Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  Ramson’s smile returned, sharper than his blade. “Igor, I need two horses for the road.”

  “Of course, of course.” Igor looked tremendously relieved. “I have two mares I can lend you.”

  “Good.” Ramson was about to stand when he remembered something. “One more thing.” He slapped a piece of paper on the oakwood table. With a clunk, he set his empty tumbler on one corner of the scroll and ran his palm over the folds, revealing the sketch of the bald alchemist with the thin nose and wide gray eyes. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

  Igor froze. “Is this a joke?”

  “It would be a poor joke to make. Enlighten me.”

  Igor jabbed a finger at the sketch, looking up at Ramson, his face twisted in disbelief. “That’s Pyetr Tetsyev.”

  Ramson had to stare at Igor for a full five seconds to determine whether the bartender was lying. But the man’s expression mirrored Ramson’s disbelief.

  Igor was many terrible things, but he was not a great liar. He was simply too much of a coward. Apply enough pressure at the right spot and he’d crack.

  “Looks exactly like him,” Igor babbled, frowning at the sketch. “I’ll never forget the night he showed up at my door. Drenched in rain, he was, but he came straight to me. Odd sort of fellow. Said he worked at the Palace and showed me some papers. Asked me your name and where you were.” He paused, seeming to realize that he was incriminating himself again, and hurriedly changed the subject. “It’s a good sketch.”

  Questions burst in Ramson’s head like stars, but he focused on a single thought: he and the flesh Affinite had the same enemy.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  The day was turning out to be an excellent one indeed. Everything he had planned for—his traitor, the alchemist, and his ultimate trade of the witch with Kerlan—culminated in Novo Mynsk. Two birds with one stone was a good deal, but three birds with one stone was the type of deal that set a genuine smile on Ramson Quicktongue’s face. “Igor, old friend. You’ve given me nothing but good news today.”

  Igor’s relief was palpable as he exhaled, the lines of tension melting from his shoulders. “Thank the Deities, Quicktongue. I thought you were going to do me in for…for what my big mouth let on…”

  “Consider your debts paid.” Ramson stood and stretched. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

  Igor gave a shaky chortle. He glanced at the door again. “A toast, then,” he said, standing and handing Ramson one of the two mugs he had brought up. “To paid debts and fair trades.”

  “Such generosity today, Igor. Usually I’m hard-pressed to get even one tankard of cheap ale from you.” Ramson raised his polished brass mug. “To honest words and honest men.” He brought his drink to his lips and inhaled the scent of the Cyrilian sunwine.

  Igor had drained half of his in a single gulp. His eyes flickered toward Ramson over the rim of his goblet.

  Ramson exhaled deeply. Slowly, counting his heartbeats, he lowered his cup, the smile still pasted on his face. “I’m truly honored that you chose to toast me with Myrkoff sunwine, old friend.” He paused, listing his head. “And I truly believe that the Myrkoff would have tasted better without the poison you’ve laced it with.”

  Clang.

  Igor’s cup rolled on the ground, sunwine spilling onto the polished floorboards. The bartender darted behind his settee, face drawn and lips tight. Ramson backed into the other end of the room. He still held his cup in one hand; in another, he palmed his dagger.

  “I forgot how good you are with your alcohol,” the barman snarled.

  “And I forgot how good you are with your façade of stupidity. I might have fallen for it.” He almost had. “Who’re you expecting, Igor?”

  “Even if you kill me, you’ll never make it out of here.” The barman was eyeing Ramson’s dagger. “Kerlan set the price for your head as soon as he heard of your escape. I sent my page boy to the bounty hunters the second you walked in. I only had to entertain you while they got here.”

  Of course word of his jailbreak had reached Kerlan. Ramson wouldn’t be surprised if the crime lord had a few of the Ghost Falls guards in his pocket.

  Ramson tilted his head. Flames of rage flickered inside him. But he harnessed those flames and honed them into a weapon. Just as Kerlan had taught him. “I might kill you for the fun of it. Watch you squirm as I gut you like a squealing pig.”

  The blood drained from Igor’s face. Without warning, he let out a yell. “He’s escaping!”

  Ramson turned, reaching for the lock on the door to bolt them inside—a moment too late.

  The door to the Reservation Room burst open. Two mercenaries hurled in, charging at Ramson, swords drawn.

  Ramson flung his brass cup at the first man with all his strength. With a satisfying crack, it smashed his temple. The mercenary cried out and staggered back, buying Ramson the precious seconds he needed.

  He leapt through the air and lashed out. His dagger plunged through the mercenary’s chest in a sickening crunch of sinew and flesh. In the same motion, he seized the sword from the man’s loose grip and turned to parry the second bounty hunter’s attack.

  Metal sang as their blades clashed. Ramson grunted and flung himself out of the way as a third mercenary appeared at the door. Ramson turned to face the man squarely, sword in hand, assessing the newcomer’s build, his clothing, and his weapon.

  Yet no amount of fighting prowess would have prepared him for what came next. Pain exploded on the nape of his neck, shooting through his nerves and limbs and down to his fingers. Stars burst in his eyes as he crumpled to the floor.

  “All yours, boys.” Igor’s breathing was ragged as he set aside his brass tumbler. “That’ll be an extra charge for the help I gave you there at the end. Put in a good word to Lord Kerlan for me.”

  Ramson fought for consciousness, but the darkness at the edges of his vision was closing in. He was dimly aware of a gag being shoved into his mouth and felt the sting of ropes tightening against his wrists. As the darkness rose to claim him, he realized that Igor had outschemed him, and that when a deal seemed too good to be true, it most likely was.

  As a small child, Ana had stood by Papa’s side on the snow-covered streets of Salskoff, looking up at the Cyrilian Imperial Patrols with awe. She’d admired the way their blackstone-infused armor glittered in the sunlight and their pure white cloaks flapped against the brilliant blue sky. Even their horses had been a sight to behold: the tall valkryfs of the north, eyes the blue of ice, bred for speed and endurance and prized for their rare ability to scale snowy mountains using their split-toed hooves. She’d learned horsemanship on the backs of these creatures, and she’d dreamt of the day she would have an army of valkryfs and their masters under her command.

  Imperial Patrols—heroic, majestic, and honorable.

  She stared up at them now, standing in the wreckage of the pastry stall, their dark figures looming over her. Gone were their noble gazes and benevolent words. The kapitan, his white tiger’s badge gleaming on his chest, snarled down, his weathered skin wrinkling like leather. Two others in his squad flanked a large blackstone-enforced prison wagon, a dozen or so paces behind.

  A third man followed the kapitan like a shadow. Unlike the cloaks of the Patrols, his tunic and cloak were black, lined with gold; his hair was bleached like wheat left too long in the sun, his eyes the ice of glaciers in the Silent Sea of the North. There was something hard about his expression that made Ana clutch May’s hand tighter.

  “What is the disturbance?” demanded the kapitan. His cold eyes raked past Ana and May, lingered on the pastry vendor, and settled at last on the nobleman. “Mesyr?”

  Ana took one slow step backward, and then another, May’s hand tight in hers. If she inched back far enough, she would blend into the crowd of onlookers. There was a stall of kechyans seve
ral steps to her right that she could duck behind. The Whitecloaks would never find her. Not unless they had a yaeger—which was exceedingly rare.

  “A-Affinite,” wheezed the nobleman, who had pushed himself to his feet and was shakily brushing wooden splinters off his fine furs. “Filthy witches!”

  Three, four steps. The kechyan stall was within reach—

  “Where are you going?”

  Ana’s blood turned to ice. The kapitan’s eyes, as emotionless as his voice, gazed straight at her.

  “Stay where you are,” he continued. “This is a routine check.”

  By her side, May was shaking, sucking in fast, shallow breaths.

  Slowly, deliberately, the kapitan held out a black-gloved hand to the pastry vendor. “Your employment and identification papers.”

  “Ana.” May was beginning to hyperventilate, her words rushing out quickly, unevenly. “We gotta go—they’re bad men—”

  Cold sweat slicked the nape of her neck as Ana watched the pastry vendor fumble for scrolls in her tunic and then hold them out.

  “A grain Affinite,” the kapitan remarked with disinterest. He ran a cursory glance over the scrolls before tossing them to the ground.

  “Ana,” May pleaded. She was shrinking back, her eyes wide, her face drained of blood. “We don’t have papers—”

  Dread sank in Ana’s stomach as the kapitan turned his lifeless gaze to her and May. She found herself rooted to the spot, her mind blank with fear and scattering any rational thoughts she might have had.

  The kapitan’s black gloves extended toward them. “Your employment or identification papers.”

  No, a part of Ana’s brain screamed. No, no, no, no, no—

  She cut herself off, drawing in a deep breath to steady her heartbeat. These were Imperial Patrols—defenders of the law, watchers of her empire. They could not mean harm.

  Yet…she had never known them to check for employment and identification papers.

  Sucking in another gulp of air, Ana fought to keep her voice level as she replied, “We don’t have papers.”

  The kapitan’s eyes narrowed, and he cut a glance to the blackstone wagon. It wasn’t until then that Ana noticed the feeling of being watched, the hairs on her arms and neck prickling.

  One of the Patrols gazed at her from beside the prison wagon. Clad in the same whites as his kapitan, he stood in the shadows, his eyes as piercing as daggers. A strange sensation crept through her: a subtle tugging, as though someone were pulling at invisible bonds in the same way she called on others’ blood.

  Yaeger, her senses screamed at her. He’s a yaeger.

  A hunter, in Old Cyrilian: a type of Affinite with the power to sense and control other Affinities. Kapitan Markov had told her these were recognized as the most powerful and rarest of Affinites, often scouted by Imperial Patrols to keep peace between Affinites and non-Affinites.

  The yaeger’s gaze sliced to his kapitan and the strange man dressed in black; he gave a curt nod.

  The kapitan turned back to Ana. “It is unlawful for anyone to be found without proper identification documents—especially Affinites. We’ll need to take you in for questioning. Our contractor can explain this to you.” He cast a nod at the black-cloaked man.

  “No.” The sob was barely a breath from May’s lips, loud enough for only Ana to hear. “Don’t listen to them, Ana. He’s a bad man. A broker.”

  A broker. Ana stared, her mind careening. The Whitecloaks, specifically, were meant to find and stop the brokers.

  How had two figures on opposing sides of the law ended up working together?

  Who do you think pays them more? The Empire? Or the profitable businesses that rely on them to employ Affinites? Ramson had asked.

  It suddenly all clicked with the weight of a broken world: the picture she had been searching for in the dark, now blindingly bright.

  Ana staggered back.

  This was wrong—this was all wrong. The bad men were the Affinite traffickers and brokers that her mamika Morganya had described to her as crooked storybook villains. Not the Imperial soldiers who served her father and brother, who pledged to protect the Empire.

  What kind of an empire had her father ruled?

  “We are not—” Her voice shook, and whatever denial she’d been about to voice dissipated on her lips. The pastry vendor had retreated to her now-appeased employer’s side, her eyes downcast, her face in the shadows, the employment contract trembling in her hands.

  I am Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov, Ana wanted to scream, tears burning her eyes. I am the Crown Princess of Cyrilia.

  Yet the tricky thing about truth, Ana realized, standing beneath the shadow of the Imperial Patrols with empty hands and a threadbare cloak, was that it meant nothing if it couldn’t be proven.

  And it struck her, in this very moment, that there was nothing at all different between her and the grain Affinite.

  Dimly, she heard the kapitan issuing orders to the rest of his squad. “Prepare for lawful arrest by force should the subjects not comply.”

  The yaeger moved forward.

  May screamed.

  And Ana snapped.

  She scooped May into her arms, swallowing a scream as she barreled through the crowd. She could sense the Whitecloaks behind them, the yaeger’s control on her Affinity flowing and ebbing like waves. With his manipulation, her awareness of the blood around her flickered, throwing off her sense of balance. He was gaining on them—fast. And May was heavy.

  She made a split-second decision. Ana set May down on the ground and gave the girl a hard push. May staggered. “Run,” Ana ordered. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “No!” May screamed. “Ana—”

  At that moment, the yaeger’s control over her slipped. Her Affinity flared; she used that moment to latch on to May’s blood. I love you, Ana meant to say, but she only managed, “I’m sorry.”

  She seized the blood in May’s small body and flung the child as far back as she could.

  Ana turned to face the yaeger. She was shaking, desperately grasping at her Affinity as it slid in and out of her command. The crowd around her parted in panic as the yaeger advanced on her. He’d slowed to a walk, his footsteps falling on the cobblestones like the beat of an execution drum.

  Panic whitened her mind as she continued to back away.

  Stop. She wanted to plead. I am your princess. I am the Princess of Cyrilia.

  But being Princess had only meant a crown on her head and the walls of a palace to protect her from this fate.

  The fate of being born an Affinite.

  The yaeger was barely a dozen steps away now. She could see the chiseled lines of his face, the hard edges of his muscles like cut marble, trained to be lethal. His Affinity clamped over hers like an indomitable mental wall, and her Affinity vanished.

  Still, Ana raised a trembling hand—

  The ground exploded. The yaeger’s face barely registered surprise before he was thrown backward, skidding across the street, cobblestones tumbling around him. A crack had split the road between Ana and the yaeger. Her confusion was mirrored on his face as they stared at the rocks and dirt that seeped out from the fissure, rising slowly into the air.

  From a row of stalls behind them, a small figure stepped into the middle of the street.

  May’s fists were clenched, her brow furrowed in concentration. In the dead silence, her voice rang out sharp and clear across the street: “You will not hurt her.”

  She tilted her head. Without warning, the suspended rocks shot toward the yaeger. He grunted as a dozen fist-sized rocks slammed into him, pounding him backward.

  His hold on Ana’s Affinity wavered.

  Ana acted. She smashed her Affinity down on the yaeger’s bonds, seized him, and hurled him farther down the cobbled streets, away from May, a
way from any possibility of even reaching May. He’d have to kill Ana first.

  She felt a flash of triumph as he slammed onto the ground and lay there, motionless.

  She didn’t see the other Whitecloak until it was too late.

  A shadow fell between the stalls behind May: a Whitecloak with a bow and arrow, aimed and ready.

  Ana was already screaming, and even as she tore toward May, a part of her was telling herself that this was not real, not real, not real. Time seemed to slow as she ran with all the strength her body would give.

  The arrow shot forward. May staggered. And then, slowly, she fell, soft and graceful as an autumn leaf.

  Time had stopped. Ana was in one of those dreams where, no matter how hard she tried to run, she was moving too slowly.

  Twelve paces.

  Not. Enough.

  From the shadows of the stalls, the black-cloaked broker emerged, the gold lining of his collar glinting in the setting sun as he bent down. May’s head lolled like a rag doll’s in his arms as he turned and sprinted for the prison wagon.

  Fury exploded in Ana. “No!” she screamed, raising a hand and summoning her Affinity.

  But there was nothing. Instead, she found that unfamiliar wall against her power again, unyielding and absolute.

  Several paces from her, the yaeger pushed himself to his knees. Mud and blood ruined his perfect white cloak; already, bruises were beginning to blossom on his exposed skin. But Ana felt no satisfaction, only blind fury, as he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. Her steps slowed.

  A distance behind him, the broker had almost reached the wagon. May’s limp form was slung across his shoulders, and Ana could make out the shine of her hair.

  She glanced at the yaeger. Glanced back at May’s disappearing head. And put a burst of speed into her steps.

  The yaeger shot forward. His fingers latched on to her ankles and yanked. Ana flung her hands out, catching herself before she slammed into the cobblestones.

  She twisted, spitting hair from her mouth and grappling for purchase on the ground. “Let me go!” she screamed, kicking at the yaeger, but his grip was steel against her legs.