Blood Heir

12

News of the fight in the Vyntr’makt had spread through Kyrov like wildfire. Ana hurried along the streets that had only moments earlier been celebrating the arrival of winter. Now the bricks of the dachas glowed bloodred in the setting sun, and the shuttered storefronts gaped at her like empty eyes. She caught snatches of hushed conversation from the townspeople rushing home from a day’s work.

Ana tugged her hood down lower and followed the steady stream of people away from the Vyntr’makt. Exhaustion was creeping over her—the bone-deep weariness that came from using her Affinity—and she needed to leave, now, before that squad of Whitecloaks brought back reinforcements.

She’d—miraculously—defeated one Whitecloak, but she shuddered at the thought of having to fight an entire squad. Her Affinity was a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme for fear that she would lose control. And over the past years, Ana had exercised it too little, and recently, she’d stretched it too thin.

Inside a glass storefront, lacquered phoenixes and icehawks spun, catching the dusk light. She and May had been in that store barely half an hour ago, whispering about Whitecloaks as though they were a distant threat. She whipped her head away as she turned a corner, the ache of tears burning deep into her heart.

She was on a smaller, emptier street. Gone were the beautiful residential dachas, the decorated storefronts and polished streetlamps. Stone buildings with wooden roofs crowded close together, dilapidated and crumbling. And, at the end of the street, was a building with red-shingled roofs. A wooden sign announced in weathered gold letters: The Gray Bear’s Keep.

Something about the inn struck her as off—perhaps it was the lack of music or conversation as she drew near, or the fact that, despite its shabby appearance, its doors were made of polished oak.

Her steps slowed of their own accord, and she came to a stop several buildings away. She’d just started to convince herself that she was being paranoid when the oak doors swung open and two men exited.

Ana swung herself into the shadow of a nearby doorway and peered out. There was something strange about these men, too. One, dressed in a black riding cloak and leather boots, moved with unnatural, predatory grace. Ana caught the glint of not one but two daggers on his belt as he retrieved a bulging pouch from his cloak. A mercenary.

The other, tall and lumbering as a bear, wore a grimy bartender’s apron. He glanced around furtively before reaching for the pouch, the greed on his face unmistakable even from this distance.

The mercenary tossed the bag at the bartender. Coins clinked as the bartender snatched it from the air. He missed—or ignored—the derisive look the mercenary shot him as he pulled open the strings to examine the bag’s contents.

The mercenary tilted his head to the empty street corner. Waiting.

A shiver passed through Ana. Exhausted as she was, she kept her Affinity flared.

As though on cue, a third man appeared around the corner, leading two horses. This man was dressed like the first: black cloak, black boots, and black hood obscuring his face. He turned the horses around, and as the mercenaries mounted, Ana’s stomach dropped.

She’d thought the second horse carried a large sack—but she realized now that it was actually a person. A horrible, sinking feeling gripped her as the horses shifted and the captive’s face came into plain view. Tawny hair, chiseled jaw, and broken nose. Ramson Quicktongue was these mercenaries’ latest haul.

Panic twisted her stomach. She thought of lunging out with her Affinity right there, right now. But her bones creaked in protest, and she clutched the wall to steady herself. There was no chance she could beat three people in her current state. Besides, there could be more of them.

Yet she couldn’t afford to lose Ramson Quicktongue, either.

She couldn’t beat them by brute force. She’d have to play it smart. Attack from behind.

Deities, she thought. One night with Quicktongue and she was already thinking like him. The Ana of a year ago would have valued honor and faced her enemies head-on. But then, she supposed, in a world of con men, crime lords, and cutthroats, there was no honor and there were no rules to the game. You only played to win.

Ana watched the two mercenaries round the corner and held her breath, counting to ten. When she stepped out onto the street, only the bartender remained, cradling his pouch of coins.

He turned when she was several paces behind him, but by then it was too late. Ana’s hand went up and he froze, pain and shock flashing across his face as he inevitably felt her control on his blood. Ana gave a tug, just for emphasis, and the pouch of gold tumbled from his hands. Goldleaves spilled onto the ground.

“You move, and I’ll kill you before you can raise a pinky,” Ana said. The bartender looked at her with renewed fear. “Now I’m going to let you go, because I need you to talk.”

A fresh wave of fatigue washed over her when she dropped her hold on him. She needed to conserve what little strength she had left.

The bartender stood statue-still.

Ana tilted her head. “Tell me. Who were those men?”

His eyes slid to the streets around them, as though fearing the mercenaries would emerge from the shadows. Fear was good, though. Fear was a weapon, as Sadov had taught her so very well.

“Bounty hunters,” the bartender said, his words slurring with a lowborn Cyrilian accent.

“And where are they taking him?”

“Kerlan,” the bartender whispered, growing paler still. The name seemed to cast a shadow over him, cinching fear tight around his neck.

“Who?”

“Kerlan. Lord Kerlan.”

“Who is that? And where is he?”

“The Head of the Order, in Novo Mynsk.”

She’d meant to ask him what Order he spoke of, but her heart caught at the words Novo Mynsk. May was headed there.

All other thoughts scattered. Her direction was clear. “I need a horse,” Ana said, taking a wager.

The bartender nodded frantically. “The stables. Choose whichever you’d like.”

She rewarded him with a flat smile like the one she’d so often seen on Sadov’s face. “One more thing. I’ll be taking this.” She scooped up the pouch of goldleaves that had been abandoned on the dirt road. She didn’t feel bad for that, Ana realized, as she turned on her heels and strode toward the stables in the back. After all, the bounty hunters had paid that gold for Quicktongue, and since Quicktongue was her prisoner, it stood to reason that she should take the gold.

“Stay there until you can’t hear my horse anymore,” she called over her shoulder. “You move, and I’ll bleed you dry.”

The stables were surprisingly well kept. Ana selected a valkryf with a coat the color of milk, already saddled, as though the owner had expected a short stop. When she rode out of the stables at a brisk trot, the bartender was still standing where she’d left him. She kept her Affinity honed on him until she was far enough away that the glow of his blood had faded to a flicker, and then to nothing.

The sun had almost set, its light bleeding out over the expanse of the Syvern Taiga like a last breath. Storm clouds gathered over the horizon, and the air thickened with the promise of rain.

Ana stretched her Affinity out, sweeping the vicinity for the bounty hunters’ trail. The Gray Bear’s Keep was close enough to the edge of town that she didn’t have to wade through a thick crowd of bodies before she closed in on the bounty hunters. There was no mistaking it; she sensed, blurred and distant, three figures: two with blood fast-flowing, and one sluggish, several hundred paces ahead of her.

As she steered her horse around the last dacha, she caught sight of two horsemen in the distance, speeding into the shadows of the Syvern Taiga. She suddenly wished she had some sort of weapon on her. She’d never learned to spar—or to even handle a sword—and coming into a fight with a weakened Affinity and empty hands made her feel extremely vulnerable.

But she didn’t have a choice. May was gone, her alchemist still missing, and her only hope lay unconscious on the back of one of those mercenaries’ horses. Ana had no weapon and no plan, but she also had nothing more to lose.

A hundred paces. She drew steadily nearer. At any moment, the mercenaries could turn and catch sight of her.

Fifty paces. She could see them clearly now, moving much more slowly than she with the unconscious con man tied to a horse.

And they saw her.

They slowed their horses and rounded the edge of the trees, hands lingering near their swords. A cold wind stirred, rattling the dry winter leaves across dead grass. Shadows flickered across the men’s faces.

Ana gave her hood a tug. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, and she found herself reaching out with her Affinity, keeping it poised as she would a blade. A sense of calm enveloped her as her Affinity settled over the blood pulsing through the mercenaries’ bodies. Hers to command, if she wished.

She grasped that thought, letting it fuel her courage. “Release that man. He is my charge,” she called.

The mercenary riding alone—the leader—spoke first. Even on his horse Ana could see that he was an impossibly tall man. He was the one with a black beard, the one she had watched hand the pouch of goldleaves to the bartender. She was close enough to hear his low growl. “You got some guts, lass, riding after us alone. Got a death wish, or what?”

“You must have heard by now,” Ana said, “what happened at the Vyntr’makt in Kyrov?”

“What? You lost your damashka doll?” Blackbeard and his companion rasped with laughter.

Ana kept her face blank. She knew from lessons with her brother that some negotiations required placidity. Others called for firmness. And finally, in the rarest of cases, you showed your power.

Slowly, Ana slid off her glove and stretched her fingers, lifting her hand high.

She summoned her Affinity.

The mockery on the mercenaries’ faces vanished, replaced by alternating horror and disgust, as the veins in her hand began to turn dark, from the tips of her fingers to her elbow.

“An Affinite,” sneered Blackbeard. “You think you can threaten us just because you’re one of those deimhovs? Oi, Stanys. Watch me cut this witch down.”

“Need help, boss?” his companion called.

“Take the quarry to a safer place.” Blackbeard turned to Ana with a malicious grin. “The witch is mine.”

Anger bottled at her throat, but she forced it down, down as she thought of Luka. Her bratika had always strived for peace where possible. Ana gave it one last try. “Hand him over now, and no one has to be hurt.”

Blackbeard’s expression darkened. “I’ll teach you all about hurting,” he snarled, and launched his horse toward her.

Her horse shrieked at the sudden assault, springing back. Ana had just enough time to feel the shift in balance before the saddle tilted beneath her and she tumbled off. By instinct, she latched on to Blackbeard’s blood and pulled.

His curse rang out, and she saw him fall just as her back jolted against the ground, knocking the wind from her. Nearby, there was a thud as Blackbeard broke his fall with a roll.

Ana sucked in a deep breath, willing her stunned limbs to work again. She heard the schick of Blackbeard’s dagger as he drew it from its sheath. “Damned deimhov,” he snarled, and sprang.

Through the haze in her mind, she grasped at her Affinity.

Blackbeard drove his blade down. A rumble of thunder muffled her scream as pain seared over her shoulder. Blood bloomed across her senses.

The mercenary’s smile sliced white. Pinning her down with his body, he brought his dagger to her cheek. In the dim light, she could make out the green-tinted liquid as it formed a drop at the tip of the blade. Terror filled her. “Recognize that, you witch?” Blackbeard’s tone was triumphant, mocking. “You think just because you’re an Affinite, that makes you more powerful than us?”

Slowly, she was regaining control of her body; the fog in her mind was dissipating. Ana twitched a finger.

“Think again. You made a dumb choice, revealing yourself to us, deimhov. I dominate monsters like you. I trade monsters like you.” Blackbeard brought his face close to hers. “You don’t scare me.”

With his other hand, he shoved a glass vial of Deys’voshk to her lips. Bitter liquid filled her mouth. She was back in the dungeons again, metal chains and straps holding her in place, the taste of the pungent poison flooding her senses. My little monster, Sadov whispered.

She choked now, her mind paralyzed with fear, her throat swallowing the Deys’voshk as she’d been conditioned.

Something splashed on her face. At first, Ana thought she was crying, but as another drop landed on her face, then another, she realized that it was raining.

The sky lit up with a streak of lightning, and thunder clapped as rain began to pour. A cold wind tore at her hair, urging her in angry whispers. She was not in a dungeon, this was not Sadov, and she was not the helpless, frightened girl she’d been.

And she had developed a tolerance to the Deys’voshk.

Blackbeard tossed his vial onto the grass. Lightning flashed, reflecting off the glass, an arm’s length from Ana. “Still feeling powerful, you witch?” he hissed in her ear. “I don’t have a particular preference for your type, but I know some people who do.” He gripped her chin hard enough to bruise. Ana forced her eyes to remain on Blackbeard as her hand snaked out along the grass. “Lots’ve things one could do to a pretty face like yours. Lots’ve goldleaves one could pay.” His grin widened, and his hand wandered to his belt. “But first, I’ll have to try it out for myself—”

Ana’s hand closed around the glass vial. With all her strength, she smashed it into his face.

The shards pierced her palm, sending sharp streaks of pain up her arm, but Ana only felt grim satisfaction as the man howled, clutching his face. Blood ran down his cheeks, and when he removed his hand, Ana saw that a shard of glass had lodged itself in his right eye.

She lashed out. Her Affinity was still there, still strong despite the mist of Deys’voshk that had started creeping across her senses. She locked on the blood dripping down Blackbeard’s face, seizing that and the bonds inside his body and giving it all a single, vicious tug.

It was like uncorking a bottle of wine; blood spilled from Blackbeard’s mouth at her coaxing, running through the grass in rivulets with rainwater.

Die, Ana thought, fury coiling around her, white-hot. What he had wanted to do to her, what he’d probably done to dozens of other powerless Affinites—she would make sure he was never able to do any of it again.

Die.

Lightning lit up Blackbeard’s bloodied face, and for a moment, Ana saw the face of the broker who had stolen May, his pale-ice eyes boring into hers.

Wrath burned through her veins; she gave a violent pull. There was the wet sound of flesh ripping. Blackbeard made a choking sound as his chest tore open; for a moment he hung suspended in time, mouth agape, eyes wide, droplets of his blood glistening like rubies in the rain.

Then his eyes shuttered, and he keeled over on the grass with a dead thud.

Exhaustion smothered Ana, so suddenly that her vision blurred around the edges. Her limbs were leaden; she felt as though she were sinking into the mud. She could no longer tell whether the dizziness was from the Deys’voshk working its poisonous effect in her system or from overexertion. Perhaps it was both.

“What the—”

Twenty paces away, the second mercenary—Stanys—had dismounted. He stared at his leader in disbelief before his eyes landed on Ana. “What the hell did you do, you deimhov?”

Her head swam as she pushed herself to her feet. Blackbeard’s dagger lay in the mud next to his body, discarded, but she didn’t think she’d have the strength to pick it up. “Leave, or I’ll kill you, too.” Her voice barely carried over the rushing sound of rain.

Stanys palmed his dagger. There was a challenge in his eyes as he took a step forward. Then another. And another.

He was testing the waters, seeing how close he could get before she used her Affinity. Seeing if she still could.

Ana’s legs trembled with the effort of standing. The world swayed as she grasped for her Affinity. Please. She’d hated her Affinity, the thought of using it… but now she needed it. There was nothing else standing between her and the blade in Stanys’s hand.

Her head split with pain. Ana dropped to her knees. As she lifted her head to look at Stanys, she realized that her Affinity had reached its limit. She might as well have been trying to grasp empty air, the twisting wind.

No, she thought, shaking, her head pounding with each footfall of the approaching man.

Stanys’s shadow fell over her; she could see the fur of his boots from where she knelt, the curve of his blackstone-steel blade that parted the rain. Her hands shook. Was this it?

The mercenary’s dagger flashed. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating his blade… and the shadow behind.

Stanys swung his blade down.

And met metal. A shrill screech rang out in the night. A battle cry.

“Move!” Ramson shouted. With a last spurt of strength, Ana rolled away from them just as Ramson lunged forward.

Ana lifted her head and watched as Ramson Quicktongue, self-serving con man and egotistic bastard, fought for their lives.