“Ouch!” Before I realize it, he’s already stabbed my arm and drawn the sample.
While I grind my teeth, he and Zhar sit at a table on my left, in front of a little white machine. Dr. Luka deposits the sample inside it, then nods.
“Scan checks out. She’s a Leonov, all right.”
I stare at the tiny hole he left in my arm and press a finger to the bead of blood welling from it. Something shifts inside me, another wall of defense crumbling. They have DNA proof. No more pretending this was all some colossal misunderstanding, that they had the wrong girl from the beginning. The evidence is written in my blood.
Dr. Luka looks down at me and smiles. “I served your family, you know, as the imperial physician. Your foster mother, Elena, was my top apprentice.”
I look up, surprised. “You know my mom?”
He gestures at my leg. “Let’s have a look at that wound, shall we?” As he inspects the bandage around my calf, he continues. “I knew her, and I knew your true mother, Empress Katarina. I knew all the imperial family quite well—or as well as anyone could. They kept so many secrets, even from their doctor.” He tilts his head. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of their supposed curse.”
“You mean how they were all insane?” I say flatly. That’s not something I’ve let myself think about too directly in the past few days, like trying to ignore a bad toothache. You know it only means trouble, but you don’t want to deal with it any sooner than you have to.
“They had their demons,” he concedes. He unwraps the bandage and studies the wound where the shrapnel cut me; it’s starting to heal over. “And what about you, Anya Leonova? What is your demon?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty.” I glare at Lilyan Zhar. “And my name isn’t Anya.”
Dr. Luka chuckles. “If you are not frank with me, I cannot help you. I know Elena would have kept a close eye on you, but I must ask: Do you have any history of psychological irregularities?”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, you know. Hallucinations, paranoia.” He smiles, trying to put me at ease. My leg flinches as he injects something into the muscle and then deftly begins binding it again.
Something flickers in my mind—a memory, or a fragment of a memory—my mom holding my hands while I convulse with sobs. She’s saying something over and over … Not real, not real, Stacia … Then the memory is gone. I’m not even sure it truly happened, but it leaves me shaken.
I swallow. “Maybe I’m hallucinating you.”
He sighs. “You have Elena’s attitude.”
“Look, what do you need me for? Why not stage your rebellion on your own? It’s not as if people will rise up to follow some girl from the outer fringe, no matter what her name is.”
“Believe me, we aren’t ready for this fight,” Zhar says. “The plan was to ignite a widespread revolution when you turned twenty-one, giving us time to assemble the strength and giving you time to grow up. But then Volkov captured one of our best spies. He has ways of getting answers even from the most loyal tongues, and by the time we realized our man had told Volkov all about you, it was too late. He got to you before we could alert your foster parents. And so here we all are: starting a war four years early.”
“If you want to rebel, then rebel. But leave me out of it.”
Zhar taps the table, studying me. Then she turns to the doctor. “Give us the room, Luka.”
He nods and heads out, pausing only to give me an inscrutable look before closing the door and leaving me alone with the commander.
Zhar turns back to me. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in this matter. There is a reason we risked everything to smuggle you out of Alexandrine sixteen years ago. Anya, you’re the key to this whole war.”
“Why?”
“Because ‘when she is ready to rule, the Firebird will guide her.’ ”
My patience is wire thin, and I feel on the verge of snapping again. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
A shadow passes over Zhar’s face. “Those were the words your father, Emperor Pyotr Leonov, said to me the day he placed you in my arms. The palace was under siege. He knew it would fall. So he gave you to me, to keep you safe. You’re our hope for the future. You are the custodian of the Leonov legacy, and it’s time you learned what that means.”
She rises and walks to a cabinet and takes out a small metal box. This she places on the table and opens to reveal a glass case with a Prism spinning inside. The crystal shimmers with iridescent tones, pearl and gold and silver. Light flashes along its edges, beautiful and strange.
“Anya, what do you know about Prisms?”
I shrug, staring into the crystal’s mesmerizing dance of color and light. “They power everything. Ships, cities, pretty much the whole galaxy.”
“Do you know where they come from?”
A dozen heated replies crowd my brain. What does this have to do with anything? If this is some kind of object lesson, like her trick with the kids and the Zemlya story, and she’s just wasting my time while Riyan is dying downstairs and Pol’s ashes are spreading through space …
But my hand goes to the little vial of antidote. If she wants to play games, then I have no choice but to go along, for Riyan’s sake.
“I always heard they were harvested from deep space,” I say. “That they just drift out there.”
She nods. “Prisms are the foundation of our civilization. They are the reason the planets are united, and for our advancements in technology like the Takhimir warp drive and cross-system communication. And the Leonovs were the original discoverers of the Prisms, the only people in the galaxy who knew where they could be found. This was the base of their power. The secret upon which they established an empire.”
She leans across the table, her long fingers extending to tap the case. The Prism’s light glows on her skin, casting pools of shadow above her eyes.
“Somewhere out there, Anya, is the mother crystal, the source of all the others. The Leonovs called it the Prismata. And it is the key to everything—defeating the Committee, ruling the Empire, and guarding against future threats.” She lifts the box with the Prism inside and holds it between us, staring at me intently over its spinning light. “Through the Prismata, we can connect with and control every Prism in existence.”
I stare at her, wondering if this is all some elaborate story to make me fall in line. But the zeal in her eyes seems real enough. “What do you mean, control?”
“You’ve heard of Emerault’s third moon?”
I picture Riyan’s hologram, the blue threads of light reflecting on Pol’s eyes. “The emperor blew it up, trying to stamp out the Unionist’s secret base. That’s what started the rebellion. Everyone said Pyotr had used some superweapon …” I look down at the Prism. “You’re saying it was this Prismata?”
She nods. “Pyotr used it to send an enormous surge of energy into the moon’s Prisms, causing them to overheat and explode.”
An icy tentacle slithers down my spine. I gape at her. “But … that’s a terrible power to have! Prisms are everywhere. On every ship, in every city, keeping the lights on. That means anyone could be targeted by whoever controls this Prismata.”
“Exactly. Which is why we cannot let it fall into the Committee’s hands. Its location is the greatest kept secret in the galaxy, one the Leonovs guarded with their lives. All I know is that the location of the Prismata is hidden inside a device called the Firebird, but when the Empire fell, the Firebird was lost. And I believe you might be the only person who can find it.”
She leans forward, handing me the case. I take it stiffly, staring down at the little crystal.
“That’s why you want me,” I whisper. “And that’s why they want me.”
I was right in thinking no one would follow a girl from the fringe into battle. The Loyalists were never interested in me leading a revolution—only in using me to reach the Prismata. Whoever finds it, this source of all the galaxy’s energy, will control everything, just like the Leonovs
once did.
To Zhar and Volkov, I’m not just a lost princess.
I’m the key to the greatest weapon in existence.
“Alexei Volkov has been seeking the Prismata for years,” Zhar says. “The only reason we’ve lasted this long against the Committee is because they too have been unable to find it. Once we control it, they’ll be forced to comply with our demands.” She leans forward, eyes aflame. “Work with me. Tell me where the Firebird is hidden.”
I shake my head, setting down the Prism as if it were poisoned. “How would I know that? I don’t even know what it is.”
“The emperor wouldn’t have smuggled you off Alexandrine without some way for you to find it. Perhaps it is an object you’ve had since childhood? A necklace, or a trinket of some kind, that might contain it?”
“I have no idea how to give you what you want.” The only piece of jewelry I keep with me is my multicuff, and I’ve taken that apart enough times to know there are no secrets hidden inside it—and certainly no maps to some Prismic superweapon.
“Think, Anya! With the Firebird, we can prove who you are. We can show the galaxy that you are the rightful ruler—”
“If you want answers so badly, why don’t you ask my parents? My real parents, Teo and Elena?”
She sighs. “Believe me, I’d love to talk to your parents. We cut off all communication with them long ago, so our messages wouldn’t give away their—and your—location. But now that we want to reach them, we can’t.”
She pulls a tabletka from a drawer and powers it on, cycling through clips of raw footage.
Afka, on fire.
Warships gathering in the sky above Estonrya.
Aeyla being herded onto prison barges.
The slinke forests burning, blackening the sky with smoke.
While I stare, horror-struck, Zhar circles the table and stands behind the holos, the images reflecting in her eyes.
“Thanks to the Committee’s blockade, we’ve had no communication with Afka, your parents, or the any of the Loyalist cells on Amethyne. War has engulfed the planet. But take hope in the fact that they are fighting back. And they’re fighting back because they believe in you, Anya. They believe you can give us the only thing that will win this war.”
Zhar clicks off the tabletka and holds it up. “Stored in here is a reconstruction of the Autumn Palace. Explore it. See if it jogs something in that head of yours. We need to know where the Firebird is hidden. And we need to know fast. If we’re going to save your people on Amethyne and put an end to the Committee’s tyranny, then we have to act quickly. Find it, and I will let you give your tensor friend the antidote.”
I stare at the empty air where the images of my broken, burning home had been.
“When she is ready to rule, the Firebird will guide her.” Zhar places the tabletka in my open palm and closes my fingers around it. “Find the Firebird, Anya. It’s our last and only hope.”
Instead of sending me back to the cell, Zhar gives me a room on the barracks level. One wall is rough rock, the others smooth and white. In lieu of a pad, I have a bed, with a nightstand and a cabinet filled with clean clothes. Soft blue lights glow from round globes on the ceiling. It feels military, all clean lines and stark surfaces, but at least the lav isn’t five inches from my pillow.
I change into fresh clothes, a sleeveless black shirt and leggings. But I keep my boots. There’s still a bit of Amethynian dirt on the soles. My multicuff, I’m relieved to see, is sitting on the bed—but that’s not the only thing.
There’s a square of folded red cloth, and even before I touch it, I know it is Pol’s.
My hands shake as I press the fabric to my nose, still smelling him in the threads—grapeseed oil, my family’s last batch of wine, the faint, salty tang of the Sapphine sea.
There’s a note under the scarf.
My deepest sympathies on your loss, Princess. Though it is no comfort, I am sure, I ask you to remember that the amethyst gambit is the noblest play.
—Dr. Faran Luka
The amethyst gambit. It’s a Triangulum phrase, referring to a famous move in which the purple warrior piece is sacrificed in the opening play, in order to free the scarlet queen’s path of attack.
Fury boils in my chest. I rip up the note and fling the pieces to the floor.
“He is not a sacrifice!” I yell at the walls. “This is not a stupid game, and I am not your queen!”
Then I bury my face in the scarf and begin to sob.
It takes me an hour to pull myself together, but my anger doesn’t fade. I reluctantly take out the tabletka Zhar gave me, determining to move forward, to do whatever I must in order to save Riyan.
The only program on it is this holo she wants me to explore. I activate it, and a fan of blue light spreads upward and outward, raking the ceiling and walls before assembling into an image that hovers in front of me. I set the tabletka on the floor and stand up, circling the projection. Pol’s scarf is draped around my neck, his scent in my nose.
Alexandrine spins before me, green continents set into a swirling crimson sea. The heart of the galaxy, home of emperors and conquerors.
But the Autumn Palace isn’t on Alexandrine at all. The planet is carpeted in cities, all grand and vast and sparkling. They are the centers of trade and military and craftsmanship, but the palace is a whole city of its own—the City in the Sky, a satellite compound orbiting the planet like a moon.
Dismissing Alexandrine itself, I spread my hands and widen the floating city until it’s all around me. The Autumn Palace is composed of hundreds of buildings, all locked together in a vast network of struts, like a complex molecule. Two white rings, one vertical, one horizontal, encompass the array, enclosing it in an artificial atmosphere.
Once, the palace was home to the Emperor’s Court, thousands of people who ran the Empire, overseeing every aspect of life in the Belt. Now the orbital city serves much the same purpose, except it’s the Committee and their people who occupy it. This holomap must have been constructed before the war, because I can see tiny imperial emblems emblazoned on the buildings.
After studying the array a moment, I turn my focus to the large structure at the hub of the compound. The Rezidencia is an elegant construct, long and sleek and white, a wide, round center tapering to two long arms from the top and bottom, one extended toward the planet, the other pointing outward to the vault of space. I dismiss all the other buildings that float around it, until only it remains. The heart of the palace. The imperial family’s headquarters. I’ve seen it many times in history classes, but now I look at it closer. Will it spark some memory? Will it feel familiar?
But no matter what angle I study it from, the slender structure holds no epiphanies, at least from the exterior.
Time to go inside.
With a swipe of my hand, I go into the palace’s heart: a conservatory featuring plants from all across the Belt. There I pause to stare at a small Amethyne slinke tree in a pot, its tubular leaves swaying slightly, always in motion, just the way I remember them. I run my hand through the leaves but feel nothing. They reflect over my skin, just particles of empty light.
The holo is breathtakingly detailed; though every surface is partly transparent, I can make out the tiny patterns engraved around the doorways, the seams in the wall panels, even the details on the clothing of the people who walk past me and through me, beings of light from a lost era. Dressed in elegant robes, hair sleek and shining, they seem lifelike enough that at first I flinch. I float through like a ghost, navigating with small hand gestures, so the walls and corridors flow around me.
I can’t deny that the Leonovs had taste. The Rezidencia is stunning: a sprawling, fluid hive of halls, balconies, and incredible vistas of Alexandrine below or the galaxy beyond.
I follow a curving hallway that winds around and around. Windows look out to the stars and the other palace buildings, moving in slow parallax.
I’m so caught up in exploring I nearly forget my purpose here: t
o find the device Lilyan Zhar is after, this Firebird that will supposedly turn the war in her favor. Maybe if I can find it, she’ll release me and Riyan. I can save Clio. We can go … well, not home. If what Zhar said is true, then Amethyne is cut off, a war zone. Is there anywhere in the galaxy we can disappear to? Stars, how will I tell Clio about Pol?
I shake my head. That’s a problem for another time. And I can’t think about Pol right now or I’ll crumble.
The winding corridor brings me at last to a network of rooms. These must be the imperial family’s chambers. Elegant bedrooms and sitting rooms and libraries all connect together, a sprawling, luxuriant residence. Game rooms show signs of children at play—toy ships and soldiers scattered on the floor, a Triangulum board set up as if the players were interrupted mid-game, a large screen covered with messy drawings of people and planets and animals with too many limbs. Of the children themselves, I see nothing.
Then I find a nursery, and here I freeze.
There they stand: emperor and empress. Pyotr and Katarina. Just steps away from me, so stunningly realistic that I instinctively pull back, as if they might see me spying on them.
The empress is holding a baby. The emperor is leaning over, smiling, a tiny hand wrapped around his pinkie. Swallowing, I step closer, studying them with fascination.
When I looked at their photo after Pol and I fled Afka, the image was small and grainy. Now I see them in exquisite detail. The holo makes them life-sized, nearly as real as if they were truly standing in front of me.
The emperor had a broad, easy smile and brown eyes, with thick eyebrows over dark lashes. When he smiled, his chin dimpled. The empress had a petite, almost feline beauty, large eyes and a pert nose, but with a smattering of freckles that make her seem a little more human, a little less sculpture. Him with dark hair, hers light red, worn in an elegant twist of curls. The baby has no hair at all but her eyes are wide and fixed adoringly on her father.
I stare at the child, heart hammering.
Is this me?
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