Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Thratia’s fleet had been spotted that morning, cresting the sandy dunes which hemmed in Aransa. Just a mark out, as the airship flies, the people were saying, and the streets of Aransa were abuzz with the return of their tyrant lord. The fleet bobbed low in the sky, struggling against heavy winds due to a lack of selium to vent. Pelkaia could tell. She had a clear view from the window of Thratia’s bedroom.

More than a mark, probably, the way they were fighting that wind. But she could wait. She’d waited years. Her body wouldn’t fail her in the next few moments.

She peeled off the servant’s face she wore to sneak her way into Thratia’s compound, watching her natural face come into view in Thratia’s vanity mirror. Sallowness made her skin yellow-pale, deep lines traced every edge of her features. She was old. So very old. And it was beginning to show. She tucked the selium into a small bladder, and hid it away in her pocket on instinct. Everything was ready. She had only to wait.

The knife at her back was almost as old as she was, a Catari blade of simple make. There was no real ceremony in what she’d come here to do. No real passion, either. It was something she’d been driving toward since they day they’d told her her son, her sweet Kel, had gone to the skies.

She took no pleasure in what was to come, aside from a job well done.

One mark. Two. Thratia must be in the city now, tying up her affairs before returning to her home. It was late. She’d sleep soon. Even monsters needed their rest. Pelkaia most of all, these days.

Pelkaia tucked herself into a shadow between the wardrobe edge and wall, and waited.

Eventually, the door swung open. She’d lost track of time, of course, but days and marks and months and years were meaning less and less to her. It was dark, and Thratia was here, and she was yawning and stripping her boots off and going through the whole night-routine Detan had told Pelkaia she did, every night, step by step.

Such a methodical woman. You had to be methodical to be a murderer. Pelkaia knew that, too.

Thratia sat at her vanity, twisted off the top of her scar cream, and slathered the balm against her cheek – against the mark Detan had left her, so long ago that the memory was growing hazy. But most memories were hazy, now. Pelkaia knew only two things: what she must do, and what would come after.

Thratia stretched out in her bed, wriggling her muscles, settling into the covers. She left a light burning, as she always did, fearful of being surprised in the dark.

Surprise, Pelkaia thought.

Marks drifted by again while the cream did its work. Soaked into her hardened skin and brought with it the Catari poisons Pelkaia had laced it with. Sometime, eventually, Thratia jerked up in bed, gasping, clawing at her throat, eyes wide as she scrabbled about her nightstand for a glass of water. Wasn’t there. Wasn’t a drop in the room. Pelkaia’d made sure of it.

“No good,” Pelkaia said, and stepped from the shadows.

Thratia, to her credit, was on her feet in a moment, blade in hand even though her eyes bugged out and her mouth gaped open, struggling for air that just wouldn’t come.

“You crushed my son.”

Thratia lunged at her, but the motion was weak, and Pelkaia had no trouble batting it away with her own blade.

“Not you, personally, of course. But you signed off on the papers. Put him there in that landslide for the cover up. Do you know me, Thratia Ganal? Do you know who’s killing you now?”

Thratia backed against the wall, barely able to keep the tip of her blade up. Pity Pelkaia hadn’t trusted her health enough to take Thratia in a fair fight. She’d like to draw this out, hear what Thratia had to say for herself. But ultimately, none of that mattered. Never had.

Pelkaia slit Thratia’s throat. Left her bleeding her last in her own bed. Put the servant’s face back on, and waltzed out like she’d never been there.

There’d be chaos in the morning, sure. A city without its dictator would be lost for awhile. But Detan knew what was coming, had sent urgent messages ahead of her to sympathetic contacts in Aransa so that they’d be prepared. Some man named Banch Thent.

Didn’t matter to Pelkaia. All that mattered now was the second thing she had to do, wanted to do.

Pelkaia walked the Black.