Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  In seven years, the government had utterly revolutionized Bregon’s relationship with the magen. And his father had undoubtedly had a hand in it all.

  There was a rush of air that set their sails billowing—almost like a celestial sigh—before the ironore gates glided open.

  Ramson felt as though he had stepped back in time, into an impossible memory, as the Blue Fort revealed itself to him. Before him rose the section of buildings that made up the Naval Academy, its courtyards made of solid stone, a wide set of steps leading to the quays where he’d spent many an afternoon as a child.

  Ships dotted the waters beneath the vast sprawl of courtyards and searock buildings that clung to the cliffs as though they had been formed by melding stone and sea. Their barge passed rows upon rows of gleaming Navy warships, anchored beneath the Blue Fort. It would only take a signal to launch them.

  At last, they rounded to the main section of the fort. Before them, searock pillars rose ten, twenty times the length of their barge, supporting square domes overhead. Sunlight filtered through the top, and the waters flowed lapis blue, carrying them forward.

  Ramson felt his chest tighten and something lodged in his throat, before he unstuck it and said in the coolest tone he could muster, “Welcome to the Blue Fort.”

  A memory flashed in his mind. The last time he’d come this way, he’d been barely tall enough to see over the side of the barge, afraid to hold the hand of the man who had become his father and ashamed of his yearning for the mother he’d left behind.

  Thirteen years, and he still felt like that boy, lost as a brig in a storm. If Ramson could turn back to tell him the truth of what would become of him—

  He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  The waterway ended at a set of wide marble steps the length of four or five of their barges. Royal Guards lined the steps, dressed in the same navy-blue, bronze-buttoned uniforms; upon seeing Sorsha’s flag, they saluted. This, Ramson recognized. It was the waterway for kings and admirals; one that he’d never been allowed to use.

  The water magen held out a hand and the barge drew neatly to the steps, rocking gently.

  Ramson’s heart thudded heavily against his chest as they disembarked and followed Sorsha and her procession of guards up the high marble steps. He was suddenly aware of how he appeared: dirty and disheveled, his clothes the same tunic and breeches he’d worn since Cyrilia. Of all the times he’d thought of returning to the place that had both made him and broken him, this wasn’t what he’d imagined.

  By his side, Ana’s dark eyes were steady, her chin set in that stubborn look he’d grown to know. Her hair was drawn in a tight bun, her tunic muddied and torn in places—but Ramson thought that despite it all, he’d never seen anyone more regal.

  Yet the Bregonian Courts, Ramson thought darkly, were a different matter altogether. The age-old Bregonian stories told that women bore ill omens. The highest positions in the kingdom were held by men, and a combination of superstition and tradition kept it so.

  Judging by Sorsha’s reactions to his taunts, nothing had changed in the last seven years.

  Ahead, the sound of boots stopped. Sorsha stood at the top of the steps, her petite outline framed against a set of searock doors. Her easy demeanor and wicked smile had vanished, leaving cold-cut cruelty on her face.

  She smirked at them. “I would welcome you to Godhallem,” she said, “but I don’t wish to give off the wrong impression. Guards!” She gestured with a hand, clipped her heels together, and grew stone-still.

  The doors swung open, and Ramson entered the place that had once made up his most desperate of dreams and his worst nightmares. With each step, he felt as though he were traveling back to his past, the blur of cold faces and cruel smiles and whispers behind his back accompanying his every move.

  But his gaze roved through the gathered crowd, the knowledge of that person standing in the same room as him pulling at every fiber in his body.

  And…there.

  Ramson went cold as he found himself looking into the merciless black eyes of Admiral Roran Farrald.

  Ana had never seen paintings of the inside of the Blue Fort, but the sight that met her eyes was even more regal than she could have imagined. Whereas the Salskoff Palace was all white marble and curved domes and gilded statues, the governing hall of the Bregonian Naval Headquarters was a collection of sharply cut pillars and polished searock walls, stone furnished with brass and bronze. The hall they stood in was square, with only two walls on either side of them. Directly ahead, the turquoise searock tapered off into sharp cliffs and open air. A breeze blew in, blue gossamer curtains billowing gently and open to the ocean hundreds of feet below.

  Godhallem. It meant “hall of gods.”

  Overhead hung a line of giant bronze bells. The wind brushed gently against the insides of their domes—large enough to fit an entire person within—and they seemed to tremble with an invisible force, filling the hall with their low, steady hum. Ramson had told her of these famous bells—the War Bells, which the Earth Court presided over. The lever hung below the carving of a stallion on the far left wall, as a tribute to the Bregonian ground soldier who had once single-handedly saved the kingdom and established this tradition.

  On the other end of the hall was the Sky Court, its wall bearing the symbol of an eagle. And beneath both symbols were rows of seats. Officials—men, Ana noticed—lounged beneath.

  Yet it was the center of Godhallem that drew her attention as they approached. Water flowed in from the open-air balcony, cutting a square around the center of the court before flowing back out. It rushed into a pool at the open end of the hall, which spilled over the edge and then disappeared, plunging into the ocean below.

  And on the small island at the center, like a little fortress in itself, was a raised dais that bore a throne. It seemed to be molded from a combination of ironore and searock, the blue and black intertwined like oil and water. Its arms were bronze, and upon it sat a boy.

  He looked to be several years younger than Ana. Hair so dark it appeared black spilled to his shoulders, framing his delicate face, a shade paler than the tanned complexions of most Bregonians Ana had met. He wore a navy-blue Bregonian doublet threaded through with gold, and atop his head sat a crown.

  This was the King, Ana realized with a sharp pang of surprise. King Darias Rennaron was smaller and frailer than she’d imagined. He was fourteen years of age now, but he still resembled a child. Above all, she was struck by the emptiness of his expression as his gaze met hers.

  For a moment, she thought he would react, thought she saw a spark in those eyes, the shifting gray of storm clouds, of rain.

  But just as quickly, the moment passed, and the King’s eyes flicked back to an empty spot on the back wall. He gave no other reaction.

  Beside the throne, a figure stepped forward, and immediately, the entire hall’s attention shifted to him.

  Ana recognized him instantly for who he was. That long, slender face, hawklike nose, cunning eyes and sandy hair—she could see traces of Ramson in the Admiral’s face, in every feature.

  Ahead of them, Sorsha seemed to straighten, the erratic stagger to her steps falling into neat, rhythmic clacks. She came to a standstill and lifted her hand in salute. “To His Royal Majesty the King and the Three Courts of Bregon, may the Gods of Old defend,” she recited in Bregonian. “I bring to you guests from Cyrilia.”

  The Admiral’s gaze swept over Ana, and she had the impression that she was being pulled under black, moonless waters. Whereas Ramson’s were a playful hazel, the Admiral’s were cold cut steel.

  “Guests,” the Admiral repeated from his place by the throne, his voice low and deep as a starless night. “Very well, Lieutenant, you may step aside.”

  Just like that, Sorsha was dismissed. The girl gave a sharp bow and melted into the shadows.

  On t
he throne, the boy king continued to gaze at them serenely, his lightless gray eyes as vacant as smoke. Ana felt a chill run through her. There was something about this arrangement that struck her as so…wrong. Where was the Queen Regent?

  Her stomach twisted as she turned her gaze back to the Admiral. Though he stood beneath the throne, the attention of the room focused on him. His expression held amusement whetted by cruelty. “Well then, nameless guests. I bid you introduce yourselves.”

  The balmy Bregonian air was suddenly cold against Ana’s skin. She knew her hair had come partially undone from its bun, and the plain tunic and breeches she wore felt like rags compared to the sharp gilded livery of the Three Courts. On either side, the highest-ranked men of Bregon watched and waited.

  Ana threw her shoulders back and stepped forward. “Your Royal Majesty,” she said, addressing the King. “Three Courts of Bregon. My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov, rightful Empress of Cyrilia. These are my allies.”

  King Darias only blinked. It was the Admiral who spoke. “Rightful Empress,” he repeated, and his eyes trailed her body once, up and down. A few laughs broke out from either side of the court, and Ana wanted to wrap her arms around herself.

  Instead, she lifted her chin a notch. “Yes,” she said. “Rightful Empress. And I seek an audience with your Courts today.”

  Roran Farrald swept a hand over the gilded throne. He wore a large gold ring on his left hand, which glimmered as it caught the light. “This, my dear girl, is the Blue Fort,” he said. “We entertain foreign ambassadors and the most powerful men from around the world in these halls. Not little girls in beggar’s clothes dreaming up fantasies of being empress.” He lifted his shoulders in a slow, mocking shrug. The badges on his silk uniform gleamed gold and silver and bronze, their lights flashing against the thin tunic and worn felt boots she had on.

  Words evaporated from Ana’s lips. A familiar fear curled itself around her stomach, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Throughout her childhood, she’d come to fear public events. All those eyes on her, the voices whispering, wrapping stories and lies around her. She wanted nothing more than to disappear, to run out those doors and never look back.

  But, Ana thought, that had never been an option. Fail, or try—the choice had always been hers.

  She swallowed, straightened, and held the Admiral’s gaze. “You must be mistaken, Admiral,” she said, her voice carrying across the hall, loud and clear. “For I am a girl, and I am standing in your halls. I only ask for an audience with the Bregonian government.” She turned, and this time spoke only to the King. “Your Royal Majesty. Please hear me out. I come seeking an alliance with you.”

  “I think not,” the Admiral said, and stepped in front of the throne. His hand went to the hilt of the great sword at his hip. “You come into these halls requesting an audience—an alliance—yet you bring in unwelcome guests.” He turned suddenly, and that was when his gaze slid to Ramson for the first time. “A traitor and deserter kneels among us. Guards, arrest Ramson Farrald.”

  * * *

  —

  It felt as though the ground were tilting beneath Ana.

  The slice of metal sounded all throughout the hall as the Royal Guards lining Godhallem drew their swords in unison. By her side, Linn reached for her daggers.

  Bewildered, Ana held up a hand. “Admiral—”

  A hand closed over her shoulder, warm and steady. “Trust me,” Ramson murmured. He stepped forward, positioning himself between the dais and her, misericord drawn. “I didn’t expect this warm a welcome,” he said, his voice growing sharp, “Admiral.”

  A shadow peeled off from the walls at the side of the hall. Sorsha drew her sword from its scabbard, flashing silver in the sunlight. “He’s mine,” she called out.

  “Kolst Imperatorya.” Kaïs’s voice was low, urgent, his hands on his two swords.

  “Ana,” whispered Linn. “We must fight.”

  Ana’s mind raced. Fighting could mean the end of a potential alliance before she even asked. In none of her negotiation classes back at the Salskoff Palace, the trials she had studied with Luka, had the requesting party ever shown force—on the foreign party’s soil, no less.

  And yet…Ana’s gaze darted to Ramson, standing before her, misericord raised. He’d barely gotten away from his last fight with Sorsha, and Ana doubted the Admiral would play fair.

  He’s just like me, Ramson had said to her on the boat when she’d asked how she could win over his father. To win, you have to make him an offer he can’t resist.

  The Ramson Quicktongue she’d met back at Ghost Falls, back when all of this had started, had seemed so different from the one she’d come to know. She thought back to their first meeting in that dacha, when she’d made her first Trade with him. What had he wanted, back then?

  Revenge. And…

  Something he wouldn’t find anywhere else.

  The answer came to her, so painfully obvious. It would be a risky move, and it could jeopardize their entire mission—or save them.

  Besides, if the Admiral wasn’t going to play by the rules, then why should she?

  “Bring the traitor to me,” the Admiral said, and Ana’s decision clicked into place.

  Sorsha’s sword flashed.

  Ana flung her Affinity out.

  Sorsha’s scream echoed in the hall as her body whipped back, slamming against several seats with court officials sitting in them. Her blade clattered to the ground, amid cries of panic and screeching metal as the officials overturned chairs to scramble out of the way.

  Ana pulled Sorsha back as easily as though she were a doll, dragging her across the polished searock floor until she was at Ana’s feet. With a flick in her mind, Sorsha was in the air, limbs splayed like those of a martyr, head tilted back so that the flesh of her neck was exposed.

  Red crept into the corners of Ana’s vision, and the familiar urge to hurt flickered beneath it all.

  She turned her focus to the Admiral. He held up a hand. Instantly, the shouts and sounds of swords being drawn died down as all of Godhallem turned to watch him.

  The Admiral was smiling. He looked at Ana, trailing his gaze up her body slowly, drinking her in as though she were a prized possession, an object in which he’d discovered renewed interest.

  Before, she might have felt disgust, even anger, at the way he looked at her. But now, Ana felt only triumph. Her ploy had worked; the Admiral had caught on to her Affinity, his hunger for her power almost palpable.

  Ana spread her palms. “Admiral, this man is a part of my court,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ramson’s head turn to her in surprise. “An attack on any of my allies is an insult to me. I will not accept that.” She leveled her gaze to King Darias. “Your Majesty, my apologies if I startled you. I mean no offense. Call off your guards. Negotiate with me. There must be something I can offer you and the Kingdom of Bregon.”

  The King looked at her blankly for a few moments, and then began to smile. It was a distorted smile, one so at odds with his pale, peaky face. “Negotiate,” he echoed, and the Royal Guards drew back, taking their posts again at the walls, swords sliding into scabbards. In the same breath, Ana let go of Sorsha. The girl gasped and stumbled several steps, massaging her throat.

  Several heartbeats passed as the hall watched the King, waiting. Ana stole a glance at Ramson. He stared ahead at the throne, a small crease between his eyebrows. “Your Majesty,” he called. “Perhaps it would be best if the Queen Regent Arsholla were present as well. We wish to abide by the rules.”

  Admiral Farrald moved forward, each step slow and deliberate as he kept his gaze on Ana. She recalled seeing a similar hunger in Ramson’s eyes when they had first met. Yet Roran Farrald’s was different: older, crueler, more wicked.

  “There is no need. Our Majesty has spoken,” he said, and Ana wondered
whether she was imagining the contempt in his words. “We will entertain your request to negotiate. But first, on behalf of the Sea Court and the Royal Navy, I must punish those who fail at their duties.”

  The Admiral stopped next to his daughter. In a single, sudden motion, he drew a blade from his belt and slashed it across her throat.

  Blood sprayed into the air.

  Ana shouted.

  Sorsha slumped to the floor as blood gushed from her gaping wound, hot and slick. It poured down the skin of her neck like wine from an uncorked bottle, soaking the gold thread of her collar and darkening her navy-blue tunic.

  Nausea coiled through Ana’s stomach. Somehow, Kaïs’s voice found her. Power is a double-edged sword.

  Ana looked down at the girl bleeding out in front of her, who had called her a beggar empress and tried to hurt Ramson. Instead of hatred, she felt only an overwhelming pity.

  She drew a deep breath and forced the maelstrom from her head to clear. Her mind settled on her Affinity, drawing it out long and sharp. She narrowed her view until there was only the blood pouring from Sorsha’s neck, bright as molten metal.

  Ana burrowed, deeper and deeper, until she found the source of the opening, the severed skin and the blood that spilled from within.

  Carefully, she wove her Affinity into the flow of blood, and began to direct it back, back, into skin and flesh and veins.

  Sorsha’s slashed collar gave a glimpse of her skin, tanned from her days in the sun—yet crisscrossed with white scars around her collarbone. She wore a black necklace at the base of her throat, and Ana caught a glance as she focused her Affinity on the girl’s neck, applying the healing techniques Kaïs had taught her.

  Gradually, the bleeding stopped. Ana exhaled and leaned back, letting her Affinity recede. The world slowly swam back into view: Sorsha’s body on the floor before her, chest rising and falling gently. The light streaming in from across the hall. The carvings of the eagle, stallion, and seadragon on either side, the Bregonian officials half standing, half gawking beneath them.