Inherit the Flame

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Skies keep you.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  A week after Ripka’s plea to the forum, the Honding palace rang out a peal of bells to mark the day of Detan’s wedding. Birds roosting on the roof of the stationhouse took to the air, sending the citizens’ brigade members – Ripka included – ducking for cover lest they be shat upon.

  “Oh happy day,” Tibal said, to the nervous chuckles of many of those gathered. At least something had broken the tension.

  “For those attending the festivities.” Forge removed a carefully wrapped parcel containing four wedding invitations she’d counterfeited with the supplies Detan had sent them. One each for Ripka, Tibal, Enard, and Honey. Watch-captain Lakon had received his own, legitimate, invitation the day before.

  Ripka undid the bundle and handed them out to her well-dressed companions, feeling stiff and awkward in her own fine, carnelian dress. At least Thratia’s taste in fashion made wearing a high slight and leggings beneath acceptable. Mobility would be key tonight.

  Latia’d procured somber black suits for the men, subtle pleating allowing them a greater range of motion, and a dye-dipped dress of oranges and reds that made Honey look like she was the smoldering wick of a candle, her hair the golden flame.

  All in all, Ripka’d much rather be wearing her street clothes and staying close to the brigade. But Detan had sent those invitation blanks for a reason, and she wasn’t about to let Enard and Tibal walk in there without her.

  “Dranik,” she said. The young man snapped to attention. He’d really bent himself to the task in the last week, and had earned himself a position at the top of the pack. “Keep our people distributed evenly, no clumping until trouble spots can be identified. Use your whistles to communicate, as we taught you. No weapons unless you receive the signal from the palace. Keep yourselves hidden, and safe.”

  “Yes, Captain.” His salute was a mess, but well-meaning, so she let it slide with a smile.

  “Now,” she said, “let’s go crash this party.”

  Carriages clogged the streets of Hond Steading, all the well-to-do of the city coming out to be seen, but not get their feet dusty. They skirted the crowded streets, and Ripka wondered if her invitation was the only one growing a bit damp in a sweaty palm. It was one thing to break into a large celebration like this. It was quite another to do so when many of the attendees were very likely to recognize you. They’d done their best to obscure their features with carefully applied makeup and different hairstyles, but there was only so much they could do to hide their faces – without Pelkaia’s tricks, anyway. Too bad Detan hadn’t thought to demand his wedding be a masquerade.

  The palace’s great doors had been thrown wide, a contingent of black-clad guards lining the flower-strewn steps to check for invitations and weapons. Ripka squinted against the sun, and her heart beat a little faster. They weren’t all Honding guards. Many wore the grey coats of Thratia’s personal militia, the same damned uniform she’d seen flood the streets the night she took Aransa.

  Enard squeezed her hand, just for a moment, and she breathed a little easier. They were prepared. They could do this.

  They mounted the steps as a group, Ripka at the head, Tibal trailing in the rear as he was most likely to be recognized – even without the hat. Honey stuck close by Ripka, her over-the-top outfit and beauty doing a whole lot of good to keep the guards from looking too closely at anyone else. It worked. Their invitations were checked, the corners clipped, and they were in.

  Ripka gasped. The grand hall of the palace, where all the people of the city were welcome to visit at any time for refuge, had been transformed into a glimmering garden of light and flowers. How the Dame had mustered all this up on such short notice, Ripka had no idea. But the walls were festooned in garlands of flowers, the ceiling a waterfall of lanterns made of glass in all possible colors. The Dame might not be pleased about the match her nephew had made, but she wasn’t going to let that keep her from sending him to his nuptials in Honding style.

  The hall was packed, but not quite as packed as she would have liked it. Servants moved among them, deftly presenting trays of drink and small bites to the guests as they waited for the couple’s arrival. The contract, she knew, by tradition would be signed before the ceremony even began. The moment Detan stepped into this hall, he would already be legally bound to Thratia. The binding of hands before those gathered was only a formality, a way to publicly display their intentions. Marriage contracts were meant to be a private, intimate affair. Just one more thing perverted by Thratia’s aspirations.

  A servant swooped down upon her and she took a glass of something red and citrusy, even though her stomach ached at the thought of what Thratia was putting Detan through. A guest refusing refreshment would be remarked upon.

  They spread out a little, though Honey stuck close to Ripka’s side. The crowd was thickening as the day grew late, morning marching steadily toward midday, when the couple would make their appearance. No one recognized her, and so no one tried to make small talk. She was an unimportant fish in a very, very big social pond. She kept herself busy checking exits, bottlenecks. At the end of the hall the guests clumped up, getting as close to the ceremonial altar as possible. She’d want to stick to the edge, toward the back, to best be able to maneuver through the crowd, but still be close enough to the center aisle that Detan could spot her when he entered. If she and Honey pressed just a little further to the right…

  A hand fell on her shoulder.

  Dame Honding stood behind her, resplendent in teal and navy blue silk piped with her family’s black. Ripka swallowed, forced a small smile, opened her mouth to say something, anything, but found no words. She braced herself for the guards to be called.

  The Dame winked, nodded once, and disappeared back into the crowd.

  Ripka’s knees were jellied.

  A lilting harp took up a slow waltz, and the couple entered.

  Chapter Fifty

  The weird thing was, Thratia didn’t even try to slip anything untoward into the marriage contract. The wording was as straightforward as you could get – the usual bindings of house and fortune, the special paragraphs detailing the split rule of Hond Steading, and how the last word ultimately fell to the blooded heir – Detan himself.

  He thought it strange, until he realized the actual wording was pointless. The whole thing was a farce, anyway. She’d label him dangerous or mentally unstable – or both – first chance she got and ship him off for Aella to play with. Or worse, Ranalae. He really didn’t like the way Thratia was looking at him after his slip with the firemount. Like he was a wildfire that needed to be snuffed, and fast.

  The marching music, as he thought of it, struck up, and he was proud of himself for not trembling as he took Thratia’s arm in his. Thratia wore flame red, her hair piled with vicious pins, and she’d gone ahead and stuck him in the same charcoal-and-ember style she’d filled his wardrobe with, if cut a little tighter and a little fancier for the occasion. Maybe she didn’t much like the truth about his power, but she was willing to flaunt it, for now. He thought he looked ridiculous, but then he figured even at a normal wedding the groom wouldn’t have much say in his attire.

  Servants pulled the doors. They stepped into the hall. Detan’s breath caught as he took in what his auntie had done for this day, for him. She didn’t know his plans. Didn’t know that he still held out hope that he’d figure out a way to wriggle free of Thratia’s stranglehold. All she knew was her nephew was getting married, and to the pits with the reasons or the bride. She’d decorated the hall like she meant it and, in her own strange way, he knew she was telling him she loved him. Maybe even that she was sorry.

  The long aisle to the altar was as red as Thratia’s dress, making her seem omnipresent, somehow. As if she could reach out and control the whole of the room with only a thought. Detan put a little saunter into his walk, because why the pits not, it was his wedding, after all, and escorted his evil little bride down the aisle with the fa
kest grin he’d ever mustered in his life.

  The crowd was silent, polite, whispering behind their hands if they talked at all. All eyes were on him, on Thratia, and there was a tension in the room – a thickness that crawled over his skin.

  He found the source in the little grey dots breaking up the guests, members of Thratia’s militia in their uniform best, but their uniforms all the same. No doubt the only people allowed weapons in the entire building tonight. Aside from Detan himself, anyway. He could never truly be denied his power. Not now that he knew the injections did not work on Aella.

  Halfway down the aisle, he almost tripped.

  Ripka. Ripka and that blonde-haired woman he’d last seen her with at the Remnant were in the crowd. She stood a little ways back from the aisle, angled so that he could see her, but otherwise making herself inconspicuous. She’d done a bit of fancy work with her makeup and hair, but he’d know her anywhere. Could see in the set of her shoulders, the slight wrinkle around her eyes, that she was up to something. Planning, preparing. For what, he hadn’t a clue. But if Ripka was here, his other friends might be, too. He glanced away to avoid Thratia following his eye, and scanned the crowd quickly. No sign of Tibs or New Chum that he could see, but that didn’t mean they were absent.

  If Thratia noticed the sudden lightness in his step, she gave no indication.

  They reached the end of the aisle, where his auntie waited with a misty look in her eye that he tried very, very hard to ignore. The altar was a simple thing, a hip-height pillar of stone with a copper basin in its center. Knowing his auntie, it was probably the same one Detan’s parents had been married with. He hoped not. They’d been through enough trouble in their lives without him sullying their memory by dribbling Thratia’s blood into their altar. The knife that matched the set was already in his auntie’s hand.

  “Thratia Ganal. Detan Honding. You have been bound by paper. Do you consent to be bound by blood?”

  “We do,” they said in unison.

  A quick slice on the palms, a clasping of hands above the copper bowl, and it was done. Over in a flash and the faintest of stings. The audience burst into cheers and applause.

  Detan stood opposite Thratia at the altar, his bleeding hand clasped in hers, dripping a mingling of their blood into the bowl, and was stunned at how simple a thing it all was.

  He had married Thratia Ganal.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The marriage thus sealed, apothiks swooped down upon the couple to bandage their hands, and Ripka was astonished to see Detan not so much as blink as an apothik in a sharp white apron rushed at him.

  “He has calmed,” she murmured.

  Servants brought out tables and chairs for those who wanted them, and the altar was cleared away to make room for a long banquet table at which Thratia and Detan were sat, dead center, Dame Honding to Detan’s left and Aella to Thratia’s right.

  Most of the guests stayed on their feet, mingling and chatting and generally trying to get as close to the couple’s table as possible. Ripka eyed those gathered with fresh insight. Their city had just been stolen out from under them, but for the higher-ups of Hond Steading, life went on. And that meant making alliances with this new couple that ruled them, slotting themselves into places of importance in whatever system would emerge in the wake of Thratia’s takeover.

  And everyone knew this was Thratia’s city now, not Detan’s. The amount of people trying to get close to her while ignoring their blooded lord’s existence bordered on pathetic. Hond Steading fancied itself the most future-looking city on the Scorched, but its people were still born of the homesteading tradition. These were hard people, and they would do what needed to be done to survive. Ripka only hoped that translated into fighting for their future, if the opportunity would arrive.

  “Bunch of vultures,” Enard whispered as he sidled up to her.

  “They’re scared,” she said, shrugging.

  “Cowards, then.”

  “Can’t argue that.”

  A young man in a very sharp blue suit stepped in front of Honey. “Good evening, my dear. I fear we have not yet met. You are…?” He extended a hand to her, eyes wide with question. Honey pursed her lips and stared at his hand like she’d never seen one before. His eyebrows drooped. “Ah, do you not speak Valathean?”

  Honey turned to Ripka. “I don’t like him.”

  Enard chuckled into his drink. Ripka grimaced and inserted herself between the two, nudging Honey gently behind her. Curse Latia for doing too fine a job making Honey distractingly beautiful.

  “She doesn’t take well to strangers,” Ripka explained, hoping her apologetic smile might soothe whatever wounds the man’s ego had taken.

  “I see. And how would one get to know her?”

  Enard stepped forward then, his voice low, but polite. “Not happening, friend.”

  The man huffed and stomped away. Ripka let out a breath and gave Honey a side-eye. “Well done,” she drawled.

  Honey brightened. “Thank you.”

  Enard took one look at Ripka’s exasperated expression and almost choked on his next drink. His amusement lifted her spirits, and she caught herself grinning into her own glass. That crinkle around the corner of his eye, the little way he smiled – just tight enough not to be noticed unless one were really looking. Skies. Everything about Enard calmed her.

  “Enjoying the festivities?”

  Ripka turned to find Nouli Bern behind her. Someone from the palace had fetched him appropriate clothes for the evening, and, all cleaned up in his fresh suit with straightened glasses, he almost looked like a well man.

  “Nouli–” she bit back an apology. After the Dame had thrown her out of the palace, she hadn’t even thought of the man she’d risked so much to steal from the empire. She’d left him here to stew, to prepare for a war she hoped they wouldn’t have to fight, without so much as a word. And yet, he looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Her brow furrowed.

  “Whatever you’re going to say, my dear, it’s quite all right.” He drew a hand through his hair, messing up the careful style a servant had no doubt worked hard to achieve. There was a glint in his eye, a sly amusement that she wasn’t quite sure she could trust. “I was hoping to see you here, in fact, so that I could thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Enard slipped up alongside her, hands easy at his sides, his glass dangling from his fingertips should he have to move in a hurry. If Nouli noticed the implicit threat in his posture, he said nothing about it. He smiled and tipped his head to Enard like he were an old friend.

  “For the introduction to Pelkaia Teria. Fascinating woman. We had much to discuss. Information that proved very fruitful for my particular needs.” He held his glass out to her, and she brought hers up hesitantly to clink them together. His grin was a wolfish thing, taking over his whole face. “I’m leaving Hond Steading tonight, I’m afraid, to continue my research elsewhere.”

  “You’re well?” she asked, breathless with surprise.

  “On my way to it.” He leaned forward, squeezed her shoulder in his hand, and spoke softly so that only she and Enard could hear. “My parting gift to you, my dear: mind the sweet stuff.”

  He flicked his head toward Detan, who had his head together with Gatai, the keymaster of the palace, whispering. Ripka frowned, not understanding, but before she could muster up a question he winked at her and slipped away into the crowd.

  “What in the pits did he mean by that?” Enard asked.

  Honey said, “Watch.”

  Ripka had seen it, too. Gatai nodded, solemnly, and passed on whatever Detan had told him to another servant. And another. The information spread between them, each pausing to tap another on the elbow and whisper something – lightning quick. Ripka cast around for a nearby servant, hoping to eavesdrop, but the information had already finished spreading

  New bottles appeared on their trays, deep green and hauntingly familiar. They circled the guests, handing out drinks when asked, but pressed the mili
tiamen to join in the celebrations with a sip or two. Ripka hadn’t met a guard yet who’d turn down a free drink at a party.

  Detan clapped, a whip-crack above the polite murmuring of the crowd. All heads turned to the bridal table. He stood, bowed elaborately to Thratia, then motioned for Gatai to step forward. The man had his own tray now, one of the green bottles and a glass the only items on it.

  “A gift to you, my lovely bride.” Detan’s voice was firm but gentle. Even Ripka couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in it. “To remind you of all the time we’ve spent together.”

  Gatai poured. He placed the glass before Thratia. Even Thratia, a known teetotaler, couldn’t turn down a gift from her husband on their wedding day. She forced a smile and took a small sip.

  “Fond memories of Aransa,” she said, loud enough to carry. The crowd applauded as Detan sat back down, the long line of well-wishers clustering forward once more.

  “Is he getting them drunk?” she asked.

  “Seems like.” Enard waved down a servant who had just finished topping up a guard. They each took a glass, and a small sip. Ripka wrinkled her nose.

  “Grandon’s honey liqueur.”

  “Indeed,” Enard agreed. “But something else, too, something bitter…”

  “Golden needle,” Honey offered.

  Ripka swirled her glass, took a long sniff and another, careful, sip. “Fiery pits. She’s right.”

  “He’s not just getting them drunk. He’s knocking them all out,” Enard said with admiration. And Thratia, who never drank alcohol, wouldn’t have the slightest clue the brew was off. The hint of sedative was just faint enough that Ripka doubted even the heaviest of drinkers would notice. Golden needle was a strong flavor… Nouli and Pelkaia must have worked out a means to cover it. She grinned fiercely.