Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  The sound was low, haunting. Shivers coursed up Ripka’s spine, trailing goosebumps across her entire body. Beside her, Honey mouthed the words, the barest whisper slipping past her lips. Neither the language nor the tune was familiar to Ripka, but the glaze over Honey’s eyes was enough to tell her the woman knew every word.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin as a shadow fell over her shoulder, the presence of a man behind her, body warmed with exertion, shocking her out of her reverie.

  “What are you doing?” Latia whispered, a low hiss.

  Ripka forced herself to wrench her gaze away from the figure on the stage and turn in her seat. She was a little jealous to see Honey ignore the interruption, so intent was she on the performance. Ripka went cold.

  Dranik hunched behind her, alongside his sister, his hair stiff with sweat and his forehead gleaming. Even in the near-dark of the candlelight the angry bruise marring his cheek and jaw stood out.

  “You have to hide me,” he whispered, voice strained with urgency.

  “I’d like to drop you down a well,” Latia snapped, earning a sharp hush from the table next to them. Dranik’s gaze flitted around, uneasy. Ripka knew that pattern of looking – he was checking to see if he’d been followed.

  “Let’s talk outside,” Ripka whispered. If Dranik was going to interrupt the performance for her, she’d be damned if she was going to be left out of any juicy information.

  Dranik paled a little. “Not out front.”

  Ripka bit back sarcasm and nodded. Luckily for them all she’d made a habit of checking every room she entered for entrances and exits while in the watch. “There’s a door on the back end of the bar, a service entrance that dumps to the side of the building. We can loop around to the back from there.”

  Nods all around. These two clearly weren’t used to handling themselves in any flavor of real crises, they’d handed the tiller of the situation over to her without a second thought. Ripka stood, careful not to scrape her chair, and soft-footed her way toward the door, drawing a few murmurs of annoyance from the other patrons. She’d expected Honey to stay behind, but the woman followed them, head tipped toward the stage no matter which direction they turned.

  The bartender threw her a sour look as she grabbed a nearly spent candle from the edge of the bar, but said nothing. The door was unlocked and didn’t so much as creak as she swung it open into the night. Though the place was half-burnt, someone had obviously put some thought into oiling the hinges.

  She shivered in the night air, missing her watcher coat, and checked down both ends of the alley before ushering their little group out. The moment the door shut, Latia jabbed her brother in the chest with one finger.

  “Just what in the pits are you doing?”

  He shifted his weight side to side, glancing down the lane toward the front of the building. Ripka decided to save him.

  “Let’s talk around back.”

  Latia rolled her eyes and flounced her skirts, but followed Ripka all the same. A packed-dirt patio reached from the back of the performance hall to a haphazard stone fence stacked high as Ripka’s shoulders. The sight of it made her uneasy – such structures were known to collapse in Aransa – so she sidled a little closer to the building. A door stood in the middle of the back wall, a few chords of music seeping out, and piles of cloth and broken or half-finished stage props dotted the area. Dranik made a complete survey of their environs before he dared to speak.

  “We have to get away from here, Latia. They’ll find me any moment – you must hide me!”

  “Hush.” Latia crossed her arms and stared down her long nose at him. “It’s bad enough you disturbed the performance, don’t yell so that the whole theater can hear you from out here, too.”

  “Latia,” Ripka said, watching yellow bile tinge Dranik’s cheeks. “He’s serious, I think. What happened, Dranik?”

  “Later,” he hissed, though this time he kept his voice down. “They don’t know my name. If we go to your studio–”

  “I am in the middle of a piece!”

  “Shhh,” Honey murmured.

  They all stopped cold, every last gaze swiveling to the golden-haired woman. Her head was no longer tilted toward the building. She’d turned slightly, angling her body the way they’d come, head cocked as if listening. Ripka heard thudding, thought it was the sound of her heart, but it was too disjointed. And growing louder.

  “Company,” Ripka whispered, and slid into a ready crouch.

  Dranik moaned and slunk back, grabbing his sister’s sleeve to yank her towards a deadfall in the fence. She swore and stumbled, painted sandals twisting in the dust.

  Precision echoed in those footsteps, a practiced pattern that thundered through Ripka’s memory. Long shadows appeared at the end of the alley, the hint of firm-lined coats evident about the pursuers’ collars. She did not need to see them to know those coats were blue.

  Shit. The shadows stretched, drawing closer, and her breath came harsh between her lips. Honey’s fingers grazed her arm, and the simple touch returned her to herself. She wouldn’t have to fight them. She just needed to get Dranik and Latia out of here. Preferably without being recognized.

  “Go,” she ordered, jerking her chin toward the break in the wall. Latia was first through, shoved by her brother, Honey tight on their heels. Ripka hesitated only a breath. She threw the candle.

  Her aim was true. The sputtering stub of wax crashed into a pile of stage debris. She pivoted and sprinted toward the gap in the wall. Honey gripped her wrists, helping her over a low mound of rubble, as the first shouts filled the patio area.

  Shouts, followed by a gut-churning whoosh. Ripka winced at the sound of the flames, the shouts of pursuit shifting to shouts of alarm. Watcher coats were made to smother fire, she told herself. They’d be all right. The patrons in the theater wouldn’t even notice.

  Latia and Dranik were halfway down the road, Latia limping but pumping her arms as if her life depended on it. They cut a straight path down the center of the road. Ripka bit her lips and shared a look with Honey, who shrugged. Some people were just shit at situational awareness.

  Honey at her side, Ripka jogged up to the siblings. “We need to get off the main road.”

  Dranik’s eyes bulged. “Right. I, uh–”

  “This way,” Latia said. She tore off toward a thin side street, the windows facing the road shuttered. Honey scampered forward and slipped her arm around Latia’s shoulders, supporting her to ease her limping, and Dranik trotted after.

  A sharp whistle pierced the night. Ripka winced. She knew that sound. Though most of the watchers must have stayed behind to deal with the fire, they’d been tagged by a scout. No scout worth their salt would let a group of fugitives out of their sight before backup arrived to help.

  “Go on,” Ripka ordered. “I’ll lose the scout.”

  Honey threw a concerned glance over her shoulder, brows pinched together, and Ripka gave her a little nod. It was all right. She’d meet them at the studio, later. A brilliant smile flashed across Honey’s face and then she was gone, ushering the siblings down the road.

  Ripka slowed her jog, taking in her surroundings. The streets were dark. Those who ran the theater must have chosen this district for its lack of population. Hond Steading’s roads sprawled in all directions, the twisting maze of a neighborhood had sprung into life spontaneously, without any pre-planning. She could use that.

  She toed the ground, feeling the packed earth, the slick smoothness of the fine layer of dust that covered everything in the Scorched. She’d missed that dust while she’d been on the Remnant. It had always served to remind her how tenuous her footing truly was at any given time.

  The whistle sounded again. She ducked down an alley, pressed her back against the still-warm mudbrick, evened out her breathing, and waited.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pelkaia entered the house of her enemy.

  By some trick of fate and misfortune of trust she was welcome here, welcome i
n the austere halls of the Honding family palace. Tibal had vouched for her, or perhaps Ripka, speaking of her exploits of the past and her goals for the deviants of the future. Or – and this gave her a little frisson of amusement to consider – Detan himself had, perhaps, written to his aunt and given Pelkaia praise.

  The reasons didn’t matter. They were all lies, anyway. What mattered was that, despite how she had come by the freedom, Pelkaia mounted the steps to the Honding palace and entered its doors a free woman, without suspicion.

  She hadn’t even bothered putting on a Valathean-bred face. She wore her own countenance, relishing the feel of the sere air on sand-dune smooth cheeks she’d been pressed to keep hidden for the vast majority of her adult life. The Hondings, and the citizenry of their city, did not fear her heritage. Though, truth be told, she drew a few questioning glances.

  No, the people of Hond Steading had forgotten their past, and hers. Forgotten it was their arrival, the lure in their blood toward the firemounts of this cursed city, that had brought Valathea’s hungry might down upon the Scorched continent. That had rolled her people back into barren lands, and mingled their bloods until an entirely new people sprang up on the intersection of Valathea and Catari.

  The people of the Scorched.

  Despite her distaste for their origins, Pelkaia could not bring herself to loathe them as she should. She had better enemies to fan her hatred with.

  She spotted a likely black-jacketed guard lingering near the doorway and approached, all easy smiles and open body language. It’d taken her a while to reclaim an easy, non-threatening posture after she’d given up masquerading with Ripka’s stiff formality, but once she had it back it came easily to her, though she could not articulate why that was. Perhaps some echo from her childhood, or from her first time as a mother. From a time before her world had begun to be shredded, slowly, to bloodied pieces.

  Whatever the reason, her easy stroll put the guard at ease, receptive to her request. Detan’s manipulation tactics must be rubbing off. But no, that wasn’t fair. She’d been a serpent in a ball gown long before Detan Honding had ever had the misfortune of stumbling into her life.

  “Good morning,” she said to the guard and bobbed her head politely. “Could you point me toward Nouli Bern’s quarters? This place is so large, I’ve already forgotten the way.”

  The guard hesitated, the slightest flicker of indecision. Nouli’s presence here was protected, as Pelkaia well knew. Not even the citizens of the city knew their leading family’s palace harbored the man who’d help engineer Valathea’s greatest weapons of war. But Pelkaia was a known entity to the guards: accepted, safe. And she knew the man’s name – simply knowing that he was here at all was key enough to open that door.

  The guard checked to be sure her post was covered by fellow eyes, then inclined her head in practiced solicitude. Pelkaia had to hand it to old Dame Honding, she had her people trained to within an inch of their lives.

  “This way please, miss.”

  Pelkaia threw the remaining guard a friendly smile and trailed after her mark, making sure not to look too eager nor too disinterested. She marked the path, letting the guard see as she murmured assurances to herself that this was the right route after all. It didn’t matter that she’d never seen these particular halls before; she needed the guard to believe this was little more than a refresher.

  “Here you are, miss.” The guard paused in front of a door toward the end of a lower level, set well away from the bulk of the residences, so far as Pelkaia could tell, in a wing that offered a low, sloped roof over what had to be Nouli’s rooms. No doubt he’d been sequestered here, away from the bustle of the palace’s everyday happenings, to both keep him out of sight, and his experiments from affecting anyone should they go awry.

  Pelkaia half-stepped toward the door, only to be met with an upraised palm from the guard. “You must enter without knocking – the door is always unlocked – and shut it carefully behind you. Stand with your back to the door, beside the candelabra, and wait for Nouli to acknowledge you. Do not speak to him, or startle him in any way.”

  Pelkaia flashed a smile. “Thank you, dear, but I’m familiar with Master Bern’s peculiarities.”

  The guard shrugged. “Rules are rules, miss. Dame’s orders that everyone who approaches this door be reminded of them. Got her nethers in a twist over the man’s experiments, if you ask me. Worried he’ll knock the whole place down if he so much as sees a sandrat.”

  “The Dame has reason for her caution, I’m sure.”

  The guard twitched at her weapons belt, letting the heavy weight of her tools reassure her. “Everyone has an extra helping of caution, these days. Holler if you need anything, miss. But not too loud.”

  Pelkaia ran her fingers across her lips as if stitching them shut, and the guard tipped her helmet before hurrying off back to her post. She let the guard’s steps fade into the distance before she peeled the door open. The hinges had been well-oiled, it glided wide with only the tiniest of efforts.

  The sight made her breath catch. Master Bern, it seemed, had been given every possible item he could ever need, and then some. She slipped within the cavernous room and shut the door, lingering in the position indicated, while she let her eyes adjust to the oily light.

  More than the accouterments of a chemist or engineer dotted the huge room. This was a space gone over to experimentation. Aside from the litter of instruments and notebooks across all the tables, Nouli had also been granted a small greenhouse for plant life. Though the plants were clustered in a glass-lined corner far from where Pelkaia waited, she recognized some of those glossy, leafy fronds, and took heart.

  Nouli, in his genius, had not neglected the study of apothiks. Ripka had intimated as much when she brought him aboard Pelkaia’s ship. He’d trembled in those first few days, claiming need of rest but clearly needing something more. Pelkaia had suspected drug abuse of some kind. She’d never dreamed he had knowledge of some of her old Catari remedies, too. Their conversation had yet to begin, and already she was brimming with confidence.

  Paper on paper rustled somewhere in the back of the work room, the subtle clinking of glass. Pelkaia stood stock still alongside the candelabra, waiting patiently for the master to sense her presence. She’d heard Ripka’s story of the conflagration he’d kicked off in his workshop back on the Remnant, and did not wish to see a live demonstration.

  She hadn’t long to wait. Nouli shuffled forward, favoring his left leg with a hardwood cane, his thick glasses sunk low on a nose long-dented by the nose grips. He squinted at Pelkaia, taking in her purebred Catari countenance, and nodded to himself.

  “Pelkaia Teria, isn’t it? The captain of my rescue ship. What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “I am that.” She darted a look around the room. Though it was huge, and doubtless branched into an opulent set of sleeping quarters, Pelkaia was no fool to the workings of such things. Nouli Bern did not leave the Honding palace. Ever. “Though I wonder how successful I was in my rescue.”

  He shuffled over to sit on a stool very near her and leaned his cane against his knee. “Not a subtle woman, are you?”

  She shrugged. “The older I get, the thinner my patience for delicacy of speech.”

  “A dangerous mood, that one. Careful wording is an art to be mastered, not a relic to be discarded when one feels they’ve outgrown it.” He eyed her, slowly and carefully, as she had expected. “Though that is something you will learn in time. You are not nearly old enough to be so cynical of politeness.”

  And just like that, he’d sidled so easily into her trap. It was almost a pity, really. She missed a good head to fence with – a manipulator as keen on the craft as she was – but this would do. She hadn’t expected otherwise, truly. Nouli was a genius in a practical way. He expected people to be as straightforward as his equations were.

  “You flatter me, Master Bern. But you do forget – I am Catari, and of a particular line. Or had you not heard the rumors?�
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  “Rumors?” He leaned forward, fingers curled tight over the knob of his cane to steady himself.

  “That the mixed-bloods of the Scorched live just as long, if not longer, than the pure of Valathea, despite the harsher climate. And, it must be said, put off the more aesthetic ravages of age quite longer.”

  “Tosh.” He slumped back and waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve heard the rumors, everyone likes a good fairytale, but I’m of mixed blood myself, my dear, and as you can see such mingling has not been so kind to me as the stories would suggest.”

  A bitter undercurrent caught her attention and swept it away. Anger that had nothing at all to do with the fading of his looks, nor his health, lay like a frond of spines beneath his words. It was no grand leap to puzzle out what would make a man like Nouli so deeply resentful.

  “It’s a subtle effect in the mixed, diluted as it is, and distributed amongst people who do not live nor eat the way the Catari have.”

  He snorted. “Clean living and thick blood, those are your suggestions? I could have told any fool the same, it is the thing most prescribed by all backwater apothiks. Good knowledge, yes, but hardly revolutionary.”

  “Incomplete knowledge,” Pelkaia said, and saw his eyes narrow with interest. “Due to… poor relations between Valatheas and Catari early on, my people failed to share certain insights with their new neighbors. Certain… recipes.”

  From within her tunic pocket she produced a small vial of elixir. It was not enough to perform miracles, for it was diluted and extracted from plants not grown in the traditional ways, but it was enough to keep Pelkaia’s mind quick. Or, at the very least, to restore it from abject sluggishness.

  Nouli was not a slow man, despite whatever age had done to him. He licked his lips, eyeing the little thumb-thick cylinder of stoppered glass. “And that is what, exactly? Some potion of youth? If you’ve come to peddle me fables, Captain, I’d ask you to save the interruption for dinner tonight, when I won’t be postponing important work for entertainment’s sake.”