The Empress of Xytae

by Effie Calvin

  Ioanna did not sleep at all. Each of the paladins took a guard shift, watching the camp or perhaps watching her. She never was certain. In the darkness, her skin glowed with soft golden light—too faint to see in daylight, but a beacon at night. Perhaps this ought to worry her, but she found it difficult to muster up any emotions more complex than righteous fury.

  The moment the eastern sky began to show the slightest tinges of gray, Ioanna leapt to her feet and went to the horses. The saddles that had always been too heavy for her to handle were now strangely light, and she placed them onto each horse’s back with no struggle, save for the unfamiliar and complicated straps she’d never learned to do properly because Vitaliya was so much better at it.

  Was she dead by now?

  By the time the eastern wall of Xyuluthe came into view, Ioanna felt all but certain that they were too late and Vitaliya was lost—despite everyone’s constant reassurances that killing her would defeat the purpose of taking her prisoner to start with.

  “All right, we need to approach this carefully,” announced Livius. “If we’re fortunate, we might be able to get Ioanna into the city by claiming she’s a visiting noblewoman, and we’re her guards. Orsina and I will—”

  But Ioanna found she had no interest in what he and Orsina intended to do. She dug her heels into her mount’s side and pointed it toward the city, leaving Aelia and the paladins behind. Shouts of alarm and horror rose up from behind her, but she ignored them. She had tolerated their meticulous plotting for long enough.

  It was time to act.

  She might have entered the city through the east gate—it was certainly the closest entrance. But the gates were always so crowded with people. It would be far more efficient to just make her own gate.

  Ioanna guided her mount, following the eastern wall northward until she could see the highest tiers of the Imperial Palace over the edge of it. When she was satisfied, she dismounted and began to walk toward the wall.

  She called her blessing up, but this time it did not stop at her hands. She allowed it to overtake her entire body, trailing up her arms and across her chest, engulfing her face, her torso, and her legs. When she looked down at herself, her body appeared to be made of pure light. She grasped a lock of her hair in her palm and took a moment to marvel at the way even her curls had gone strangely translucent.

  “Ioanna, wait,” began Livius, but Ioanna was done waiting. She would never wait for anything ever again! As she rushed toward the wall, she could hear their shouting behind her—and then all was silence as she murmured the prayer for celestial fire and pointed it at the ancient wall.

  Stones struck her body—some of them quite large—but she hardly felt them. People were screaming, running…but Ioanna could not bring herself to care. She had no desire to kill her own citizens, and hoped they’d have the sense to stay out of her way.

  She was not far from the palace—she could see its wall. She stepped out from the side street she’d forced her way into and began to walk toward it, only vaguely aware of how everyone fled at the sight of her. Of how even guards dropped their swords and backed away as though lacking the courage to address her.

  She walked past the familiar temples, the ones she’d been forbidden to wander beyond in childhood. Just ahead were the enormous palace gates…closed, oddly enough. They were usually open during the daylight hours.

  There were four guards at the gate, and one of them bolted outright as Ioanna approached. Two of the others drew their weapons while the third looked like he was considering going after his wayward colleague.

  “Get out of my way,” said Ioanna, aware of the light that streamed from her mouth as she spoke. When they did not move, she pulled one arm in toward her chest and then swept it outward, sending a wave of warm golden light at the trio. They were not evil, so the light did not burn them—but the force of it was enough they all collided with the gate with enough force to splinter the thick, ancient wooden door.

  Ioanna decided to be merciful and give them time to scramble out of the way before she blasted it open. Unlike the wall, it did not crumble but swung open, the barring mechanism on the reverse side coming free.

  Ioanna paused to take in the sight of the palace that had been her home for her entire life. Perhaps she ought to have felt some stirring of homesickness, of remorse, of nostalgia…

  But all she felt was disgust.

  Tear it down.

  The suggestion was soft, but insistent. The palace, and everything it represented, was an affront to civilization, to order, to justice. Yes, why not tear it down? With her own hands, even? What better way to begin her reign? Why not cast every stone into the sea and cleanse the foundation with purifying fire until all the corruption was scoured away?

  I can’t do that. There are people inside. Innocent people. Servants. Children. Iulia. Vitaliya…

  Thinking of Vitaliya brought her back to herself. She had not realized how far she’d drifted into…into whatever this was. Yet the idea of simply blasting her way into the palace was seductive in its simplicity.

  Ioanna walked through the gates, through the front gardens—and the few nobles who had made the decision to spend their morning in the sunlight fled at the sight of her. She ignored them. They would answer to her later.

  She walked up the stairs, through the familiar columns, and into the main foyer of the palace.

  “Netheia!” she shouted. Her voice echoed up to the distant ceiling. When there was no answer beyond the sound of retreating footsteps, anger overcame her, and she sent a wave of golden magic at the nearest wall. It collapsed, gloriously, the ancient stone cracking and crumbling as it smashed to the floor.

  “Ioanna!” That was Livius. She’d completely forgotten about the paladins behind her. “What are you doing?”

  She had no response for him.

  “You need to get yourself under control.” But he sounded more confused than angry. “If you bring the palace down, you’ll kill innocents. That’s not why we’re here.”

  Nobody is innocent.

  “Ioanna?”

  She turned away from Livius at the sound of her own name. Someone was peeking around the doorway—Iulia. Her youngest sister. The majority of her body was hidden behind the wall like she thought it might be able to protect her from another wave of magic.

  “Ioanna, is that you?” she whispered.

  “Where is Netheia?” asked Ioanna. “Where is she?”

  “I’ll go get her!” squeaked Iulia, and she fled. It was a lie, but Ioanna could not bring herself to be angry at Iulia. Iolar hated liars, but Ioanna had a soft spot for Iulia, so she would be allowed to live.

  More footsteps, more guards. Ioanna frowned, disappointed. She would fight them if she had to, but she wanted Netheia. Everyone else was unimportant. But before any of them could raise their sword, someone pushed through the center of their group.

  “Ioanna?” Netheia sounded more concerned than frightened. “What—what’s happened to you?”

  Ioanna paused to take in her sister’s new appearance. She did not look well. It was as though she had not been eating, sleeping, or combing her hair. Netheia was not the sort of girl to spend hours in front of her mirror, but Ioanna could never recall seeing her so unkempt before.

  Kill her, suggested Ioanna’s blessing. Impure. Corrupt. Kill her before she kills.

  “That can’t be her,” said another voice. Decima. She was just behind Netheia, one hand on her own sword. “That’s—I don’t know what that is. A demon, or something. That’s not Ioanna.”

  “Fight me,” said Ioanna. “That’s what you’re always saying, isn’t it? Fight you, and prove I deserve to be empress. I always thought that was such a childish sentiment. But now I’m inclined to accept your challenge.”

  Netheia shook her head. “You can’t be Ioanna. This is impossible—”

  Ioanna moved forward and seized her sister by the collar. Netheia screamed in pain as Ioanna’s golden magic touched her skin, but Ioanna
found she could not care less.

  “Fight me, you coward,” Ioanna hissed. She threw Netheia to the ground with all the force she could muster, and raised her hands, preparing to strike out when Decima or the guards came to Netheia’s defense. But Decima did not move, and neither did the soldiers. They remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide and incredulous.

  Kill her.

  What a good idea. Why had Ioanna never thought of that before?

  Ioanna moved forward to attack again, but Netheia had finally realized it was time to fight. Rust-red magic began to flow over her body in the way it had that day so long ago when their mother had told them their father was dead.

  In the same way Ioanna was bright with golden magic, Netheia’s body glowed red. Last time she’d been in this state, she had punched through Ioanna’s shield. But she’d been weak to celestial fire…which made no sense because it was only meant to hurt chaos gods and other evil things…

  Reygmadra’s three steps away from being a chaos goddess herself, these days, Aelia had said.

  Ioanna called up the purifying fire and aimed it at Netheia. Netheia must have realized the same thing, because she sprang out of the way just in time. Then, without slowing, Netheia lunged at her, slamming Ioanna into the wall.

  Stone and plaster crumbled, but she ignored it. Now Netheia was squeezing her throat, but that only meant there was nothing she could do to defend herself when Ioanna grabbed Netheia by the neck, searing burns into her skin. Netheia screamed again and staggered backward. Ioanna struck again with another wave of magic, but it went wide as Netheia shoved her arm away.

  A pillar fell, taking down two others with it. Ioanna called up a shield to protect herself from the falling stone. Something shattered on the golden surface above her head, and Ioanna realized it was a piece of the ceiling—the ceiling was falling.

  It was difficult to see through her shield, and she’d lost track of Netheia. Rage bubbled up within her again. Netheia would not be allowed to run away. She’d spent twenty years challenging Ioanna to duels, and now it was time to stand by her words!

  Ioanna climbed over one of the fallen pillars and spotted Netheia crouched behind a piece of the wall—or maybe the ceiling, it was hard to say. One of her hands massaged her burned neck while the other gripped a sword that seemed to be formed by pure magic in the way Ioanna had seen Talcia’s priestesses do when they were called to spar. Blood poured from a large, open wound on Netheia’s forehead.

  Ioanna leapt down, tackling her sister. Netheia brought the magical sword around, and to its credit, it sliced through Ioanna’s shield like it was made of paper. She felt it pierce her shoulder, but it did not hurt as much as it ought to have. Perhaps later she would feel the wound, but for now it just seemed like an inconvenience.

  Ioanna aimed her fire at the sword, hoping maybe she could injure it in the same way she injured Netheia. Netheia leapt to her feet and ran, clearing enormous pieces of stone with effortless jumps. Ioanna aimed her magic at one of the still-standing pillars, knocking it over and blocking Netheia’s escape.

  Kill her.

  A piece of the ceiling crashed to the ground only a few inches from Ioanna, distracting her long enough for Netheia to bolt around the pillar and take off deeper into the palace. Irritated, but certainly not ready to give up, Ioanna followed her.

  Nothing about the palace had really changed in her absence. It was as though she’d only been gone for a few days. But then, very little changed at Xyuluthe unless it was forced to. Ioanna threw a few waves of celestial fire at her sister, but they all missed as Netheia dodged and wove through rooms and behind furniture. On and on they ran, heedless of the destruction they left in their wake.

  Ioanna finally caught up with her sister just outside the throne room. Something was wrong with Netheia’s leg, Ioanna realized. She’d twisted her ankle, and it was slowing her.

  Ioanna struck at her sister with one last wave of celestial fire. Netheia screamed and crumpled to the floor. Behind them, the door to the throne room opened, but Ioanna did not look up to see who had just exited. It wasn’t important.

  Ioanna advanced on her sister, wondering if the celestial fire would be enough to kill her or if she’d have to do it with her own hands. Netheia was trying to stand, struggling to push herself back to her feet, but her injured leg was no longer cooperating. She stared up at Ioanna, her eyes wide.

  Kill her. It is the only way to be certain.

  Ioanna thought of her miserable, lonely childhood. Of how her parents had always loved Netheia more…of how her father had never loved Ioanna at all.

  “Ioanna.”

  Ioanna looked up at the familiar voice and saw Grandmother Irianthe standing in front of the door to the throne room. Just behind her was Ioanna’s mother, her face pale and eyes wide.

  “Ioanna,” said Grandmother Irianthe again. “This is not what you wanted.”

  Ioanna stared at her grandmother blankly. Not what she wanted? All she wanted was to purge the corruption from her nation, and how could she ever expect to do that if Netheia still lived?

  “Ioanna, look around you,” said Grandmother Irianthe, gesturing to the crumbling walls and smashed pillars. “You’ve won. You’ve proved your point. There’s no need to kill your sister. You do not want to kill your sister. The voice screaming in your ear might, but you do not, and you are the one in control here.”

  Truth.

  Ioanna stared down at her sister. It occurred to her that she’d never seen her beaten in a fight before. The sight should have been thrilling, satisfying…but it was not.

  She was just tired, and a little bit ashamed.

  “Where’s Vitaliya?” she asked.

  “The—the dungeons—” stammered Enessa. “Ioanna, what’s happened to you?”

  Ioanna ignored the question and dashed away, desperate to see Vitaliya now.

  She had only been down in the dungeons once or twice in her life as a child, exploring the palace with Netheia. Ioanna could have probably lived without ever seeing them, but Netheia found them morbidly thrilling.

  They were usually empty, for it was a bad idea to keep dangerous criminals in the Imperial Palace. Sometimes, when parties got out of hand, Enessa would threaten to throw everyone in the dungeons, but usually did not honor her word unless something expensive was broken. Occasionally a high-ranking political enemy would be held there before execution, but that was even rarer.

  When Ioanna threw the doors open and sprinted toward the cells, she saw only one of them had an occupant. It was Vitaliya, curled up on the floor asleep. But at the sound of Ioanna’s footsteps, she woke—and recoiled, eyes wide with fear.

  “Ioanna?” she asked tentatively.

  Ioanna gripped the cell door in her hands and, after taking a moment to ready herself, tore it from its hinges. Vitaliya screamed, though Ioanna was not certain why—she’d not been harmed in any way from the removal.

  But she had been harmed. Her face was horribly bruised, so badly that Ioanna could barely find an unmarred spot to kiss. She had a wound on her face, which leaked blood, and it looked like her nose had been bleeding too, and she’d had nothing but the fabric of her own dress to staunch it.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Ioanna, kneeling down to cradle Vitaliya’s face in her hands. “I should have protected you—I should have known.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vitaliya rasped. “I should have been more careful.”

  “No.” Ioanna pressed their foreheads together. “No. Don’t be sorry. Please. I love you.”

  “I—” began Vitaliya, but her words ended in a scream as Ioanna was wrenched from her arms. Ioanna struggled to break free from whoever had grabbed her, but the person was strong, even stronger than Netheia had been.

  Ioanna looked up into the face of a woman she had never seen before. For a moment, she thought it might be one of Netheia’s friends or a palace guard. But then she realized the woman was not a woman at all. Like Aelia, she wore a body in the same way Io
anna would wear a dress. Her true self was something else—something angry, something powerful, something that glowed rust-red.

  “Did you think you’d won?” asked Reygmadra. “Did you think I’d just accept defeat and walk away? Iolar has convinced you that you’re clever and powerful, but he doesn’t care enough to stop me from snapping your neck!”

  She could not win, not against Reygmadra, but she might be able to leave a few marks in her avatar before she went to Solarium. Ioanna twisted like a wildcat, lashing out with both magic and teeth. But Reygmadra seemed to feel neither, for she only laughed and wrapped her fingers around Ioanna’s throat, lifting her clear off the ground so that she could only kick uselessly at the empty air.

  “Put her down.”

  Reygmadra froze and her hand opened, sending Ioanna sprawling on the ground unceremoniously. When Ioanna looked up to see where the voice had come from, she realized another woman stood just behind Reygmadra.

  She was beautiful, breathtakingly and impossibly so. It was as though she’d been a statue brought to life, for surely such perfect features could not exist without the use of magic. Her hair was long and thick, reaching past her waist, and she wore a short white dress in the Xytan style and no jewelry except the silver belt around her waist. But flowers had been woven through her hair, enormous white roses and tiny purple blossoms Ioanna couldn’t identify.

  And beyond that, Ioanna could see the truth of it, just as she had with Reygmadra and Aelia. The body was just a puppet, and the creature that pulled its strings was made of light and magic. But unlike Reygmadra, this being was warm and gentle and so very, very joyful.

  “We all agreed that we would not directly harm each other’s champions,” said the beautiful woman. “You’ll follow the rules, or you won’t be included next time around.”

  “Dayluue,” Reygmadra snarled. It seemed she had forgotten Vitaliya and Ioanna entirely as she stalked toward her fellow goddess. But if Dayluue was meant to be intimidated by this, it did not work. There was barely a hand’s width of air between them, and Reygmadra towered over Dayluue—but Dayluue only smiled up at Reygmadra like she was a lover approaching for a kiss, her eyes soft and affectionate.