“Go back ten years. Did you think it was possible to shoot lightning out of your hand using a piece of Ghost Moth spinal tissue?”
“No. But that doesn’t help me down here, in the hold of this ship, surrounded by metal gears and bones, trying to figure out how that ship got built.”
Ashlyn blew out a breath. Put a hand on her bandaged arm. Winced.
“How does it feel?” he asked, trying to bring her down from the rafters of her own head.
Ashlyn turned away from the pile of metal and dragon bones, then unwrapped the bandage. The thread was dug into her flesh like the roots of a thousand-year-old Daintree gripping deep into the earth. The skin around the blackened thread was red and blistered, but the rest seemed pink and healthy.
“Like I have a foreign object fused to my bone,” she said, digging a fingernail into her skin at the seam where the thread met flesh, which drew a little blood. She wiped the blood along a blackened edge of the thread and flexed her hand a few times. Nothing happened. “There’s no way to get this off my arm. But there’s also no more lightning.”
“So my blood broke it?” Bershad asked, pouring her a cup of chilled rice wine and handing it to her.
“Not broken. Altered.” Ashlyn studied her wrist. “The thread doesn’t produce lightning anymore, but I can still feel its energy rooted deep against my bones. A warmth. Which makes sense.”
“How does that make sense?”
“The threads exist in Ghost Moths to heat their blood. That’s why they can roost in the northern reaches of Terra during the winter. Nagas manage it, too, but they burrow into the earth where it’s warmer and hibernate. Their blood turns to jelly while they sleep.”
She paused. Traced one of the sawtooth scars that followed the blood vessels of her forearm. Near the place where it intersected with the thread, the blue scar tissue had turned black.
“If this had happened two days ago, I’d have been relieved. The things I did in Floodhaven … thousands of people murdered in moments. And killing that Red Skull. Even if it saved our lives, nobody should have that much power. But now, with those flying ships out there? I need the thread more than ever, and I don’t have it.”
They both went quiet. Above them, the dragon caught a gust of cold, rough wind and struggled to rise above it. Her sudden jerk tugged at Bershad’s stomach lining. Made him wince.
“You all right?” Ashlyn asked.
“It’s not me. It’s the Nomad.” He motioned to the ceiling. “Windy up there. She’s working hard to stay on us, but she won’t quit.”
Ashlyn narrowed her eyes. “Look. I was going to entertain your tendency toward deception for a while, because getting information out of you that you don’t want to share is like pulling teeth from a goat. But I need to know everything that Osyrus told you in that dungeon, and I need to know right now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s all connected. Your blood preserves dragon bones. We were just attacked by a flying ship made from more preserved dragon bones than anyone’s ever seen before. And Osyrus Ward is somehow at the center of it all. I need to know what he knows. Help me.”
Bershad hesitated. Being followed by a Gray-Winged Nomad had barely loosened his grip on the dream of finishing out his life with Ashlyn on some remote, peaceful island. But this was different. If there were more skyships—and Osyrus Ward controlled them—his quiet plans were properly fucked.
“Like I said, the old man was light on specifics.”
“Be unspecific, then.”
Bershad took a sip of rice wine. “Osyrus called me a paradox. The creator and destroyer of dragons.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe I’d turn into one eventually.”
“No, that’s wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“Because dragons are reptiles. They mate, they lay eggs, they hatch, and the cycle continues. There’s no room for some obscure human transmogrification. It’s not how nature works.”
“You asked for information, then shit on the kind I provide.”
“I want to know what Osyrus said. What else?”
Bershad tightened his jaw. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“All the same, I need to know.”
Bershad sighed. “He told me that the same power that’s kept me alive all these years is eventually going to kill me. I don’t know how. Just that it’s painful and inevitable and you don’t want to be nearby when it happens.”
Ashlyn blinked. Looked away. Cleared her throat. “What else?” she asked, voice strained.
“Nothing helpful. After that, he mostly just hacked off body parts and took notes.”
“That is helpful, though. Your body’s reaction to pain plays some part in all this.”
“Yeah. It’s gonna kill me someday.”
“Oh. Silas.”
She stepped toward him.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “The day you go soft and emotional is the day I know I’m truly fucked.”
“You’re not fucked.”
“How do you know? You don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Because back in Almira, when I was first working with the thread, I used to feel like a little girl in a tide pool who was pretending she understood the ocean. I felt overmatched. But not anymore. I may not understand every system in this world, but I’ve learned how to pluck out their secrets, one strand at a time.” She paused. “I’m going to find a way to help you, Silas. I promise.”
Bershad’s instinct was to say it didn’t matter. He was ready to go down the river whenever the current came for him. That was how he’d carried his first death sentence for all those years. But the truth was, now that he was back with her, his interest in catching a few more seasons in the realm of Terra was gaining momentum. So instead, he kissed her—long and soft, tasting rice wine and seawater on her breath.
“I believe you, Ashe.” And he really did. Bershad ran his hands down her shoulders and settled on her hips. “But I’m thinking before we deal with my corrupted blood and black fate, we’re gonna need to deal with those flying ships.”
She stopped his hands from drifting any lower.
“Like I said. They’re all connected.”
4
VERA
Balaria, Burz-al-dun, Imperial Palace
“Ganon, are you alive?” Kira called pleasantly.
By a way of response, the emperor of Balaria retched into his porcelain toilet for the third time that morning.
“I think he needs a few more minutes,” Kira said, moving away from the privy door and returning to her cushioned chair by the window. She stirred her cup of tea with a small spoon made from dragon bone. Took a sip. Then she returned to reading the stack of papers in front of her.
Vera scanned the doors and alcoves of the royal chamber while they waited. She timed her shifting gaze by the pulsing clock on the inside of her wrist. In general, Vera did not care for the myriad of Balarian inventions that filled the city. Most of them brought noise and steam and the smell of burned dragon oil. But the synchronized bracer clocks of the military were useful tools—allowing hundreds of soldiers to stay in harmony across the city, and the empire.
The only problem was the ticking noise, which Vera could not abide. Far too easy to give away your position by accident. But when she complained about it to Osyrus Ward, he had returned a week later with a custom-made clock that was completely silent, and marked the passing time with a gentle pulse against her skin.
Vera had been trained never to rely on a specific tool to perform her duties, but she had to admit this one was helpful.
“Do you ever stop looking for trouble?” Kira asked, turning a page.
“No, Empress.”
“But it’s just us in here.”
“You think that it’s just us,” Vera said. “You are not certain.”
She adjusted the sword on her back slightly. Bershad’s old blade. It was an impractical weapon for the narrow hallways and confined rooms of the palace,
but Vera had found she liked the sword more than her pulsing bracer. The Papyrian design reminded her of home.
Plus, she still had her daggers—Owaru and Kaisha—for work in confined spaces.
Ganon retched one more time, cursed, spat, then yanked down on the mechanical pulley that flushed the toilet. He exited the privy a moment later.
The emperor’s eyes were bloodshot. His skin was pale and clammy. His hair was mussed up and wet with cold sweat. Despite his hangover and retching, there was no denying that Ganon Domitian was an uncommonly attractive man. His aquiline nose and pale eyes carried a graceful symmetry that made an average man’s face seem deformed by comparison.
But Vera’s first few months in Balaria had quickly taught her that for all the raw, exterior beauty the man possessed, the character beneath his skin left a great deal to be desired.
“I’m going back to sleep,” he said, heading to the massive bed in the middle of the room and wrapping himself in the thick blankets.
“But the war council is starting shortly,” Kira protested. “There’s news of the armada’s foreign operations.”
“There will be another war council next week. There’s always another council. Bloody things are as reliable as Aeternita yanking the sun and moon across the sky each day.”
Kira took another sip of tea. Pressed her lips together as she swallowed.
“This one is rather important, Ganon. I was hoping to send you with several inquiries.”
Kira had matched Ganon drink for drink the night before—even goaded him forward on the last few—but unlike her husband, Kira’s face was fresh and her eyes were clear. Kira never required more than a few hours of sleep and a cup of hot tea to recover from a night of revelry. She had woken at dawn and spent three hours reading through the stack of pages that had been delivered along with her breakfast.
“No more inquiries. Leave that crap to Actus. That’s what I appointed him for.” Ganon cracked open a bloodshot eye. His lips spread into a lecherous grin. “You should come back to bed. You know how I get when I’m hungover.”
“I do,” Kira said. “You get selfish and lazy and I don’t get anything.”
His smile disappeared.
“Shall I attend the council in your place?” Kira offered.
Ganon hesitated. Kira had been sending her husband to government meetings with lists of questions and issues for weeks—she was trying to get a feel for the movements of the bureaucracy. He typically returned with nonexistent or—at best—incomplete answers, but Kira had never pushed him. And she had never asked to attend a meeting until today.
“Actus won’t like it,” Ganon said.
“Actus Thorn works for you, not the other way around.” She stood. “Speaking of him, I don’t understand why you gave the man so much power in the first place. You could remove him and we could—”
“Bother me again with removing Thorn, and I will throw you into the sewers.”
Kira’s back straightened at that threat, but otherwise her frustration was invisible.
“Noted, my dear husband. But there is still the matter of the council meeting.”
Ganon sighed. Burrowed further into the bed.
Kira crossed her arms. “Well?”
“Fine. Go play empress. Just don’t fuck about, yeah?” He paused. “And tell a servant to bring me a tonic on your way out. Something with ginger.” He paused again. “And juniper liquor.”
* * *
“Will you quit it with the shadow routine?” Kira said to Vera as they made their way around the palace. “Walk next to me like a normal person.”
“I am not a normal person,” Vera said. “I am your widow.”
“In the great and rich history of your order, has any widow besides you been to Burz-al-dun?”
“No.”
“And has any half-Almiran, half-Papyrian princess ever married a Balarian emperor?”
“No.”
“Well, seeing as we are both pioneers of our stations, I think we can afford to break the molds of tradition a bit when it comes to traversing hallways.”
Vera begrudgingly matched pace with her charge. They passed a gangly engineer with ink stains on his fingertips. An assistant rushing along behind him with a bundle of papers in his arms. A group of lavishly dressed ministers muttering in low voices from an alcove. Then two Horellian guards—the elite sentries of Balaria—running their endless patrol around the palace rim. Both carried a spear and sword, and both gave her a disapproving glare as they passed. Nobody likes competition.
“You do not hide your disdain for Ganon very well,” Kira said after a while.
“That is the third time this week he’s been too hungover to get out of bed.”
“You think I made a poor choice in husband?”
“I think you deserve a lover with self-control.”
“Self-control is boring. And Ganon can be such a delight when he’s feeling good. I’ve never met someone who can make me laugh like he does.”
Vera didn’t say anything, but she also didn’t think a good sense of humor outweighed Ganon’s numerous and glaring character flaws.
“Anyway, look on the bright side,” Kira continued. “If Ganon was a stern and responsible emperor like his older brother was, you and I would not be on our way to the war council right now. It’s exciting.”
“Speaking of the meeting, what was in those pages you were reading all morning?” Vera asked. Kira had a sharp mind, but she rarely used it to consult ledgers and reports. She was far more interested in palace gossip and intrigue.
“Oh, nothing that interesting. Ration and food distribution lists from the Ministry of Agriculture. I had to flirt with some junior minister for almost an hour last night to get them brought up. Those skinny-armed bureaucrats keep an awfully tight guard on their papers. Such a hassle.”
“Then why bother with it?”
“You’ll see,” Kira said, flashing a devious smile.
“Be careful around Actus Thorn,” Vera warned. “Ganon has given him an immense amount of authority by making him Prime Magnate.”
“Have you ever known me to be reckless in front of powerful men?” Kira asked.
Vera couldn’t help but smile. “Never, Empress.”
“Don’t worry, I will be the pinnacle of propriety.” She paused. Her face twitching with the suppressed happiness that Vera knew from experience generally coincided with the birth of a devious scheme. “But I would like to put them on their back foot a bit. Nothing too drastic. An aggressive entrance from my infamous widow should do the trick. Are you up for that, do you think?”
“Is that really necessary?”
“The more frightening you appear, the less threatening I need to be.”
Vera sighed. There was some logic to that notion.
“Very well, Empress. Aggressive entrance it is.”
* * *
Vera burst through the door of the council chamber with a purpose, making the five Horellian guards that ringed the big table move hands to blades. There were four men sitting at the table: Prime Magnate Thorn, War Minister Lox, Agriculture Minister Cornelius, and Osyrus Ward, the enigmatic royal engineer who had built the Balarian armada of skyships.
Actus Thorn glared at Vera, jaw and fists tightening. His thick limbs and chest had never lost the meaty strength of an infantryman, despite his rise to the highest rank in the Balarian army, followed by the highest rank in the empire’s government.
Vera scanned the room with a careful eye. She didn’t like the high number of Horellian guards, but Actus always traveled with a large amount of protection. Nothing to do but watch them carefully.
“Prime Magnate Thorn. Ministers. Empress Kira Domitian has arrived.”
Vera moved one pace to the right so that Kira could enter the room. As soon as Kira passed her, Vera followed—two paces behind and one to the right. Widows were trained to stay to the left of their charge because most swordsmen were right-handed, and she could better intercept an at
tack from that angle. But Vera knew for a fact that Actus Thorn—the closest, and most dangerous, man in the room—was left-handed.
“You’ll have to excuse Vera, she takes my protection very seriously,” said Kira, taking the empty seat that was meant for her husband. “What have I missed?”
Minister Cornelius cleared his throat. “Empress Domitian, forgive me. But I believe your husband was—”
“Ganon is too hungover to join us today. I have come in his place. And even if I hadn’t, it does not appear that you were waiting for him, anyway.” Kira smiled. “So, please. Continue.”
War Minister Lox gave Actus a glance, asking for permission. The prime magnate begrudgingly motioned for him to proceed.
“We were just reviewing the combat report of the skyship armada’s first engagement with the Almiran navy.”
“Good. I am eager to hear the results.”
“The operation was a great success,” War Minister Lox said, beaming with pride. “Linkon Pommol was using the fleet that he stole from your sister to patrol the eastern coast of Almira. The skyships flew the coastline and turned every ship they encountered to cinders. The longbowmen in particular were valuable—the range of their explosive arrows was simply a marvel. Even the swiftest of ships was unable to escape.”
“I see. Any Balarian casualties?”
“One skyship failed to return,” Lox admitted. “But it was the vessel we sent to the Broken Peninsula, where the weather becomes dicey. We believe they hit an early-autumn storm and, unfortunately, crashed. The skyships are powerful, but vulnerable to atmospheric conditions. Still, to have lost only one skyship out of thirty, whilst in return the entire Almiran navy was annihilated. Well, Empress, this is a truly unprecedented victory.”
“It was also an unprecedented expense,” Actus Thorn added, face grim. He turned to Osyrus Ward, who had been looking out the window, watching the Kor Cog churning its slow and relentless circle through the heart of the Imperial Palace. “Ward, can’t you curb the amount of dragon oil the skyships require? They burn through it like starving pigs chewing through slop.”
Sorcery of a Queen Page 4
