Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  Ana touched a finger to Yuri’s wrist. It was warm. Beneath the pale, freckled skin she’d known her entire life, something fluttered. A pulse: weak, but fighting.

  “You saved mine,” she replied.

  From somewhere beyond the shop came a faint rumbling: a thrumming sound, like footsteps or hoofbeats. Hundreds of them, marching.

  Raisa looked up, her eyes fierce through the shine of her tears. “The Imperial Inquisition,” she gritted. “We’d all wondered when they would reach this town. Go, Kolst Pryntsessa.”

  “And you,” Ana said, looking at the torn wreckage of Raisa’s shop. Searching for a glimpse of the gold-haired girl who was Yuri’s sister; the snow Affinite who had led them here. “What will you do?”

  “We have long prepared for this,” Raisa replied. “I have a wagon that will take the children to safety. Go, Kolst Pryntsessa. It is you they want.”

  Ana hesitated. First Shamaïra, now Yuri and his family. She despised this, that she was constantly taking so much without the power to protect. That her very presence put those who were willing to help her in danger. That the only thing she could offer in return was the far-off promise that, once she was Empress, things would be different—by which time thousands of lives might have already been lost.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she wasn’t even sure to whom she spoke or what she was sorry for.

  A gust of sweet, cold wind swept into the shop, stirring the chimes above the door. Linn stood in what remained of the doorway, her black tunic and hair fluttering in the breeze. In just a moon, the girl’s face had thinned, the rings dark beneath her eyes and her chin-length hair ragged. She looked frighteningly frail, but when she moved, Ana recognized the grace and fluid strength of the warrior who was her friend.

  “Ana,” Linn said. In three light steps, she closed the gap between them.

  Ana took her friend’s hands in her own. “Linn,” she breathed. “How did you find me?”

  “The Redcloak base,” Linn replied. “You’d mentioned to me before that it was here, in Goldwater Port.”

  A figure stood several steps from them, still as stone, his double swords strapped to his waist. It was the yaeger from Kyrov. The sight of his face brought back painful memories—a small girl, standing in the middle of a deserted square. You will not hurt her.

  “You.” Ana’s Affinity surged with her anger.

  “Ana, I can explain,” Linn said quickly. “He is not with them. He saved my life.”

  The yaeger was silent throughout their exchange. His face remained cold, as though cut of ice. Only those pale eyes of his flickered, like blue fires. “If you want to live, we need to make for the docks right now,” he said. “The Imperial Patrols’ practice is to seal off all roads by land. Therefore, that leaves us the sea.”

  Screams rose from the streets outside, followed by the sound of an explosion. They were running out of time.

  Ana made a swift decision. “If you’re lying, I will hurt you in all the ways I’ve wanted to since that day.” She thought she saw something flicker in the yaeger’s eyes, like the smallest wind across a flame. Ana turned to Linn and nodded. “We make for the docks.”

  They stumbled out into the streets, into chaos. Raisa’s restaurant was not the only location to have suffered an explosion. All along the winding streets of Goldwater Port, black columns of smoke plumed into the air, and dust blotted out the sunlight. People stumbled through the streets, some disoriented, others crying out. The crowd was already pushing forward, in the direction of the docks.

  Fighting against the tide, Ana turned and looked back.

  An entire army of Imperial Patrols marched toward them from down the road. Their cloaks glimmered ghostly amid the smoke, a sea of white that stretched far beyond their street. Even as Ana watched, the kapitan at the front—an Inquisitor—raised his hand, shouted something, and brought his arm down sharply.

  Behind him, two other Inquisitors raised their fists, which started to glow red.

  The crowds began shoving forward in a frenzy, scrambling to get away from the incoming army. Somewhere amid the commotion, Ana heard Linn call her name; the throng of people had pulled them apart.

  “Linn!” she shouted, but her voice was drowned out by a high-pitched whistling in the air.

  She looked up to see streaks of fire falling from the skies.

  Ana dove aside as the fireballs smashed into the streets. She landed on her side, debris showering on the ground all around her. Her wound gave a sharp throb as the stitches stretched, and she sensed blood warming her shirt as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She was in a narrow side alley between two dachas, pressed against a wall with nowhere to go. Dust from the explosion filled the air. She could make out the shapes of people streaming by on the main road, hear the metal of swords somewhere near her.

  Pain seared in her back; sweat broke out on her forehead as she wrangled her Affinity to concentrate on her reopened wound and force the blood to clot. Her vision swam in and out of focus, and there was a hollow ringing in her ears.

  Through the blinding smoke that swirled in the alleyway, a shadow cut into view.

  “There you are,” came a voice, sounding very distant. A shadow fell over her; a pair of hands hauled her up by her elbows. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  The world focused, and it took her a moment to piece together what she was seeing.

  “Hello, Witch,” said Ramson.

  He was panting, sweat slicking his hair, his cheeks scratched. A thin trickle of blood ran down his chin, but it was him, truly him, hazel eyes and long nose and crooked grin and all.

  Behind them, the main road had grown quiet but for the sound of hooves and heels, fast approaching.

  Ramson’s hand tightened around hers. Pressing a finger to his lips, he led her through the settling dust. Ana barely caught a glimpse of riders and their horses before Ramson pulled her into an empty dacha.

  Shutting the wooden door as best as he could behind him, Ramson guided her to the closest wall. Ana slumped against it gratefully. In the silence, she could hear their harried breaths rising and falling as one, feel the warmth of Ramson’s hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, holding her in place. It was dim and stark inside, the floor strewn with glass from a shattered window across from them. Sounds drifted in, and Ana could make out flashes of silver armor and white cloaks. They were surrounded; it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

  Ramson’s eyes darted around the dacha, looking for ways out—but there was only the window and the door. “How’s that Affinity of yours looking?” he whispered.

  She tried to steady her breathing. “Even I can’t beat an entire army of Whitecloaks, Ramson.”

  His gaze landed on her face momentarily, and he cocked a grin. “Must we always meet in the direst of situations?” he whispered, and she found her lips curling in a smile. His hand moved to stroke her waist, where her shirt was dark with blood. “What happened here?”

  She shivered. He was probably trying to distract her as he came up with a plan, and she hated to admit that she was so exhausted, it was working. “The Redcloak meeting went poorly,” she said with a grimace. “It became an assassination attempt.”

  Ramson’s hands tightened around her. “Gods be damned,” he swore. “I went looking for you that night.”

  “And I you.” She chuckled, and then winced as her wound throbbed. “I guess we were meant to miss each other.”

  At that moment, something drew her attention—a sight that sent a deep chill plunging through her heart.

  Outside, the procession of Imperial Patrols had come to a stop. At the far end of the street, a figure sat astride a valkryf, almost perfectly framed by the jagged edges of the broken window. Even from afar, her skin glowed an otherworldly golden sheen, her eyes the pale green of the Rushoyt Ice
Lakes of the East, her hair glistening bright and black as liquid night.

  Morganya, Empress of Cyrilia, looked like a Deity among humans as she faced her army beneath a sky of gathering storm clouds. She raised a hand in command, each gesture almost ethereal. Her lips moved, and an entire army sprang to action.

  “They’re going to interrogate each house,” Ana said, flaring her Affinity.

  Ramson drew his misericord. His profile cut sharp against the dimness as he crossed the room to the other side of the door, his muscles tensed as he shifted his stance. “You ready, Witch?”

  Outside, there was a flurry of movement, the harsh sound of fists pounding down doors. It wasn’t moments until she sensed a figure approaching.

  The door creaked open.

  Ana lashed out with her Affinity.

  And froze.

  The man outlined in the smoke and swirling shadows put a finger to his lips. The light from the broken window illuminated his pale prayer robes, and she caught the flash of his bald forehead, the whites of his eyes that bulged from his thin face. She was looking, Ana realized, into the face of the Palace alchemist, Pyetr Tetsyev.

  He’d changed since they’d last seen each other over a moon ago, when he’d saved her life by feeding her a paralysis poison and declaring her dead in front of Morganya. His cheekbones were sunken, the dark bags beneath his eyes making them look even larger.

  Still, she’d learned to see that face as that of her parents’ murderer.

  “You,” Ana hissed, but Tetsyev slipped inside, blocking the open doorway behind him. He raised his hands.

  “Please, Kolst Pryntsessa, I don’t have much time.” His voice was as thin and breathless as she remembered it, but beneath it was a sense of quiet urgency.

  “How did you find us?” Ramson demanded. He remained where he was, weapon half-raised.

  “I have been searching for you,” Tetsyev said, “but I can assure you that nobody else knows you’re here, and I intend to keep it that way. Now, listen carefully. Once Morganya rounds up the non-Affinites in this area, she’s going to move on. As soon as she does, you must take to the back alleys. Make for the docks.”

  Ana narrowed her eyes. “Why are you helping us?”

  “Because I need your help in return.” Tetsyev brought his hands together, as though in prayer. “I saved your life that night, because I knew the Empire would need you someday.” The words sent shivers up Ana’s spine. “The time has come. Morganya has purged the Salskoff Palace of dissenting councilmembers; the rest she continues to influence under her Affinity to the mind. Her Imperial Inquisition sweeps across the land.”

  “I know,” Ana said quietly. Her voice rang hollow to her ears.

  “Ah, but there is something you don’t know. Something that could change the tides of this war, forever. Something that could change this world.” His gaze focused on her with sharp intent. “You and I both know that Morganya is not interested in making a better, fairer world for Affinites. She uses that to justify her ruthless hunger for more power—always, more power.” Tetsyev closed his eyes briefly, and Ana thought of what he’d told her once, that he and Morganya had known each other for a long, long time. “Her quest for power has led her to uncover a powerful artifact in Bregon.”

  Bregon. Ana froze, Shamaïra’s words whispering to her. For your path, Little Tigress, I see an ocean.

  “What kind of an artifact?” she breathed.

  Tetsyev lowered his voice. “I have heard that it can bestow Affinities unto its bearer. In alchemy, we have blackstone, which inhibits Affinities. Yaegers can manipulate existing powers. But this thing…this artifact seems to create it.”

  “That’s impossible.” If what Tetsyev was saying was true, then it was a dangerous weapon—and it would make its user powerful beyond imagination.

  Tetsyev shook his head. “It does not make sense, under the laws of alchemy. The source of power in this world is finite. To give an Affinity to someone who does not already possess it…to give someone multiple Affinities…it must come at a terrible cost.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the window and then back to Ana. “You know the lengths she is willing to go in order to solidify her power.” His eyes glittered, suddenly dark. “She is here to destroy anyone in her way.”

  From across the room, Ramson spoke. “Well, what is this artifact? Where in Bregon can we find it?”

  “It seems to have existed for many years already, hidden away and unbeknownst to the world. But someone made her aware of it when she took the throne, and she has been pursuing it relentlessly since. I do not know it, but I have seen its creations, an experiment sent from Bregon consisting of an Affinite with multiple powers.” He shut his eyes briefly, as though trying to block a memory out. “You must find a way to warn Bregon. If Morganya acquires it, then she will be unstoppable.”

  Through the half-open door, footsteps thundered past; voices drifted on the wind. Tetsyev paused to listen. “I must leave you now,” he said. “I will inform them there was no one in this dacha.”

  “Wait.” Ana swallowed, hating that she needed to ask anything of him. “If you have news of the Palace…are Kapitan Markov and Lieutenant Henryk safe?”

  Tetsyev paused, looking over his shoulder. “They are,” he said softly. “They await your orders upon your return.”

  Before she could say anything else, he turned and swept the door shut behind him. The last that Ana saw of him were his eyes, wide and pale, lingering on her.

  Ramson crossed the room to her. He was breathing hard, his gaze narrowed as he glanced at the door where the alchemist had stood just seconds ago. “We’re about to find out if Tetsyev was lying,” he said, his grip tightening on his weapon. “Ready?”

  Through the window, Ana watched Tetsyev hurry to Morganya’s side in the distance. Their exchange seemed to last forever. The seconds trickled by. Ana held her breath.

  At last, Tetsyev bowed and stepped aside.

  Her relief was short-lived. Ana watched as Imperial Patrols brought several civilians toward where Morganya stood, lining them up in a row. She had a terrible premonition of what was to happen.

  She could stop this. She was the only one who had the power to stop this.

  She could try to end it all, right now.

  “Ana.” Ramson’s voice cut through the silence, as though he could hear her thoughts.

  “She’s right there, Ramson.” She clenched her fists as the wound in her back gave another sharp throb. “I could—”

  “No.” Ramson closed the gap between them. “There are probably a hundred Imperial Patrols here, Ana. I’ll fight you if I must, but I’m not risking losing you again.”

  Her eyes stung—whether from his words, or from the scene outside, or both, she couldn’t tell. In the distance, Morganya raised her hands, and the men and women before her fell to their knees. They held still, rigid under the control of Morganya’s flesh Affinity. Desperately, Ana scanned their faces, her heart jumping to her throat as she searched for a glimpse of red hair, of gold ponytails. She hated herself for the slightest loosening of her stomach that followed; was it fair that she should feel relief that these were strangers instead of her friends? Was it fair that she was letting them die to save her own life? That promise that things would change once she was Empress had never seemed so distant in this moment, as Ana stood by and watched six lives await their deaths.

  Ramson exhaled, a sharp sigh. In a sudden motion, he pulled Ana forward, and his arms closed tightly around her. He was comforting her, but also sending her a message: that if she wanted to get to Morganya, then first she had to go through him.

  The civilians’ pleas drifted to her through the open window as their empress raised her other hand and brought it down.

  Flesh tore. Bodies fell. Blood warmed Ana’s senses, growing white-hot against her Affinity as it snaked across the cob
blestones. Ana held very still, but she forced herself to watch all of it, to remember this moment.

  Morganya lifted her head, and this time, her words were faint but audible. “Let it be known what happens to traitors and oppressors who refuse to bow to me,” she said, and swung her horse around. “Forward.”

  The images of the bodies and the blood seared into Ana’s mind, remaining even after the hooves and footsteps of the Imperial Inquisition faded.

  Ramson stepped back. His hands were tentative against her shoulders as he searched her face for clues.

  Ana met his gaze. “One day, I’m going to kill her,” she said quietly.

  Ramson nodded. “I know.” He held out his hands. “But for now, we need to get out of here.”

  The streets of Goldwater Port were empty when they emerged. Quietly, they slipped into the deserted back alleys, Ramson’s steps quick and sure as he led them forward. Overhead, the sky had darkened, the peaceful, golden glow of the morning having given way to the smell of a storm. The air grew thick with the stench of smoke. Gradually, there came screams and shouts, drifting to them on briny winds.

  The port unfurled around the next corner: a scene of chaos in the impending tempest. Ramson led them to the edge of the water, where waves lashed at the stone quays, threatening to overturn ships and boats of all shapes and sizes. Abandoned fishing nets were strewn about the docks, wooden crates of the morning’s catch splayed on the ground. People ran to and fro on the docks, crying and calling out to each other. Fishermen herded their families into their barges while those without boats stood on the jetties, begging for passage.

  “Wait for me here,” Ramson said, and turned and ran down the length of the jetty to a large black boat anchored at the end.

  The sound of a horn rippled through the air. Ana’s blood chilled as people streamed out from the streets facing the port, shouting and stumbling in their panic. From behind, herding them like a flock of sheep, emerged the Imperial Patrols.