Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  There was no sight of the syringe that carried his usual injection of diviner blood and selium. He tried to ignore the fact, he really did, but after missing his dose the night, before anxiety was creeping in. A presence he had come to expect, invisible but always there, was slowly slipping away. A certain heaviness to the air, a tactile sensation every time he drew a breath. That injection had made him aware of all the tiny particles of selium suspended in the air, even if he couldn’t reach them, and losing them now was like having swaddling stripped away and being left bare-assed in a cold wind.

  He swallowed his anxiety, recalling one of the meditative exercises Pelkaia had practiced with him in the time immediately after he’d set Aransa’s sky on fire: think of a singular goal, and breathe evenly. The goal was easy enough – get that injection. That first part was making the second markedly harder.

  “Try to watch yourself, you clumsy oaf,” Aella said after she’d settled Callia’s whimpers and given the woman a metal mixing rod to draw in the dust with. Callia shot him little glares every so often, hard to see through the sunken skin shriveling up her face like an old plum, but each one of those little glares he took small pleasure in.

  Should have been ashamed of that but, well. Callia had tortured him. And Detan had never been above small pettiness.

  “A thousand apologies.” He held his palms to the glaring sky and bowed over them expansively. Already the heat was beginning to draw prickles of sweat between his shoulder blades. He considered asking Aella if she’d swap clothes with him, then decided better of it. She didn’t appear in the mood to tolerate his antics too long, and he knew from hard experience that pushing her now could lead to greater punishment down the road.

  And anyway, his one goal wasn’t about being comfortable. It was about getting that injection. And finding out what had happened to Clink and Forge. So, fine, two goals. But Pelkaia wasn’t here to scold him about lack of focus, so to the pits with it.

  “You should apologize to whoever made you that suit, it won’t survive this. Skies above, Honding, You’ve been given the run of the city. The servants answer to your needs. Did you not think you could ask for something a little less formal?”

  He winced, subtly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought about the fact that their training sessions were quite intense, and he was likely to ruin all the fine stitch work that been put into what he wore now – not to mention stain that ash-grey fabric with sweat. But, more importantly, Aella’d let slip that the servants would treat him as the Lord Thratia was parading him around as. Handy, that little piece of information. Servants would no doubt have less compunction about being forthright with him than his current companions, and anyway, they always had the best gossip. Considering the pits-cursed nightmares he’d dragged himself through over the last few months, he was in desperate need of a juicy story or two to wind down with. Something with an illicit affair being walked in on.

  “I wanted nothing but the best for our little chats, Aella dear. You do know how I look forward to them so.”

  The corners of her lips twitched – something like a smile, something like a smirk. When he’d first met her, minding his leash on Callia’s airship of nightmares, he’d thought that expression was a smile. Normal little girls smiled when someone cracked a joke, after all. But Aella was no normal girl. She was cold straight through, worse if what Misol had intimated was true – not cold at all. Just… hollowed out inside. Empty. That lip twitch could mean anything. Annoyance, amusement. Pleasure at having witnessed someone – anyone at all – score a verbal point. She did seem to like to spar with him, though her patience with such things had grown thinner lately.

  If she even had patience. If Misol’s theory was to be believed, then Aella was a walking blank slate. But that just couldn’t be right. The girl had passion, drive. They were just pointed in what Detan felt were rather unfortunate directions. He wondered, just for a moment, if he could manage to reorient those passions. Harness her drive for something that didn’t end in him sweating blood for data.

  Callia shuffled in the dirt, and those thoughts evaporated like so much mist in the desert.

  “Let us begin,” she said, and reached for a bladder of selium.

  Detan made a show of stripping off his coat, laying it with care on a blank space on the table, and then rolling up his sleeves. He paced, cutting lines in the sand with his new, too-shiny boots, working up a proper coating of dust. Never could trust a Scorched man with shiny shoes. But the dust just wouldn’t stick. Thratia’d had them polished sleeker than a crow’s back.

  “What’s the rush?” He was sweating now in full force, dampness seeping through his back in ribboned patterns. The scars on his back never sweated. Most of the time, he could ignore that. But now the memories of the fire he’d set to the sky came crashing back, his imagination so strong he could almost feel the lick of the flames eating his shirt away, kissing his skin all over. The same flames that’d mottled Thratia’s cheek.

  Awareness of the selium seeped into his being, his senses reaching out on instinct, finding the bladder Aella held, feeling out its shape and its volume. Some small part of him lamented that there wasn’t nearly enough there for him to set the sky afire again. Maybe… Maybe he could thrust it up. Make a little fire. Just fill in the top of this thrice-cursed well with some real life. Show the sun’s rays what real heat could do.

  Pain splashed over him, danced those thoughts away. He winced, hopped back, grabbed at his shin and cursed himself and Misol and just about any other handy name that came to mind. The doppel just looked at him, gaze hooded and bored.

  Aella sighed and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “As I feared. As soon as withdrawal sets in, he becomes almost as unpredictable as before his training.”

  “What–” he sucked air, made himself put his aching leg down and resist an urge to blow all four of them to itty bloody bits. “What in the pits did you do to me just then? I wasn’t even thinking about…” he waved a hand, describing the rough shape of a blob of selium with the edge of his palm. “And then I was ready to blow us all to smoke.”

  “I did nothing to you, I merely introduced the presence of selium. Made you remember its existence, its nearness. You have grown so unstable over the night without your dose that that was all it took.”

  “Donkeyshit,” he snapped. “I’ve never felt that way before – never without reason.”

  “And don’t you have one?” She gave him a real smile now, a coy little thing that he’d bet his right testicle she practiced in the mirror to get just right. “You have quite a lot to be angry about, Honding. All the time. We all do, really. All the petty injustices of the world, they just pile up. Mount and mount until we break. Some people reach for a bottle, some mudleaf. Some practice meditations, or skies forbid, talk their worries out with another sympathetic being. We’re all simmering, just a little. You’re just quicker to boil than others, and the injections have made you more sensitive. And yet, without them, your irritation comes so swiftly it’s like you’ve never had them at all. Fascinating.”

  “Fascinating? Really? Would you find it just plum-bloody-interesting if I stubbed my toe and took all our heads off in retaliation? Skies above, Aella, you swore you could teach me control. Real control. This is moving backwards.”

  She shrugged, as if it mattered not at all to her. “You really can be thick sometimes. This isn’t a regression – not technically. It’s a revelation. A hint as to what exactly is pumping through those veins of yours, or going on in that tiny brain. Did you know, before I left the Bone Tower, that the whitecoats had yet to discern just where exactly in the body sel-sensitivity originated from? I can’t even tell you the amount of cadavers they mucked around in trying to find a source, peeling the brain layer by layer looking for any anomaly. They found nothing in all that long research, and here you are upset because your control slipped a touch. Pah. You’re cleverer than that, though you try very hard not to be. Think it through, now. The inje
ctions gave you finer control, and the removal of them has shaken the baseline of ability you already possessed. Why?”

  “I am not your tailcoat-clinging whitecoated pupil, Aella. This isn’t some twisted school quiz – and don’t expect me to believe for a moment that your esteemed colleagues in the Bone Tower were rummaging around in the bodies of just the dead.”

  An eyebrow twitched, her head jerked back just slightly. He’d scored a point against her, reminded her of things that broke through even her veneer of indifference and unsettled her. His small victory lasted only a breath.

  She reached into the pocket of her tunic, produced a syringe, showed it to him, swirled it, let the sel mingling with the blood gleam in the light.

  “I mixed it just a moment ago, before you arrived. Thratia has a whole stable of diviners, did you know? She cultivates that deviation, sends them out into the harsh and hot world to find untapped resources of selium. They were all happy to donate a sample, after Thratia explained the situation to them. This one’s from a woman. Healthy girl. Keen sel-sense. She was eager to help.”

  Aella tucked the syringe back into her pocket and pinned him with a look. “Such a shame blood goes to poison so quickly in this heat.” She glanced at the hot sky. “We’d better work quickly. That woman has gone out scouting, and do you want to know a secret?”

  He grit his teeth and asked, “What?”

  “There just aren’t that many people in the world who can donate blood for these types of things.” She stroked her pocket, cradling the outline of the glass hidden within. “Took us – apothiks and whitecoats both, you know – ages to figure out the secret. Some bodies produce blood of a certain, special flavor. It can harmonize with all other types. But try to mix any other two together?” She drew her thumb across her throat and made a croaking sound. “It’s not a pretty way to go.”

  “Aella.” He hated the rasp that’d worked its way into his voice but, to pits with it, if she thought he was dangerous – thought he verged on going out of control – then maybe she’d give him the injection for all of their safety. He caught himself scratching at his inner elbow, in the place where previous needles had left tiny scars, and forced himself to make fists instead. “It wasn’t my fault I missed last night’s dose. Whatever you’re punishing me for, bring it up with Thratia. I have to do as she says, same as you.”

  “We are not the same,” she snapped, fingers clenching around the syringe so hard he winced, fearing she’d break it. “And unlike you, I can do as I please. Thratia may have taken you to her bed, but do not confuse her use of you as a political tool with protection. You came to me – kneeling – to discover the secrets of your power and I have found something here, Honding. Found something interesting, and short of killing you I have free rein to do as I please, do you understand? I will make you understand yourself, whether you’re willing or not.”

  “This can’t be useful, please–”

  She waved him off. “That’s withdrawal talking. Unfortunate, but we can work through it. Now–”

  Detan lunged. Hadn’t even thought about it. One moment he was standing there, trying to find another angle to weasel that syringe into his arm without losing too much dignity, and the next he was lurching forward like someone had yanked on his puppet strings.

  But he’d never been a fighting man, and that was probably best for them all.

  Misol swept his legs with the butt of her spear and he went down hard, chest-first into the hot sand. His instincts reached out, flung in all directions, mapping all the amounts of selium in the room. Numbness fell over him like cold water – Aella clamping negating power over his.

  He shivered, clinging to the scorching sand, and tried to pretend that in the moment he’d lunged, in the moment Aella’d leapt back to avoid him, he hadn’t heard the crack of glass. Wasn’t seeing, now, the dribble of sel-infused blood pooling on the ground.

  Aella sighed, low and disappointed. Detan picked up his head, forced himself to look at what he’d done. A red smear spread out from Aella’s pocket and she was, gingerly, peeling off the over-tunic.

  “If your little fit is over,” she said, and he wanted to weep as she chucked the ruined garment to the ground and stood over him, hands propped on her still-small, childish hips. “Let us begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The sun was threatening to rise by the time Ripka and Honey had hammered out their plans with Dranik and dragged themselves, aching and exhausted, back to the palace. Even at night it was a piece of art. Carved into the side of a dormant firemount, the wide terraces of the stepped structure were strung with glimmering oil lamps, faceted glass splashing brightness in all directions. A flagrant display of Hond Steading’s wealth, but one the citizens seemed to admire. They struck Ripka as ostentatious, but then, this wasn’t her city. She wasn’t sure she’d ever have a city to call her own again.

  The front steps were more in line with Ripka’s aesthetic. They were broad and shallow, spaced in such a way that would make them difficult for an invading force to take at any speed. The builders of this place had carved it into a gleaming jewel, and its edges could still cut when required.

  The guards lining the walkway were reminder enough of that. Jacketed in sharp black, spears held easy at their sides, they dotted both sides of the broad stairs on every third step, their gazes locked on all approaching visitors. They appeared ceremonial to the average citizen, but Ripka saw the tension in their jaws, the spring in their knees, and knew them the deadliest warriors the city had to offer. And the city would soon need them.

  Massive double doors loomed at the top of the steps, thrown wide despite the late night. Dame Honding welcomed her citizens to seek refuge in her palace at all times. In the few days Ripka had been in the palace, she’d stumbled across troubled souls more than once, pacing or praying or weeping in silence in the solitude of the Dame’s home.

  There was kindness here, amongst the harsh living of the desert. A kindness born from the seed of the ruling family’s philosophies. She wondered if Dranik ever considered that.

  She stepped into that place of welcoming, and a guard grabbed her arm.

  “Miss Leshe, Miss Honey?”

  “Yes? Is there a problem?”

  A red-eyed man reading on a bench nearby looked up, assessed the two women being apprehended, and shuffled away to a far seat. She couldn’t blame him.

  “The Dame wishes a word with you.”

  “It is very late…”

  “She has been waiting.”

  Ripka nodded understanding. They were escorted through the welcoming room and down a side hall Ripka knew well – the path to the Dame’s private sitting room. Her heart thundered, wondering just what had kept the Dame up through the night to speak with her. When the door opened, her stomach dropped.

  The messenger she’d intercepted stood alongside Dame Honding’s chair, his pale face streaked with what might have been dried tears. Tibal lingered to the side of the room, Enard on the other, and both had a set of guards twin to the two escorting Ripka and Honey.

  Ripka put a placid face on, and bowed over her hands like this were any other meeting. “Good evening, Dame.”

  The Dame snorted and flicked the hem of her long sleeve. “My patience has burned away with the lamp oil, Miss Leshe. You know why you are here, do not insult us both by pretending otherwise. You accosted this young man and intercepted a message from me meant for the Valathean Fleet. Why?”

  Ripka wished she was facing this with a well-rested head. After a moment’s consideration, she decided to gamble with the truth. “I find Ranalae’s promises to you impossible, and I fear what will happen to Hond Steading if you invite her and her forces within your walls. Frankly, Dame, once she is inside your palace, you will never get her out again.”

  “Now that’s unfair.” Ranalae stepped from behind a pillar. The dignitary looked ragged from lack of sleep, but otherwise composed. Maybe even a little amused. “I do have my own home to return to.” />
  I bet you do, Ripka thought, but bit her tongue. Antagonizing the woman without a point wouldn’t win her any good will from the Dame, and that was what she desperately needed now.

  Interfering with a Honding messenger was treason. And she knew full well how treason would be handled in Aransa: walk the Black, or face the axe. She licked her lips, composing an argument to keep Honey, Enard, and Tibal free of the fallout she’d brought down upon them all.

  “I understand,” the Dame said, “that you faced a great deal of hardship in Aransa. The stories you have told me, and that I have heard from others, are quite chilling. But I fear your experiences have biased you to reality, my dear. The Scorched exists because of the goodwill of Valathea. Even Hond Steading, though unique in its system of government, relies on the empire for trade and, yes, even protection, when it comes to that. Relations between our city and the empress have always been strong. And now, in our time of need, they have come to our aid. I will not allow you to insult our imperial friends to soothe your paranoia. Is that clear?”

  “And where was their friendship, when they took your nephew and tortured him?” The words were out before she could stop them, thrown hard as knives against a woman she could not otherwise wound.

  The Dame took a sharp breath, but Ripka’s gaze was on Ranalae, whose smile turned decidedly predatory. Whatever Ranalae’s position in the empire, she knew. She must know what went on in the Bone Tower. There was no hiding something like that from the higher-ups. And, in knowing and doing nothing, Ranalae had been complicit in Detan’s suffering. Could even be held accountable for the wall he brought down during his desperate escape.

  “Those rumors are unsubstantiated,” the Dame snapped, “and the fanciful imaginings of sick minds. They tried to cure my nephew’s loss of sel-sense, he did not take well to the treatment. That is all.”

  “Is that what Ranalae told you?”