“Regent?” I murmur.
Ash doesn’t answer, only paces the cell, his bound hands clenched at his back.
I slump to the floor. There’s no time for this. We need get to the Prince. Every breath takes us closer to the moment Sephine had said his life would falter.
And yet the day marches by, while we wait, powerless. We’re brought meals—richer than I’ve had in my life—and given a few minutes free of our cuffs in which to eat.
I’ve no appetite, especially not with several guards watching our every move. But I eat, because I need Ash to eat. He’s starting to look wild about the eyes, and there’s a tremor in his hands each time they’re unbound.
The next morning, we’re manhandled out of the cell by four guards and led without explanation farther into the imperial complex. As we climb the great staircase toward the palace, the wind picks up, whipping my hair into my eyes.
I stumble and fall, somehow managing to roll onto my side to keep my face from smashing into the steps. Baked clay bricks are a mere inch from my eyes. Each one has an indented set of initials—the stamp of some long dead Emperor who wanted everyone to know he gave the orders to build this place.
Ash bends over me in concern, but his hands are as helplessly bound as my own. One of the guards grabs the chain between my wrist and yanks me up. I manage to get my feet under me before my shoulders pull from their sockets.
At the top of the staircase, a group of guards stands in formation. Their leader steps forward as we approach.
Recognition knifes through me.
His features seem harder, more set than when I last saw him, like here’s the solid bronze statue when I’d only ever known the wax mold. The passing moons have changed him, but it’s a scent I’d recognize anywhere, anytime. Amber, orange oil, thyme. Familiar sweat.
Barden.
His sash is imperial purple now, and there’s a phoenix stamped in the leather of his kilt. The Kaidon phoenix. Somewhere in all this he’s risen three ranks and been redeployed to the capital. I wonder who he snitched on to get to this position so quickly; who was the casualty of his ambition this time?
He comes even closer, and locks gazes with me. What’s that in his dark eyes? Guilt? Regret?
Whatever it is, he can keep it to his stinking self.
“You found her,” he says.
“Indeed,” Ash replies.
I glance between them. “What in the sixth hell—”
One of the gate guards clears his throat. “Sir, they say they have a cure for the Prince. Regent says if it’s true, admit them.”
“Where is it, Rakel?” Barden’s voice is level, detached, so different to the way he used to speak to me.
I muster my mildest expression. The last thing I need is for the cure to be confiscated, it’s the only thing between me and the executioner’s knife.
He sighs. “You can either tell me, or you can be searched.”
However much I hate to admit it, he speaks the truth. “My locket,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “On my locket chain.” I try not to cringe at the thought of him putting his hand down my tunic to retrieve it. But he doesn’t move.
“Let her go,” he says to the guards holding me.
“Sir?”
“I said, let her go! Unbind her. Now. The Shield as well.”
I don’t meet his eyes.
He signals to his men. “Form up a rear guard.”
The main imperial hall is as big as an entire wing of the Aphorain Eraz’s estate and twice as loud as a marketplace. Crowds of courtiers fill the space, wearing a clash of colors and the most decadent scents, setting my stomach to churning. When the rich sorts begin to notice our presence, a hush falls like dusk. Soon after, a pathway clears.
The Prince is laid out on a platform before the throne, as if his bedroom has become a public spectacle. A tall Losian stands guard over him, a picture of alertness and lean strength. Kip, I assume.
Beside them, in a plain wooden chair—an oddly everyday item amid the riches of the great hall—sits Nisai’s brother. It’s a battle with my own instincts to keep moving one foot after another, getting closer to the man we’ve been trying to stay one step ahead of for the past three moons.
Commander Iddo’s face is schooled to blankness, just like Ash’s always used to be. What a thing it must be to be able to keep your emotions hidden from the world. But when I look to Ash now, hope is painted so raw and vulnerable across his features that it halts me in my tracks.
I can feel tension crackling in the room, smell the anticipation of the crowd. Like unbroken horses, they’ll spook at the first movement or noise that snags on their unease.
“Commander.” Ash executes a stiff bow.
“Ashradinoran. I thought you’d be wise enough not to show your face in the capital again.”
“Commander, I”—he glances to me and clears his throat, clearly speaking for the entire room—“we believe we have a cure to what ails the First Prince.”
“How can I believe a word you say? You’re the first on the scene of a crime. You defy a direct order and desert with a suspect. You resist arrest. Kill a Ranger officer. How do I know you haven’t simply returned to finish the job on my brother?”
Ash bristles, then reins himself in. “Because you know I had nothing to do with it in the first place. And that should the First Prince die, I would be required to fall on my sword.” He takes an obvious survey of the room, to walls lined with palace guards, Barden among them. The guards are interspersed with a handful of men in black robes.
I spot a familiar face among them. Esarik. He made it back to the capital in time. What a relief. We’re in desperate need of a friend.
“And,” Ash continues, “you’d have more than enough witnesses to ensure that I did my duty.”
Iddo stares at us for a long time, his brow furrowed. Somehow his considerable height seems even more imposing when he’s sitting.
“Very well,” he finally says.
“Commander, no!” The voice comes from the shortest of the black-robed men.
Ash bristles beside me.
“Forgive me, Commander,” the man fawns. “But should we not study this so-called cure before allowing it to be administered to the Prince? The Guild advises empiricism over—”
Iddo raises a warning eyebrow.
The short man stutters to a halt.
But the first voice of dissent has opened the sluice gates.
“Tests,” another black-robed man insists. “We need tests. Proof of concept at barest minimum.”
My eyes dart around the room as more and more voices erupt. The Commander drums long fingers against the arm of his chair. Are they convincing him? I can’t face another poisoning.
“A bodyguard and a provincial find a cure before the Guild of Physicians? Preposterous!”
“Surely suspected assassins shouldn’t be permitted near our Prince?”
“Trial! Put them on trial!”
“Enough!” Iddo roars.
The throne room falls silent.
“You’ve been studying the First Prince and his condition for moons and come up with nothing. So much for your empiricism. Ashradinoran is well aware of the stakes here.” He motions for us to come forward. “If you can heal my brother, do it.”
My hand trembles as I approach the platform and Nisai’s unmoving form. His face is pale, the skin webbed in so many veins of black it looks as if he’s made of broken eggshell. I don’t dare to move his robe aside, but it’s clear the darkness has spread—down his neck, onto his chest. Tiny threads have crept right down his fingers and under the nails. He’s covered in it.
But I must not let them see my doubt.
“I need an oil burner and a cloth!” My voice rings out across the throne room, sounding more confident than I feel.
Esarik must have been prepared. He approaches with the very things I need, along with my satchel. I resist the urge to hug the scholar for finding a way to retrieve it from the guar
ds.
I turn my attention to Nisai. “Lift him to sitting?”
Ash moves to do as I ask, cradling the Prince as gently as if he were a newborn. I’m reminded of how deep their care runs for each other, how it goes beyond loyal servant and ruler. For the sake of that love, and for whatever it is I now feel for Ash, I hope I’ve got this right.
I have to be right. Otherwise more than the Prince will suffer.
Carefully, so carefully, I measure the first vial into the oil burner. I try to relax as the liquid takes a moment to heat. Once the steam starts to rise, I tent the cloth over Nisai’s head and follow suit with the remaining four vials.
When it’s done, Ash lowers the Prince.
Not daring to look at Iddo or the guards surrounding us, their spears at the ready, we wait.
And wait.
There’s nothing happening. Nothing at all.
My stomach churns. Why isn’t it working? Maybe the Prince doesn’t have enough fight left in him. He’s spent so long on the verge of death, maybe it’s easier to keep sinking than it is to find his way back.
Or are we already too close to Tozran’s Coronation?
Are we too late?
Ash and I lock gazes. All that running, all the risks we’ve taken to get to this moment, all for nothing. I swallow, throat painfully tight. I have no idea what to say, where to go from here.
Then the Prince’s head rocks back, his face contorting into a rictus snarl. His limbs stiffen.
“He’s seizing!” I unsheathe my knife.
“Not another move!” Iddo shouts.
Nisai’s feet jerk and begin a rapid drumbeat on the bed.
I turn to Ash, pleading. “If I don’t do something, he could choke to death.”
“I trust you.” With a grim nod, Ash turns to face the encroaching guard. People he once served alongside. People he once trained or was trained by. People he now draws his swords against.
I wedge the hilt of my knife in Nisai’s mouth, careful to keep his tongue clear of his teeth. “Keep fighting. Find your way. Please.” And then something I never thought I’d say of an Aramtesh ruler slips out. “The Empire needs you.”
“Has it worked?” I hear one of the guards ask.
“Witchcraft,” hisses one of the black-robed physicians.
“Stay back,” Ash growls, his hands held just wide of his hips, as if he’s simply relaxing between bouts on the training ground, not poised to strike.
My heart fills with admiration. Right now, we need calm. For the Prince’s sake.
Iddo rises to his feet. “Stand down, house cat.”
I can’t do that, Commander.” My tone is formal. A soldier’s words.
“Don’t make this worse. Step away from the Prince.”
I cast about, desperately seeking a friendly face. A voice of reason. My eyes find Esarik, urging him to speak. One of the black-robed physicians speaks something in his ear. The Trelian looks stricken but stays silent.
“It worked once,” I say. “We tested it. It will work again. Just give her time.”
“Time is not on anyone’s side, least of all yours. Now stand down.” There’s something so calm about the Commander, even more than his usual aura of authority. Why does he not seem distraught? At least disappointed? Is it that he’d long given up hope for his little brother? Or did he expect all along that the cure wouldn’t work?
“Iddo,” I implore. “I understand. You’re a pragmatist. I am, too. But the things I’ve seen over these past moons, the things Rakel has done … I believe she’s Nisai’s only hope. Please. I love him every bit as much as you do.”
The Commander’s calm shatters. “How dare you speak of love. The love of a traitor is no love at all.” He draws himself up to his full height, head and shoulders above me and almost every other guard in the room. “This is your last warning.”
“No.” For the second time since arriving at the palace all those turns ago, I’m disobeying a direct order from a member of the imperial family. I thought I’d be in turmoil, but this time, I know my own heart.
The Commander appears incredulous. “No?”
I hold my ground. “You heard me.”
Iddo signals one of the guards. Behind me, there’s a commotion.
“Ash?” Rakel’s voice quavers.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. They have her. One of the guards points his blade at her throat as he maneuvers her away from Nisai’s still-trembling but comatose form.
And at that sight, how they hold the lives of the two people I care most for in this world in their hands, something shifts in me. Something that I’ve kept bound, caged, and cowed for half my life, trying to forget that it lurks inside me. That it’s a part of me.
The edges of my vision darken.
The midday sun suddenly casts shadows where it shouldn’t—in the light streaming from the balcony, where the gilt mosaics lining the walls should be glinting.
Deep inside, I feel something shift and stretch, uncurling from its crouch. With each beat of my heart it grows larger, stronger, filling me up as it feeds on my rage.
No. Keep control.
You are a boy, not a beast.
I’m less than ten turns old again. Standing in an alley with my back to the wall, side by side with a young prince. A boy just like me. A curious boy who has wandered into the wrong slum at the wrong time and will pay the price if the two Blazers closing in on us have their way.
A boy, not a beast.
I turn to see Rakel’s eyes go wide. She begins struggling against the guard holding her with his knife blade to her throat, an inch from slicing her life away. A bead of blood trickles down her skin and falls onto the white linen of her robe.
A boy.
The beast sees the redness, too. Deep, mortal crimson. I fight it, try to hold it, keep it down, tighten my grip.
But today, the beast is stronger.
My captor stinks of layer upon layer of sweat, salty new to sour old and everything in between. Part of me wonders what would happen if I stomped my boot down on his sandaled foot.
But there’s another part. One that imagines what could happen with the knife at my throat if I did.
My neck stings where the blade nicked the skin. And there’s a maddeningly slow trickle of wetness. The copper tang of blood fills my nostrils. Ash must see it, too, because his whole bearing is changing.
I can’t be sure of what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the way he now holds himself—stiff, not poised. Maybe it’s his expression that looks somehow pained and furious at the same time, like he’s fighting some sort of internal battle.
Whatever it is, there’s been a change. Something different in the light, the way it falls across the polished basalt floor. The way it meets the shadows. Almost … wavering.
And then I hear it. A sound so guttural and harsh it could have come from the sixth hell itself.
I was scared a moment ago, scared that my throat would be cut.
That fear seems suddenly small.
It’s replaced with cold dread at the sight before me.
It’s been half a lifetime, but I’ll never forget the feeling of the shadow unfurling. Back then it was a doubling, like I was in one place, while another, impossible version of me, a dark, angry, amorphous version, went for the Blazers.
This is nothing like that.
When it starts, the burning is almost bearable. Like I’ve spent too long in the sun on the first day of high spring. A prickling, just-too-hot sensation. It intensifies to a scald, and then the searing heat of what it must be like to be branded, what the Noseless Ones must feel when their wound is sealed by blistering hot metal.
Fire courses through me, rushing along the lines of ink that trace my torso, my arms, the backs of my legs, my scalp. But the worst, oh sweet mother Esiku, the worst of it is where the wings fold over my spine.
I’m being torn open in a hundred places at once, each line of my inked skin splitting like a ripe pomegranate.
Some
where from inside the pain, white and scorching, I register the moment of imminent separation. I couldn’t stop it now even if I wanted to. And now that the rage has built, that it courses through me thicker and more life-giving than air or blood, I want to let it go.
The beast leaps from my shoulders, raking great talons across my already-lacerated flesh as it takes flight.
I slump to the floor, bleeding and unable to do anything but watch, with a clinical sort of detachment, as a winged lion made of shadow lunges at the guards, claws extended. It slices limb from torso, rending hardened leather armor as if it is silk.
Some guards stand like statues, feet locked to the marble floor. Others cower and back away. The bravest prepare to fight. But their swords and spear points, even if they do connect, pass straight through.
The only prize each strike fetches is a howl of rage as the beast, part lion, part eagle, part me—
The guard with his blade to my throat takes a step back, his grip tightening.
Then it goes slack.
Because he’s running. Running as if his life depended on it.
The throne room erupts into chaos.
Above, a huge winged lion—ink black one moment, as translucent as smoke the next—swoops through the air, diving on the guards one by one, talons ripping and shredding with horrible wet tearing noises, spraying red in its wake.
Waves of stinking carnage swamp me—metallic blood and acid-sharp piss and panic-loosened bowls. I lurch over, hands on knees, and gag.
I glance to the Prince in front of me. He’s still unconscious. Maybe he’s a little more ashen, but his chest has begun to evenly rise and fall again. I dearly hope he’s returning from danger.
But I’m not.
And I’m not the only one.
Below the platform, halfway across the room, Ash lies splayed facedown on the floor. Lacerations cover him from scalp to ankle, blood pooling on the floor around his prone body. I’m paralyzed by the sight before instincts kick in. I’ve got to find a way to stop the bleeding.
I start moving toward him, crouched low, hoping the shadow circling above doesn’t decide to make me a target.
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