Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  His father only looked at him with that cold, calculating gaze. “How do you think I got to where I am?” Roran said quietly, the painful truth of his words crackling in the air.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. The world spun. Ramson’s hands fumbled at the wall behind him, struggling for purchase.

  Roran stepped backward and turned away. “I cleansed myself of those weaknesses—of friendships, of love—because I knew there were more important things.” Ramson made a choked sound. “Power, and my kingdom, boy. Those were what I gained when I made the choice. And I would make it all over again.”

  When his father turned around, eyes dull black, face blank as death, Ramson saw a reflection of what he was to become. A demon of a man, unfeeling and half-crazed, willing to destroy anyone and anything in his way. Willing to murder an innocent child. Willing to let a woman he’d once loved die.

  Roran Farrald straightened, tucking his hands behind his back, ever the Admiral, the soldier, the fearless leader. “That is the price that men like us must pay, boy. That is the price.”

  Ramson Farrald didn’t show up at training the next day. The soldiers and scouts that his father sent found no trace of him; it was as though, overnight, he had vanished, and they were searching for a ghost.

  * * *

  —

  Men like us.

  With each stinging lash, each suffocating moment in that pail of dark water, the truth grew clearer. Ramson had run to Alaric Kerlan, Bregonian-noble-turned-crime-lord, the man his father had sought for years to destroy, in hopes of using him against his father. Your opponent’s hatred is a sword; wield it. His hope is your shield; turn it against him. One of his father’s favorite battle mantras, used to destroy him. The irony had felt like a success in itself.

  But how many people had Kerlan sent to this very dungeon to be chained, beaten, and tortured? How many Affinites had his Order sentenced to a life of servitude? And all the while, Ramson had managed his businesses and ports at his side, run his blood trades, and been a good lapdog.

  He had purged himself of friendship, of love, of any feelings of empathy or guilt. He had forged countless alliances, and broken them just as easily whenever it served his gain. He had backstabbed good men, conned bad men, stolen from thieves, lied to liars.

  That is the price that men like us must pay.

  He had become the demon he’d seen in his father that night; he had become the shadow to the monster that was Alaric Kerlan. And, despite the different sides of the war they fought on, Ramson now saw the similarities in men like them. Ruthless. Self-serving. Oath-breaking. Amoral. Merciless.

  Men like us.

  No, Ramson thought wildly in a moment of sudden lucidity. Not me.

  But it was Ana’s face that came to him first, the fierce jut of her chin, and the way she chewed on her lip when she was thinking. Hadn’t he helped her? Protected her when she was weakest, saved her from those mercenaries?

  Because she was your Trade, a voice inside him jeered. You used her to get to Kerlan; you cast her aside when you’d finished with her.

  He still remembered the last words she’d said to him. I would like to believe that it is our choices that define us. And as he was forced into the pail of water over and over again, as Kerlan’s whip landed mercilessly on his back, Ramson clung to those words.

  It is our choices that define us.

  “Now it’s time for my favorite trick.” Kerlan’s voice rattled through Ramson’s half-conscious thoughts. He forced his eyes open. His back was on fire, his body on the brink of giving up. Yet despite the exhaustion that slugged at his brain, his senses perked with fear.

  Kerlan had started a fire in the hearth. A single rod was perched on the floor, the iron at the end roasting in the flames.

  Ramson jerked at his bonds. The chains rattled, solid as ever. He clamped his teeth against the feeling that his heart would burst from his chest. He would not give Kerlan the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

  Kerlan smiled. “There we go. A dose of fear. What I’d give to see that look on your face over and over again, you incorrigible boy. Perhaps I’ll keep you alive for longer. No,” he said to the bruiser, who had moved to stuff a gag in Ramson’s mouth. “I want to hear him beg.”

  Fear flooded Ramson’s chest and he was drowning again, his throat closing on him, his limbs heavy and frozen. Ramson gripped his shackles so hard that he felt a nail tear. “I’ll eat dog shit before I beg you, Kerlan.”

  Kerlan reached for the hot iron rod. “I said it once, didn’t I, boy? You’ll only feel pain like this twice in your life. The first time, when you’ve earned my trust and passed the gates of hell into the Order of the Lily. The second time…when you’ve broken that trust and I throw you back into hell.” He blew on the hot iron; it glowed, bright yellow at the center, red at the edges. “I hope you enjoy hell, my son.”

  Ramson’s courage and clarity dissolved. Not a monster…your choices…Ana.

  A single moment flared into lucidity in his mind: a night sky black and bright, snow swirling around them as she held his hands and whispered to him that he could be good, that he could make the right choice. And when he’d let go, the course of his life had splintered into what might have been and what now was. He’d left with words unspoken that night, the ghosts of their echoes swept away in the silent snows.

  She was broken, damaged, just as he was—only she still believed in goodness, and tried to be strong and kind. Drowning beneath the weight and the blood of their own pasts, she still chose to reach for the light, whereas Ramson had turned to the dark.

  Your heart is your compass, Jonah whispered.

  If he had a choice again, what would he choose?

  When the hot iron came, Ramson gave in.

  The world swayed around her, sending streaks of pain up her skull. Reluctantly, Ana surfaced from her sleep. Pale light danced across her eyelids, and the sound of creaking filled the air. Something cold chafed against both of her wrists.

  Her eyes flew open. Moonlight streamed through a small glass window high on the far wall, illuminating a ceiling of wooden rafters. The floor beneath her tilted from side to side, in rhythm with the creaking. She was in a carriage.

  “Ah, you’re awake.”

  Ana’s heart leapt into her throat. In the corner by the door, draped in darkness, was the silhouette of a man. She tried to move, but her arms remained attached to the wall by her side. Manacles peered out from the layers of chiffon and silk of her gown. She was shackled in place.

  Panic fogged her mind. She grasped for her Affinity, for the instinctive feel of blood thrumming through her and all around her, but found nothing. Deys’voshk. She recognized the haze, the lingering sense of nausea.

  The man leaned forward, his long fingers clasped together. His face was pale, with eyes so black it was like staring into an abyss. The face brought back memories of dark dungeons and cold stone walls and the bitter tang of blood in her mouth. Ana recoiled.

  Sadov smiled. “Hello again, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

  She was breathing too hard to think; her hands shook against their shackles. She tasted traces of Deys’voshk on her tongue, bitter and acidic. Heard his whispers. Monster. Ana grasped the first words that came to mind. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Salskoff Palace.” He looked at her as though she were a prized gem. “Kolst Imperatorya will be pleased to see you again.”

  Her Imperial Majesty. There was only one person he could be talking about. Morganya. Ana’s head spun; memories of her gentle aunt alternated with Tetsyev’s story of a cold, calculating murderess.

  But Morganya was not Empress. “My brother,” Ana said. “My brother is Emperor. And he will be glad to see me.”

  Sadov’s lips curled. It was the same soft smile he carried when he brought her to the darkest parts of the Palace dungeons. “Ha
ve you not heard, Princess? In five days’ time, your brother will announce his abdication due to ill health and appoint the Kolst Contessya Morganya as Empress Regent of Cyrilia.”

  Five days. Her stomach felt hollow. She knew Luka was sick from the poison—but five days. That was even less time than she’d feared.

  “Within weeks, your brother will be dead, and Morganya will become Empress of Cyrilia.”

  “No!” Ana lunged, her chains clanging as she struggled against them.

  “I’ve missed your spiritedness, Pryntsessa,” Sadov crooned. “You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment. I suppose Pyetr told you all about what Morganya and I have been planning?”

  Pyetr—Pyetr Tetsyev. How much of what he’d told her had been truth? And how much had been lies? Was he still working with Morganya? Had he only told her Morganya’s plan to set her up?

  I tell the truth, Kolst Pryntsessa. And you must decide what you do with this truth.

  She closed her eyes as the hopelessness of her situation crashed into her. May was dead; her brother was dying. Yuri and the Redcloaks were gone. Tetsyev had vanished. Ramson had betrayed her.

  “Oh, don’t look so heartbroken, Princess.” Sadov leaned forward and trailed a finger across her cheek. His touch sent cold revulsion down her spine. “You can join us.” Ana lifted her gaze to his, and she found true madness in those eyes. “For so long, Affinites have lived under the thumb of non-Affinites. We are graced with these abilities, yet we are reviled, controlled by weak humans who use blackstone and Deys’voshk against us. Why should we not have our revenge? Why should we not exploit them?”

  We. She stared at Sadov in disbelief, the realization hitting her. “You’re an Affinite.”

  Sadov’s thin lips peeled back in a grotesque grin. “Oh, yes.”

  Ana was shaking, memories of his long white fingers reaching from the darkness of the dungeons, fear twisting her stomach until she could barely breathe. “You control the mind, just like Morganya.”

  Sadov tilted his head, looking like a teacher fishing for an answer from a pupil. “Almost correct, Kolst Pryntsessa. My Affinity resonates with emotions. Specifically, with fear.”

  Fear. He was a fear Affinite. Ana thought back to the inexplicable terror that threatened to drown her each time she descended the steps of the dungeons. The way her palms grew clammy and her throat closed up and her legs turned to cotton no matter how much she steeled herself to face the horrors.

  It had been Sadov all along, playing with her mind. “But you…you fed me Deys’voshk. You tortured me.” Her voice trembled.

  “I did it to make you stronger,” Sadov crooned, his eyes bright. “Deys’voshk builds your resilience; it poisons your body, but it forces your Affinity to fight back. I liken it to an infection, and your Affinity must drive it from your body. That is how the Countess and I grew our powers over the years. We constantly suppressed our Affinities and forced them to grow stronger.”

  Ana felt sick. “Why?”

  She already knew the answer. “So you can fight with us.” Sadov reached out, tipping her chin. “Join us, and together, we will resurrect this world from the ashes. We will rule, as we deserve, and we will purge the world of the unworthy.”

  Ana stared into her torturer’s eyes—wide and burning with fervor. This was not a game; it was not a lie. Sadov actually believed what he was telling her. “You’re mad.”

  The fire in Sadov’s eyes flickered and went out. He leaned back, smooth and cold again. “The Countess said you might resist. Too righteous, she said.” He threaded his fingers together and narrowed his gaze. “It matters little. You will join us, whether of your own free will or by force.”

  “I will never join you.” Her voice was a low snarl. “You speak of mass murder across my empire. And I would die before I let that happen.”

  “Pity,” Sadov said softly. “My other victims spoke just as bravely before they gave in to my Affinity. You don’t know yet, Pryntsessa, how it feels to experience true hopelessness. I will show you.”

  The carriage darkened. Sadov’s eyes had become bottomless pits, and she was falling, falling endlessly, with no way out.

  Around her, the shadows morphed, growing claws and swarming at the windows, reaching for her. Ana bit back a scream. Her pulse raced, her heart was going to burst from her chest, her arms and legs had frozen and there was nothing she could do against the terror that was going to engulf her—

  Then, just like that, it vanished. The monsters outside became the silhouettes of leaves, and the fear drained like water from a tub, leaving her hollow and empty. Sweat coated her forehead and her limbs; her palms were slick as she pushed herself up. A single, strangled sob escaped her.

  Sadov leaned forward like a fascinated child. “Ah, how does it feel?” he whispered.

  Ana spat in his face. “I will never stop fighting,” she said. The carriage shook as it rolled over a bump on the road. Several branches snapped over the roof. “You will never win if you think fear is the way.”

  Sadov wiped his face and looked at her with an ugly expression. “You’ve lost,” he said. “You think you won over Pyetr Tetsyev? He was with us the entire time. We needed him on our side until the young Emperor Mikhailov was dead.”

  The knowledge that Tetsyev had betrayed her settled into her chest with dead certainty. And Ana knew, inevitably, that the next time she came face-to-face with that alchemist, she would kill him.

  “You think that pathetic con man is coming for you?” Sadov continued, growing more delighted. “He’s dead. There is no one coming for you, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

  He’s dead. Despite everything she’d learned about Ramson, the words twisted in her heart like a dagger. She thought of Fyrva’snezh, standing with him outside and watching snow swirl slowly, silently from the skies.

  How much of it had been real?

  It didn’t matter. Sadov was right—nobody was coming for her. So she would have to fight her way out by herself. Like she always had.

  “I don’t need anyone else,” she snarled.

  The carriage jerked to a halt as a loud thump sounded on the roof. Both Ana and Sadov turned their heads to the small window above. A cobweb of cracks ran across it, fracturing the moonlight from outside.

  A shadow flashed. The carriage swayed. A second thump sounded and the glass split into more fissures, the cracks reverberating through the carriage. Ana had the sense to duck as, with a final resounding smash, the window exploded into a thousand glittering pieces and fell upon them like rain.

  As the glass settled, Ana lifted her head. Shards slid off her hair and shoulders and clinked onto the floor. Someone—or something—had stopped the carriage and smashed the window.

  In the corner, she heard Sadov groan, the sound of glass crunching beneath him.

  A shadow flitted above. Ana craned her neck. There was nothing but the swaying of trees and the barest glimpse of the moon hanging overhead like a silver scythe.

  She felt the intruder before she heard him: a brush of fabric against her wrist, a rustle at her ear. She turned, and stifled a gasp.

  The intruder was a child—a scrawny, preadolescent boy—wearing formfitting clothes. He circled the walls of the carriage, melting in and out of the shadows, and at last came to a standstill beside her.

  Before she could draw breath to speak, the boy’s hands were at her wrists, and she heard the faint jangle of keys. They sounded like small, ringing chimes. His touch was featherlight, his fingers cool and soft as they deftly worked her shackles. Left hand. Right hand. Ankles.

  Ana scrambled to her feet, pressing herself against the wall, hands curling into fists.

  The boy took a step back and, with all the grace of a dancer, knelt before her. The pool of moonlight pouring in from the broken window above framed him like one of the performers in the Palace’s Crys
tal Theater. Graceful. Poised. Controlled.

  “Meya dama.” A female voice, quiet, steady, and sweet as silver bells. The intruder looked up. It was a girl: a girl with a small, slender face and wide, dark eyes. Her black hair was cropped just beneath her chin, curling under with a hint of waves. She could not have been much older than Ana.

  Kemeiran, Ana realized with surprise. A second realization hit her, harder than the first. She’d seen this girl, many nights ago, beneath the sultry glow of torches and the low rumble of battle drums. “The Windwraith,” she breathed.

  The girl straightened. Before she could speak, a groan sounded from the other end of the carriage. Sadov stirred.

  The barest movement, and blades glinted in the Windwraith’s palms. Yet as Sadov’s eyes focused on them, Ana knew with sickening premonition what would come.

  The wall of fear that hit her was crippling: dark and utter terror that gripped her stomach and paralyzed her. She crumpled to the ground, images flickering through her mind. Ramson lying in a pool of blood in the banquet hall. Papa’s body convulsing, blood spurting from his mouth. Eight bodies, strewn across the cobblestones, twitching as life faded from their eyes.

  Dimly, she heard a thump as the Windwraith hit the floor. The barest whimper escaped the girl’s throat, her face shadowed with whatever nightmares haunted her.

  Sadov inched toward them, clutching his side from the blow the Windwraith had dealt him. He raised a hand, and moonlight lanced off the blade he held.

  He was going to kill the girl.

  Ana threw herself in front of the Windwraith. Sadov paused, hesitation flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the way,” he snarled, “or I’ll kill you both.”

  The slightest of movements behind her, and suddenly, wind blasted across the carriage, throwing Sadov to the floor. Ana reached out for something to hold on to, but the Windwraith’s arms were already wrapped tightly around her center.