Beyond the Red

by Ava Jae

  Silence. That’s what I thought.

  “I must also assume, then, that your men were not aptly trained to handle a threat from a half-blood slave.”

  He scowls and steps toward me. “My men were handling the situation.”

  “Oh, that I can see. Sha, they handled it exquisitely well, didn’t they?”

  “You disrespect my—”

  “Naï, Dima, I’m stating fact. Had your men handled the situation well, I would not have witnessed what I did. He never would have made it to the dining hall, and there wouldn’t be blood on the floor at your feet.”

  He glares at the reddish-purple smear again.

  “You went too far, brother. I don’t know what you did to him, but clearly—”

  “We did nothing. The only punishment administered was what you saw.”

  I find that a little difficult to believe. Even if it’s true, Jarek seemed intent on beating the half-blood to death, and yet my brother defends his violence. “And if I had not stepped in, what then? Your man would have killed him.”

  A long pause. Dima looks up at me and steels his face. “He would have received the punishment he deserved.”

  Sometimes I don’t know how it’s possible I shared a womb with this boy. “I can’t believe you. Was Jarek even injured?”

  “That hardly—”

  “It was disproportionate, don’t you think? Beating a boy to death for—for what?”

  “He attacked my men!” Dima roars. “He showed me a great deal of disrespect. I would never tolerate such an act from one of my own—let alone a half-blood slave who shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  It’s moments like these I am most certain that despite what the guard and the people think, despite the rioters outside demanding he replace me, Dima does not belong on the throne. His first response is always the same: immediate and devastating punishment. He doesn’t reason, he doesn’t think, he speaks with violence and bloodshed.

  Some interpret that as strength, but I know the truth. My brother would be the ruin of Elja.

  I drill him with my most cutting glare. “I told you I have a reason for keeping him, but evidently that isn’t reason enough for you to exercise some self-control. Fine. I’ll handle him from here.”

  Dima opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.

  “Don’t you have a riot to put down? I’d expected you and your men to be out there handling the situation already.”

  He scowls, but then the door opens again and a thin young man wearing a high-collared red apprentice’s cloak enters the room and bows low.

  “El Avra, Chief Medic Neja requests your presence immediately. There’s something you must see.”

  I dream I’m standing in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a ring of fire. The smoke is so thick that I can’t see my hands in front of my face, and my eyes, nose, and lungs crackle and sting. I try to cover my mouth and nose with my hands, but it does little to filter the poisonous smog. Screams fill my ears and rain over me, attacking me from all sides. I stumble in circles, searching for the source, but the smoke is overwhelming and my head is fuzzy. My feet are heavy, dragging in the sand, impossible to lift.

  A hand bursts out of the sand and grabs my ankle. The fingers are bloody and squeeze hard. A figure emerges from the ground, covered in gore and ash.

  Day stares at me with clouded eyes, crying tears of blood.

  My eyes flash open and I’m blinded by too-bright light. I squeeze my eyes closed and take a breath—my whole body is numb. Heavy.

  Drugged.

  There’s something cold and sticky on my left temple and right wrist, but my arms don’t cooperate when I try to move them to see what it is. I slowly open my eyes, this time prepared for the light. It takes some adjusting, but I can soon make out the white walls draped in red, the flat stone disc—table?—hovering at my bedside with a clear octagonal screen laying on it. I’ve never seen one before, but I think it’s called a … glass? I close my eyes for a moment and try to clear my head—my thoughts are sluggish, memories coming back to me slowly, but I remember. Day once mentioned everyone in the cities has those glass-things, and they can get news and read on them and stars know what else.

  I open my eyes again. Blink through the haze and inhale deeply as the drug fog fades and my eyes adjust. Rows of empty floating beds hum softly on either side and in front of me, covered in alternating red and white wrinkle-free sheets. White stone floors, though they’re smooth here, unlike everywhere else. The far right side of the room is blurry—there’s some kinduv semi-transparent wall that makes it impossible to make out any sortuv detail beyond it besides blobs of gray, white, and red, and fuzzy tall things that are maybe people walking around.

  And next to me, the queen. Kneeling on an embroidered pillow beside my bed, wearing some kinduv tight bright pink top with silvery-white threaded swirling designs sewn into it. It’s cut at a diagonal that starts just under her right breast and leads down to the narrowest point of the left side of her body, meeting the purple fabric of her waist-high skirt. It’s sleeveless, but she’s got some kinduv black wrapping pulled tightly across her left shoulder and down her arm, almost to her fingertips.

  The light markings swirling on her stomach aren’t tattooed, but the ones on her right ribs disappearing into the shirt are. More circular text with dashes, dots, slashes, and crescents. What does it say? Why’d she choose to have it written there, leading from the bottom of her ribcage, up to her smooth, round breast? Is her breast tattooed, too? My face warms and I force my eyes away from her chest.

  She’s watching me. Is that normal? I may not know a whole lot about Sepharon royalty, but it seems unlikely she’d care enough about a slave to wait in the infirmary with me. Unless I’m in trouble. Maybe this is bad news.

  For a long moment she doesn’t say anything, and I catch myself staring at her green to blue to purple eyes. Bordered by long black lashes and a stripe of some kinduv dark liner, I have to admit they’re striking. Especially against her deep golden brown skin and long black hair.

  I mean, if cold-blooded murderous alien bitch queen is your type.

  “Who are you?” she says.

  I hesitate and try to sit up, but my body doesn’t cooperate and I slide lower instead. I guess even though my head feels clearer, whatever they gave me is still working out of my system. I settle for slipping my arms out from beneath the red sheets. There’s a clear gel disc about an inch across on my wrist, but I leave it alone. “My name is Eros,” I answer in Sephari.

  “I didn’t ask you your name. I asked you who you are.”

  I frown. “I don’t … what are you asking?”

  She sighs and drums her fingers on her lap. “My name is Kora Mikale Nel d’Elja, but I am not Kora. I am ken Avra. My brother’s name is Dima Kuru Orolen d’Elja, and he is ken Avra-kaï and my second, as well as Commander of the Eljan Guard.” She gestures toward me. “And you are?”

  I shake my head. Glance at my hands. Who am I?

  Before being dragged here, I was one of the top soldiers of the Nomad Defense. Brother of the Head of Defense, adopted son of Nol Kit—one of camp’s most respected men, as the descendant of one of the original founders of our colony. Sure, most people didn’t see past my ears and skin, and not even Gray, our leader, knew just how involved I was. But as far as Day was concerned, when it came to defense, I was second in command. It was a title I held proudly.

  A title she has no business knowing.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  She bites the corner of her lip, then stands. “Do you know who Sira Roma is?”

  “The ruler of all of the territories. He’s who you and the seven other territory regents answer to.”

  She nods. “And do you know what all Sirae have in common?”

  This seems like a pretty pointless conversation, but I humor her anyway. Shrug. “They’re all part of the same family.”

  “Besides that.”

  “I don’t know.”


  She rolls her eyes. “Please. You must know this. Everyone knows—”

  “The politics of the Sepharon aren’t exactly a top priority to my people,” I say. “Nor are the inner workings of the High Royal family.”

  She kneels again. Pulls her shoulders back and arches an eyebrow at me. “Well perhaps they should be.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with anything. Or why you’re here, for that matter.”

  The queen—no, her name is Kora—pauses. “Okay. Answer me this—how could you tell a Sirae direct descendant from anyone else?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “And I don’t care.”

  “You truly don’t—”

  “This conversation is getting boring.” I should probably keep my mouth shut, but she didn’t come here to chat about politics and, to be honest, I’m getting tired of this pointless interrogation. I glance around the empty room. “Shouldn’t I have a doctor here or something? Or a soldier trying to beat me to death? Where is everyone?”

  Kora watches me, drumming her fingers on her knee until I shut up, then says, “Gold eyes.”

  I glance back at her. “What?”

  “They all have gold in their eyes—that’s how you can tell a Sirae descendant. Only the sons, daughters, and grandchildren of the Sirae line have it.”

  “Great. Still irrelevant.”

  She squints at me. Leans forward. “You truly don’t know.”

  I’m not sure what it is that I supposedly don’t know, so I just shake my head. “Guess not.”

  Kora passes me a mirror, and I try to turn it away but she shoves it into my hands. “Look at it.”

  So I do. And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at. I mean, I don’t look anything like myself—with my head shaved, my skin unnaturally pale, and my eyes—

  My eyes.

  “What the … what did you do to me?” I blink hard. Still there. Close my eyes and rub hard with my palms. It doesn’t change.

  “We didn’t do anything to you. At least, nothing that would have—”

  “Well you obviously did something, because that’s not … my eyes are green. I have green eyes, not …” The more I stare at my reflection, the lower my stomach sinks. My palms go slick and a rush of cold rolls over me.

  “During your initiation, you were injected with tracking nanites. It’s a solution we inject in every one of our servants, and it allows us to track their location and vitals at all times. As a side effect, it turns their eyes cloudy, which makes identification easy. When we injected you, however, you had a reaction to the nanites, because they interfered with the ones already in your system. The ones making your eyes appear green.”

  I tear my gaze away from the mirror. “I didn’t have nanites in my system until I came here. There must be a mistake or something—my people don’t even have access to that kind of technology.”

  “The nanites couldn’t coexist, and they attacked your eyes, which is what caused you to pass out. Our doctor says if we had waited much longer to stun the nanites, they would have blinded you.”

  I close my eyes. “Nothing you’re saying makes sense. If I supposedly have nanites in my system, then my eyes should still be green or clouded or something.”

  “They would be,” Kora says. “Except in order to preserve your sight, the nanites were flushed from your system. All of them. You are now completely clean.”

  I look at my reflection again. Bite my lip.

  My eyes are still gold.

  Kora straightens her shoulders and crosses her arms over her breasts. “So I ask again. Who are you?”

  I keep waiting for my eyes to go back to normal. Or for me to wake up to Jarek dragging me out of bed by my ears. Or maybe this whole thing is some sick, prolonged nightmare and Day will wake me up with a slap to the side of my head and ask me what I think I’m fucken doin’, sleeping past sunrise.

  But it’s all wishful thinking, I guess, because my eyes aren’t changing and the queen is still waiting for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble. “None of this makes sense.”

  “Who are your biological parents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve never met them?”

  I shake my head.

  She slides the mirror out of my hands and sets it on the bedside table. “You’re sure.”

  “I think I would know if I’d met my biological parents.”

  “And the family who raised you? Did they know your biological mother or father?”

  “Naï,” I say, but that’s not entirely true. Nol met my mother, briefly, when she handed me over just days after I was born. I shake my head. “Maybe. They didn’t talk about it much.”

  “And you never asked?”

  A pause. How much is safe to tell her? “I did.”

  “And?”

  My chest tightens as my fingers dig into my palms. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about telling her something that she can use against me, because there’s nothing to tell. It’s embarrassing how little I know about where I came from, and now I’ll never know. I grit my teeth. “And all I was told was my human mother left me with them. I don’t know anything about her or who my biological father was.”

  Kora stands and starts toward the door. “Then we’ll find your family and ask them.”

  “You can’t.”

  She stops and turns. Arches an eyebrow at me. “And why is that?”

  Heat washes over me, starting from my gut and spreading over my heart. My eyes sting and my stomach twists with echoes of screaming, crackling flame, and bloodstained sand—and she just stands there with this haughty air that sets my blood boiling.

  “Because,” I say, careful to keep my voice from shaking. “You killed them.”

  She stares at me for what feels like a long time, then nods once and steps toward me again. “Get up.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve rested long enough. Get up.”

  I consider arguing, but to be honest, I don’t really want to lie here anyway. And chances are I won’t like the next person to come through that door for me. So I stand, slowly, grimacing as pins and needles prickle the pads of my feet. But whatever they gave me must be wearing off, because my limbs are a bit more cooperative.

  Kora walks right up to me, leaving inches between us. Being Sepharon, she’s taller than most girls I’ve come across—only a couple inches shorter than me—and she stares directly into my eyes. The warmth of her breath rolls against my lips and my whole body goes hot—what is she voiding—

  Her knee flashes out and nearly strikes me in the groin—nearly, because I jump back just in time. “What the—”

  Her foot swings toward my face and I duck out of the way and raise my fists. I can’t hit her—I’d be executed on the spot if I so much as touched her—but she keeps coming at me with flashing fists and tight spinning kicks and jabbing elbows and it’s all I can do to keep out of the way and avoid the blows.

  Then my back hits the wall and I’ve nowhere left to run and her heel whips toward my face. I catch it and lift up—not enough to knock her over, but enough to throw her off balance. Hopefully.

  Except she doesn’t look unbalanced. She just watches me with an arched eyebrow and an expression like boredom.

  Fabric slips off her skin—the skirt. She’s fighting me in a skirt. A long skirt made of many layers of light colorful fabric, with long slits that reach her upper thigh. Which means, holding her foot like this, I’ve got a full view of her whole golden brown leg. And if I lift any higher….

  My mouth goes dry. I clear my throat. Force my eyes to her face. “What are you doing? I’m not going to hit you.”

  She twists her foot out of my grip. “Who trained you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She smooths down her skirt. Wipes black hair out of her eyes. “You’re obviously trained. Who trained you?”

  I hesitate, but I can’t think of anything she could do with the information. “My brother.”r />
  “And he is dead as well, I presume?”

  I wince. Nod.

  “Hm.” She crosses her arms and her gaze rolls over me, from head to toe. I’m not sure I like the way she’s looking at me—like a slab of meat in need of inspection. “My brother thinks I should report you to the Sirae family.” I don’t answer, and she steps right up to me again. Her eyes run over my face, the wound on my neck, my pale shoulders and chest. I resist the urge to shift away from her; the way she inspects me so closely feels like an invasion of privacy.

  “And what do you think?” I say carefully.

  “I think they would come, execute you, and bury the ashes to hide the scandal. In fact, I know they would.”

  I scowl. “Scandal?”

  “Well, you’re obviously a son of one of the children of the throne, and relations between the Sepharon and the redbloods are not exactly encouraged. And to have a child with one, no less—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  Suns if I know. Who would deliberately have a half-blood kid? Stars, I’d like to meet the blazing genius who first decided to try inter-species breeding so I could do us all a favor and punch him in the stones. Besides, what was the point of trying to make a half-blood if they were just going to slaughter us all in the name of genetic purity? I shut the thought away and shake my head.

  “It was an accident.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “What was?”

  “Me. They probably didn’t intend to, uh, get pregnant.”

  Her brow wrinkles and she tilts her head slightly to the side. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “You don’t know that. People get pregnant accidentally all the time.”

  Kora blinks once. Stares at me, brows raised. “Naï, they don’t. Sepharon men control pregnancy down to the sex of the child. There aren’t any accidental pregnancies. Surely you know that.”

  They do? I frown and think back to Day and Jessa. The only kid they had planned was Aren, and I know of several women who became pregnant accidentally. Suns, after the whole drunk disaster with Aryana, she was throwing sand over a potential pregnancy—which never happened, thank the stars. It’d never even occurred to me that it might be different for the Sepharon.