that was true. It was Mama who had found Morganya all those years ago in a village, her body battered from the torturers who had kidnapped her from her orphanage and beaten her. Mama had brought Morganya to the Palace, and they’d grown closer than sisters.

“Have your prayers worked?” Even after all those years, Morganya’s voice had not lost the quiet, cautious timbre of the downtrodden.

Ana hesitated. “I’m not… They don’t… I don’t think…”

“You don’t think they listen to Affinites’ prayers.” The words were uttered softly, but they cut deeper than any blade. Ana bowed her head, shame filling the silence.

Morganya tucked Ana’s hair behind her ear in a way that reminded her so much of Mama that she wanted to cry. “I’ll tell you a secret,” the Countess continued. “They’ve never answered mine, either.”

“But you’re—” You’re not an Affinite.

Morganya gripped Ana’s chin and lifted Ana’s face to meet her eyes. “There is no difference between you and me, Anastacya,” she said softly. “The Deities have long sent me a message through their silence.” A steely glow sharpened Morganya’s gaze. “It is not their duty to grant us goodness in this world, Kolst Pryntsessa. No, Little Tigress—it is up to us to fight our battles.”

Her aunt’s use of Mama’s nickname for her brought fresh tears to her eyes. But she spoke past the aching knot in her throat. “It’s up to us to fight our battles,” she repeated, her voice tiny but a little firmer.

Morganya nodded. “Remember that. Anything you want, you have to take it for yourself. And you, Kolst Pryntsessa, were chosen by the Deities to fight the battles that they cannot in this world.”

It had been difficult to understand her mamika’s words back then. Confined to the two windows of her chambers and the four walls of her Palace, she had found it hard to fathom that she had the choice to fight any battles at all, let alone imagine that the Deities had marked her.

But perhaps her aunt had been right, Ana now realized as she sat beneath the cool, moonlit gaze of the same silent Deities. The Deities had never answered her prayers—but perhaps all those years of silence were a message. It is up to us to fight our battles in this world.

Her eyes landed on the carving of a young child sitting in a field. Petals whirled around her in a phantom wind, and her eyes were crinkled with laughter. The first time Ana had woken up in that empty barn, May had crouched in the snow outside, nursing a small flower back to life. Ana thought of when she had followed May back to her employer’s house; of the woman’s spiteful words and sharp hands.

She thought of the broker back at Kyrov, of his cold eyes and pale hair. Of the Imperial Patrols, cloaks billowing the bright whites and blues of Cyrilia, tiger insignia roaring proudly on their chests.

Of the yaeger crouched before her in defeat, hunter turned victim.

Of May staggering, eyes wide with surprise, as the arrow hit her. Of the blackstone wagon doors swinging shut.

How had the Empire fallen to this? The Cyrilian Empire Ana had always held so fiercely and faithfully in her heart was as proud and as strong as its white tiger sigil, its laws unimpeachable and its rulers benevolent. Yet what she had witnessed the past few days told her otherwise. Sinister shadows had sprung up in the spaces between laws, preying on those without the protection of status or wealth.

Or had it always been like this? Ice crawled up her veins, and Ana thought of how quickly mamika Morganya had been dismissed the time she had brought up Affinite indenturement. Of the way the Palace courtiers had whispered about Mama’s Southern Cyrilian origins. Of how Ana had been deemed a monster solely because of her Affinity.

Perhaps, Ana thought, the world had never been fair. She had only noticed too late.

But her mamika was right.

If there was to be fairness in this world, it wasn’t to be granted by the Deities. And it started one step at a time.

By the time Ramson’s footsteps sounded down the hallway, Ana had made up her mind. “We’re going after May,” she said quietly as he strolled into view, clutching two rolls of bread wrapped in a handkerchief.

Ramson sat down across from her and set the rolls on his lap. “You sound convinced.” He tilted his head back and waved at the wall carvings around them. “Let me guess: being the devout dama that you are, you probably prayed to the Deities—and of course, they advised you to do the right thing, and not the expedient, selfish thing.”

“The Deities don’t answer my prayers,” she replied.

Ramson gave her a crooked smile. “That makes two of us.”

Ana reached forward and snatched a roll. The bread was cold and hard, but she tore through it in several bites. “Why don’t the Deities like you? What’s wrong with you?” It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from her chest; whereas before, she would have shied away from such a daring topic of conversation, now the words flowed easily from her.

Ramson snorted. “What’s wrong with me?” he repeated, ripping off a chunk of his bread. “Is that a rhetorical question? Let’s see.” Ramson scratched his chin, faking a look of concentration as he began to tick off his fingers. “Youngest crime lord of the Empire, selfish, calculating, backstabbing, oh, and let’s not forget, sinfully handsome—need I go on?”

“Do you ever answer anything seriously?”

“I answer everything seriously.”

Ana rolled her eyes and swallowed her last bite of bread. Her stomach gave a gurgle of hunger, but her thoughts turned to May. Had she eaten yet? Was she cold? “I want to leave as soon as the sun rises.”

Ramson nodded. “Good idea.” An unspoken, disconcerting thought flitted between them: The Syvern Taiga was where the most dangerous creatures in Cyrilia roamed at night. Ana had heard of ruskaly lights leading tired travelers astray, of giant moonbears thrice the height of a normal human, of icewolf spirits that sprang from nothing but the snow.

“It took us one full day to reach Kyrov from Ghost Falls,” she mused aloud. “Novo Mynsk is almost ten times as far.”

“We have a valkryf,” Ramson noted. “By my calculation, it’ll take us a bit over five days. That gives us four days before the Fyrva’snezh to save May, get our names on Kerlan’s guest list, and find your alchemist.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “We’re working with very slim chances here.”

“You’re the most infamous con man of Cyrilia,” Ana replied drily. “Slim chances are your friends. You’ll make it work.”

“I don’t have any friends. And if Kerlan happens to learn of our Grand Theft Affinite, I’m blaming you. I’m not letting him kill me because of your righteousness.”

“I might very well kill you first.” Ana watched him pick his way over to the pile of logs. “Ramson?”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, and then the words left her in a rush. “What’s his name? The alchemist. You said you had his real name.”

For a moment, she almost expected him to bring up the Trade, tell her that it was a piece of information she would need to bargain for. But Ramson only looked at her and said quietly, “Pyetr Tetsyev.”

Pyetr Tetsyev. She tasted the name on her tongue as she closed her eyes. Pyetr Tetsyev. It didn’t sound like an evil name; it could have belonged to anyone—a scholar, a professor, a man she might have met on the corner of a street.

Pyetr Tetsyev. The Palace alchemist existed. She hadn’t spent the past year chasing after a phantom; he was real. And he was close. The missing piece to her father’s murder was less than a week’s travel away.

And she repeated his name over and over again until she fell asleep: a chant of prayer, a vow for vengeance.