Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  And then her face softened. Crumpled. “Anastacya?” Morganya whispered, gripping the arms of her throne. “Ana?”

  Murmurs erupted on either side of the aisle as Ana continued to make her way toward the thrones. It’s her. It’s the lost Princess. The mad Princess. The dead Princess.

  Ana trained her eyes on her aunt. “Do you deny the crimes of which I accuse you?” she called, raising her voice over the din that had filled the Throneroom.

  “Ana?” Morganya shook her head, disbelief and bewilderment seeping into her expression. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  “Was I not clear enough?” Ana took another step forward, steadily closing the gap between her and the dais. “In that case, allow me to make myself clear. I accuse you of assassinating my mother, the former Empress Kateryanna Mikhailov”—the crowd’s murmurs grew to a low buzz—“assassinating my father, the former Emperor Aleksander Mikhailov”—a collective gasp from the crowd—“and plotting the murder of my brother, the Emperor Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov.” The Imperial Councilmembers were now clamoring to get a better view of her, while the guests looked on in horror, their eyes darting between her and Morganya. “Do you deny it?”

  Morganya was shaking her head, her expression slowly morphing into horror. “You…what are you talking about?” Her voice rose to a terrified squeak as she pointed a finger at Ana. “You murdered your father!”

  “You framed me,” Ana snarled.

  Morganya’s terror vanished as suddenly as it had come, in the blink of an eye. Her expression became serpentine smooth, calculatingly cold. “Enough,” she growled. The transformation was stark—and it was now clear that everything Morganya had ever said or done had been an act all along. “I don’t know how you got past the Palace guards, but one thing is clear: you are dangerous.” Morganya snapped her fingers. “Guards. Seize her.”

  “No!” Ana shouted, but the guards were moving toward her rapidly, swords raised, the blackstone of their blades glittering.

  Ana turned and found those now-dull green eyes, still gazing at her. “Luka,” Ana cried. “Luka, please—it’s me!”

  The guards closed in. Slowly, Ana backed away.

  She could easily take them with her Affinity. But that would only paint her as the monster this crowd thought her to be. This was not a fight; this was a performance.

  She needed to show them that she came in peace; she needed to use her words to fight.

  “Stop,” Ana said, and the guards hesitated. She lifted her gaze to meet Morganya’s. “Will you deny that you are an Affinite, with an Affinity to flesh and thought?” Another collective gasp swept through the Throneroom. “That you have manipulated the former Palace alchemist into concocting the poisons that killed my parents? That you are, at this very moment, manipulating my brother, the Emperor?”

  “This is madness,” Morganya cried, and Ana was glad to hear a note of distress in her voice. Her eyes, however, burned with promised retribution. “Guards! Seize her! We will continue with this coronation!”

  “Kolst Contessya Morganya,” Ana said steadily. “With accusations against you, you cannot be crowned Empress until they’re cleared. This is Cyrilian law—this is our law.”

  “She’s right.” Another voice spoke up. An Imperial Councilman stood, and the room fell silent. His gray-flecked hair was neatly combed, his face lined with age and wisdom that somehow made him appear more powerful. Ana recognized him as Councilman Dagyslav Taras. He’d been Papa’s closest friend and councilor, and it was said that he had been in the running for Imperial Advisor before Sadov was chosen. “It is the law, Kolst Contessya.”

  “You forget, Taras!” Another Councilman stood, Northern Cyrilian–blond hair buzzed to an inch of his scalp. A long scar slashed across his nose. The fierceness of his expression was warriorlike, and Ana recognized him from that alone. Maksym Zolotov, Cyrilian-army-commander-turned-Councilman. He turned his heated gaze straight to Ana. “The Princess—or former Princess—still carries charges of murder and treason with her. Her accusations cannot stand.”

  Ana stared back at him, and Zolotov had the grace to look away. Inside, though, she felt the sharp sting of betrayal. In her years of confinement, she’d skulked around the Palace, watching these Councilmembers from afar. She’d memorized their names, noted the ones she’d liked best, and Zolotov had been among those. He’d struck her with his courage, his loyalty, and his straightforwardness. To have him speak against her hurt.

  Taras gave Zolotov a piercing look. “You are not incorrect, Maksym. The Princess’s status casts doubt unto her accusations. Yet by Cyrilian law, there is no rule dictating that those under indictment cannot accuse others.”

  They would not speak for her, nor would they speak against her. They interpreted the law.

  Taras turned to the thrones. “When there is no law in our system for this situation, we must defer to the Emperor.” He paused. “Kolst Imperator?”

  Finally—finally—Ana let her gaze slide over to the figure to the right of Morganya. Her brother was watching this with no more reaction than a person might watch rats scuffling on the streets. “Luka,” she called out again. “Luka, please, look at me. It’s the truth. I have evidence—I swear on my life. She’s poisoned your body and poisoned your mind, Luka.” The last words came out in a dry sob. “Please. Listen to me.”

  “You ran when you were charged with murder,” a Councilman shouted. “Is that not an act of guilt?”

  “I ran because I was innocent, and I knew I had to seek proof to convict the true murderer.” Ana’s gaze never left her brother. “Luka. Please.” Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “You know me, bratika. You know I love this empire too much. Believe me.”

  Luka’s gaze flickered, settling on her with a haunted look that Ana would never forget. These were the eyes of a man with a dead soul.

  Her heart cracked.

  Luka opened his mouth. His voice, when it came from him, was barely a whisper. “We will continue with the coronation.”

  “No!” Ana lunged forward. “No, Luka—she has you under her control—”

  “Guards, detain her!” Morganya sounded confident again; she stood before her throne, gripping the arms. Guards swarmed forward, but Ana pushed them back with her Affinity; she was aware that archers had poured into the room and trained their arrows on her back, waiting for the command to fire. “We need Deys’voshk. I know what she can do with her Affinity—I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Vladimir! Vladimir!”

  “Kolst Contessya, allow me.”

  Ana froze at the soft, smooth voice. Next to the Councilmembers seated closest to the throne stood a figure dressed in white alchemist robes. Tetsyev touched a hand to his Deys’krug as he gazed up at Morganya.

  Morganya’s expression softened. “Go on, Pyetr.” Her eyes shone with a secret triumph.

  Tetsyev turned to Ana.

  “Traitor,” Ana spat. It was no longer anger that gripped her. Certainty settled in her chest. If she was to die, she would at least take this murderer with her.

  Yet as Ana grasped his bonds with her Affinity, something else came to her. Another memory, of a dungeon, and a weeping, frightened man.

  Morganya is strong, but she is not invincible.

  How much of what Tetsyev had told her that night had been the truth?

  She can control only one mind at a time. And her control can be broken. When you used your Affinity on me, it cut through Morganya’s Affinity.

  Could it be? That her Affinity could cancel out Morganya’s Affinity, break her aunt’s hold over Luka for just a small while?

  She hesitated. Perhaps everything Tetsyev had told her had been a lie. Yet…She thought of his eyes, the remorse in his voice, the words he’d whispered in the dark. She hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that he’d spoken the truth that night.

&
nbsp; It was worth a try.

  Ana threw her Affinity to Luka and gave the gentlest pull.

  Even from here, she could sense the wrongness to his blood, the amount of the foreign substance in it. It was sluggish and cold whereas it should have been thrumming and warm. Her heart ached, but she pulled again.

  As she concentrated her Affinity on her brother, she was faintly aware of guards seizing her, crossing their swords over her, the blackstone-infused metal cold against her throat.

  For the third time, Ana pulled.

  Luka blinked. Gave a small gasp.

  Ana’s heart soared as his eyes found hers. Truly found hers. They looked brighter, more alert, as though he had just woken from a long, long slumber.

  Please, Luka. Wake up.

  “Stop,” Luka said.

  The entire Court turned to look at him with wonder. Tetsyev blinked, and turned in his tracks. “Kolst Imperator…?”

  But the brightness in Luka’s eyes was fading again; he looked even more lost as he leaned back, exhaling as though he had spent all of his energy. Flatly, he said, “We must get on with the coronation.”

  Ana’s heart sank. Morganya was looking directly at her; a corner of her aunt’s lips curled in the shadow of a smile.

  “I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov—”

  “No!” Ana shouted, but the look her brother gave her was stern—like the ones Papa used to give them.

  Everything was going to hell.

  “Silence her,” Luka commanded the guards. His gaze then snapped directly to her: bursting with life and confidence and the power of an emperor. “Quiet, brat.”

  Brat. She stared at her brother, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that she thought it might burst free.

  Luka drew himself straight with the small amount of energy he had left. His voice was dull as he recited, “I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov, announce the temporary abdication of the throne to the Cyrilian Empire for reasons of personal health.”

  Morganya’s face was aglow in triumph.

  “In the event of my abdication or death, I hereby crown the heir to the throne of Cyrilia.” Luka suddenly focused on Ana with such intensity that it took her breath away. “I name the Crown Princess Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov as heir and future Empress to the Cyrilian Empire.”

  Ramson was going to die.

  The ground rumbled beneath his feet as he dove out of the way of another crashing marble pillar, slamming against the opposite wall. His breaths were coming in ragged gasps, and blood trickled down the side of his face.

  He shook his head, clearing the double vision. Focus. Ana was still in there. She needed him to hold Kerlan and his cronies here.

  He’d held the yaeger at bay so far—when the tall man with those glacial eyes had taken off after Ana, Ramson had jumped in front of him to stop him. He’d been fighting a losing battle even before the marble Affinite joined the party.

  Ramson gripped his daggers, pushing himself to his feet and swiping a hand across his nose. It came back bloody.

  Three to one. Kerlan’s big bodyguard wasn’t an issue. That brute was made for throwing around his weight and bullying chained victims in confined spaces, not for actual freestyle sparring. And his prerogative, judging from the way he hovered near his master, was to protect Kerlan. It was the other two he had to watch out for.

  He glanced at the yaeger, whose swords were out. Ramson was about to spring at him when he caught a sharp movement to his right.

  The marble Affinite flung his hand out, and two fist-sized balls of marble shot from the ground. Ramson ducked behind a nearby pillar, feeling it shudder as the two projectiles smashed into it.

  A sudden coldness touched his arm. A piece of marble debris snapped around his wrist. Within the blink of an eye, it twisted and closed over itself like a handcuff, and the ground jerked from beneath him. Ramson was flung bodily across the hall—or rather, the marble around his wrist hurtled so fast that his arm felt like it was going to be ripped from its socket—and the world blurred around him.

  Ramson crashed against the wall. Pain flared through his body, but Kerlan was keeping him alive, torturing him. Panting, Ramson tried to heave himself up. It was just like Kerlan, to know that he had Ramson outnumbered and overpowered, and to savor his victory by quashing Ramson’s hope bit by bit.

  The marble on his wrist was moving again. It dragged him along the ground, toward where Kerlan and his bodyguard stood. Ramson reached out for anything to grab onto, but his traitorous, marble-manacled wrist persisted.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the body of the female Affinite he’d struck earlier, crumpled in the hall. The yaeger stood on the other side of the corridor. His eyes narrowed briefly before he turned and took off down the hallway.

  No, not toward Ana, Ramson thought. He strained against the manacle, but it was no use.

  “Well, my son.” Kerlan’s eyes twinkled pleasantly as he looked down at Ramson from beneath the shadow of his huge bodyguard. “Had enough yet?”

  Ramson coughed up blood. He was curled on the floor, every fiber of his body throbbing in pain, his manacled wrist dangling from the marble Affinite’s control. He forced a smile to his cracked lips. “That the best you’ve got?” he croaked. “You’ve become soft, Kerlan.”

  Kerlan’s smile did not waver, but his eyes promised death. He motioned at the marble Affinite. A second piece of debris sculpted itself around Ramson’s unshackled wrist, dragging his other arm into the air, lifting him so that he knelt before Kerlan. His dagger clattered to the ground, the sound reverberating across the empty hall.

  Tap…tap…tap.

  It took Ramson a moment to realize where the noise was coming from. Kerlan watched him with an amused smile, his gold fountain pen rapping against his ring.

  Tap…tap…tap.

  The sound sent a shiver through Ramson.

  “I don’t know how you define ‘soft,’ ” Kerlan said, raising his pen so that it caught the light of the chandelier overhead. He pressed the end with his finger. With a click, a ring of tiny, sharp blades shot out from the tip, glinting like teeth. “Perhaps you’ll let me know how this feels.”

  He slammed the pen into Ramson’s chest, right where he’d seared the Order of the Lily insignia.

  Ramson screamed. Kerlan laughed and twisted the pen, the razor-sharp blades burrowing into Ramson’s flesh. And then he tore it out.

  Ramson fought to stay conscious. It felt as though his flesh were on fire, and the pain sent fuzzy edges of darkness shooting through his vision.

  He was shaking as he threw up, his tears mingling with sweat. Kerlan’s maniacal laughter rang in his ears.

  I’m going to die, Ramson thought.

  But even as his body began to slump, he scanned the area around him, his brain working frantically to find anything that could help him.

  A shadow flitted in the hallway behind Kerlan.

  There was a soft whoosh and a whisper of a thud. The marble Affinite staggered forward. Blood poured from his mouth.

  The Affinite crashed to the floor, eyes still open, the metal hilt of a dagger protruding from his back. The marble cuffs around Ramson’s wrists, cracked and crumbled away.

  Kerlan and his bodyguard turned. Seizing his opportunity, Ramson grabbed his dagger from where it had fallen and slashed at Kerlan.

  His vision was blurred with tears, blood, and sweat, and his aim was weak; his blade bit into Kerlan’s flesh, leaving only a shallow scratch. Kerlan stumbled back, his face contorting in a snarl.

  The bodyguard roared, leaping and raising both fists. Ramson threw himself forward. Pain exploded in his chest as he rolled beneath the man, springing to a crouch by the wall behind him.

  The bodyguard raised his fists again. This time, Ramson had nowhere to go.

  A surge of wind blasted at hi
m, so strong that even the huge bodyguard staggered, raising his hands to shield himself. A small dark blur shot at Ramson. He felt an arm lock around his abdomen, and then they were sliding across the debris-cluttered floor, propelled by the gale.

  Hands gently laid him on the floor, and a face came into view. Slender and sharp, with short black hair and midnight eyes. He’d seen this face only across a crowded arena, and then in the murky shadows of a bar in Novo Mynsk, when he’d bought her contract afterward.

  “Windwraith,” Ramson croaked. “Linn.”

  “Ana,” Linn said. “Have you seen her?”

  He had so many questions—had the Windwraith held her end of the Trade? But his head swam. “The Coronation ceremony,” he managed. “I told her I’d hold off these Affinites.”

  She cast him a doubtful look. “You?” she intoned, and with the suppleness of a professional acrobat, she sprang to her feet. Daggers flashed in her hands. A leather belt strapped across her waist held a wicked assortment of throwing knives.

  Wind exploded before Linn, knocking Kerlan back, screaming, against the bodyguard. The bodyguard raised a hand again, turning his face from the gale.

  Linn flicked her wrist.

  The bodyguard howled in pain. Blood seeped from his midriff, where a small knife had embedded itself in his flesh.

  Suddenly, the wind died and a terrible silence fell upon the hallway.

  Linn made a noise, like a small animal in pain. Ramson saw the white flash of a cloak against the wreckage of the hall. The yaeger had returned. He was blocking Linn’s Affinity. He strode out from behind a pillar, his eyes pinned to Linn.

  Linn flung two knives at the man. He blocked them easily with his swords.

  Beyond the pain of his bleeding wounds, hope fluttered in Ramson’s chest. He realized that none of Kerlan’s Affinites were trained fighters like Linn.

  Over twenty paces from them, Kerlan clutched his expensive doublet, his face pale as a sheet. Interesting, Ramson thought, that a man who aimed to inflict so much pain could bear so little. Kerlan motioned to his bodyguard, who was bleeding profusely from his own wounds. The bodyguard stooped and wrapped a giant arm around Kerlan’s waist.