Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  She angled herself to see who approached, and nearly cried out with relief when she spied Tibal strolling alongside Enard, Honey supported between them.

  “Here,” she said, stepping out of the alley.

  “Ran across these two on my way in, and weren’t many eyes around to see us,” Tibal said. She couldn’t blame him for assisting, even if a group of three was more conspicuous. Honey’s cheeks were pale enough to have turned beige, her lips wrinkled with dehydration. Despite her assurances that she knew what she was doing, the woman was still in need of care. Crazy didn’t make you invincible.

  Honey looked at Latia’s house and said, “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know.” Ripka explained for the guys, “She usually leaves the windows wide open during the morning. She’s a painter, and loves the natural light. We don’t have much choice, though. We’ve got to have her help. Ready?”

  Honey nodded, curls hanging limp around her cheeks, and the four set off at a hobbling, stunted pace. Ripka steeled herself, and knocked.

  The door flung open. A red-cheeked Latia glared out at them, mouth half-opened in defiance, then recognition caught up with her, and her jaw dropped all the way open.

  “Sweet skies!” She flung the door wide and stepped aside. “Get in, get in. You see?” She hollered over her shoulder. “Told you there was a good reason she didn’t show!”

  Dranik stood in the frame of Latia’s patio door, jaw agape as he watched the four pile into Latia’s small sitting room. Dranik could wait.

  “Honey’s injured.” Ripka put some command into her voice, and Latia jerked as if someone’d yanked on her arm. “Skies! A moment – I have fresh cloth around here somewhere. Dranik, make yourself useful and boil some water. How bad?”

  Latia became a whirlwind of activity while Ripka helped Enard ease Honey onto one of Latia’s many lounge chairs.

  “It’s shallow. She’s just put too much weight on it, too soon.”

  Enard and Tibal wisely stepped back from the rush around Honey, putting their backs to the curtained windows while Latia and Ripka peeled Honey’s robe away and set about stitching and binding her wound. Dranik came scurrying into the room moments later, a steaming kettle of water hissing in his hand.

  “What in the pits happened?” he demanded, as he knelt alongside Honey and offered the hot water to Latia to clean the wraps before binding Honey’s thigh.

  To this, Ripka had no good answer. She hesitated only a moment, then decided to err on the side of truth. If they were going to work together, they had to trust one another, and Ripka couldn’t very well expect him to let her into his inner circle if she lied to him now. She couldn’t think of a convincing lie, anyway. The truth would be enough of a stretch.

  “We were detained overnight in the Hotel Cinder by the Honding family guards. Honey’s injury allowed us an opportunity to escape this morning. I am sorry I missed your meeting, Dranik, but–”

  “Pits take my meeting.” He bounced to his feet, shooting the men a hard look. “How did you get detained? And who in the pits are these two people?”

  “Friends of mine, I trust them both with my life.”

  “That’s all very well and good for you, but–”

  Ripka was on her feet before she’d realized it, closed the distance between her and Dranik and pressed her face so close to his he had to step back or be headbutted. Her robe fell open, revealing the smears of blood on her nightshift, and she watched with perverse satisfaction as his throat bobbed.

  “I have had one pits-cursed night, in no small part because of my efforts on behalf of this city. They are my friends. They are trustworthy. Their names are Enard and Tibal. You will treat them with the same courtesy you have shown me, or I will walk right the fuck out that door and leave you to unravel your own shitpile. Am I quite understood?”

  “Yes,” he squeaked.

  “Say hello to Tibal and Enard.”

  “Uh, I… Hello, Tibal and Enard.”

  “Smile.”

  He did.

  She slumped away from him, took an unsteady step backward, and tried very hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “Pardon me,” Latia said, “that was all very convincing, and you four are very welcome in my home but, with all respect, what the fuck happened?”

  “A few days ago I took it upon myself to intercept a message the Dame Honding sent to her Valathean contacts. That interception was discovered sometime yesterday, and we were apprehended last night and detained until the Dame could figure out what to do with us. That clear enough?”

  Latia’s eyes were wide as saucers. “You stole information from the Dame?”

  “I would steal her knickers off her wrinkled ass if it meant I could keep this city safe. Do you understand me now, both of you?”

  “I…” Dranik mustered a shred of dignity. “Why? Why do you care so much about this city?”

  Ripka looked at the mess she’d made. At Latia and Dranik, pale with fear. At Enard, pushed away from her so thoroughly that she hardly thought his name unless it was in the context of saving the city. And Tibal, whose friendship she’d nearly lost for good due to her own anger, her own rash decisions. Even Honey only tolerated her out of some misguided sense of loyalty to Ripka’s violent streak.

  Hond Steading’s fate had so consumed her, her loss of Aransa so undermined her confidence, that she’d been working this job from the wrong angle. Taking on Detan’s mannerisms, his panache for misdirection. That’d almost gotten them all beheaded at the Dame’s hand. It was time to play this game on a more comfortable footing. And time, too, to make some pretty hard apologies. But those would have to wait. Now, she needed Dranik on her side. Her real side.

  “My name is Ripka Leshe, and I was watch-captain when Aransa fell. I have lost one city to Thratia Ganal. I will not lose another. Do you see that I am quite serious, and that I mean to help you all?”

  “I never doubted your intent,” Dranik stammered, “but when you didn’t show up–”

  Latia swatted at him. “Stop simpering and find these people some fresh clothes, and draw some bathwater, for skies’ sake. I take it you four don’t exactly enjoy wearing all that blood.”

  Ripka shot Latia a fierce grin. “Red’s not my color.”

  “Skies, but I must paint you.”

  “Later. Now, we have a city to save, and very little time to do it. Valathea is already moving in, and I’d bet anything Thratia’s forces will arrive in full within the week. Dranik – those contacts of yours, can you take me to them?”

  He paused halfway to the patio to draw fresh water, frowning hard. “They were annoyed when the new recruits I promised them didn’t show, but–”

  “But consider how much more pleased they’ll be with four new sycophants.”

  “Ah. Yes. That could work.” He scurried out the door, bucket swinging from one hand, and let out a startled yelp.

  “What is it now?” Latia was on her feet in an instant, but Ripka made it to the patio first. There was no one there, just Dranik, bucket dropped at his feet, head tipped back as he stared at the swathe of blue sky above all their heads.

  A sky that wasn’t so blue any more. A fat shadow spilled over Latia’s garden wall, swelling with every inch it claimed across the tiles. Ripka swallowed once, then followed Dranik’s gaze to the sky which was pristine just a few moments ago.

  The largest ship she’d ever seen marred the clouds. Though she could only see its belly and a sliver of its deck, it still managed to blot out the sun. Structures dotted the side that she could see, the ship twisted into a three-quarters view that rapidly dwindled as it slithered into position. It took her a moment to place those structures, as she had never seen so many clustered in one place before – harpoon guns, all of them, and the largest of their kind.

  It approached the city from the west, its accordion wings throwing shadows so wide they almost ate up the entire city. Valathea, she knew, would come from the north – across th
e sea and over the delta. The only thing west of Hond Steading was Aransa.

  Was Thratia Ganal.

  Enard and Tibal came to flank her, and their combined shadow formed a smaller version of the great ship’s: Ripka as the body, Enard and Tibal as the splayed wings.

  “She comes,” Dranik said, voice quiet with tension.

  But there was more than Thratia Ganal on that ship, and only the two men who stood beside her knew that with the same certainty she did. A greater threat, or savior, arrived in Hond Steading this morning.

  Thratia Ganal was expected, counted upon, prepared for. She was a force of nature, but one that could be predicted and moved against with enough time and effort.

  Detan Honding, however, was a wildcard. And though Ripka believed in the deepest recesses of her heart that he’d only bent knee to Aella to save them all from the fate he’d since endured, she could not know what that fate had done to him. Could not know what plans he made now, what schemes were spooling out from his lips all across the city. After spending half a year as a willing captive of Thratia and Aella, she could not even be certain that he still counted those two his enemies. For all she knew, he came to bend Hond Steading to Thratia’s will.

  But no. He wouldn’t. She knew that man, in the way she knew herself. Knew that despite all his gruff games, his quick tongue and his light fingers, he was wrapping himself in deception to hide the core of goodness in him. The core that had been bruised by the Bone Tower so badly it had retreated to the deepest recesses of his being.

  “So soon,” Latia murmured. “I thought we’d have some time yet to prepare.”

  “There’s no preparing for what’s on that ship,” Tibal said. Ripka had never agreed with him more in her entire life.

  “What do you mean?” Latia asked.

  Ripka said, “Detan Honding has come home.”

  “Skies help us all,” Tibal whispered, too soft for anyone but Ripka to hear.

  Chapter Thirty

  Thratia did not make Dame Honding board her ship to speak terms, and Detan found that strangely kind of her. Whoever held the ground, held the upper hand, and he knew sure as his nerves were on fire that Thratia was aware of that fact.

  But she was a crafty rockviper, his bloodthirsty betrothed, and he suspected that she saw some other upperhand to be gained in dealing with the Dame on her turf. For his part, Detan wished deeply that she’d decided to deal with them on the solid deck of the Dread Wind. Not that he wanted Thratia to have any advantage – he simply wanted to know all the good hiding places, should his dear auntie lash out at him in the way he expected.

  He was also convinced that Thratia’d allowed Aella to bring along Callia just to put Ranalae on edge. Disgusting little move that it was, he hoped it played true. If anyone in the whole of the world needed her nerves shaken, it was the mistress of the Bone Tower.

  What a sordid little party they made, tromping across the gangplank to his auntie’s flagship. The boards thundered under his boots, the wind pushed at him as if urging him to turn back. He wanted to tell the wind to mind its own pitsdamned business.

  Thratia dragged along a selection of her honor guard, and Detan was just now getting the sense that she’d planned their wardrobe to complement his and hers both. They wore the slate grey coats he’d seen hidden under crates of booze in Aransa, but they’d been trimmed with piping of ochre-orange, like his own coat, and bloodstone red like her tunic. Such a small thing, but it was these deft moves of which Thratia was truly a master. Without so much as saying a word, their entourage presented as a cohesive unit, Detan’s importance on par with Thratia’s own. His auntie wouldn’t take long to figure out what hand Thratia was about to deal her.

  Ranalae stood at his auntie’s right. For a breathless moment, she was all he could see, though she spared him little more than a cool glance. Auntie Honding, however, appeared to be trying to render him into mush with the sheer force of her glare.

  “Well met under blue skies, Warden Ganal, nephew.” Auntie Honding had gotten her smile back on, and made a perfect show of bowing over her upheld palms.

  “Well met, Dame Honding,” Thratia replied, and Detan bowed in sync with her to hide his smile at her casual dismissal of Ranalae’s presence. At least they were of one mind when it came to that nasty piece of work.

  She could not be ignored for long, however, as she had sighted the withered form of Callia at the end of Aella’s leash. Her face twisted with disgust, smoothed away in haste, and she smiled with all her teeth at Aella.

  “What have you done?”

  The question took Detan by surprise. He’d expected shock, revulsion, anything except immediate acceptance. He had not considered that she would assume Aella had been the source of Callia’s ailment. Poor foresight, on his part. Just because he’d taken the little tyke for a normal child on first sighting didn’t mean those around her had missed the signs. Aella had the blood of a killer in her veins – and she didn’t even enjoy the act like any other self-respecting psychopath would.

  “I have taken care of my ill mother,” Aella said with impressive poise. She stroked Callia’s hair, and that woman tilted her head to accept the affection. Whatever was left rattling around inside Callia’s skull, it didn’t appear to recognize Ranalae. Maybe it just saw another coat, and that was the extent of things.

  “A strange illness.”

  “Callia’s condition is unfortunate, but we are not here to discuss your past employee’s health,” Thratia interjected, cutting the rising tension between Aella and Ranalae short. “We are here to discuss the future of Hond Steading.”

  The Dame’s brows lifted. “Are we? The future of this city is my prerogative, Warden, and I do not recall inviting you to offer advice.”

  Thratia’s smile was slow as a rockcat who’d just slapped a paw down on its favorite prey. Detan steeled himself, knowing what was coming.

  “And mine, sooner than you’d think. Your heir and I are to be married. We have come to celebrate the nuptials with you, and the handover of the city into his care, of course.”

  His auntie’s gaze snapped to him, pure shock registering for just a moment before she managed to compose herself. Detan forced himself to stand still and tall, his face impassive, as Dame Honding took in the situation in full. Her gaze did not fail to linger on the harpoons lining the deck of the Dread Wind, and for that he was proud of her.

  “An interesting travel arrangement for a wedding procession,” she said dryly. “Tell me, nephew, is this… arrangement to your liking as well?”

  If the pits opened up and swallowed them all right at that moment, he could die a happy man, but they’d never been likely to do what he’d wanted, and today was no exception. He plastered on the breezy smile of a spoiled aristocrat, content to have a headstrong spouse take the reins, and shrugged.

  “I cannot think of a stronger match.” Which was true enough, in a literal sense. He’d bet damn near anything that Thratia could arm wrestle half the women in the Scorched into submission.

  “I see. I would like a moment alone with my nephew, if that is all right with you, Warden?”

  She flicked a dismissive hand. “He is his own man. Take your time. Ranalae and I have much to discuss.”

  Detan was a little insulted to realize Thratia didn’t think he had the balls to say what he felt in private, but then, she probably believed he had acquiesced in truth to her plan. The very sight of a whitecoat had once been enough to make Detan leap, blindly, from Thratia’s dock. She had no reason to doubt that the threat of them taking the imperial throne, and ultimately Hond Steading, would be enough to win him to her as a reluctant ally.

  Fool of a woman.

  Detan followed his aunt to her private cabin, doing his best to ignore the sideways stare Ranalae had locked on him. Let her stare all she liked; he was beyond her reach, now. Thratia’s protection aside, if she so much as grabbed for him he’d drop this ship from the sky, and he’d bet anything that she knew it, too.


  His auntie’s cabin was sparse, but well-lit, which was rather unfortunate, as the sharp light emphasized every line of the scowl that marred her usually genteel features.

  “What in the pits are you doing, young man? I haven’t seen a sliver of you since you left Valathea, and now you show up on my doorstep with an invading army – the commander of which you, apparently, intend to wed? Is this how I raised you?”

  “Left Valathea? I fled that nightmare, Auntie, and if you haven’t seen a trace of me since that day then I assure you it was for your own safety – and that of everyone in Hond Steading.”

  She drew back, her hip knocking the edge of a shelf, and in that slightest of movements, that wrinkled fear around her too-sharp eyes, Detan knew.

  Dame Honding: the only family he had left, the woman who had raised him after his parents’ deaths, the singular protectress of all Hond Steading, knew what he was. Knew what had really happened on the side of a firemount all those years ago, when he’d blown a selium pipeline to smithereens and all the miners with it. She knew, and she’d sent him willingly to the Bone Tower. There was no other reason for her to be afraid of him now. He’d never been one to strike out – but a man of his power with his ire up around so much selium could be a deadly thing indeed.

  “You knew. You fucking knew, and you told me nothing.” He wanted to raise his voice, to clench his fists and shout the sky down around her, but he simply didn’t have it in him. Oh, the anger was there, he could feel it bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin, but it seemed a distant thing to him now, the sting of her betrayal hollowed by time and distance. And Aella’s training, he’d have to give her credit for that.

  “I guessed, I did not know.”

  “And you?”

  She stared down her nose at him. “I have no sel-sense, as Eletraia was always quick to remind me.”

  That name, so long buried, opened a sinkhole in his heart. “Do not blame any of this on my mother. If you even suspected, you should have tested me earlier – told me what I was capable of. You sure as the pits are black shouldn’t have sent me out on the fucking line to endanger everyone!”