A small price to pay, it seems, when the Torrent has places to be.
“Dropping from superluminal in three. Two. One. Mark,” Engineering announces.
Once again, there’s no noise or snap or change in the air. We drop like a stone back into sublight, and the screens around us flicker as they start absorbing every last drop of data about the ship’s surroundings as fast as possible.
“We’ve exited superluminal on target,” Navigation calls across the bridge. Silon pulls up the readings they hand off, the sector map spilling over the screens of her command station. I feel my buried panic start to simmer and clench my hands, trying my damnedest to keep the cuffs from rattling. I fix my eyes on Ettian’s square shoulders and the sprawl of ships visible over them—the mantle of his command, now at his fingertips.
The emperor has arrived at the battlefront.
CHAPTER 10
Within a minute of our arrival, logistics rear their ugly head. “Now that all that’s settled,” Silon says, rising from her chair, “we can finally get the prisoner set up in his cell.”
And oh, the panic kicks up to a boil now, reaching back around my throat like an old friend. I’ve gotten so used to people forgetting to treat me like a proper captive that I’d almost forgotten myself how I really should be treated. I hadn’t even factored that in when Ettian announced his intention to bring me to the front with him. How much of my grandiose vision of tearing the Archon rebellion apart from the inside have I hung on the outrageous degree of freedom the emperor has granted me so far?
Fortunately it’s the emperor who comes to my rescue. “Absolutely not,” Ettian says firmly. I try to keep myself from looking too pleased about it. Not only is he favoring me, he’s doing so against the express wishes of a critical subordinate. As captain of the Torrent, Silon has an entire cityship under her sway, and if she’s not thrilled with the emperor’s decisions, that resentment will no doubt trickle down to the people under her command.
“I’m concerned for the prisoner’s safety,” Ettian continues. “There have been attempts on his life already. Worse than that, the people I’ve entrusted to guard him have not done their due diligence—sometimes to a suspicious degree. At present, Wen Iffan is the only person who I’m certain can guard him competently.”
Silon’s suspicious eyes find a new target. “Ah yes, the famous Flame Knight. Not an official title, or so I’ve heard. But I’ve heard plenty of other interesting things about this one.”
“Good things, I hope?” Wen asks—maybe because Ettian’s praise has bolstered her confidence. I catch her stopping herself from glancing sidelong at Esperza.
“Interesting things,” Silon repeats after a noticeable pause. “Remind me what her rank is again, Your Majesty?”
Ettian’s jaw tightens. Esperza’s brows knit together. A hint of a blush creeps into Wen’s unburnt cheek. “She doesn’t hold one,” Ettian admits after a too-long beat.
“Like I said. Interesting.”
Okay, I like Silon. She’s doing my job for me, and being extremely smart about it. She can’t insult the emperor directly, but she can do the next best thing, running her critical fingers through his most questionable policy decisions. On Rana, it seemed like cleverness to let Wen operate rogue, but now he’s brought her to a dreadnought—and of all dreadnoughts, one run by a woman who seems to thrive on formality and order.
The fact that Silon seems to hold a continental bloodright is just the icing on top of the cake. It means Ettian can’t replace her with a more compliant captain, not when he risks offending members of his own frail gentry. I remember the upturned faces that filled the Archon court at the party last night, all the people he was trying so desperately to impress. If they’re anything like Umber governors, they want assurances that he’ll serve them well. One persnickety captain with continental bloodright might erode all the goodwill he’s built so far.
But before I can get too pleased with myself, Commodore Esperza steps in. “Now, hold on. You’re telling me that this girl’s not ranked?”
“Well, why should she be?” Silon shrugs. Wen’s spine goes a notch stiffer.
“For starters, she just flew that mission. In fact, she just flew the linchpin of that mission,” Esperza says, a hint of fury showing in the tightness of her jaw. “Which isn’t even the first mission she’s flown in the service of this resistance. She’s been working as the emperor’s operative for over a month now—and from the reports I’ve gotten, she’s been pretty damn good at it. She’s a hell of a pilot, enough so that she’s entrusted with the emperor’s life when it comes to secreting him out of his capital. That role should go to a ranking officer. And given how committed this kid seems to be to our mission, it’s…”
Esperza catches herself mid-rant, flicking a guilty glance sidelong at Ettian. She knows he’s been under attack since the moment he stepped onto Silon’s bridge, and she’d clearly meant to ally herself with him against her disgruntled subordinate.
But I also realize the nerve this must have struck with her. Adela Esperza wasn’t Archon-born and had no stake in the future of the Archon Empire until she had the misfortune of befriending one of its knights and getting swept up in its bullshit. Now she’s not only a ranking officer, but she holds the reins of an entire fleet of commandeered dreadnoughts flying in the name of Ettian emp-Archon. That glimmer of idolatry I saw when Wen reunited with Esperza is a two-way channel. Esperza sees herself in Wen Iffan.
And now she’s found out that a girl who’s given so much to the Archon resistance already hasn’t received so much as a title in return.
The commodore draws herself tall with a deep breath, squaring up into a military stance that looks a tad ridiculous on someone so unconcerned with formality. “Your Majesty,” Esperza says. “With your permission, I’d like to grant Wen Iffan the rank of lieutenant. I understand she hasn’t received formal military training,” the commodore admits, cutting off Silon’s attempt to object with a dismissive gesture, “but I would be willing to take her under my wing on my own time to fill in the gaps.”
I catch Silon grumbling something that sounds like “With what time?” but it doesn’t seem to reach Ettian’s ears. Wen’s fixed the emperor with a sweetheart-at-a-carnival-game look, begging him with her eyes to accept the commodore’s offer.
But Ettian’s focus has landed on me. “I’m not sure that will be possible, given the situation with our prisoner.”
Silon takes an eager step forward. “Your Majesty, I assure you that the Torrent’s brig will be more than adequate to contain the prisoner while Iffan goes about her duties. We have facilities that—”
Ettian cuts her off with a hand gesture, and Silon is enough of a stickler for formalities that it works. “Gal emp-Umber is not some common prisoner. We can’t afford to toss him into a cell and call it a day. And as I’ve said already, Wen Iffan is the only one I trust to guard him. Perhaps if you earn that trust, we can reach a new arrangement.”
“I apologize, Your Majesty, but I try to run a tight ship, and I need not mention that this is wartime. I can’t tolerate an Umber agent running free on the Torrent.”
“If I could interject,” I say at last, and everyone’s surprised enough that I dive haphazardly into the space I’ve carved in the conversation. “If the emperor wants to be reassured that I’m looked after at all times, perhaps he should be the one looking after me.”
I know in an instant that I’ve rutted up royally. I thought the absurdity of my suggestion would help frame how ridiculous Ettian’s stipulations for my safety are, but Esperza immediately gets a look in her eye that I don’t like. “A high-priority prisoner shadowing the emperor is about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but I suppose the fact that you made that suggestion means you’re probably witless enough that you won’t be too much trouble.” The commodore’s gaze shifts between me and Wen. “Iffan alone bearin
g the weight of guarding this kid seems only a few ticks less stupid. There are better ways she can use her time. And as long as the Umber heir is aboard my ship, I want to have eyes on him.”
Silon shoots her a look that begs her not to say what Esperza is almost certainly about to say.
“How about this? The prisoner sticks with Iffan. Iffan trains under me. I’ll be able to directly monitor both his whereabouts and what information he has access to at all times.”
“I can’t even begin to list how many security codes that could violate,” Silon mutters, pinching her brow.
But I already know her objection has come too late. Ettian’s nodding, Wen’s smirking, Esperza’s got a look of sly satisfaction, and I’m stuck glancing between the three of them and wondering how I just managed to effectively quash any plans I’d begun to formulate.
In the palace, I had Wen’s ear, and with Ettian’s attention too scattered by the war, I had a chance of pulling her away from his side. But now she’s got Esperza’s attention, which means I’ve got Esperza’s attention, which means I’m not going to get away with shit. I have no illusions about being able to pull any shenanigans under the nose of that ex-pirate, especially not with her imprinting so strongly on Ettian’s precious Flame Knight.
Instead of slipping a step closer to the emperor, instead of chaining myself to the hand that will shape the course of this war, I’ve effectively doubled my guard.
I catch my new best friend Deidra con-Silon’s pained gaze, and I can’t help but mirror it.
* * *
—
The question of where I’m going to sleep is an entirely different protracted argument that I sulk through, stubbornly silent. This ship wasn’t built to hold prisoners anywhere but the brig, and it takes an entire team of Silon’s security officers to confirm that one of the suites built for the Torrent’s more esteemed guests has adequate locks on the doors and nothing dangerous hidden in any of the drawers. I’m installed in one room of the suite, with Wen set up in the other.
My new digs are sparse but sleek, clearly designed for a visiting dignitary or a high-level officer. No decorations—nothing for me to smash or hurt myself with, I suppose. I guess I’ll just have to take my impulses out on other people.
Good thing Wen’s next door.
The core security team has disabled my door’s functionality so I can’t lock myself in. Wen gets to keep hers, a decision I understand but resent all the same. I have to jam myself against the sliding mechanism just to wrestle the thing open, and I’m in the midst of doing so when I nearly topple headlong into the emperor himself.
Ettian takes a startled step backward, then regains his princely composure. “I came to see how you were settling in,” he says, though he sounds unsure about whether that was his real motivation or not.
I spread my arms, gesturing to the vast expanse of my empty room. “Just finished unpacking, as you can see.”
He looks pained. I’m glad of it. “I’m sorry—”
“Careful. Anyone could be listening.”
Now he looks like he’s about to grab me by the throat, and I hate that I’m a little into it. “I’m sorry it caught you off-guard,” Ettian continues, apparently heedless of anyone who might catch him groveling to his prisoner. “I know it must have been terrifying.”
“Not the first time I thought I was about to be marched to my execution. Probably not the last either.” I shrug, brushing past him and throwing myself down on a couch in the suite’s common area. “At least I was dressed, unlike the last time someone snatched me from my rooms.” I pass him a coy look that dares him to get swept up in the memory of that haphazard night—the one where he set off a mob of streakers and plucked me from the academy head’s private quarters. He’d shown up like some sort of action hero, busting through the window in an ascension rig and no shirt.
I’d been dressed in a robe and slippers, caught completely off-guard. I’d asked for a rescue and received an unholy reckoning of chaos descending upon the walls that dared to trap me. Maybe I should have noticed then—Ettian emp-Archon never did anything small.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Ettian says, blatantly ignoring the way I’ve draped myself over the furniture.
“Oh, now? Now you want to talk?” I wave a hand in a gesture I hope captures the enormity of the Torrent around us. “These walls are probably bugged. That delightful dreadnought captain—she’s my new favorite person, by the way—is probably listening to every word we say.”
Ettian shakes his head. “These rooms are meant for governors and imperials. It would be a massive security risk to have them under surveillance.”
Interesting. Excellent to know. I really ought to thank him for it—how easily he spills this useful information at the slightest nudge. “So the next person who decides it might be fun to try their hand at killing me is going to get away with it, huh?”
“Wen and I are the only ones with access to the outside door of this suite.”
So if I get myself past that door, Wen or the emperor himself are the only people who can get me back through it. Also good to know. “Fine,” I mutter, making a valiant effort to maintain the ruse of my consternation.
Ettian casts an uneasy glance over at Wen’s sealed door. She locked herself in there as soon as security finished briefing her about our setup, muttering about how her head was about to break in half. It seems that between the drunken late night and the early call time for this mission, she’s been running with about an hour of sleep in the tank. The fact that she flew the mission flawlessly—apart from the issues with her copilot—is…well, terrifying, to be honest.
The only thing more terrifying is what she’d do to us if we woke her up. Pity, because I’m both completely certain what Ettian wants to discuss and absolutely sure I won’t be able to have a levelheaded conversation about it.
“Last night,” he starts, and just those two words transform him. He’s not the young ruler who squared his shoulders against the fleet unfurled before him, not the princely diplomat wrangling support at his gala with a glittering crown perched on his brow. He’s just a boy with an uncertain hope.
And a nick on his neck, barely visible over his collar, where less than a day ago I pressed a piece of glass to his throat.
Ettian takes a deep breath and starts over. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says. His eyes are locked on mine, unwavering, as if he’s daring himself to see how long he can hold my gaze.
“I’m not,” I blurt, regretting it instantly. I only meant to rile him, but the moment it leaves my mouth, I hear the exact reason I shoved him away in the tunnels laced through the words. I should regret last night. I do, in some ways. But it’s less that I regret what happened, more that I regret what it revealed about me.
What happened proved I can’t use him like that, just as much as it proved how much I’d love to use him like that.
“I mean, look, I was drunk,” I continue, trying to salvage this conversation before it even begins. “I shouldn’t have…Well, you shouldn’t have, since you’re my ruttin’ jailer and all. Well, not my ruttin’ jailer. Good thing this room isn’t bugged, huh?”
Ettian looks about two seconds from steam starting to leak from his ears. Say something, I dare him with my eyes. Yell at me. Full volume. Wake Wen up.
Because I need something to get between the two of them after the debacle on the bridge. Last night, I thought I finally had her coming around. I did everything right—reminded her of her mother and the mission she left behind, put her in my shoes, living with a similar failure. But all of that progress hinged on her insecurity about her role in Ettian’s administration, an insecurity all but codified by her lack of a title.
And now—or at least once the paperwork clears—she’s Lieutenant Iffan, reporting directly to Commodore Esperza herself. I’m not sure Ettian even realized how close he was
to losing her until Silon highlighted how ridiculous it was that Wen had no title and the commodore started taking him to task over it. But the crux of the matter is that he could give her a title. He could give her the galaxy if he wanted.
What do I have to give?
The answer hits me a second later like a glint in the smithereens of my former plans. Ettian may have saved himself for the time being, but time is just the thing he lacks. Now that he’s arrived at the war front, he’ll be swallowed into the mechanics of running his campaign, most likely while butting heads with General Iral and the rest of his staff. I’ve known this for ages: no gift in the galaxy is enough to replace his genuine attention.
And Ettian’s just made sure I’m tethered to Wen at all times.
There’s one step further I can take this. I glance up at Ettian, letting tension wind my joints tight, dissolving my comfort and making it look like it’s entirely his fault. “It’d be better for both of us if we try to cultivate some distance. For your image. For my…peace of mind.”
There was no lie in the way he kissed me last night. Ettian cares for me beyond reason. He did even when he knew who I was and who he was. He…well, he was once very clear about his feelings, long after he found out about my identity, and it doesn’t seem like they’ve changed since then. So when I tell him to back off, he does the only thing anyone who truly cares for me would do.
“Of course,” he says without hesitation. “Whatever you need. Just promise me you’ll reach out if anything happens or anyone tries to give you trouble. You can trust Wen to get a message to me. And I swear these rooms are the safest on the ship for you.”
Oaths of Legacy Page 10