Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  Abruptly, they turned and hobbled away.

  Linn’s hands went to her thighs, and two more knives appeared in her fists. She crouched by where Ramson lay, her eyes trained on the yaeger. The man waited across the hall by a broken marble pillar.

  Kerlan and his bodyguard’s fading footsteps were smothered by another sound: a rhythmic rumbling that echoed across the domed ceilings and broken marble façades. Ramson recognized these—he had heard them many, many years ago, at the Blue Fort. These were the footsteps of an army. He racked his brain for the security protocols of the Salskoff Palace. In the case of an attack, the Palace guards held the first line of defense until the reinforcements came. And the reinforcements were not just any ordinary guards. These were the Empire’s elite fighters and strongest warriors.

  The Whitecloaks were coming.

  “Can you move?” It took Ramson a moment to realize Linn was addressing him.

  He pushed himself up, and his chest felt like it was on fire. A groan escaped from deep in his throat. “Yes.”

  Linn plucked something from her waist: a small leather pouch, camouflaged among all the weapons. The contents inside clinked gently as she slipped it into Ramson’s hands. “Bring these to Ana. They are the evidence she needs.”

  “You don’t expect me to leave you to fight alone?”

  “Go,” she replied, without looking back at him. The yaeger advanced on them, swords held at his sides, reflecting the light from the chandelier above.

  Ramson climbed to his feet, the broken pieces of marble and crushed flooring crunching beneath him as he stood. His chest bled where Kerlan had stabbed him, but the wound wasn’t deep enough to kill him.

  He would live—at least until he reached Ana.

  He glanced back. Linn remained in the same defensive stance, her knives steady in her hands, her gaze focused with sharp intent on the approaching yaeger.

  It was a fight between a sparrow and an eagle.

  For a moment, Ramson thought of calling back to Linn with a Kemeiran blessing. But blessings and prayers were for the fainthearted, and Ramson had never believed in leaving your fate to the gods.

  Besides, he would thank her in person after all of this.

  Ramson turned and sprinted down the ruins of the Hall of Deities.

  A stunned silence filled the Grand Throneroom. All around, expressions of confusion and shock were mirrored across the faces of Imperial Councilmembers and guests alike. Ana stared at Luka, struggling to process his words.

  Only, instead of the sunken and gaunt shell of a man her brother had been a second before, Luka was sitting up straight, his face alight with triumph. And he was looking back at her. His grin widened to a full-on conspiratorial beam as he put a finger on his lips, and then, just for that moment, they were small children again, protecting each other from a world of cruelty. It was their act of defiance. Their secret.

  The Throneroom burst into cacophony. Imperial Councilmembers stood in their seats, some leaning over the mahogany banister, calling out to Luka and Morganya, whose expression was frozen in a look of horror. The remaining guards at the dais appeared just as dazed as they raised their hands to placate the crowd.

  We won.

  The thought stunned Ana so much that she could only stare at the scene unraveling before her. Morganya would be tried for treason and murder; the poisons that would indict Morganya and the antidote that would save Luka’s life were in the apothecary’s wing.

  The guards holding Ana looked just as uncertain; they shifted their stances, lowering their blades slightly from the now-heir to their empire.

  Ana wrapped her Affinity around them and pushed. She straightened and stepped forward. The din quieted, and every pair of eyes in the room watched as she walked across the aisle to the dais.

  A cry sliced through the air. “Stop her!” Morganya stood by the throne she only moments earlier was confident was hers. She had one hand clamped across the back as though she wanted to both protect it and to hide behind it. “Guards!”

  “No!” Luka commanded. He was trying to stand, and it hurt Ana to see him struggle. “My sister is the heir to this empire, and she will be treated as thus.”

  Morganya whirled to him. “Kolst Imperator,” she said. “I appreciate your love for your sister, but you cannot deny what she is! The Blood Witch of Salskoff!” She turned to the crowd. “Or were you not all there that day in the Vyntr’makt, when she slaughtered eight innocents out of her monstrous bloodlust?”

  There were gasps around the room; a few guests and Councilmembers cried out.

  “You’re right,” Ana said, and the entire room turned to watch her as she closed in on the throne, one step at a time. “I’ve done terrible things, and the world made sure to remind me of my monstrosity. But so have you, Morganya.” She slowed, facing her aunt across the dais. “Don’t you see? We’re the same. But someone once told me that our Affinities don’t define us. What defines us is how we choose to wield them.”

  Luka’s eyes shone with pride.

  “We both know this empire is broken. But we cannot fix it through fear or revenge.” Ana thought of Sadov’s words, of how they had carved themselves deep inside her. Of how she had grown to believe them, and to believe she was what the world told her she was. Monster. Deimhov. Her voice was a cracked whisper as she said, “Please, mamika. Choose to be good. We could help our people…together.”

  For several moments, Morganya stood frozen, as though carved from stone. And then her eyes narrowed. Her voice echoed across the hall, calm and cold. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Anastacya.”

  A strange pressure descended upon Ana’s body, locking her in place so that she couldn’t move. A darkness rolled across her mind like fog.

  A flesh Affinite with control of the mind.

  They were mirror images of each other, her and her mamika, Ana realized. Both born to gruesome Affinities. Both vilified by the world.

  There is good and bad in everything.

  Morganya had made her choice.

  With all her strength and fury, Ana hurled her Affinity at Morganya.

  Morganya’s lips parted in a cry. She stumbled and fell, clinging to her throne. Within the space of a second, she seemed to have transformed back into a broken, frightened girl. “Please,” she sobbed, and reached a shaking hand toward Luka.

  “Guards!” Luka had pushed himself to his feet and was gripping his throne to hold himself upright. “Take Countess Morganya to the dungeons for questioning. As your Emperor, I order you to follow the orders of the Crown Heir. We will overturn this castle to find the evidence of the poison Morganya has been using.”

  Chaos fell upon the Grand Throneroom as Councilmembers and guests began shouting over each other at the sudden turn of events. But Ana kept her gaze on the dais.

  She alone caught the look Morganya gave Luka. It was a look that promised death.

  Sudden fear gripped Ana. She knew, from some primal instinct in her gut, that something was about to go horribly, unfathomably wrong.

  Ana burst into a sprint toward the dais. “Luka!” she shouted. She didn’t know why she was calling his name. She only knew that she had to get to him.

  Her brother turned to her. His smile slipped when he caught her panicked expression.

  “Luka!” Ana focused on Morganya’s crumpled frame, hurling all the strength of her Affinity at the woman, pinning Morganya down and willing her not to move.

  The knot of panic loosened just slightly inside her chest. Ten more steps. She pressed harder on Morganya. You will not hurt him.

  In the corner of her vision, a figure moved. From the shadows of Luka’s white-gold throne snaked a hand. Fingers, pale and long and hauntingly familiar, twisted around an object—but this time, it was not a whip.

  Sadov was smiling as he plunged his dagger into Luka�
��s chest.

  * * *

  —

  Time stopped. The world—the blood, the bodies, the screaming—blurred into the background. There was only Luka, and the copper tang of his blood in the air, magnified by her Affinity.

  Her brother fell, his face serene but for the spark of surprise in his eyes.

  Someone was screaming. No, she was screaming. Her Affinity was expanding, sweeping around her outside of her command. People toppled out of her way like figures on a chessboard.

  Ana flew up the steps of the dais and flung herself down next to her brother. Her hands shook as she gathered him gently into her arms. Blood stained the blue carpet beneath him; blood dripped onto her hands and legs; blood seeped into the soft fabric of her dress.

  Blood. Her Affinity, her gift and her curse.

  “Luka.” Ana’s voice broke. His eyes found hers, misted with pain but clear as a field of grass beneath the sun. He exhaled with a horrible rattling sound. Ana placed a hand over the wound in his chest, willing the blood back, back, back into his body. “Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m here, bratika. Shhh.”

  Luka opened his mouth. She lowered her head to his lips. “Brat,” he whispered, his voice faint. “I’ve…missed you.”

  She was crying. “There’s so much I have to tell you. We’ll…we’ll fix this. And everything else. We’ll fix it together, Luka.”

  “You…came back,” he rasped.

  “I’m back,” she sobbed, cradling him in her arms and touching her forehead to his. And then she raised her head, screaming. “Healer! We need a healer—now!”

  “Ana,” Luka wheezed. “Sistrika. I’m…tired.”

  “Hold on,” Ana begged. “Help is coming— Healer!” Her voice cracked. “Please!” She turned back to Luka. “Hold on. I’m here. Sistrika’s here.”

  His eyes fluttered; he struggled to keep them open. He made a small motion as though to shake his head. “Not sistrika,” he whispered, and his eyes suddenly widened, burning with intensity. He drew a deep breath, straining. “Empress.”

  “Luka,” she wept.

  “Promise…me.”

  The words cut through her heart. “I promise.”

  A smile warmed Luka’s face, like the sun coming out after the rain. His body seemed to relax. He gazed at her with that fondness, that light in his eyes, and for a moment they were children again, grinning at each other with a silent promise. “I’ll tell Papa and Mama…”

  He never finished the sentence. A serene look passed over his face, and just like that, he fell still, his spring-grass eyes trained on her as though he’d just been about to tell her a secret.

  Ana held her brother tightly, burying her head in the soft crook of his neck the way she used to when she was a child. Her tears wet the fabric of his white silk doublet. She thought she would stay like this forever; she thought she would never get up again.

  “She killed the Emperor!” Morganya’s scream pierced the air.

  Slowly, bit by bit, the world seeped back in. The bloody carpet beneath her feet. The shrieks of the panicked and the dying. The crimson soaking her dress.

  Ana set Luka’s head onto the carpet, smoothing his hair and closing his eyes. A ghost of a smile was etched on his face.

  A strange redness crept into the world; it swirled at the edges of her vision like a living, breathing fog. Everything began to smell like blood.

  Ana straightened. Her chest was a hollow hole. There was no grief there. Not yet. Once she let her sorrow in, she would be pulled under its waters and never surface again.

  No…that empty space inside her flickered with rage. Smoldering. Churning.

  The redness roiled, tendrils snaking toward the pulsing blood in the room. A delicious darkness spread within her. Ana leaned toward it.

  Her world erupted in crimson. She staggered back, squeezing her eyes shut and gulping in ragged breaths. Slowly, like silhouettes in a fog, the world came into focus in her mind, mapped by blood. It grew stronger and sharper, and when it settled, she felt as though she had been looking at the world through a darkened window…until now.

  Everything was vivid, visceral. Her Affinity was sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste, all combined into one. She could see each and every drop of blood spattered on the floor, glistening as bright as stars in the night sky. She smelled the liquor swirling in the veins of all the guests; tasted the adrenaline and fear churning within; heard the desperate pounding of their hearts.

  A twisted sense of peace settled over her. She reached out, and her attention caught on a figure slowly backing away behind her. His blood was as cold as darkness; it smelled of rot and tasted like death.

  Without moving, without even opening her eyes, she dragged him toward her as a child might drag a rag doll. She felt his scream in the vibrations of his veins.

  He cowered before her, his Affinity crushed beneath her power. Ana opened her eyes. “Sadov,” she murmured.

  He stared up at her, the dagger in his hand still coated in Luka’s blood.

  A mere flick in her mind and he was dangling before her, limbs splayed out like a butterfly on a board. Where should I start? Where will it hurt the most?

  Fear rippled across Sadov’s features. “N-no, Kolst Pryntsessa,” he whispered. “P-please…”

  She smiled at him. “ ‘You little monster,’ ” she crooned, tightening her grip on him so that he cried out in pain. “Isn’t that what you always said to me?”

  He screamed, his face turning red from her hold on his blood. Foam bubbled from his mouth. With his face contorted in pain, he truly looked like a creature from hell, a deimhov from a nightmare.

  “You wanted a monster,” Ana hissed. With a crack, blood began to drip from Sadov’s nose. “Here I am.”

  She’d never thought she would savor the utter terror that warped his face at this moment, that she’d feel a burst of delight at each drop of blood that fell to the floor.

  Through the red haze of her Affinity, she felt someone else watching her. The gaze was familiar and unfamiliar at once. Morganya’s pale eyes were trained on her, and it suddenly felt as though she were a child again. There was a kind of approval shining from that gaze.

  Approval. Something churned in Ana’s stomach. She stared back, Sadov dangling before her like a marionette, struggling for air. All the while, Morganya merely watched.

  Morganya was not going to stop Ana if she killed Sadov. No—Morganya wanted her to kill Sadov.

  An image flashed before her: a square of silver and snow, a crowd, and a crimson pool seeping into the cobblestones. Eight crumpled figures, limbs twisting in unnatural angles. They formed a circle around her, radiating like enormous petals of a gnarled flower.

  Ana dropped to her knees and screamed. It stretched, long and thin, threatening to shatter her mind like glass.

  It’s all right, sistrika. I’m here. Bratika’s here.

  In her mind, she was back in her room, and Luka had wrapped his arms around her shoulders, murmuring soothing words.

  The memory shifted, and he lay dying in her arms, crimson spreading across his tunic.

  Promise me, he’d said.

  He hadn’t only been asking her to promise to become Empress. No—Luka had always thought bigger than that. For her entire life, her brother had watched over her, saving her…saving her from what? Not from death. Not from the wrath of the world. Not even from Sadov, or from Morganya.

  Luka had been protecting her from the darkness of her Affinity; from the version of herself she could have—and could still—become.

  To kill Sadov, to take her revenge…that was the choice that would make her a monster.

  Promise me.

  The world dulled. The red receded. She released Sadov and he crumpled to the floor. The fury, the bloodlust, and the blinding rage that had consumed her withdrew lik
e a receding tide, leaving her raw.

  Ana collapsed. As though from a distance, she heard Morganya calling orders. Kill her, her aunt cried. She is a dangerous Affinite. She could have murdered us all.

  Sadov crawled away from her, trailing blood and whimpering. All around them, guests were fleeing through the doors, and the remaining Councilmembers lingered in the safety of the farthest corners of the Throneroom.

  A shadow fell upon Ana. The face was familiar; large eyes against pale skin and a bald forehead. Those eyes gazed into hers, as inscrutable as ever.

  She felt a cold glass vial being tilted to her lips; sweet, honeylike liquid poured down her throat. This was not Deys’voshk. It was a different kind of poison. Ana struggled. The gray eyes became stern. Tetsyev clamped a hand on her nose. She had no strength left to resist.

  Her mind was becoming muggy.

  A numbing sensation was spreading from her stomach to her abdomen and into her limbs.

  “It is done, Kolst Imperatorya.” Tetsyev’s voice was distant as he drew back. “The Blood Witch will die.”

  The poison worked fast. It spread through her veins like ice, freezing her muscles.

  Several steps from her, Luka lay on the dais, peaceful even in his death.

  I love you, Luka, she thought. I’m sorry.

  A figure approached. Morganya’s eyes brimmed with tears, and they spilled down her face as she knelt next to Ana. She put a hand to Ana’s cheek; her fingers were ice-cold to the touch. Slowly, Morganya lowered her lips to Ana’s face, pausing a breath away.

  “You pitiful creature,” Morganya whispered, caressing her hair. “Tetsyev did the humane thing. He’s always been more softhearted than I, my talented alchemist. I would have saved you for Sadov’s dungeons.”

  Ana wanted to reach up and claw Morganya’s eyes out. Her arms would not move.