Ana was dimly aware that the fighting had stopped, that the guards’ bodies littered the corridor before them. Several people had fanned out around her, watching her. Warm hands grasped her shoulders. A familiar voice called her name.
A hand cupped her cheek, lifting her chin. She found herself looking into Ramson’s eyes. The usual mirth had disappeared from them, leaving them a somber hazel. Gently, he brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering by her cheek. She could almost read his thoughts in the gesture. I’m sorry. The words trembled in the air between them.
“Ana.” Yuri’s voice was hollow. “I’m sorry.”
Ramson whirled and slammed Yuri against the wall. “You,” Ramson snarled, “have no right to be sorry.”
Yuri choked, his hands flying to Ramson’s wrist, but Ramson didn’t let go, and Yuri didn’t resist.
“If you hadn’t tried your little stunt, this would never have happened. You think a revolution is a game? You think making a big show in Kerlan’s backyard counts as impressive?” Ramson wrenched his hand free; Yuri staggered, rubbing his throat. “This isn’t a revolution. This is a massacre. And it’s about to get worse if we don’t get out of here right now.”
Ana barely registered the words; they were beyond her. Something had been torn from inside her, left a gaping wound in her that was raw and bleeding and numb. She was one step from the abyss, just as she had been almost a year ago. “Ramson,” she said.
Ramson started, and backed away from Yuri.
All around Ana, watching with expressions ranging from sorrow to fear, were Affinites. They ranged from children to grown men and women, from all over the world. They wore an assortment of glitzy, gaudy outfits still fresh from the night’s performances. She counted nine of them.
Nine Affinites. Nine lives in exchange for May’s. Was it worth it? How did one balance the significance of a life against another? Was there even a way to measure?
You don’t, Ana thought, placing a hand on May’s cheek. It was still warm.
Papa had once told her, after Mama’s death, that there were two types of grief. One was the type that crushed you, that broke your soul and shattered your heart, and left you an empty shell. The other was a grief that made you stronger. You rose from it, you sharpened it, and you carried it with you as a piece of your armor. And you made yourself better.
In that way, you never truly lost that person. You carried them with you.
Ana closed her eyes and burrowed her face in the crook of May’s neck. Tears slipped down her cheeks, sinking into May’s hair.
Promise me, Ana, you’ll make it better. For my ma-ma. For all the Affinites.
Ana drew another deep breath. The urgency to act, to move, sparked in her a smallest light in the dark. For the first time, she focused on the faces of the Affinites all around her, watching her silently. Waiting.
She pushed herself to her feet, cradling May’s body against her chest. Ana searched the chamber and met Yuri’s eyes; he looked down, guilt stamped onto his face as clearly as if it had been branded by a hot iron. “We need to take the tunnels out,” Ana said.
“Dyanna taught us to navigate the tunnels,” Yuri said, the sadness almost swallowing his voice. “She’s been working with the brokers for years, preparing for this moment. We have a safe house just outside of town.”
“Then we need to get moving and get to that safe house,” Ramson cut in. “You just took out an entire squad of guards; it should be a while before the reinforcements come. If we’re fast, we might not encounter any at all.”
Yuri narrowed his eyes. “Who appointed you as leader?”
“You and your incompetence,” Ramson snapped without missing a beat. “What, exactly, were you planning to do after you smashed the stage and set every guard in the area after you? Sit here and recite poetry?”
“Stop,” Ana said, sharply enough for both men to turn and look at her. She drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to clear her head. May’s body was light in her arms; like this, with her eyes closed, she might have simply been asleep after a long day.
Focus, she told herself. She would not let May down. Ana turned to Yuri. “Ramson and I had planned to take the tunnels out of this place. It sounds like we are aligned.”
Yuri nodded. “It’s a maze down here, which can work to our advantage since any reinforcements will be spread pretty thin.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Ramson pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, hand on his injured side. The bleeding had stopped, Ana sensed.
Yuri turned to the silent Affinites who waited near the wall. “Redcloaks,” he said, and his voice was grave and steady. “Our time has come. Anyone who tries to prevent us from reaching our freedom is the enemy. Don’t hesitate to take them down.” He paused, his eyes blazing. “And I swear on my Deities and whatever gods or faith you take that I will protect all of you with my life.”
It was like setting a spark to kindling. An invisible breeze seemed to stir through the Affinites, drawing them to stand taller, replacing the fear in their faces with determination.
Yuri snapped his fingers and fires sparked to life in his palms, brighter than the light of any globefire. They threw flickering shadows on the stone walls, the blood and bodies on the floor cast in monochrome. “This way,” he muttered, and Ana, Ramson, and the Affinites followed.
They walked in silence but for the sound of their heels clacking against the floors and their ragged breaths. Ramson stayed close to Ana, casting her sidelong glances. She kept her gaze straight, on Yuri’s flame-red hair, trying not to think of May’s weight in her arms.
Gradually, the stone floors grew coarse and slippery with moss, the tunnels branching out like roots of a tree and growing narrower and narrower until they had to walk single file. Several times, Ana was seized by the sudden fear that they were lost, that they would never make it out of these tunnels, that they would die trapped in an Affinite broker’s maze. She kept her Affinity extended, searching for signs of warm, coursing blood approaching.
After what seemed like hours, the air changed. It grew cooler; a far-off breeze stirred the flames on Yuri’s palm and kissed Ana’s cheeks. Gradually, the darkness eased around them and distant light appeared, and soon they approached a broken door, swinging off its hinges.
Yuri held it open and waited as, one by one, the Affinites took their first, tentative steps into freedom.
The stars shone a cold white light on them as they stole through the town like shadows, following Yuri through dark alleyways. The streets grew emptier, the cobblestones rougher until they faded to dust; closely intertwined red-roofed dachas turning to simple cottages with clay walls.
The Syvern Taiga loomed, a jagged wall of trees. At the edge of the forest was a single cottage, lights flaring stubbornly from its windows. As they drew closer to it, Ana could make out a wooden sign hanging on the door, declaring in lavish cursive: Shamaïra’s Shop of Spiritualism.
The group stopped at the dacha’s steps, shivering, their breathing ragged. Yuri stepped up and rapped.
The door swung open at the first knock. Arms aching from exertion, Ana stumbled inside after the other Affinites.
Warmth enveloped her. A fire crackled in a hearth behind a slanted wooden table, and the air was heavy with the smell of incense and aromatic spices. Her first impression was that the dacha was tidy, with a distinct décor that was like nothing she’d ever seen. Bookcases lined the walls, chock-full of tomes with golden inscriptions in an elegant, curling language. A giant rug sprawled in the center of the room, intricately patterned with birds and roses hewn in rich reds and deep golds. Cushioned settees surrounded it, and atop a low coffee table in the center rested a large silver samovar.
Yuri removed his shoes and stepped into the parlor.
Ana wanted nothing more than to collapse on one
of those settees and wake up to May’s bright blue eyes.
“Speak and be recognized by the Mother of All Knowledge, you mortals,” a low voice boomed, startling Ana.
“Shamaïra, it’s me,” Yuri called.
There was a strange shuffling sound, and from behind a heavy brocade curtain emerged a middle-aged woman. Her eyes were outlined in black kohl against her rich olive skin, and she wore a silken shawl over her head, draped loosely over her shoulders. It was her bold cheekbones and fierce eyes that drew Ana’s attention. She was beautiful; a diminutive lioness.
“Oh, it’s just you,” the woman growled in the raspy voice of a pipe smoker. She paused as her gaze settled on the rest of the group. Her expression shifted and she broke into a smile as fiery as the sun. “Welcome.”
“Not tonight, Shamaïra,” Yuri said wearily, and tilted his head toward Ana.
Shamaïra’s eyes softened. “Oh,” was all she said as she strode over and placed a hand on May. Ana tensed—but the woman’s touch was gentle. Her eyes found Ana’s, and there was such a profound sadness in them that Ana felt the blank, unfeeling wall she had put up beginning to crack.
“A Chi’gon Affinite,” Shamaïra murmured. “We shall return her soul. Could I?”
Ana tightened her grip on May. She felt as though, if she just held on for a bit longer, she could delay the terrifying reality that awaited her. The reality of a world without her friend.
“She is passed, my child,” Shamaïra said softly. “And we must return her to her gods and her loved ones. It does not do for the dead to dwell in this world.”
This time Ana let Shamaïra lift May from her arms, as carefully as one would hold a newborn. May’s head lolled against Shamaïra’s shoulder, and Ana remembered the times she had carried May after a long day of travel. She hadn’t minded the weight back then.
Now that was all Ana had left: memories, and the ghost of May’s weight in her empty arms.
Shamaïra’s dacha had a garden covered in overgrown vines and potted plants of every species imaginable, some of which Ana hadn’t come across even in her studies at the Palace. She pushed past the ferns, venturing deeper into the silence. The scent of fresh, overturned mud and melted snow and the mysterious fragrance of plants lingered in the cool night air. Behind the yard loomed the vast outline of the Syvern Taiga.
Ana leaned against a wooden trellis, wrapping her arms around herself. The cold crept into her bones, but she might as well have been frozen—a girl carved of ice.
She felt as though if she let herself thaw, she would lose everything.
Someone moved behind her. Ana knew that presence like it was a part of her: warmth and light and flame, the smell of the kitchen hearth and freshly baked ptychy’moloko and hot tea served in a silver samovar. She turned, and it was like gazing at a stranger. The boy she had known had been soft, cheeks round and pale from the comforts of the Palace, hair shorn short. He’d laughed easily, his eyes had sparkled, and if she closed her eyes she could see him turning from the fire in the kitchen, sweat shimmering on his forehead and soot on his face.
Now, only twelve moons later, he towered over her, muscles replacing his thin freckled arms, chin chiseled and shadowed with scruff. His hair had grown to his shoulders, swept up in a ponytail that shone like a flame when it caught the light. There was a hardness to his coal-gray eyes that had never been there before.
They watched each other for a minute, Ana looking for traces of the boy she’d known. It was as though he had become a stranger. She reached out, tentatively, to touch a cut on his neck.
Something melted in Yuri’s expression. “It’s me, Kolst Pryntsessa,” he murmured as he caught her hands, his own rough and calloused. Ana choked down a sob as she looked at them, remembering how the creases of his fingers had always been stained white with flour.
As Yuri pulled her into his arms, she buried her face in his strong shoulders, searching for the scent of baked goods and sweat and kitchen soot. Instead, she smelled fire and smoke.
But he was still Yuri—her Yuri, the one who had sat outside her chambers during her worst nightmares. The one who’d brought trays of pirozhky pies to her just so he could crouch outside the crack of her door and whisper to her.
“Call me Ana,” she whispered when she finally drew away, swiping at her tears.
“I thought you were dead,” Yuri choked. He was crying, too. “The Court announced—”
“I didn’t kill Papa.” The words tumbled from Ana’s mouth brokenly, pleadingly. “I was trying to save him—but I couldn’t—”
“I know,” Yuri said. “I know you, Ana. You always shared your treats with me, no matter how much you liked them. You cried over your pet rabbit for moons on end. You would never do anything like that.”
His confirmation sent fresh tears to her eyes and made her feel weak and strong at the same time. “Papa was poisoned, Yuri.”
“Poisoned?”
Ana nodded. “I saw a man that night—it was the Palace alchemist who left many years ago. He fed my Papa something, and I watched him die.” She shuddered, and Yuri locked his arm around her firmly. “I was trying to draw the poison out.” Ana closed her eyes, leaning into her friend, and the words spilled from her. “It was a slow poison, Yuri—it smelled exactly like the bitter medicine Papa was taking all along. It was never helping him to get better—it was making his illness worse. That night was the final dose.”
Yuri stiffened by her side. “Deities,” he cursed softly.
Ana paused at Yuri’s terrified expression.
“Ana,” he said, his hand tightening on her shoulder. “There’s something you must know. The Kolst Imperator—your brother…he’s sick.”
Her head spun at the words. “What?”
“It’s exactly what your father had. The Palace thinks it’s a genetic condition passed down from him. Coughing, weakness, and confusion of mind.” Yuri shuddered. “But if what you’re saying is true, then he’s being poisoned as well.”
Coughing. Weakness. Confusion of mind. Ana grasped the trellis behind her to stop the world from spinning. The image of her father’s face came to her then, pale as a tomb, blood foaming from his mouth, the whites of his eyes showing as he contorted.
Nausea twisted her stomach. “That’s impossible,” she said, but the words sounded hollow even to her ears. It couldn’t be that Luka was being poisoned. Pyetr Tetsyev had not worked at the Palace for many years.
Unless Tetsyev had had inside help. Ana thought of that night, of how the alchemist had entered the Emperor’s bedchambers without raising a single alarm.
Yet all she had were wild guesses—until she found Tetsyev himself.
All the answers she sought lay with him.
Ana clasped her hands to stop their shaking. “I’m going back to Luka. One more day, and then I ride for Salskoff.” She would speak with Ramson about fulfilling her end of the Trade later. She had lost too much—she couldn’t afford to lose Luka, as well. “Is my brother…What is his condition?”
“I left the Palace almost ten moons ago.” Yuri bowed his head. “When I left…he still held Court sessions but spent the rest of his time in his chambers.”
Ana felt sick as she thought of Luka, alone in his chambers, the poison slowly consuming his body and mind. Desperation twisted a sharp, cruel blade in her, and for a moment she thought of leaping on a horse and riding to Salskoff.
Think, Ana.
If she returned empty-handed, without Pyetr Tetsyev, she would be treated as a murderer and a traitor.
The Cyrilian Imperial law granted a fair trial, and from the laws she had carefully studied under Papa’s guidance, new evidence was grounds for further investigation.
She needed Tetsyev to clear her name. Once she had her title and her innocence again, she would reveal everything and hunt down the conspirators.
Something flickered in Yuri’s eyes. “You’re going back? Ana,” he said, and grasped her hands. “The future doesn’t lie in Luka or the Palace or Salskoff. Cyrilia’s rulers have stood by for centuries watching the oppression of our kind. If there’s a future, Ana, it isn’t there.”
It felt as though the small spark of hope in her heart was slowly withering to ash. “Why not?” Ana whispered. “Once I tell Luka all of this, he’ll fix it. We’ll fix it. Together. Just like…” Her voice broke. “Just like I promised May.”
But there was a sadness to Yuri’s eyes that she had never seen before; it descended on the traces of laughter and childhood like the fall of autumn upon summer. “I’ve seen too much and been through more in the months since I left the Palace, Ana. These cracks in our Empire…they can’t be fixed by one person alone. The time is past for us to rely on a benevolent ruler.”
Ana snatched her hands back. She felt very cold. This boy who stood across from her, tall and distant and utterly unfamiliar, had become no more than a stranger to her.
Before she could respond, footsteps sounded.
They drew apart as Shamaïra appeared at her dacha door, her face somber. She caught Ana’s eye and approached.
Ramson followed. He carried May’s small body carefully. The Affinites from the Playpen trailed behind, soft-colored lamps swinging from their hands and casting light into the darkness.
Ana took the child from Ramson.
How did the people of Chi’gon bury their dead? May had left the kingdom of her birth before she could even remember much about it; the glimpses that Ana had seen of the Aseatic Isles kingdom were in the stories and songs that May’s Ma-ma had told her.
It came to Ana then, with a stirring of the breeze that brought to her the loamy scent of soil. Winter, a child crouched in the snow, nursing to life a small white flower. My child, we are but dust and stars.
Blood Heir Page 21
