The two airships gracefully slid together, and a boarding ramp was lowered between the two. The Winter Kite’s deck was full of people, mostly Imperial Guards in scarlet uniforms and a scattering of councilors, but there were a few others out of uniform that she did not recognize. One of the Guards whistled her announcement on a tin pipe, and Zofiya stepped forward until she was poised suspended between the two ships. “Permission to come aboard, Imperial Majesty,” she called out.
That was when her brother emerged from among his soldiers for the first time. Kal looked better than when she had seen him last, fleeing from the Rossin with the Mother Abbey falling down about their ears. He wore a golden helm and breastplate as if he were off to war, though neither looked much more than decorative. He could have been the brother that she had thrown to the ground to protect from a sniper only a season before—except for the look in his eyes. No warmth gleamed in them, and he did not hold out his arms to her.
“Permission granted,” he said, his voice ringing between the two airships.
It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath, as Zofiya took her fateful step forward onto the Winter Kite. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a couple of the Imperial Guards shifting fractionally. Among their ranks were faces she recognized, and each one she filed away into memory.
While part of her noted such things, another sectioned-away part wailed that she had to do such a thing. However, she had built walls around that vulnerable portion and would not let it out—especially not here.
Kal was watching her approach, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Previously, she had always been able to read her brother’s moods. He had been a kind child and a ridiculously kind Emperor. Zofiya’s jaw clenched as she thought of a hundred painful things to do to the one who had brought this all to pass, Derodak.
Finally, she stood six feet away from him, and after a breath to steady herself, sunk into a low curtsey. Perhaps much of the spectacle of doing it was marred by wearing a uniform and not a Court dress, but that was not its purpose.
A low bow meant her head was exposed to whatever the Emperor wanted to deal out. She stayed down for a long time—or at least it felt like a long time—and the back of her neck itched. At any moment she expected to feel the kiss of steel, or maybe a pistol barrel placed against her head.
“Welcome . . . Sister.” Kal’s voice broke the tension of the moment, and she straightened back up to her full height. This meant that they were looking eye to eye. The Grand Duchess’ gaze flickered to the right. She spotted Ezefia among those standing behind her brother, and had to stop herself from making comment. Her brother’s wife had a large swollen belly and eyes hollow with horror and misery.
Zofiya had never had cause to spend time with the Empress, because they really shared only Kal in common. Ezefia liked to dance and gossip and make merry. Her sister-in-law liked more serious pursuits. Now however, Zofiya wished that they had spent more hours together, because it looked like both of them could use some support in this moment.
“You have not offered your congratulations.” Kal’s tone was light, and yet strung through with a hint of menace. “Look,” he said, grabbing Ezefia by the arm and yanking her forward. The woman—or rather the Empress—stumbled and nearly fell. Zofiya instinctively stepped forward to catch her, but Kal pulled her upright and away from his sister. “Can you not see we are blessed? What do you think it will be . . . a boy or a girl?”
It was worse than she had imagined. The crack in her brother’s voice went all the way into his soul. She knew that within just a few moments—she’d been with him every day of his life.
Yet, she couldn’t afford to put a foot wrong. She’d heard nothing about the Empress’ pregnancy and felt ill prepared when confronted with it. So much for all the Sensitivity of Deacons! “I . . . I am just—”
He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway—whatever it is, it shall be a bastard!”
Silent tears were now rolling down Ezefia’s face from her peerless green eyes. Her sister-in-law knew how she felt. She’d been in a situation where she had been afraid to make noise, to draw attention. Every part of the Grand Duchess wanted to grab her and hustle her off this cursed airship and onto the Summer Hawk. Yet, she could not. More was at stake than the Empress’ fears. So she remained still and tried to merely distract her brother from Ezefia as best she could.
“Then take another to wife, dear Brother,” she said as calmly as she could. “Denounce her before the Court and choose again. There are plenty of Princesses still aching to be your Empress.” It remained unspoken that the field had undoubtedly narrowed since last time they had searched, but there would be some Princes that would willingly fling their daughters at Kal even at this juncture.
Her brother gave his wife a sharp shake and then threw her down. She landed on the deck with a thump and kept her eyes riveted to the deck of the airship.
Just who exactly had bedded the Empress—or even if it was a crazy delusion of the Emperor—Zofiya could not tell. She did not want to ask and risk inflaming the situation.
Kaleva began pacing back and forth between his wife and the lines of Imperial Guard at his back. He was like some mad puppet darting around, with the rest of the people present merely the backdrop to his performance. Zofiya had her answer confirmed. Her brother was indeed mad, and not just angry.
Derodak had broken him, and if he could be fixed remained a mystery. The fate of an Empire with a mad Emperor was well documented, and though Zofiya might not like it, she would have to do what others in history had done: take the throne for the benefit of its people. She decided in her head in that moment she would indeed be regent.
The fact settled in her mind like a stone. Yes, she would be regent, and she would have the best lay Brothers of Sorcha’s Order examine her brother. Perhaps they knew a way to heal him of his grave mental injury. After all, they had been dealing with hurt Deacons for centuries and—
Her thoughts were jerked back to the here and now when she abruptly realized that Kal had stopped right in front of her and was examining her with the intensity of an eagle looking at an injured lamb.
“It was Derodak,” he hissed to her, “in case you were wondering. Derodak and my Empress conspired together. She fell into his bed and spread her legs for him like the whore she is.”
Never in her whole life had Zofiya heard her brother use such words; he had always been a gentle and soft-spoken man. It made her want to weep to see him like this.
She cleared her throat and picked out every word carefully. “If that is true, then she must indeed be put away . . .”
Behind him, Ezefia raised her head finally, looked directly at the Grand Duchess and shook her head vehemently. She only mouthed her denial. He forced me to.
Zofiya’s heart sank. She knew intimately that the Arch Abbot of the Circle of Stars could indeed make people do and say things. In fact, Derodak had done that to Kal, so why couldn’t he see that? His cruel indifference now only showed how deep he had fallen into insanity.
“And the Princes?” her brother asked her, tilting his head, and raking her with an appraising gaze. “What shall we do with the traitorous Princes?”
She was aware that in front of her, some of the Imperial Guards were making direct eye contact with her. Flickers of tension and fear ran across numerous faces. Zofiya felt their silent urgings for her to do something . . . anything. It was time to be daring, because now she knew any way she jumped would be the wrong way with Kal in his current state.
Zofiya took his elbow and tried to guide him away from the press of people, toward the gunwales. To the port, there was a clear break of sky; endless white clouds drifted across that beautiful blue expanse. Zofiya couldn’t be sure about Kal, but it certainly made her feel a little calmer. Perhaps, being out of the direct gaze of so many would soothe him a little.
She hoped so, as she began. “Remember our father, Kal?” He nodded, but the thunderclouds were s
till gathering in his eyes. It was now or never, so Zofiya proceeded. “Do you remember how he used to beat the dogs?”
A long breath seemed to go out of him. “Yes,” he ventured in a small voice.
A flicker of hope kindled in Zofiya, but she dared not examine it to closely. “You and I used to hate it when he did that, but he said it was to teach them a lesson when they had done something wrong.”
Kal nodded again, his eyes fixed on her.
“And do you remember what he said, when the dogs came back after being beaten?”
The Emperor leaned back against the gunwales for a second. “He said, ‘Give them some meat, so that they learn to like the taste of the whip.’”
It was a cruel and totally wrong message, but Zofiya hoped that it might reach her brother. Their father had certainly beaten the Princes mercilessly, so now maybe Kal would understand. She wasn’t sure about giving them some reward, but she just wanted him to come back with her to Vermillion as calmly as possible.
After a moment’s pause, she dared put a hand lightly on her brother’s forearm; she could feel his muscles tensing. “You’ve used the whip enough, Kal . . . Let’s go back home. Please . . .”
She hardly dared to breathe. It was hard for Zofiya to be gentle and supple. He did not move, and for a moment there was hope. At least for a heartbeat or two.
Then with a twist, he flung her hand off him. “You are with them,” he snarled, as his fists clenched at his sides. “I know what you’ve been doing, conspiring with the Deacons to take my Empire. I know,” he went on with a wicked smile, “that you have sat on my throne in Vermillion, hiding behind the word ‘regent’—like I am some child.”
Zofiya’s heart began racing. “No, Kal. No! That’s not it at all. Vermillion was a mess, the Empire is a mess, and I only wanted to assure them that I was there to protect them. That is what a regent does when the Emperor is not well—” She lurched to a halt, suddenly realizing what she had said was completely the wrong thing. Diplomacy had never been her strong suit.
Kaleva’s eyebrows drew together in a dark bow, and his mouth pressed into a hard thin line. “That’s what they said when they took the last Emperor off the throne!” he snarled. “They tried to install a regent at first. I think, Sister, you will find it not so easy to take my throne from me.”
Zofiya was caught between wanting to smack him in the face or to sob and plead for the return of the brother she loved. That indecision nearly cost her life.
“Imperial Highness!” One of the Guards behind them with a very familiar face broke ranks and held out his hand to her. “Run! They—” His warning was cut off by one of her brother’s soldiers effectively running him through with his saber.
However, the warning had triggered the Grand Duchess’ instincts. She sprang backward just as a long string of blue white lightning struck the space where she had been standing. She caught a glimpse of a man—not in any kind of uniform—standing by that curious machine. He was grinning, even though he had almost hit the Emperor as well as her.
Madmen! They were all madmen! Rifles were raised and pointed in her direction, but in the mass of Imperial Guards, chaos broke out. Brothers in arms, all clad in the red uniforms, began to wrestle and fight with one another.
For a moment, Zofiya contemplated tackling her brother and taking them both over the edge, but that would solve nothing for the Empire. Besides, the cracked-looking man at the machine was turning the narrow barrel of it in her direction again.
She ran, pushing off from the deck while hearing rifle fire begin to start up between the marines on both the Winter Kite and the Summer Hawk. The path to the gangway was blocked, so she grabbed hold of the rigging, cut a piece of it loose with her saber and then pushed off madly toward her airship. She had the impression of clouds wafting by, while bullets flew in her direction. For a second she was elated, and then Zofiya crashed into the deck of the Summer Hawk.
As soon as she was back on her feet, Zofiya realized it was not just her brother that had gone mad—so too had the situation.
The Deacons emerged from the depths of the airship, just as the crackle of her brother’s machinery was firing again. With capes fluttering in the growing breeze, the Deacons held up the flaming red shield, providing protection for those on the Summer Hawk from the mad machine. It became hard to see as red and blue energies sparked and flew everywhere. Bullets were, unfortunately, not stopped by the shield. Soldiers on both sides were falling.
Zofiya snatched up a rifle from a nearby marine and dropped into cover behind the wheelhouse. She found Captain Revele there, who despite bleeding from a wound in the leg was firing back enthusiastically.
She shot a glance at the Grand Duchess. “So it didn’t go quite as you thought then?”
Zofiya cradled the rifle against her shoulder and returned fire. “Unfortunately this is exactly how I imagined it going. I think now would be a good time to leave.”
Revele nodded and yelled orders over the rumble of battle to her crew, some of whom had managed to take shelter against the gunwales. “Cut the damn plank!”
While bullets flew and lances of power careened between the two airships, one spry lad wriggled his way to where the moorings were and sliced the rope that bound them to the Winter Kite.
It was by no means an escape. They were now twisting away from the other airship, but all it meant was that the form of the attack changed. No one on the Winter Kite wanted to set the Summer Hawk ablaze while it was tethered to the flagship. As the Hawk’s engines caught, and they turned to port away from their attacker, they also escaped out of range of the bullets. However, the cannons and whatever that damned machine was now came fully into play.
Zofiya raced to the Deacons, while Revele screamed for the Hawk’s armaments to be rolled out. Deacon Petav stood at the head of his little group, the light of the runes flickering on their now exposed arms. The Gauntlets and the Strop had been impressive enough, but there was something far more primal about seeing the runes in action on their flesh and skin.
The air smelled tangy and sharp, as if just after a lightning storm. It was something that had to have come from Kal’s new machines, because Zofiya had never encountered that odor before.
“Can you hold them off like that?” she demanded of Petav. Zofiya was certainly grateful to the Deacons for their protection, but she needed to know that it was something they could continue to supply. If they couldn’t, then this would most likely be the last flight of the Summer Hawk. The gasses in the ship’s envelope were not susceptible to flame, but the fine material could certainly be punctured.
Petav looked gray, which did not give her much cause for elation. If a Deacon could be shaken by what had just happened, then she hated to think what that might mean.
“A weirstone tinker machine,” he muttered, shooting a glance over his shoulder at his colleagues, who nodded in mute confirmation. “What fresh madness is this that—”
“Look,” Zofiya snapped, “we can discuss this horror later . . . say when we are safely back in Vermillion.”
The Deacon nodded, and his eyes grew glassy. The Grand Duchess knew that look very well; Merrick had worn it often when using his Center. “Go up.” His voice was slightly slurred as if he were drunk or had just woken up. “Take the fleet into the clouds.”
Up sounded like a fine idea, since getting hammered by their cannons and nameless machine was not something to be wished for.
Revele appeared at her side. Even in the midst of chaos her hat and uniform were still immaculate. Zofiya contemplated how strange it was the little things she noticed in a crisis.
“Deacon Petav says make for the clouds,” the Grand Duchess barked at her captain.
Zofiya and Revele turned and quickly scanned the scene. Their vessel was nearest the barrage from the Winter Kite, but the other airships in the Emperor’s Fleet were positioning themselves so that they too could bring their weapons to bear.
Revele quickly gave the circular sp
inning motion to her first mate, who was standing at the door to the bridge; he then ducked back in to give the order. The Summer Hawk began to rise sharply beneath her feet, so that all on her deck had to crouch a little or be thrown down. Zofiya felt as though her stomach had been left some hundred feet below, but at least the dire machine of her brother’s could not apparently fire upward very well. The blue white light spat beneath them, narrowly missing their hull.
They had, it seemed, bought themselves some small amount of time. Zofiya raced to the gunwales and grabbed hold of the rigging, leaning over to observe what was happening. The rest of the airships were following the flagship’s lead and rising into the clouds in pursuit, but they had to keep out of range of the mad blue lightning.
Deacon Petav joined her at the railing, his eyes scanning the scene with a slightly glazed look. “They seem to be having some trouble with their technology,” he said, with a slight twist of his lips.
“Good,” she replied, clenching her hands on the rail. “That gives us some time.”
The blue lightning finally flickered off, and now her brother’s airships could maneuver without restriction. They were angling upward, heading swiftly after the Summer Hawk. The other ships in the Grand Duchess’ smaller fleet were turning about after the pursuers, but it was hard to tell which would catch up with her first.
The Emperor’s machine could quite possibly rip the Summer Hawk apart before they could engage them. “Reverend Deacon, I suggest you put your mind to coming up with a way for us to fend off that machine, or this could be the shortest regency in Imperial history.”
Deacon Petav reached into his robe and withdrew a small weirstone. It did not seem like much against all that was arrayed against them. “I think I have an idea that just might work.”
That smile was rather off-putting, but the newest regent of Arkaym had to trust he knew what he was doing.
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