Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  “Genius,” Ramson said. He was on his knees, peering at the tunnel entrance. “Whoever designed this escape route held the Imperial family’s swimming skills in high esteem.”

  “It’s not an escape route. It used to be a dumping place for bodies, hundreds of years ago when executions still took place in our dungeons.”

  “I didn’t realize princesses were intimately familiar with the waste disposal plans of their palaces.”

  “I’m not.” Markov’s salt-and-pepper hair and lined face came to her. “When I was arrested for Papa’s murder, one of my guards helped me escape. This was the only way out of the dungeons.”

  Something flashed in Ramson’s eyes—pity? sympathy?—but it was gone the next moment. He held out his arms. “I’ll help you this time.”

  Ana gripped the slope of the riverbank, her fingers digging into frozen mud. “I’ll help myself,” she murmured, and, before she could think twice, swung herself down.

  For a single moment she hung suspended over the edge of the riverbank and just above the river. Water roared in her ears, so terrifyingly close. Her skirts and her feet skimmed the surface, and she swung forward by momentum. Her feet touched wet rock; her hands scrabbled for purchase.

  And then she was in the tunnel, clinging to the grooves in the wall, her heart beating so fast that she thought she would throw up.

  Ramson swung in just seconds later. He swore as he slammed into the wall just below her.

  The tunnel slanted up, and Ana thought of the bodies that had been shoved down and discarded into the river below. It was a tunnel built for getting out of the Palace, not for going in.

  Ana put one hand above the other, feeling for the grooves in the wall, and began to climb.

  The cold clenched her body like a living thing. Her muscles felt like stone. More than once, she lost her grip and slipped, resulting in a single, terrifying second when she thought she would plummet back into the river.

  “Will you stop kicking mud in my face?” came the whisper from behind.

  Ana gritted her teeth. “Death threat, remember?”

  “Charming. I was going to be a gentleman and tell you that I’d catch you if you fell.”

  “And I was going to be a lady and tell you that I’d kill you if you spoke.”

  They continued their climb, bickering between them, and each pithy retort distracted Ana from the seemingly impossible task of each painful pull upward. The roaring of the river had faded to a hum, and there was only darkness and the quiet drip, drip, drip of water onto the stones all around them.

  And suddenly, they came upon the door: a square piece of stone made to resemble part of the dungeon’s wall on the other side. With numb fingers, Ana latched on to the ridge at the edge of it and pulled. The door gave way with a loud grating noise.

  Ana heaved herself up and climbed to her feet. She had always thought the dungeons to be freezing, but the dry air felt warm to her skin. Ramson slid the door shut behind them, locking them in.

  “The Palace was built with hidden hallways for servants’ to use.” Ana tried to inject confidence into her voice, but she was whispering. “Yuri used to take me through them, so I know them well. We’ll dry off and get a fresh change of clothes at one of the servants’ stations, and then…” She grimaced. “We storm the Coronation.”

  Ramson didn’t miss a beat. “After you.”

  It was painful to force her half-frozen limbs into movement again. Memories pressed at her in the darkness: Sadov, his shadow looming, his long white fingers clasped in expectation. Little monster…

  Ana flared her Affinity and held it before her like a blazing torch that chased away the darkness. She sensed the blood around her. It was in every single inch of the dungeons: smeared on the walls, dried and cracked on the rusting shackles.

  Nothing. Besides traces of blood, there was nothing here but her own fear.

  Ramson’s ragged breathing followed her. Gradually, the darkness became punctuated with orange flickers of a torch somewhere far off. They drew closer, and Ana’s Affinity sensed blood flowing warm through two bodies.

  She and Ramson paused around the corner. The entrance to the main section of the Palace was right in front of them.

  The two men guarding the door barely had a moment to react as she fixed her Affinity upon them, holding them in place. Ramson proceeded to calmly take the cuffs on each guard’s belt and chain the men to cell doors, gagging them with their own shirts.

  “That was easy,” he whispered, joining her at the door.

  “There used to be more prisoners and guards down here,” Ana said. Praying that there was nothing on the other side of the door, she opened it a crack.

  A spiral of stairs led up to the ground floor of the Palace, letting out in a hallway next to the servants’ living area. There would be a doorway into their rooms right next to the dungeon entrance. She’d seen Yuri emerge from it dozens of times, peering at her as Sadov led her down. The sight had given her comfort back then.

  Ana and Ramson shut the door behind them and stole up the twisting staircase.

  They emerged into an empty hallway. The dungeons were at the back of the Palace, and on a night like this, most Palace occupants had no reason to be there. They hurried down the familiar marble floors and silver-lined walls of her childhood until they reached a pedestal with a Kemeiran vase. Next to it, the thinnest of crevices ran up along the wall. A secret door—one of the many around the Palace—that led to the hidden servants’ hallways.

  Ana threw her weight against it and pushed. The door gave way, and she slipped inside, just as she’d seen Yuri do so many times.

  They were in a narrow hallway lined with shelves that were stacked with white linens and clean tablecloths, ready to be transported to their destinations.

  They found a rack of guest gowns and tunics and shivered as they shed their wet clothes. Ana sighed as she dried herself with a soft cotton towel. She slipped on a gown that fit her—crimson, in a neat, simple cut. She dried her hair as best as she could, running her fingers through the snarls to smooth them so she wouldn’t look too out of place. And, as she waited for Ramson to finish changing, Ana finally let herself touch a hand to the cream-colored walls. This was real. She was home again.

  Ana drew a deep breath. When she reopened her eyes, it felt as though she had shed the skin of the lost girl who hated herself and feared the world. She stood straighter, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin.

  She was the Crown Princess of Cyrilia and the Blood Witch of Salskoff in one, and tonight, she would take back her empire.

  “Kolst Pryntsessa.” Ramson stood by the door in a fresh navy-blue doublet, his hair still wet and tousled, curling at the nape of his neck. “Are you ready?”

  The halls were blessedly empty when they stepped out, yet with each twist and turn of the path, Ana reached out farther with her Affinity, expecting at any moment to happen upon guards or servants or other guests.

  As they turned to the corridor that led to the Grand Throneroom, Ana gave a soft gasp. She’d been so tense that she hadn’t paid attention to where they were going.

  A grand hallway materialized before her as though from a dream, with sweeping marble balustrades and crystal chandeliers that cast the whole place in golden light. Pillars rose as high as the arched ceilings, statues of Deities and angels poised atop as though they had just alighted from the heavens. The Hall of Deities.

  “Hello again, old friends.”

  Ana and Ramson spun around. The voice had made Ana’s blood freeze even before she caught sight of the speaker.

  Dressed in an immaculate suit of deep violet, a gold fountain pen glinting at his breast, a man stood beaming at them from ten paces away. It wasn’t until she heard Ramson’s sharp intake of breath and caught sight of the plant with the small bell-shaped flowers pinned to his lapel t
hat she realized who it was.

  Alaric Kerlan, the Head of the Order of the Lily, spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture.

  “Ah, what spectacular company we have. The Princess and the con man.” Alaric Kerlan stood ten paces away from them, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Ana crouched into a defensive stance, her Affinity flaring as she took in Kerlan and the three bodyguards at his back. One of them looked large enough to snap a person in two, his muscles bulging like the exaggerated proportions of a Deity. The others—a man and a woman—were neither large nor intimidating. Which meant they were likely Affinites. Their eyes latched on to Ana.

  “Three against two,” Ramson said with a resigned sigh. “You do know how to fight fair, Alaric.”

  Faster than a whip, Ramson flung his hand out, and a dagger flashed silver in the air. In the split second she had to process this, Ana hurled her Affinity at his target—the woman—and held her in place. The woman barely had time to widen her eyes in shock when Ramson’s dagger struck her squarely in the stomach.

  The woman sank to her knees and fell forward, blood pooling onto the pristine marble floor beneath her.

  A shout sounded nearby; Ana turned to see a squadron of Palace guards pouring in from the direction of the Grand Throneroom.

  Kerlan looked up from the body of the woman. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned.

  “Fortunately, I play dirty.” The cocky grin on Ramson’s face disappeared as he shouted, “Again, Ana!”

  Ana was about to throw her Affinity forward when she felt that cold, impenetrable wall in her mind. Her Affinity snuffed out. Ramson’s knife clanged on the floor as Kerlan’s second Affinite leapt out of its path.

  Ana turned, knowing already what she would see.

  The Nandjian yaeger stood behind them, his eyes burning into hers. Sweat shone on his skin as he stepped forward and drew his sword.

  Ana swore. To their left, palace guards advanced from the direction of the Grand Throneroom. To their right, the yaeger blocked the way out. And in front of them, Kerlan’s male Affinite flexed his arms. A nearby marble column tore from the wall with a great, reverberating crack. Behind him, Kerlan smiled.

  “Ramson, my son,” Kerlan called. “I had hoped to save you for my own special treat. Give up the witch and save your own skin. It’s what you do best.”

  Ana sank to her knees as the pressure on her mind increased from the yaeger’s power. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him advance, his heels clicking on the marble floor. From the other end of the hallway, the Palace guards drew closer, their swords flashing silver.

  A shout cut through the air; Ramson knocked into her with such force that her breath caught. Pain burst through her shoulder as they slammed into the ground and skidded.

  Ana looked up just in time to see a marble pillar smash onto the spot where they had been a heartbeat ago. Bits of chipped marble and rock exploded in all directions.

  Her back hurt; she and Ramson were a tangle of limbs between the silks of her gown. He pushed himself up and hauled her to her feet. “Ana.” He cupped her cheek, his voice low, urgent. “The Coronation. You need to go.”

  “You can’t win here alone.” Her voice was harder than she meant for it to be, only so that it wouldn’t shake.

  “If you stay here, you lose your brother and your empire.” His tone was harsh.

  Ana hesitated.

  She’d doubted Ramson and his intentions, up until this very moment. He was putting his life on the line for her.

  Ana only wished she hadn’t realized so late.

  But Kerlan was laughing, the marble Affinite was lifting another pillar, the Palace guards were almost upon them, and the Coronation was beginning. She had a choice to make, and that choice was not Ramson.

  Ana seized a fistful of his shirt, pulling him to her so that they were a breath apart. Through the haze of sweat and blood, Ramson’s eyes found her. “Don’t you dare die on me, con man,” she whispered before she let go. And then she was on her feet and running down the Hall of Deities.

  The squad of Palace guards marched toward her, blue cloaks flapping behind them, blackstone-infused swords gleaming beneath the chandeliers. She kept running until she felt the yaeger’s mental block slip from her mind, his presence behind her flickering out.

  She slowed, ten paces from the Palace guards. And it hit her that she recognized them—most were familiar faces who had served her just one year ago.

  They seemed to recognize her, too; several guards slowed, uncertainty and disbelief warring over their faces. Their leader came to a stop, his sword steady in his hands, his eyes betraying his hesitation.

  “Lieutenant Henryk,” Ana said steadily.

  His eyes widened. “It is you, Kolst Pryntsessa.” He stood his ground, whereas a year ago, he would have knelt at her feet.

  Ana tilted her head. “Where is Kapitan Markov?” When he didn’t answer, she took another step forward. “Where is Markov, Henryk?”

  Henryk’s mouth tightened. “I have my orders to arrest you, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “The Kolst Contessya.” His tone was firm, his face belying no emotion. “Please, come quietly. I do not wish to hurt you.”

  “I believe you,” she said, and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I have to get through.”

  The six guards fell to their knees as her Affinity tightened around them, their swords clattering to the floor. Lieutenant Henryk was the last to fall. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. His mouth opened and closed, as though he were struggling to say something to her.

  Ana stepped past the kneeling guards, her steps ringing loud and clear as she approached the doors of the Grand Throneroom. Another dozen steps and the grand mahogany doors with the white tiger handles loomed before her.

  Fatigue descended over her like a heavy cloud. She steeled herself, reining in her shaking muscles. Chin high, shoulders back. Just as Luka had always taught her.

  Ana grasped the sigil of her empire and pushed the doors open.

  Before her Affinity had manifested, she’d been in the Grand Throneroom on multiple special occasions. Papa and Mama would sit on the two white-gold thrones atop the dais at the end of the long hall, while she and Luka perched on the seats reserved for them at either side. After her incident, Papa had never brought her back in—yet the grandeur of the room had never left her memory.

  Blazing chandelier light illuminated a wide hall with a stretch of pale blue carpeting that extended all the way to the dais at the other end. The domed ceilings bore frescoes of the Deities in all shapes and forms, accompanied by reverent angels and mythical animals.

  Below, in the room, fifty pairs of real, live eyes stared at Ana. On the gilded seats on either side of the hall reclined the Empire’s most powerful noblemen and noblewomen. The expressions on their faces ranged from confusion to shock.

  But Ana’s gaze was set on the thrones straight ahead and the figures seated in them. It was difficult not to notice Morganya first, draped across the throne in a fine gown of shimmering blue and silver, her black hair cascading like a waterfall. She seemed to have grown even more beautiful since Ana last saw her. The glowing chandelier light brought out her high cheekbones, full lips, and soft, doelike eyes. For a moment, Ana could imagine running into her arms and burying her face in her mamika’s silky dark hair. This woman, her aunt, the murderer of her parents.

  And then Ana turned her gaze to the figure next to Morganya. He also leaned against his throne—but unlike Morganya, whose position exuded power and dominance, he looked as though he were barely holding on to life itself. His face was emaciated, his skin the color of ash, his cheeks sunken.

  Most painful to look at were his eyes, and only when they met her own did a crippling realization course thr
ough her.

  Her brother’s once-beautiful, spring-grass eyes were empty. Ana was gazing at a ghost. And it broke her heart.

  “Stop where you are!”

  Ana spun to face the command. Four Palace guards approached, hands at their scabbards. Their expressions were cautious but stern. In her gown, she probably looked the same as any other frantic guest to them.

  “You can’t be here, meya dama. We’ve closed off the Grand Throneroom to guests to protect our Empress from infiltration—”

  The guard’s message was cut short as Ana seized his blood and flung him to the side of the grand hall. Screams went up as he crashed into Imperial Councilmembers and guests alike, knocking them from their seats.

  Ana reined in her Affinity and turned her gaze back to the dais. Morganya sat straighter now, focusing on Ana as though noticing her for the first time. Eight more guards stepped from posts behind the dais, surrounding the thrones in defensive stances. Their swords sang as they slid them from their scabbards.

  Ana took a step forward. It was now or never.

  “My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov,” she said, and her voice carried across the hall as she walked, ringing beneath the frescoed deities and carved angels. “Daughter of Aleksander Mikhailov and Kateryanna Mikhailov. Crown Princess of Cyrilia.” She threw a hand up, pointing. “I am here to stop the coronation of the Grand Countess, on account of her crimes of murder and treason against the Crown of Cyrilia.”

  Gasps and murmurs filled the room. Suddenly, the guests were leaning forward in their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at Ana. Even the guards at the dais, trained to remain stoic, gaped openly at her.

  On his throne, Luka stared at Ana without the slightest hint of recognition.

  “Stand down.”

  Morganya’s smooth, melodic voice had soothed Ana on the worst of her nights, easing her to sleep like the mother she’d lost so long ago. The thought made her sick now.

  The line of guards protecting the Countess acted immediately, lowering their swords and parting uniformly like a set of stage curtains. On the dais, Morganya stood graciously, the lead actress of this preposterous play. Her eyes scanned Ana up and down. Narrowed.