Blood Heir

30

The world swayed around her, sending streaks of pain up her skull. Reluctantly, Ana surfaced from her sleep. Pale light danced across her eyelids, and the sound of creaking filled the air. Something cold chafed against both of her wrists.

Her eyes flew open. Moonlight streamed through a small glass window high on the far wall, illuminating a ceiling of wooden rafters. The floor beneath her tilted from side to side, in rhythm with the creaking. She was in a carriage.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Ana’s heart leapt into her throat. In the corner by the door, draped in darkness, was the silhouette of a man. She tried to move, but her arms remained attached to the wall by her side. Manacles peered out from the layers of chiffon and silk of her gown. She was shackled in place.

Panic fogged her mind. She grasped for her Affinity, for the instinctive feel of blood thrumming through her and all around her, but found nothing. Deys’voshk. She recognized the haze, the lingering sense of nausea.

The man leaned forward, his long fingers clasped together. His face was pale, with eyes so black it was like staring into an abyss. The face brought back memories of dark dungeons and cold stone walls and the bitter tang of blood in her mouth. Ana recoiled.

Sadov smiled. “Hello again, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

She was breathing too hard to think; her hands shook against their shackles. She tasted traces of Deys’voshk on her tongue, bitter and acidic. Heard his whispers. Monster. Ana grasped the first words that came to mind. “Where are you taking me?”

“Salskoff Palace.” He looked at her as though she were a prized gem. “Kolst Imperatorya will be pleased to see you again.”

Her Imperial Majesty. There was only one person he could be talking about. Morganya. Ana’s head spun; memories of her gentle aunt alternated with Tetsyev’s story of a cold, calculating murderess.

But Morganya was not Empress. “My brother,” Ana said. “My brother is Emperor. And he will be glad to see me.”

Sadov’s lips curled. It was the same soft smile he carried when he brought her to the darkest parts of the Palace dungeons. “Have you not heard, Princess? In five days’ time, your brother will announce his abdication due to ill health and appoint the Kolst Contessya Morganya as Empress Regent of Cyrilia.”

Five days. Her stomach felt hollow. She knew Luka was sick from the poison—but five days. That was even less time than she’d feared.

“Within weeks, your brother will be dead, and Morganya will become Empress of Cyrilia.”

“No!” Ana lunged, her chains clanging as she struggled against them.

“I’ve missed your spiritedness, Pryntsessa,” Sadov crooned. “You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment. I suppose Pyetr told you all about what Morganya and I have been planning?”

Pyetr—Pyetr Tetsyev. How much of what he’d told her had been truth? And how much had been lies? Was he still working with Morganya? Had he only told her Morganya’s plan to set her up?

I tell the truth, Kolst Pryntsessa. And you must decide what you do with this truth.

She closed her eyes as the hopelessness of her situation crashed into her. May was dead; her brother was dying. Yuri and the Redcloaks were gone. Tetsyev had vanished. Ramson had betrayed her.

“Oh, don’t look so heartbroken, Princess.” Sadov leaned forward and trailed a finger across her cheek. His touch sent cold revulsion down her spine. “You can join us.” Ana lifted her gaze to his, and she found true madness in those eyes. “For so long, Affinites have lived under the thumb of non-Affinites. We are graced with these abilities, yet we are reviled, controlled by weak humans who use blackstone and Deys’voshk against us. Why should we not have our revenge? Why should we not exploit them?”

We. She stared at Sadov in disbelief, the realization hitting her. “You’re an Affinite.”

Sadov’s thin lips peeled back in a grotesque grin. “Oh, yes.”

Ana was shaking, memories of his long white fingers reaching from the darkness of the dungeons, fear twisting her stomach until she could barely breathe. “You control the mind, just like Morganya.”

Sadov tilted his head, looking like a teacher fishing for an answer from a pupil. “Almost correct, Kolst Pryntsessa. My Affinity resonates with emotions. Specifically, with fear.”

Fear. He was a fear Affinite. Ana thought back to the inexplicable terror that threatened to drown her each time she descended the steps of the dungeons. The way her palms grew clammy and her throat closed up and her legs turned to cotton no matter how much she steeled herself to face the horrors.

It had been Sadov all along, playing with her mind. “But you… you fed me Deys’voshk. You tortured me.” Her voice trembled.

“I did it to make you stronger,” Sadov crooned, his eyes bright. “Deys’voshk builds your resilience; it poisons your body, but it forces your Affinity to fight back. I liken it to an infection, and your Affinity must drive it from your body. That is how the Countess and I grew our powers over the years. We constantly suppressed our Affinities and forced them to grow stronger.”

Ana felt sick. “Why?”

She already knew the answer. “So you can fight with us.” Sadov reached out, tipping her chin. “Join us, and together, we will resurrect this world from the ashes. We will rule, as we deserve, and we will purge the world of the unworthy.”

Ana stared into her torturer’s eyes—wide and burning with fervor. This was not a game; it was not a lie. Sadov actually believed what he was telling her. “You’re mad.”

The fire in Sadov’s eyes flickered and went out. He leaned back, smooth and cold again. “The Countess said you might resist. Too righteous, she said.” He threaded his fingers together and narrowed his gaze. “It matters little. You will join us, whether of your own free will or by force.”

“I will never join you.” Her voice was a low snarl. “You speak of mass murder across my empire. And I would die before I let that happen.”

“Pity,” Sadov said softly. “My other victims spoke just as bravely before they gave in to my Affinity. You don’t know yet, Pryntsessa, how it feels to experience true hopelessness. I will show you.”

The carriage darkened. Sadov’s eyes had become bottomless pits, and she was falling, falling endlessly, with no way out.

Around her, the shadows morphed, growing claws and swarming at the windows, reaching for her. Ana bit back a scream. Her pulse raced, her heart was going to burst from her chest, her arms and legs had frozen and there was nothing she could do against the terror that was going to engulf her—

Then, just like that, it vanished. The monsters outside became the silhouettes of leaves, and the fear drained like water from a tub, leaving her hollow and empty. Sweat coated her forehead and her limbs; her palms were slick as she pushed herself up. A single, strangled sob escaped her.

Sadov leaned forward like a fascinated child. “Ah, how does it feel?” he whispered.

Ana spat in his face. “I will never stop fighting,” she said. The carriage shook as it rolled over a bump on the road. Several branches snapped over the roof. “You will never win if you think fear is the way.”

Sadov wiped his face and looked at her with an ugly expression. “You’ve lost,” he said. “You think you won over Pyetr Tetsyev? He was with us the entire time. We needed him on our side until the young Emperor Mikhailov was dead.”

The knowledge that Tetsyev had betrayed her settled into her chest with dead certainty. And Ana knew, inevitably, that the next time she came face-to-face with that alchemist, she would kill him.

“You think that pathetic con man is coming for you?” Sadov continued, growing more delighted. “He’s dead. There is no one coming for you, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

He’s dead. Despite everything she’d learned about Ramson, the words twisted in her heart like a dagger. She thought of Fyrva’snezh, standing with him outside and watching snow swirl slowly, silently from the skies.

How much of it had been real?

It didn’t matter. Sadov was right—nobody was coming for her. So she would have to fight her way out by herself. Like she always had.

“I don’t need anyone else,” she snarled.

The carriage jerked to a halt as a loud thump sounded on the roof. Both Ana and Sadov turned their heads to the small window above. A cobweb of cracks ran across it, fracturing the moonlight from outside.

A shadow flashed. The carriage swayed. A second thump sounded and the glass split into more fissures, the cracks reverberating through the carriage. Ana had the sense to duck as, with a final resounding smash, the window exploded into a thousand glittering pieces and fell upon them like rain.

As the glass settled, Ana lifted her head. Shards slid off her hair and shoulders and clinked onto the floor. Someone—or something—had stopped the carriage and smashed the window.

In the corner, she heard Sadov groan, the sound of glass crunching beneath him.

A shadow flitted above. Ana craned her neck. There was nothing but the swaying of trees and the barest glimpse of the moon hanging overhead like a silver scythe.

She felt the intruder before she heard him: a brush of fabric against her wrist, a rustle at her ear. She turned, and stifled a gasp.

The intruder was a child—a scrawny, preadolescent boy—wearing formfitting clothes. He circled the walls of the carriage, melting in and out of the shadows, and at last came to a standstill beside her.

Before she could draw breath to speak, the boy’s hands were at her wrists, and she heard the faint jangle of keys. They sounded like small, ringing chimes. His touch was featherlight, his fingers cool and soft as they deftly worked her shackles. Left hand. Right hand. Ankles.

Ana scrambled to her feet, pressing herself against the wall, hands curling into fists.

The boy took a step back and, with all the grace of a dancer, knelt before her. The pool of moonlight pouring in from the broken window above framed him like one of the performers in the Palace’s Crystal Theater. Graceful. Poised. Controlled.

“Meya dama.” A female voice, quiet, steady, and sweet as silver bells. The intruder looked up. It was a girl: a girl with a small, slender face and wide, dark eyes. Her black hair was cropped just beneath her chin, curling under with a hint of waves. She could not have been much older than Ana.

Kemeiran, Ana realized with surprise. A second realization hit her, harder than the first. She’d seen this girl, many nights ago, beneath the sultry glow of torches and the low rumble of battle drums. “The Windwraith,” she breathed.

The girl straightened. Before she could speak, a groan sounded from the other end of the carriage. Sadov stirred.

The barest movement, and blades glinted in the Windwraith’s palms. Yet as Sadov’s eyes focused on them, Ana knew with sickening premonition what would come.

The wall of fear that hit her was crippling: dark and utter terror that gripped her stomach and paralyzed her. She crumpled to the ground, images flickering through her mind. Ramson lying in a pool of blood in the banquet hall. Papa’s body convulsing, blood spurting from his mouth. Eight bodies, strewn across the cobblestones, twitching as life faded from their eyes.

Dimly, she heard a thump as the Windwraith hit the floor. The barest whimper escaped the girl’s throat, her face shadowed with whatever nightmares haunted her.

Sadov inched toward them, clutching his side from the blow the Windwraith had dealt him. He raised a hand, and moonlight lanced off the blade he held.

He was going to kill the girl.

Ana threw herself in front of the Windwraith. Sadov paused, hesitation flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the way,” he snarled, “or I’ll kill you both.”

The slightest of movements behind her, and suddenly, wind blasted across the carriage, throwing Sadov to the floor. Ana reached out for something to hold on to, but the Windwraith’s arms were already wrapped tightly around her center.

They held each other as the squall around them rose to a scream, slamming Sadov against the carriage door. Another blast and the door flew open, and Sadov tumbled out of sight.

The wind died; the world quieted.

Ana untangled herself from the Windwraith, her heart still racing. She looked to the other girl, who had picked herself up without a sound. Tears streaked her face, and she clutched the wall with one hand, a dagger in the other as her chest hitched with small, shallow breaths.

“Are you all right?” Ana asked, her gaze fixing back on the open door. Beyond, the forest stretched out in alternating patterns of shadow and moonlight.

“Yes.” Her voice was as faint as a breath of air. “Who is he?”

“It’s a long story.” Ana bent to pick up a shard of glass, holding it like a weapon. “We need to go after him. Can you move?”

The girl gave a swift nod. Her steps were light, like the rustle of a small bird’s wings, as she darted past Ana and hopped out the carriage door. Ana followed.

Her feet landed in soft, freshly fallen snow. Outside, the six guards that had ridden with the carriage lay dead, glassy-eyed beneath the shifting treetops. Dull metal blades protruded from their necks and chests. The snowfall had stopped and the skies had cleared, showing a bright moon and a blur of stars dotting the midnight sky. Sadov was nowhere to be seen.

The Windwraith pointed. A trail of footsteps led away from the carriage, into the darkness of the trees beyond. “I can go after him. He can’t be far.”

Ana closed her eyes. If she could just use her Affinity to sense where Sadov was right now…

But the Deys’voshk had already fully worked its way through her system, and the dosage that Sadov had given her could take as long as a day to wear off.

Ana shook her head. “He has an Affinity for fear. It would be dangerous for you to go by yourself.”

The Windwraith nodded. She flitted among the guards’ bodies, plucking knives and rations from them. For the first time, Ana realized that she was still in her ball gown, her beaded purse hanging from her wrist. The cold stung her skin and she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Here.” The Windwraith held out a bundle of clothes.

Ana hesitated. She’d heard so many stories of the Kemeiran Empire growing up—of how the far-eastern kingdom raised deadly assassins and deployed them as spies to serve its brutal regime. Distrust toward the nation was rooted deep in the bones of every Cyrilian. Papa had warned her of them, her tutors had taught her to be wary of them, and Luka had told her of the long war between the two empires.

Yet… this girl’s countenance, her quiet uncertainty, the naked fear that had seized her, all indicated otherwise. She had saved Ana’s life.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Ana reached out and accepted the clothes. “Thank you,” she said. There were a million questions she needed to ask this girl. “How did you find me?”

The girl looked startled; she fixed her gaze on Ana. “It was part of the deal.”

The sentence sounded all too familiar. “Deal?” The word rushed from her in a breath.

“Yes.” Another sharp nod, and then a slight crease of confusion in the girl’s brows. “My contract was purchased after my battle with the Steelshooter at the Playpen. He came and collected me that night.” Her eyes turned soft. “He wouldn’t tell me his name. He said I had a choice: I could make a Trade with him and gain my freedom right there.”

Ana could barely breathe.

“He asked me to protect you when the time came. Then he freed me, and told me to wait for him in Novo Mynsk until he sent word with a snowhawk.” The Windwraith’s hand darted to her hair. “He called on me this evening, so I came.”

Despite what Tetsyev had told her—despite all the evidence to the contrary and all the facts that screamed against her greater instincts, Ana knew instantly that it was Ramson. Ramson had sent this girl.

The air was suddenly too cold, each breath piercing Ana’s lungs like broken glass.

Kerlan only kept him alive long enough for me to get there.

Ramson hadn’t been good—and perhaps some part of him had wanted to change that. In a world of grays, he had made a choice. And that choice had saved her life tonight.

She blinked back tears. She couldn’t afford to think of Ramson, or to try to piece together the full story of why he’d done the things he’d done, made the choices he’d made… not now, not when Luka would be forced to abdicate in five days leaving Morganya to begin her reign of bloodshed and terror.

Five days was barely enough time to make the journey but she had to get to Salskoff. She would return to the Palace, even without Tetsyev, and she would accuse Morganya of treason against the Empire.

She had proof already. The antidote was in the apothecary’s wing, along with the poison. And Luka—Luka would listen to her. He would believe her.

Suddenly, the night seemed a little less dark.

The girl was untying the horses from the carriage when Ana made her way over. “What’s your name?”

“Linnet,” the girl whispered, as though tasting a strange word on her tongue. “My name is Linnet.”

Ana drew a deep breath. Her next words were a gamble, but it was a gamble she had to take. She had nothing left to lose. “My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov,” she said. “Crown Princess of Cyrilia. And… I need your help. Please.”

Linnet listed her face to the sky, closing her eyes briefly in the silver fluorescence of the moon. “My people believe in fate. That man freed me from my indenturement so that I could protect you; and you saved my life from that Affinite. The gods have joined our fates, and now I must complete the circle. I will be the blade in your hands and the wind at your back.” She paused, and resolve shaped her expression. “Call me Linn.”