Blood Heir

24

Ana stayed behind after everyone had filed inside to rest for the night. She knelt by the freshly turned soil, her hands resting on the small mound where May had been. She thought of the ptychy’moloko; she thought of the copper coins she’d gifted May; she thought of that light in the snow-covered darkness, the whisper of an angel in the coldest, darkest night.

The light of the stars fell around her like tears.

“I unsee you, Little Tigress.”

Ana spun at the voice. Outlined by a single flickering lantern was Shamaïra. “What did you call me?” Ana whispered.

Instead of responding, Shamaïra crossed the garden in a newly donned pair of woven shoes, holding a silver tray carrying a samovar and a lamp. She gently placed both items on the ground before seating herself. The lamp shone a warm light over the earth that held May.

“It’s been a long day,” Shamaïra said, and proceeded to pour steaming tea from the samovar into two curved glass teacups. A small glass bowl in the center of the tray held sugar cubes. “Nandjians—we have tea for every occasion.”

Ana took the teacup with a murmur of thanks. The cup warmed her hands and was nested in a metal holder patterned in silver medallions.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost people in this silent war we’ve been waging,” the woman said after she had taken a long sip from her glass. “I lost my son to the Affinite trade many years ago, and I’ve been searching for him ever since. Twelve years, and I’ve never given up. Why the hell do you think I’m still in this rotten empire, entertaining Cyrilians with fortune-telling from tea dregs and poetry? Who in their gods-damned mind would shelter rebels leading a revolution that I may never see happen?” Shamaïra’s eyes burned. “Few in this world are born to pure happiness and a life of comfort. The gods know that’s not what life is about. No, Little Tigress—we take what we are given and we fight like hell to make it better.”

Shamaïra’s words blazed in the air between them long after she was silent. The tears on Ana’s face had cooled and, ashamed, she turned away and swept a quick hand over her cheeks. Her thoughts focused on two words. Little Tigress.

It was the nickname Mama had given her. “Why do you call me that?” she said quietly.

“I know who you are.” Shamaïra’s voice had the silent strength of steel. “I saw the events of that day, at the Vyntr’makt in Salskoff. The Sister showed me; she whispered to me of a great fire inside you, and a grand destiny.”

Ana summoned the courage to meet the woman’s gaze. “Who are you?”

“I am an Unseer, my darling.” Shamaïra’s smile was charming yet dangerous beneath her shawl. “There is a myriad of faiths practiced in Nandji, but my particular beliefs also lend to a form of magic. A… branch of what you Cyrilians call ‘Affinities,’ I suppose. We believe in a divine Spirit, split into two halves between a Brother and a Sister.” She held up the lamp. “The Brother, the Lord of Light and Lender of Fire, rules over all that is visible to the eye and physical in this world. And the Sister”—Shamaïra set down the lamp—“is the Deity of Darkness and the First Unseeress, goddess to all things metaphysical and spiritual. My Affinity is to her; specifically, to time—both what’s past, and what’s to come.”

Ana frowned. “You can… change time?” It felt ridiculous to say.

“No, my child. But I can catch glimpses of it, as one might dip a finger into a grand, sweeping river.” Shamaïra put a hand to her heart. “I unsee, Anastacya.”

“Then can’t you unsee your son?” It felt too easy, too unfair; it felt like false hope, all over again. “Can’t you find him?”

And, she thought, ashamed to say it, can you unsee where I’m meant to go from here?

Shamaïra laughed. “I cannot unsee without seeing first. Without you in front of me, I would unsee nothing.” Her smile turned sad. “Without my son before me, I cannot unsee his path.”

“Then you are as cursed as I,” Ana said, “with your Affinity.”

“All Affinities are a double-edged sword. One must simply learn to wield it.” There was a brief silence as Shamaïra lifted her cup to her lips. “Drink your tea. It’ll get cold.”

Ana took a sip; she thought she tasted roses. “Can you tell me where to go from here?” The question stole from her lips in the barest breath.

Shamaïra set down her cup with a gentle clink. Lifting the samovar, she poured herself more, and offered to refill Ana’s cup. “That’s the funny thing about time, my child. It is a great river, made of an infinite number of little streams. It is your choices that define your path.”

Your choices. The words stirred a gentle breeze around Ana. Your Affinity does not define you.

But no matter how she wished her Affinity gone or even just different, she was an Affinite. Us, May had whispered, back in the Kyrov Vyntr’makt and at the Playpen. Like us.

May and countless other Affinites were all victims of cracks in her empire. Ana would fight her way back to Luka’s side with Pyetr Tetsyev’s confession. She would end the Affinite trade.

Promise me.

She and Luka would fix it all, together. Crack by crack.

Ana drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the refreshingly cold Cyrilian air. Overhead, the clouds had parted, and stars twinkled in the vast canvas of the moonless night. The scent of snowfall lingered in the air. Snow was coming, and soon. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Shamaïra.”

Shamaïra’s chuckle was like the sound of metal grating. “I have a feeling this is not the end for us. Our paths will cross again, Little Tigress.” She placed a hand on Ana’s shoulder. “Now, my darling, the Sister tells me there is someone waiting for you in the back room. Someone you, too, wish to see.”

The lamps burned low in Shamaïra’s parlor when Ana stepped inside. The Affinites and Yuri had spread blankets and pillows across the floor, and most were settling in or already asleep. The air smelled pleasantly of the stew and crispy rice Shamaïra had served for dinner. In the silence, Ana could hear the creak of the windows and door as the wind rose outside. She held her breath as she parted the heavy brocade curtains that partitioned the backroom from the rest of the house. Bookshelves leaned against all four walls, crammed with old, dusty tomes and parchments. In the middle of it all sat a single burgundy settee.

Ana’s heart leapt lightly when she caught sight of a familiar mop of sand-brown hair.

Ramson looked up from the settee. He paused, a rag hanging from his hands. His eyes met hers, and heat rushed to Ana’s cheeks when she realized that he had taken his shirt off and had been cleaning the blood from his body. A small bucket of water sat in front of him, swirling crimson. Ana’s breath hitched as she remembered that he’d been wounded by an arrow when he’d hauled May to safety from the arena.

For a moment, she wanted to turn back and crawl into the blankets Shamaïra had laid out for her. But something pushed her forward.

“Do you…” She gestured helplessly at his towel, at the blood still splattering his torso.

He was gazing at her, his face a blank slate, those cunning eyes forever assessing. His voice was quiet when he held out the towel and said, “All right.”

Ana carefully seated herself at the edge of the settee, within reaching distance yet as far from him as she could manage. Her hands fumbled with the sodden rag as she began to dab at the splatters of blood on his skin.

He smelled of sweat and iron-tanged blood, infused with a strange mixture of a nobleman’s kologne. As she’d suspected, Ramson was all taut cord and lean muscles: sinewy enough to be strong, yet slim enough to slip through his enemies’ fingers. White slashes crisscrossed his flesh—scars, perhaps from the past that he so resolutely hid from her. And his chest… she flinched as she looked at it—his chest bore a section of pale, marred flesh. A brand.

“Ana,” Ramson said, and her eyes snapped to his guiltily, the image of the brand still lingering in her vision. He was looking directly at her, his eyes almost a bright shade of gold in the lamplight. “I’m sorry about May.”

She tried to ignore the rising wind outside; tried not to think of whether May would be cold and alone.

“They stay with us,” Ramson said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. He tapped his chest. “In here. So long as we don’t forget them, or what they stand for.”

Ramson was right. Nothing would ever fill the despairing absence left by loss… but Ana would carry with her the promises she had made May. And in that way, May would live on.

Ramson’s hand closed around hers, and she almost jumped at the sudden touch. “Thank you,” he said, his voice husky. He slipped the rag from her fingers and rinsed it in the water.

He took her arm and, with a gentleness she would never have expected from him, began to dab at the wound near her shoulder from Nuryasha’s steel blade. She almost shivered, goose bumps rising where his fingers grasped her. For several moments, there was only the sound of water sloshing and the cool, circular trails of the towel where he wiped away the blood, droplets of liquid sliding down her skin and mingling with the traces of warmth that his fingers left.

Ana closed her eyes. She needed a distraction. Something—anything. Before she knew it, words tumbled out from her mouth—the first that she could think of. “Were you a guard or a soldier before you… before this?”

Ramson laughed. “Did Shamaïra teach you to see the past as well?”

“You fight like one,” she said. “I’ve seen trained men in combat; your moves are sharp and precise, just like theirs. You have calluses on your hands. And scars on your body. They’re not all from daggers—they’re long, broad cuts from swords.”

She hadn’t meant to say this much—she’d only meant to shake some sense into herself. But, sitting this close to him, the ghost of his touches still lingering on her skin, she felt her heart opening to him. The question of his past had begun gnawing at her quite some time ago, and though there was nothing in their Trade that required them to disclose anything to each other… she wanted to know.

He was looking at her with that same glint in his eyes, that quirk of his lips. “I’ll give you a clue,” he conceded. “I was neither a guard nor a soldier, so you’re wrong in that aspect. However, you’re right in that I was trained for combat.”

Ana frowned. He’d been a recruit of some form of organized combat group—perhaps he had never been deployed. Was he a deserter? Or had he dropped out from training to make a more lucrative living for himself? “How did you get here?”

Ramson tapped a finger to his chin. “Let’s see. If I remember correctly, we came to Novo Mynsk by horse, narrowly escaped death at the Playpen, had no choice but to follow your Redcloak friend—”

“Ramson.” His name was weary on her lips. She should have known better than to expect a straightforward answer from him.

His response surprised her. Ramson lowered his gaze, a mop of hair falling into his face. “I fell in with the wrong people.”

Ana leaned forward. He looked so vulnerable in this moment, bare shoulders hunched and head bowed. She wanted to reach out to touch him.

Ana stamped down that urge, and instead, the warm blaze of Shamaïra’s words spilled from her lips. “Life isn’t going to be all happiness and wonder. We have to take what we are given, and fight like hell to make it better. That’s what Shamaïra told me—and she’s right, Ramson.”

Ramson was silent. Slowly, he exhaled and looked up, his eyes wide. “Noblewoman.”

Ana blinked. “What?”

“You had a try at my past. Now I’m taking a guess at yours.” He cocked his head, a playful smirk curving his lips. “Noblewoman. You speak a noblewoman’s Cyrilian, with that singsong lilt and fully rounded vowels.” He narrowed his eyes, tapping a finger on his chin, thinking. “You’re incredibly educated; sometimes I feel like you’ve memorized an entire library. And you act like you own me, giving me orders and your little airs and empty threats—”

“They are not empty.”

“The way you raise your chin when you regard something with disdain. I am often on the receiving end of that look.” Ramson was smiling now, and something in his eyes made her feel breathless and light-headed at the same time. “When you’re scared, you lift your head and throw your shoulders back, like you’re telling yourself to be brave. When you’re thinking hard, your eyebrows crease, just a little, right there. And sometimes, when you think no one’s watching, you have a faraway, almost sad look in your eyes.” His smile had vanished, and the warm spark in his eyes was suddenly ablaze—a roaring fire, threatening to consume her. To destroy her. “When you walk into a room, you have the grace and gravitas of an empress, and I swear, even the Deities must pause to look at you.”

She realized that she had forgotten to breathe. Her heart raced against her rib cage, drawn by some inexplicable, magnetic pull toward him. All she could think to say was, “I’m not sure those are necessarily characteristic of a noblewoman.”

“Perhaps I haven’t met enough noblewomen, then,” he said softly. “At least, none like you.”

Her heartbeat quickened as he reached out and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. His touch sent heat rushing through her body. The room was too warm, the heady scent of incense intoxicating as her gaze flicked to his hand.

And caught sight of something.

“What’s this?” she whispered, reaching up to trace a feather-soft touch to the inside of his wrist. A tattoo curled in the black outline of a plant with three tiny, bell-shaped flowers, simple and elegant.

A sharp intake of breath from Ramson and he snapped his arm back, rubbing his hand over the spot where she’d seen his tattoo. “It’s nothing.”

“Ramson—”

“We should rest. It’s getting late.” His face had closed off, and she wondered whether she’d imagined the last few minutes, delirious with grief and fatigue.

The room was suddenly too stuffy; the heat and the aromas and the cramped shelves were too much to bear, and she needed to leave, now. Ana stood. Her cheeks flushed with—with what? Shame? Disappointment? But what had she expected from Ramson? Had she really come into this room thinking he would spill his soul and secrets to her? That he would stop donning one mask after another for just long enough so that she could glimpse his real self again?

Or had that simply been another mask?

As Ramson stood, pulling on his shirt and turning away from her, she felt the sting of tears deep in her throat. And Ana wondered whether she had actually seen someone worth saving in that dark, dark fog, or whether it had been just a trick of light and shadows all along.

A tug of blood at the edge of her mind chased away all other thoughts. Ana flared her Affinity. Ramson’s blood burned bright and hot; the other Affinites’ ran steadily in the parlor as they slept.

But outside, there was something else. “Ramson.” She caught his arm, and he shot her a look of surprise. “There are people—”

At that moment, three faint raps sounded on the front door, in Shamaïra’s parlor. Ana sensed an Affinite getting up and reaching for the door.

A feeling of foreboding filled her. She’d barely let out a cry when she heard the front door slam open.

A scream, and the air exploded with blood.