Silverblood

by Jamie Foley

  Someone tackled him from behind. He threw them off and ran—right into a masked soldier.

  Too many. His nerves rioted with pain as he recoiled from blow after blow, unable to anticipate them in the frenzy of the crowd. When he downed one attacker, they were replaced by three.

  Lysander hit the ice-cold street and wrestled against the grips pinning his arms behind his back. He bit down against the agony in his gut and relented before the strain of resisting could re-open internal wounds.

  I knew it was impossible. Lysander forced himself to relax as they bound his wrists. Perhaps their justice system could offer him some kind of penance for a life of self-indulgence and service to an evil queen. Where could he go now that Zamara was dead, anyway? He was a slave who’d forgotten how to live free.

  What kind of game is Felix playing?

  Lysander thought he saw a fox in the branches above as they hauled him up onto unwilling feet. Vibrant green eyes with no pupils narrowed at him, then disappeared into the leaves.

  Rage swirled in Brooke’s mind like a midnight typhoon, its lightning flashing with murderous intent. She gasped and pulled back from the aether, dampening her senses before they could consume her.

  She opened her eyes. Dozens of patriarchs and matriarchs from the houses of Jadenvive crowded at the bottom of the stairs before her throne, packing the Great Hall more full than her bodyguards recommended. If this mob decided to grab Brooke and throw her from the crow’s nest, they’d be unstoppable.

  Regardless, she remained determined to hear the shattered voices of all her people. They mourned for lost loved ones, homes, and livelihoods. And they shared her thirst for revenge.

  Brooke glanced at her new advisor, Ryon, who looked as disturbed as she felt. His loyalty was unquestionable, and yet the blood of their enemies flowed through his veins. Brooke made a mental note to assign a guard to him before nightfall.

  “Bring him out!” the people shouted. “Give him over to us!” Their voices tangled and merged into a chant: “Execute! Execute! Execute!”

  Creator, help me.

  Brooke stood up from her throne in one swift motion, tossing her braids and headdress feathers across her leather armor. Silence blanketed the room.

  “Lysander is being interrogated.” She spoke with the booming voice that her father, the late chief, had taught her. “He could be of value because of his royal Emberhawk blood. I will not have him executed until he is of no use to us.”

  Protests resounded, and the head of the Blackthorne family, a burly merchant with flame-singed hair, stepped forward and yelled over the cacophony. “Blood for blood, Chieftess! Who will pay for the death of our city?”

  “Jadenvive is not dead.” Brooke lifted her jaw. “The Emberhawk will regret ever setting foot on our lands. We slew their god-queen. Now I will select their new monarch, and they will submit to us under the Tribal Alliance.”

  Shouts erupted throughout the room until Ryon held out his hand.

  The Blackthorne representative called out, “So they attack us and you ally with them? Are you so terrified of the Malaano Empire?”

  “I will never fight beside the blood-hawk!” someone yelled.

  “They’d sooner stab us in the back and feed us to the Malaano!”

  “The line of Stillwind chiefs ends here!”

  Brooke closed her eyes and reached out to the aether. The room’s tension nearly boiled over into an all-out riot.

  She breathed deep and held out her hand, focusing on the last shred of peace in her soul and willing it outward. Stillness settled over the room like the first autumn snow. Subdued with her aether but not snuffed out—she could still feel their anger simmering below like a cinder beneath the ashes.

  “I will meet with the elders and seek their wisdom,” Brooke said, more softly now that the Great Hall had fallen into an uneasy quiet. “Use your energy to aid your neighbors, and I will give you justice.” She opened her eyes and touched the quartz gem atop her headdress. “I swear it on my chiefdom.”

  Then she turned and strode through the ornate wooden door behind her throne. Mumbles and murmurs sounded as Ryon’s footsteps followed and shut the door behind them.

  The high curved ceiling and brilliant tapestries of the Chamber of Elders did little to soothe Brooke’s anxiety. If she couldn’t somehow deliver the people’s retribution to the Emberhawk, she’d lose much more than the remaining four years of her seven as Chieftess. She’d end the Stillwind legacy in shame and ensure that she would be the first and last female to lead the Katrosi tribe. And she’d certainly not be re-elected. That would make her a High Chief, as her grandfather had been—her childhood dream.

  A foolish dream best left rejected and forgotten.

  Brooke moved to the line of mannequins that displayed the armor of the previous chiefs. Her battle leathers looked so small beside the rest. Insignificant. Inept. Incapable.

  She stared at the wooden head above her grandfather’s d’hakka chitin armor and wondered for the hundredth time where his headdress had been lost to the ages. How could she possibly satisfy her people as he had as High Chief?

  Declaring war on the Emberhawk only a decade after the Sacrificial War would drain both tribes and leave them vulnerable. Just like the Malaano Empire wanted. But how else could she exact true justice after so many innocent people had died in Emberhawk fires—behind the walls of their own capital city?

  “I’m sorry,” Ryon said as Brooke lifted her headdress. “I didn’t realize how appointing me as advisor right after the attack would look. I’ll step down.”

  Brooke glanced over her shoulder to face him. Ryon looked even more like an Emberhawk than his cousin Lysander, with short silver hair and a slender-yet-masculine build. His new lenses didn’t hinder the sun-fire glow of his eyes—eerily similar to the flames that had ravaged her city less than a week ago.

  “I won’t accept your resignation.” Brooke tugged a xavi feather that had snagged on a braid, and her handmaiden, Shaya, rushed to help. “You’re not Emberhawk any more, and everyone knows it.”

  Ryon rubbed his forehead and crossed to a wooden table, where they’d spent sleepless nights pouring over intelligence gathered by Brooke’s pale-masked soldiers. Dread blanched Ryon’s olive skin as he leaned over the table. “Regarding Lysander, I won’t hold it against you . . . if you have to . . .”

  His words twisted in the aether, indicating a lie. Brooke frowned. Of course Ryon didn’t want his cousin to be executed.

  “Summon the Elder of Aether for me, please,” Brooke said as her handmaiden wrestled with her headdress. “Invite him to dinner with me tonight.”

  Ryon turned to her and bowed. “Yes, Chieftess.”

  “Hey.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I told you not to call me that.”

  Ryon’s smile looked forced, but his stature seemed to lighten. “Brookie?”

  She cringed. “Brooke.”

  Ryon grinned like a fox. “Rookie?”

  Brooke rolled her eyes. “I’ve been the chief for three years.”

  “You’re horrible at Phoera, though,” Ryon said. “Can you even light a candle?”

  Brooke pursed her lips and grimaced as a braid was yanked. “Just because I don’t study the element doesn’t mean I’m a rookie.”

  He disappeared out the back door and called back, “Get some rest, Rookie!”

  She grunted. Perhaps promoting him hadn’t been such a fabulous idea after all.

  Brooke thanked her handmaiden as the headdress finally came free. She collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. Emotions from the next room threatened to overwhelm her—no, they resonated with her own energy. Sorrow, fear, hopelessness, and anger, crippling her ability to think. If she kept everything bottled much longer, she’d explode. Maybe she just needed to find a place to hide and cry.

  She’d never seen her grandfather cry. Maybe they were right about the position of chief being a man’s job.

  “You did well, my lady,” her handmaiden whi
spered. “They respect you.”

  Brooke swallowed hard and blinked back the wet blur in her eyes. “Please don’t, Shaya.” She rested her elbows on her knees and slouched forward, draping her braids over her shoulders. “I know you mean well, but I just can’t right now.”

  Shaya bowed and folded her hands over her tunic. “You’re under so much pressure. Shall I prepare a hot salt bath for you?”

  Maybe that’s what Brooke needed, along with a full wineskin and some chocolates stuffed with jomoco jam. But she refused to give in to such luxuries while her people nursed their burns.

  A knock rapped on the side door, and Brooke called in the messenger. He rushed in and bowed as he presented her with a scroll. “From Princess Illiana of Quin’Zamar.”

  Brooke inspected the wax seal of the Emberhawk royal family: a flaming bird with outstretched wings and a curved beak open in mid-cry. Illiana’s first letter hadn’t been sealed like this. Did it mean they’d passed on the crown after the death of the queen?

  Brooke folded the letter’s seal, cracking it in half. The rolled letter crackled as she unfurled it and read:

  Chieftess Brooke,

  I extend my deepest condolences, but we will not be able to provide aid to Jadenvive during this troubling time. Our resources are required to fight Coriander’s rebellion. You have my word that I will put an end to them for the damage they have caused to our two noble peoples. My men will identify those involved in the attack, and I will give them over to you for execution.

  Even as I grieve the loss of my mother, Dierdre, my people need a ruler. I have been crowned as Queen. I look forward to many years of prosperity and peace with the Katrosi tribe, forsaking the wars of our fathers.

  However, I must decline the invitation to join your Tribal Alliance. We have no border with the Malaano Empire, and our navy is strong. We have no reason to believe they are a threat to us.

  May Zamara’s fire warm your spirit in this difficult time.

  Queen Illiana

  Brooke’s blood curdled. The traditional Emberhawk farewell stung like thinly veiled gloating.

  Surely Illiana knew her late mother was the shape-shifter Zamara instead of the true Queen, Deirdre. Or was she really stupid enough not to know everything that had happened? Did this teenage princess really expect Brooke to believe that Coriander’s small band of rebels had razed Jadenvive?

  No, this teenage queen. The crown shouldn’t fall to her. Lysander was the oldest—he would have been king if he hadn’t abdicated. So the new monarch should be Coriander, just as he’d been fighting his false mother for. Their younger sister, Illiana, must have had a better relationship with their mother if the crown had fallen so far down the family line.

  Brooke’s nails dug into her palm as she clenched a fist and re-read the letter. So, Illiana wouldn’t join the Alliance either. Like mother, like daughter.

  No reason to believe the Malaano Empire is a threat, huh? What an idiot. If the Malaano declared war at the eastern Katrosi border, the Emberhawk beaches would be next. Even the Emberhawk navy was no match for Imperial ships if they had no allies.

  “Ill news?” Shaya whispered.

  Brooke made an effort to appear relaxed. “It could have been worse.” At least Illiana had been cordial about her lies.

  “You look exhausted. I know you haven’t been sleeping,” Shaya said. “I’ll make you some fadeleaf tea.”

  Brooke rolled the letter back up. “No, thank you. I’m—”

  The back door swung open, and her best friend Nariellyn popped her head in, flopping her lopsided hairdo.

  “You sure ’bout that?” Nariellyn sauntered to the table and clacked a clay mug down hard enough to spill brown liquid down its side. “Made some almost as bitter as your soul.” That smile made her look half her age.

  Brooke leaned back into the sofa but couldn’t prevent a grin from escaping. “Not a good time, Nari.” The young healer was the last person Brooke wanted to see right now, and she never knocked. She watched the drip of tea slide down the mug’s glaze and hoped Nariellyn would leave on her own.

  She didn’t.

  Brooke sighed. “Were you in the Great Hall?” she asked as the messenger took the scroll with a bow and retreated.

  “Unfortunately.” Nariellyn flopped down on a sofa covered with a trace cat pelt, opposite where Brooke sat, and stretched out her legs as if she owned the place. “Looks like the Stillwind reign’s comin’ to an end.”

  Brooke snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She took the tea and let the floral aroma fill her lungs. After taking a sip, she grimaced. Nariellyn wasn’t kidding about it being bitter—she’d probably swapped the honey for some medicinal concoction to keep Brooke on her feet.

  She took a deep swig and forced herself to swallow despite the stinging heat. “Since you know so much, if you could take over as chieftess, that’d be great.”

  “Ha!” Nariellyn slung a leg over the couch’s armrest. “Even if I could kill all those beasties for trophies in my own headdress, the elders would choose a mudhoof over me.”

  Well, why did they choose me? Brooke stared down into the swirling steam. “What do I do? The people are angry enough to skin anything that looks like an Emberhawk, but another war would only amount to pointless bloodshed. I can’t get them to focus on helping the wounded and rebuilding before winter.”

  “Mmm. Hard to say.” Nariellyn scratched her wild hair. “They need to blow off steam somehow. I’m gonna need a bigger pipe.”

  Brooke glared at her. The only thing she didn’t need was a bigger pipe. “Thanks for the reminder that you’d be a terrible chief.”

  Nariellyn’s snaggletooth smile melted Brooke’s anxiety. “Someone’s gotta set the bar low enough for you to look good.”

  Brooke dipped her fingers in the tea and flicked them at her.

  “Hey, now! We’re running low on yaupon thanks to your addiction.” Nariellyn wiped her face. “What’ve they got outta that prisoner so far?”

  “Nothing,” Brooke grumbled. “Lysander’s an assassin. Apparently he’s been trained to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Well, he can’t keep his mind shut.” Nariellyn tapped her temple. “You paid him a visit yet?”

  Brooke stood and straightened the leather strips that hung like a split skirt below her belt. Lysander might just be the solution she needed. Maybe he knew the secrets of the dead goddess, or the weaknesses of his volatile tribe. He’d abdicated their blood-drenched throne, but perhaps she could convince him to reclaim it, then control him like the dog he was.

  If not, a public execution would sate her people’s bloodlust . . . for now.

  Jadenvive was a burned-out husk compared to the thriving treetop village Kira remembered from her first visit. She pushed her bandana further up her nose and grimaced at the scents when the wind stilled. Smoke. The sharp tang of spilled smother-coal slime. The dead.

  Kira ducked behind her brother’s back as a cart rumbled beside them. “Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked.

  Tekkyn glanced over his shoulder at her, then lifted a thick arm so the crowd parted and she could reclaim her place at his side. “I remember the path to the Great Hall quite well from when I was dragged there.”

  Kira frowned and pulled her hood further over her face. The glares bore down on her like a stranglehold. If Ryon hadn’t given her the scroll of invitation from the chieftess, they probably wouldn’t have made it through the front gate. Many citizens of Jadenvive didn’t hide their curiosity, their assumptions, their barely contained anger.

  “Why did you people help the blood-hawk? How could you?”

  “I heard they supplied the explosives. Every one of them should be in jail until this gets settled.”

  “Go home, umberhide, before I send you back to your precious Island in a body bag.”

  The drunk who’d said that last one had been silenced with a glare from Tekkyn, who looked like a badger-bear daring anyone to threaten its cubs.
They didn’t have time to explain to every passerby that Kira had slain the giant fiery hawk with shards from a shattered lift and a well-placed harpoon. That Tekkyn had protected orphans beneath the city’s roots as the explosions rained earth and ash down on them. That their little brother, Lee, had lost his life protecting an escape route for civilians.

  “Ryon will make sure we’re safe as soon as we make it to the Great Hall,” Kira murmured. “We’re under the chieftess’ protection.”

  “Assuming they let us in,” Tekkyn growled.

  Kira pushed up on her tiptoes to see above the heads of the crowd. The massive sequoia-wood pillars of the Great Hall stood unsinged, its banners with the five-pointed star of the Tribal Alliance waving in the wind. Men in carved masks guarded the front door, holding back a roiling crowd with the blunt ends of long spears. Protestors chanted and raised signs with Phoeran script and simple drawings of swords, skulls, and bleeding birds.

  Tekkyn reached for her hand and held it tight. “Stay close.”

  Kira gripped her pack with her free hand as her brother stormed through the crowd, pushing people aside when they didn’t move for him. Kira bit her lip and avoided angry gazes as Tekkyn marched right up to the closed double doors.

  He shouted over the chanting, “We’ve come at the request of the chieftess!”

  One of the guards faced them. His golden eyes flicked over both of them through the holes in his wooden mask. “Your summons?”

  Kira slung her pack from her shoulder and pulled the scroll out. It’d been smashed between her jar of cherry preserves and spare tunic, but the broken wax seal still clung to the parchment.

  The guard furrowed his brow at the seal, then unfurled the letter and glanced at the signature. Then he gestured upward and yelled something in Phoeran that Kira didn’t catch.

  Heavy doors creaked open just wide enough for Tekkyn to shoulder through and Kira to follow. The crowd erupted, and the doors shut behind her with a deep thud.

  Kira clung to her pack and looked up at the empty throne. The last time she’d been in this expansive room—complete with thick pillars, a long table, and unnerving taxidermy—she’d met the decorated Katrosi chieftess and feared for Tekkyn’s life. It was difficult to believe that Brooke now wanted them for some grand political purpose. Tekkyn might be a skilled swordsman, soldier, and Navakovrae Resistance spy, but she was just a farm girl whose hands seemed permanently stained from pitting countless cherries.