Inherit the Flame
A Scorched Continent Novel
Megan E O’Keefe
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Sam “Secret Agent Man” Morgan
Chapter One
The really annoying thing about being tortured was that Detan had volunteered for the experience. He hung from the ceiling of a nasty little room in the yellowhouse, ropes digging into the tender flesh of his wrists. Slowly, he spun, toes brushing the grit of the floor, body twisting as he struggled to grip the rope and haul himself up to relieve the pain. No use. He’d been there too long, and each time he managed to lift himself the muscles of his arms and shoulders trembled until he fell again. The ropes bit all the deeper for the extra weight jerked upon them.
Aella laughed. He tried to glare at her, but with the sack pulled over his head he probably just scowled at a blank wall.
“Sadist,” he said.
“Need I remind you this was your idea? Though I’m beginning to think it was a poor one. We’re to test your control, Honding. If you keep lipping off, remaining calm, then greater measures will need to be taken.”
The butt of Misol’s spear scraped pointedly against the hard stone. He swallowed.
“I can’t help it if you can’t get a rise out of me, Aella. I suppose your flavor of fear just isn’t my type.”
His body screamed at him to shut his mouth, to button up to stop the pain from coming. But he’d asked for this. Needed it, if he were being honest with himself. Needed to know where the fine limits of his control rested, and just how hard they could be nudged.
Aella tsked. Her bare feet pattered against the floor as she paced. She’d taken her slippers off to keep the blood from staining. “A full shift of the moon, and we haven’t been able to push the limits of your temper. A pity, for you, that Pelkaia taught you her calming techniques. If you’d come to me ignorant, then we could have kept our measures mild. I wonder,” she hmmed to herself, “if I shouldn’t have kept Tibal after all.”
He went rigid.
“Oh, he was useless to me, really,” she continued. Her tunic shifted, the slight rustle of fabric telling him she was circling. Like a shark that’d scented blood. He tried to keep his head down, his body loose, while she paced. “No sense in his thin little body. No sense in his head, either, to have followed you around as long as he did. I wonder how much it hurt him, to hear you tell him off? I wonder: just where did it cut? Is he still bleeding inside? Or is he done with you already? Found another capering idiot to keep alive with his spare time?
“Perhaps I should have kept him, just to put him out of his misery. There is still time, I suppose. Misol, how long do you think it would take to reach Hond Steading?”
“Monsoons are in,” Misol replied. “On the Larkspur, maybe two weeks.”
“Oh, but I doubt he took the Larkspur.” Her fingers brushed Detan’s jawline through the bag. He flinched away. “No, he took the flier, didn’t he? I’m sure he had that contraption stashed somewhere, he’s such a sentimental sack of bones. A month, easily, to get to Hond Steading in the monsoons on that thing. I bet he’s not even there yet. I could send a message along, quick as an arrow. Have him scooped up, brought back to make you sing for his pain. Would you like that, Honding? To see your little friend again? To see him bleed?”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Anger sang through him, thrummed just beneath his skin, choked him with the urge to lash out, to grab at the thin sheet of selium hovering just above the yellowhouse.
She clapped. “Ah, there it is! Aren’t you a soft soul? Your own pain won’t do it, but those of others whips you right up. Pity we don’t have anyone you value close to hand.”
“I think you’re just precious, Aella. Why don’t you string yourself up here? I’m sure my heart will burst from sadness.”
“You see? It’s that attitude that keeps us from testing you as you are. Misol, prepare a message for Thratia’s network. Send word that Tibal’s presence is requested here at the Remnant, with all haste.”
Detan’s stomach sank, cold sweat dripped between his wrenched shoulder blades. He had to get angry. Had to work up a righteous fury. It shouldn’t be hard. He knew Aella was serious, knew she’d do just exactly what she said she’d do to break him. Images of Tibs hanging in his place, dripping sweat and blood and bile onto the hard floor, filled him. He shivered, nausea threatening to rise, unable to shake his shame when what he desperately wanted was a good outburst.
Misol said, “Pardon, Miss Ward, but I’ve an idea that’s a bit closer to hand.”
“Oh? Don’t tell me he’s developed a soft spot for you.”
“Hardly. But there are two women here at the Remnant I’ve been keeping an eye on. Friends of Ripka’s. Without their help, she would have been torn apart in the riot on that last day. I bet Honding would feel just terrible if they were to suffer for his insufficiencies.”
“I’m willing to try it. Go collect these women.”
Misol slipped from the room, letting the door bang shut behind her.
“Those women.” Detan licked his cracked lips. “They have nothing to do with this. My control has grown much in the last few weeks, I hardly think it’s necessary to bring them into things.”
“No, they don’t.” Aella sighed. “And while your control is admirable, it has not been tested under true duress.” She gave his ropes a jangle, and he winced from the hundred tiny lances of pain that raked through his arms. “We must be certain, or would you rather risk blowing the head off some poor innocent because you believe yourself under control?”
“It’s unnecessarily cruel.” His voice drifted into a soft growl.
“That is the point.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “And isn’t it just heaps of fun?”
Chapter Two
Hond Steading lay like a pearl without the shelter of its shell upon the horizon. The great city, the first city, the heart of all the Scorched continent, was a cracked open thing. Broken and spread across the wide valley between its renowned firemounts, it sprawled and breathed and pumped, citizens filling out its fl
ush lanes, the figures indistinct from a distance but merging together to make a whole as alive and vibrant from above as it must be from up close.
It should have been beautiful. But all Ripka saw, as she squinted over the forerail of the Larkspur, was an indefensible mess. A loose-knit cluster of urban living threaded between the most valuable resource of the Scorched – its firemounts – ripe and ready for Thratia to pluck.
“Looks bad,” Nouli said.
He stood beside her, rubbing his hands together as the city sprawl came into view.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “You think?”
He puffed out his cheeks and chuckled. “Forgive me, but I have to start somewhere. This city you’ve brought me to defend, did you know it was so…” He waved a hand over the disparate pieces below.
“This is the first time I’ve seen it. Detan assured me you’d be able to figure something out.”
“I appreciate the man’s faith, but some things–”
“Prepare to dock!” Coss bellowed from the nav podium.
Activity burst across the deck. Pelkaia’s crew scrambled to their tasks, the ship turning on a knife’s edge to slew toward its destination. Desert air gusted against Ripka’s cheeks, sweeping her hair from her face and neck. She breathed deep of the rock-and-dust scent, caught a hint of the weedy greens that flourished below. After so long on the Remnant, setting down in a proper Scorched city again felt like coming home.
“That’s better,” Nouli said.
Ripka had to agree. As the Larkspur swung about, the ship pointed them at the city’s core, the dense urban center that swarmed around the Honding family palace. It backed up against the largest of the city’s firemounts. The palace itself stepped up the side of the mountain, but the city stayed resolutely in the belly of the valley. A wall swaddled the dense-packed heart of the city.
Compared to the wall that had encircled Aransa, it was a meager thing. It must have been some vestige of the city’s earlier life, when it was little more than a frontier outpost. Now the gates stood wide open, disgorging citizens in both directions. While Ripka doubted those gates had been shut in decades, the mere sight of them eased her worries. At least they had some sort of defensive measure to work with.
From one of the palace’s many high towers a straight blade of a dock awaited them. The Larkspur sidled against it, timbers shivering at the contact. Heavy thumps drummed the air as the crew tossed anchors and tie lines over the sides.
Three men in the sharp, black livery of the Honding family approached the ship. Their uniforms gave Ripka pause. She’d known Detan was a lord of an old family, but around him that was easy to forget. He was a flippant man, caring but unpredictable. Half the time he was in desperate need of a bath.
But these guards – their weapons might have been hidden, but Ripka knew a fighting force when she saw one – who arrayed themselves on the dock wore the insignia of his family with pride. The same sword and pickaxe crossed over a ship’s sail that was burned into the back of Detan’s neck. On them it was dignified. Red and gold embroidery stitched into black coats trimmed with crimson. On Detan, the scar had been a dirty, greasy mess.
“Ho, Larkspur,” a man with a head of iron-grey hair called out. “You’ve been expected.”
Whether that was a good thing or not, Ripka wasn’t sure, but she’d come all this way to keep Thratia from taking another city. Whatever was waiting for her in the Honding family palace, she would prevail.
By previous arrangement, Pelkaia, Tibal, and Ripka were the only ones to leave the ship. Though Hond Steading was supposed to be friendly territory, they had no idea what they faced within those walls – what the rumors of Detan’s misadventures would do to their welcome. The more of them left to man the ship in case of a quick escape, the better.
Ripka gave Nouli a pat on the shoulder and followed Tibal down the gangplank. Pelkaia drifted after them. While her back was rigid, and her chin held with regal bearing, Ripka found something odd about her posture, as if she were trying to hide some sort of pain. Just a few weeks ago, Pelkaia had swung down from the ropes of the Larkspur without care. Now she looked shy of so much as a stubbed toe.
The iron-haired man bowed to the three and fixed his gaze on Pelkaia.
“You are Pelkaia Teria captain of the Larkspur, am I correct?”
Pelkaia inclined her head. After the disaster on the Remnant, she’d stopped bothering to hide the ship’s distinctive lines. “I am that. This is Ripka Leshe, and Tibal.”
“Well met,” he said, bowing his head to each. “I am Gatai, keymaster of the Honding household and personal attendant to Dame Honding. The Dame awaits you in her meeting room. Do you require ablutions before we proceed? I can also send for fresh water to be brought to your ship.”
Ripka raised her brows despite her desire to remain aloof. This kind of hospitality was common on the Scorched: fresh water and a cloth to clean your face were the simplest of pleasures in the desert, but rarely were they offered to those who were unwelcome. She hoped this offering was a good sign for their future, and not just a Honding family matter of pride.
There was a scuffle of feet behind them, and the group turned as one. Honey made her way down the gangplank, Enard’s hand half-extended as if he’d tried to grab her shoulder and missed. The woman’s curly mop of hair caught the sunlight with unsettling brilliance, as if someone had set her alight. She hummed to herself as she strolled along, unmindful of all the startled gazes upon her, and came to stand beside Ripka.
Pelkaia gave Ripka a look that said, quite clearly: can’t you control your pet? While Tibal refused to look at her at all.
Gatai cleared his throat gently. “A pleasure to meet you as well…?”
Honey just stared at him, humming a little lullaby so soft Ripka wondered if she were the only one who could hear it.
“This is Honey,” Ripka offered to cut the tension. “She…” Ripka faltered. What in the pits was she supposed to say here? She’s a woman with a lust for blood who follows me around like a suckling kitten and we’re all worried that if I send her back she’ll make roasts of the crew in my absence? “She’s a friend.”
Honey beamed. Gatai didn’t seem convinced – he had a pucker between his brows that even careful training couldn’t smooth away – but he gathered himself and bowed his head to Honey.
“You are all,” and here he raised his voice to be heard by the crew crowding the rail, “welcome to Hond Steading.”
Unsteady murmurs from the crew. They’d spent all their time aboard the Larkspur avoiding cities like Hond Steading, hiding out in places where imperial reach was imperfect, where their deviant abilities were less likely to get them run out of town or killed. Ripka, having no selium sensitivity herself, wondered what they felt now, to be both known and welcomed in the largest city on the Scorched. She’d be wary, in their place. But there must be some relief. Some fragile hope that at last they may have found a place to belong.
“My ship will take water. We, however, are anxious to greet the Dame.”
One of Gatai’s men broke away, crisp-stepping into the palace to place the order for water without so much as a glance from Gatai. Ripka watched him go with hungry eyes. Here was a well-oiled machine, a force trained to respond without direct interference from their leader. She was desperate to pick Gatai’s brain on his training techniques. But then, it’s not like she had a group to train any more.
“After me, please,” Gatai said, and led them with practiced formality into the palace. Ripka’s heart thumped away in her throat, excitement thrumming through her despite the cool disposition she cultivated.
This place was legend. And though most legends failed to live up to their grandeur once seen up close, she found the Palace Honding did not disappoint.
Its walls were carved of native rock, set so close and fine she could not tell if they were mortared at all. Oil-fed candelabras grew from the ceiling, wrought iron twisted to look like lavish vines, their light bright and warm
and pure in the wide hall. A simple stretch of fine wool made up the rug cushioning her feet. It would be unremarkable, except that the whole length of it had been dyed a brilliant, emerald green. Such color she had never seen before outside of nature. She imagined Detan as a child, running wild through the palace, and wondered if he ever really understood what privilege he’d been gifted until the day it had been stripped from him.
Dame Honding’s meeting room was no less elegant, but the Dame herself held Ripka’s eye. Ripka had expected a battleship of a woman. What she found instead was a spear.
Dame Honding stood at the head of the room, one hand resting on the back of a chair it seemed obvious the advisors fidgeting by her side would much rather she sit in than stand beside. Her hair – gone wholly to silver – had been piled atop her head in an elegant bun, framed by the crossed pickaxe and sword carved into the wall behind her. She was the tallest woman Ripka had ever seen. Despite age lending a slight stoop to her shoulders, she towered over all gathered. And though her arms were wrapped in navy silk, the slight curve of muscle along her bicep betrayed an active lifestyle.
She had Detan’s eyes.
“Welcome to my home.” Her voice was clear, strong. She must be in her seventies, Ripka marvelled, and yet looked ready to race a rockcat.
“Your hospitality is most welcome,” Pelkaia said, pausing two strides before the Dame. “If surprising.”
The Dame smiled. Ripka could not help but study every line of her face, seeking out other traces of Detan hidden away in the aged countenance. “All the little birds of the Scorched whisper in my ear. Your arrival was expected, and anticipated.”
“You understand the nature of my crew, my ship?” Pelkaia tensed, fingers curled as if ready to form fists, or grab for a weapon. The Dame’s advisors shifted restlessly. Gatai flicked a piece of lint from his collar. The Dame inclined her head.
“I know what you and your crew are, and that your ship is stolen property. It matters not to me. You are free in my city, and Thratia’s ability to keep what’s hers is her own business.”
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