Blood Heir

36

Ana crouched into a defensive stance, her Affinity flaring as she took in Kerlan and the three bodyguards at his back. One of them looked large enough to snap a person in two, his muscles bulging like the exaggerated proportions of a Deity. The others—a man and a woman—were neither large nor intimidating. Which meant they were likely Affinites. Their eyes latched on to Ana.

“Three against two,” Ramson said with a resigned sigh. “You do know how to fight fair, Alaric.”

Faster than a whip, Ramson flung his hand out, and a dagger flashed silver in the air. In the split second she had to process this, Ana hurled her Affinity at his target—the woman—and held her in place. The woman barely had time to widen her eyes in shock when Ramson’s dagger struck her squarely in the stomach.

The woman sank to her knees and fell forward, blood pooling onto the pristine marble floor beneath her.

A shout sounded nearby; Ana turned to see a squadron of Palace guards pouring in from the direction of the Grand Throneroom.

Kerlan looked up from the body of the woman. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned.

“Fortunately, I play dirty.” The cocky grin on Ramson’s face disappeared as he shouted, “Again, Ana!”

Ana was about to throw her Affinity forward when she felt that cold, impenetrable wall in her mind. Her Affinity snuffed out. Ramson’s knife clanged on the floor as Kerlan’s second Affinite leapt out of its path.

Ana turned, knowing already what she would see.

The Nandjian yaeger stood behind them, his eyes burning into hers. Sweat shone on his skin as he stepped forward and drew his sword.

Ana swore. To their left, palace guards advanced from the direction of the Grand Throneroom. To their right, the yaeger blocked the way out. And in front of them, Kerlan’s male Affinite flexed his arms. A nearby marble column tore from the wall with a great, reverberating crack. Behind him, Kerlan smiled.

“Ramson, my son,” Kerlan called. “I had hoped to save you for my own special treat. Give up the witch and save your own skin. It’s what you do best.”

Ana sank to her knees as the pressure on her mind increased from the yaeger’s power. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him advance, his heels clicking on the marble floor. From the other end of the hallway, the Palace guards drew closer, their swords flashing silver.

A shout cut through the air; Ramson knocked into her with such force that her breath caught. Pain burst through her shoulder as they slammed into the ground and skidded.

Ana looked up just in time to see a marble pillar smash onto the spot where they had been a heartbeat ago. Bits of chipped marble and rock exploded in all directions.

Her back hurt; she and Ramson were a tangle of limbs between the silks of her gown. He pushed himself up and hauled her to her feet. “Ana.” He cupped her cheek, his voice low, urgent. “The Coronation. You need to go.”

“You can’t win here alone.” Her voice was harder than she meant for it to be, only so that it wouldn’t shake.

“If you stay here, you lose your brother and your empire.” His tone was harsh.

Ana hesitated.

She’d doubted Ramson and his intentions, up until this very moment. He was putting his life on the line for her.

Ana only wished she hadn’t realized so late.

But Kerlan was laughing, the marble Affinite was lifting another pillar, the Palace guards were almost upon them, and the Coronation was beginning. She had a choice to make, and that choice was not Ramson.

Ana seized a fistful of his shirt, pulling him to her so that they were a breath apart. Through the haze of sweat and blood, Ramson’s eyes found her. “Don’t you dare die on me, con man,” she whispered before she let go. And then she was on her feet and running down the Hall of Deities.

The squad of Palace guards marched toward her, blue cloaks flapping behind them, blackstone-infused swords gleaming beneath the chandeliers. She kept running until she felt the yaeger’s mental block slip from her mind, his presence behind her flickering out.

She slowed, ten paces from the Palace guards. And it hit her that she recognized them—most were familiar faces who had served her just one year ago.

They seemed to recognize her, too; several guards slowed, uncertainty and disbelief warring over their faces. Their leader came to a stop, his sword steady in his hands, his eyes betraying his hesitation.

“Lieutenant Henryk,” Ana said steadily.

His eyes widened. “It is you, Kolst Pryntsessa.” He stood his ground, whereas a year ago, he would have knelt at her feet.

Ana tilted her head. “Where is Kapitan Markov?” When he didn’t answer, she took another step forward. “Where is Markov, Henryk?”

Henryk’s mouth tightened. “I have my orders to arrest you, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

“Whose orders?”

“The Kolst Contessya.” His tone was firm, his face belying no emotion. “Please, come quietly. I do not wish to hurt you.”

“I believe you,” she said, and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I have to get through.”

The six guards fell to their knees as her Affinity tightened around them, their swords clattering to the floor. Lieutenant Henryk was the last to fall. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. His mouth opened and closed, as though he were struggling to say something to her.

Ana stepped past the kneeling guards, her steps ringing loud and clear as she approached the doors of the Grand Throneroom. Another dozen steps and the grand mahogany doors with the white tiger handles loomed before her.

Fatigue descended over her like a heavy cloud. She steeled herself, reining in her shaking muscles. Chin high, shoulders back. Just as Luka had always taught her.

Ana grasped the sigil of her empire and pushed the doors open.

Before her Affinity had manifested, she’d been in the Grand Throneroom on multiple special occasions. Papa and Mama would sit on the two white-gold thrones atop the dais at the end of the long hall, while she and Luka perched on the seats reserved for them at either side. After her incident, Papa had never brought her back in—yet the grandeur of the room had never left her memory.

Blazing chandelier light illuminated a wide hall with a stretch of pale blue carpeting that extended all the way to the dais at the other end. The domed ceilings bore frescoes of the Deities in all shapes and forms, accompanied by reverent angels and mythical animals.

Below, in the room, fifty pairs of real, live eyes stared at Ana. On the gilded seats on either side of the hall reclined the Empire’s most powerful noblemen and noblewomen. The expressions on their faces ranged from confusion to shock.

But Ana’s gaze was set on the thrones straight ahead and the figures seated in them. It was difficult not to notice Morganya first, draped across the throne in a fine gown of shimmering blue and silver, her black hair cascading like a waterfall. She seemed to have grown even more beautiful since Ana last saw her. The glowing chandelier light brought out her high cheekbones, full lips, and soft, doelike eyes. For a moment, Ana could imagine running into her arms and burying her face in her mamika’s silky dark hair. This woman, her aunt, the murderer of her parents.

And then Ana turned her gaze to the figure next to Morganya. He also leaned against his throne—but unlike Morganya, whose position exuded power and dominance, he looked as though he were barely holding on to life itself. His face was emaciated, his skin the color of ash, his cheeks sunken.

Most painful to look at were his eyes, and only when they met her own did a crippling realization course through her.

Her brother’s once-beautiful, spring-grass eyes were empty. Ana was gazing at a ghost. And it broke her heart.

“Stop where you are!”

Ana spun to face the command. Four Palace guards approached, hands at their scabbards. Their expressions were cautious but stern. In her gown, she probably looked the same as any other frantic guest to them.

“You can’t be here, meya dama. We’ve closed off the Grand Throneroom to guests to protect our Empress from infiltration—”

The guard’s message was cut short as Ana seized his blood and flung him to the side of the grand hall. Screams went up as he crashed into Imperial Councilmembers and guests alike, knocking them from their seats.

Ana reined in her Affinity and turned her gaze back to the dais. Morganya sat straighter now, focusing on Ana as though noticing her for the first time. Eight more guards stepped from posts behind the dais, surrounding the thrones in defensive stances. Their swords sang as they slid them from their scabbards.

Ana took a step forward. It was now or never.

“My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov,” she said, and her voice carried across the hall as she walked, ringing beneath the frescoed deities and carved angels. “Daughter of Aleksander Mikhailov and Kateryanna Mikhailov. Crown Princess of Cyrilia.” She threw a hand up, pointing. “I am here to stop the coronation of the Grand Countess, on account of her crimes of murder and treason against the Crown of Cyrilia.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the room. Suddenly, the guests were leaning forward in their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at Ana. Even the guards at the dais, trained to remain stoic, gaped openly at her.

On his throne, Luka stared at Ana without the slightest hint of recognition.

“Stand down.”

Morganya’s smooth, melodic voice had soothed Ana on the worst of her nights, easing her to sleep like the mother she’d lost so long ago. The thought made her sick now.

The line of guards protecting the Countess acted immediately, lowering their swords and parting uniformly like a set of stage curtains. On the dais, Morganya stood graciously, the lead actress of this preposterous play. Her eyes scanned Ana up and down. Narrowed.

And then her face softened. Crumpled. “Anastacya?” Morganya whispered, gripping the arms of her throne. “Ana?”

Murmurs erupted on either side of the aisle as Ana continued to make her way toward the thrones. It’s her. It’s the lost Princess. The mad Princess. The dead Princess.

Ana trained her eyes on her aunt. “Do you deny the crimes of which I accuse you?” she called, raising her voice over the din that had filled the Throneroom.

“Ana?” Morganya shook her head, disbelief and bewilderment seeping into her expression. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Was I not clear enough?” Ana took another step forward, steadily closing the gap between her and the dais. “In that case, allow me to make myself clear. I accuse you of assassinating my mother, the former Empress Kateryanna Mikhailov”—the crowd’s murmurs grew to a low buzz—“assassinating my father, the former Emperor Aleksander Mikhailov”—a collective gasp from the crowd—“and plotting the murder of my brother, the Emperor Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov.” The Imperial Councilmembers were now clamoring to get a better view of her, while the guests looked on in horror, their eyes darting between her and Morganya. “Do you deny it?”

Morganya was shaking her head, her expression slowly morphing into horror. “You… what are you talking about?” Her voice rose to a terrified squeak as she pointed a finger at Ana. “You murdered your father!”

“You framed me,” Ana snarled.

Morganya’s terror vanished as suddenly as it had come, in the blink of an eye. Her expression became serpentine smooth, calculatingly cold. “Enough,” she growled. The transformation was stark—and it was now clear that everything Morganya had ever said or done had been an act all along. “I don’t know how you got past the Palace guards, but one thing is clear: you are dangerous.” Morganya snapped her fingers. “Guards. Seize her.”

“No!” Ana shouted, but the guards were moving toward her rapidly, swords raised, the blackstone of their blades glittering.

Ana turned and found those now-dull green eyes, still gazing at her. “Luka,” Ana cried. “Luka, please—it’s me!”

The guards closed in. Slowly, Ana backed away.

She could easily take them with her Affinity. But that would only paint her as the monster this crowd thought her to be. This was not a fight; this was a performance.

She needed to show them that she came in peace; she needed to use her words to fight.

“Stop,” Ana said, and the guards hesitated. She lifted her gaze to meet Morganya’s. “Will you deny that you are an Affinite, with an Affinity to flesh and thought?” Another collective gasp swept through the Throneroom. “That you have manipulated the former Palace alchemist into concocting the poisons that killed my parents? That you are, at this very moment, manipulating my brother, the Emperor?”

“This is madness,” Morganya cried, and Ana was glad to hear a note of distress in her voice. Her eyes, however, burned with promised retribution. “Guards! Seize her! We will continue with this coronation!”

“Kolst Contessya Morganya,” Ana said steadily. “With accusations against you, you cannot be crowned Empress until they’re cleared. This is Cyrilian law—this is our law.”

“She’s right.” Another voice spoke up. An Imperial Councilman stood, and the room fell silent. His gray-flecked hair was neatly combed, his face lined with age and wisdom that somehow made him appear more powerful. Ana recognized him as Councilman Dagyslav Taras. He’d been Papa’s closest friend and councilor, and it was said that he had been in the running for Imperial Advisor before Sadov was chosen. “It is the law, Kolst Contessya.”

“You forget, Taras!” Another Councilman stood, Northern Cyrilian–blond hair buzzed to an inch of his scalp. A long scar slashed across his nose. The fierceness of his expression was warriorlike, and Ana recognized him from that alone. Maksym Zolotov, Cyrilian-army-commander-turned-Councilman. He turned his heated gaze straight to Ana. “The Princess—or former Princess—still carries charges of murder and treason with her. Her accusations cannot stand.”

Ana stared back at him, and Zolotov had the grace to look away. Inside, though, she felt the sharp sting of betrayal. In her years of confinement, she’d skulked around the Palace, watching these Councilmembers from afar. She’d memorized their names, noted the ones she’d liked best, and Zolotov had been among those. He’d struck her with his courage, his loyalty, and his straightforwardness. To have him speak against her hurt.

Taras gave Zolotov a piercing look. “You are not incorrect, Maksym. The Princess’s status casts doubt unto her accusations. Yet by Cyrilian law, there is no rule dictating that those under indictment cannot accuse others.”

They would not speak for her, nor would they speak against her. They interpreted the law.

Taras turned to the thrones. “When there is no law in our system for this situation, we must defer to the Emperor.” He paused. “Kolst Imperator?”

Finally—finally—Ana let her gaze slide over to the figure to the right of Morganya. Her brother was watching this with no more reaction than a person might watch rats scuffling on the streets. “Luka,” she called out again. “Luka, please, look at me. It’s the truth. I have evidence—I swear on my life. She’s poisoned your body and poisoned your mind, Luka.” The last words came out in a dry sob. “Please. Listen to me.”

“You ran when you were charged with murder,” a Councilman shouted. “Is that not an act of guilt?”

“I ran because I was innocent, and I knew I had to seek proof to convict the true murderer.” Ana’s gaze never left her brother. “Luka. Please.” Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “You know me, bratika. You know I love this empire too much. Believe me.”

Luka’s gaze flickered, settling on her with a haunted look that Ana would never forget. These were the eyes of a man with a dead soul.

Her heart cracked.

Luka opened his mouth. His voice, when it came from him, was barely a whisper. “We will continue with the coronation.”

“No!” Ana lunged forward. “No, Luka—she has you under her control—”

“Guards, detain her!” Morganya sounded confident again; she stood before her throne, gripping the arms. Guards swarmed forward, but Ana pushed them back with her Affinity; she was aware that archers had poured into the room and trained their arrows on her back, waiting for the command to fire. “We need Deys’voshk. I know what she can do with her Affinity—I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Vladimir! Vladimir!”

“Kolst Contessya, allow me.”

Ana froze at the soft, smooth voice. Next to the Councilmembers seated closest to the throne stood a figure dressed in white alchemist robes. Tetsyev touched a hand to his Deys’krug as he gazed up at Morganya.

Morganya’s expression softened. “Go on, Pyetr.” Her eyes shone with a secret triumph.

Tetsyev turned to Ana.

“Traitor,” Ana spat. It was no longer anger that gripped her. Certainty settled in her chest. If she was to die, she would at least take this murderer with her.

Yet as Ana grasped his bonds with her Affinity, something else came to her. Another memory, of a dungeon, and a weeping, frightened man.

Morganya is strong, but she is not invincible.

How much of what Tetsyev had told her that night had been the truth?

She can control only one mind at a time. And her control can be broken. When you used your Affinity on me, it cut through Morganya’s Affinity.

Could it be? That her Affinity could cancel out Morganya’s Affinity, break her aunt’s hold over Luka for just a small while?

She hesitated. Perhaps everything Tetsyev had told her had been a lie. Yet… She thought of his eyes, the remorse in his voice, the words he’d whispered in the dark. She hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that he’d spoken the truth that night.

It was worth a try.

Ana threw her Affinity to Luka and gave the gentlest pull.

Even from here, she could sense the wrongness to his blood, the amount of the foreign substance in it. It was sluggish and cold whereas it should have been thrumming and warm. Her heart ached, but she pulled again.

As she concentrated her Affinity on her brother, she was faintly aware of guards seizing her, crossing their swords over her, the blackstone-infused metal cold against her throat.

For the third time, Ana pulled.

Luka blinked. Gave a small gasp.

Ana’s heart soared as his eyes found hers. Truly found hers. They looked brighter, more alert, as though he had just woken from a long, long slumber.

Please, Luka. Wake up.

“Stop,” Luka said.

The entire Court turned to look at him with wonder. Tetsyev blinked, and turned in his tracks. “Kolst Imperator…?”

But the brightness in Luka’s eyes was fading again; he looked even more lost as he leaned back, exhaling as though he had spent all of his energy. Flatly, he said, “We must get on with the coronation.”

Ana’s heart sank. Morganya was looking directly at her; a corner of her aunt’s lips curled in the shadow of a smile.

“I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov—”

“No!” Ana shouted, but the look her brother gave her was stern—like the ones Papa used to give them.

Everything was going to hell.

“Silence her,” Luka commanded the guards. His gaze then snapped directly to her: bursting with life and confidence and the power of an emperor. “Quiet, brat.”

Brat. She stared at her brother, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that she thought it might burst free.

Luka drew himself straight with the small amount of energy he had left. His voice was dull as he recited, “I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov, announce the temporary abdication of the throne to the Cyrilian Empire for reasons of personal health.”

Morganya’s face was aglow in triumph.

“In the event of my abdication or death, I hereby crown the heir to the throne of Cyrilia.” Luka suddenly focused on Ana with such intensity that it took her breath away. “I name the Crown Princess Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov as heir and future Empress to the Cyrilian Empire.”