Embers of Empire

by Michaela Strauther

  Iryse chuckled and patted Sutra’s back a bit too hard. “You’re right,” he said. “Our rule.”

  Sathryn

  here do you think the prison is?” asked Sathryn. They were on the second floor now, which, she had to admit, was dangerous, considering the kings were on the second floor. But Julian had insisted that it was okay as long as they avoided any noise and stayed in the shadows and away from windows. The second floor was huge—there was still plenty to see. Colette said they should have come at night, but Julian said that there would still be guards roaming the halls at night, especially since night was the most vulnerable time of day. Of course there would be more guards then.

  Or perhaps Julian was trying to cover his flawed plans. Either explanation worked.

  The second floor was more of what Sathryn expected in a house of kings. The floors were dressed in deep-red carpeting, the edges lined in gold. The walls and ceilings were clean and made of smooth stone, their surfaces intermittently decorated with exquisite gold-and-silver candelabras, torch holders, and chandeliers. Each door was made of dark-mahogany wood. Each pair of doors was wide set and fixed with golden, curled handles. The hallways wound through the second floor like blind snakes.

  One of the doors to the left of a hallway hung open as if welcoming them inside. It was a bedroom. A four-poster canopy bed with purple linens and a red quilt sat in the corner, and on the other end, there was a wooden shelf of various items. Paintings hung around the walls—simple depictions of love and war and the past—alongside sleek, sharp, noble swords. A desk paired with a large chair sat in the corner.

  “I don’t know,” answered Julian. “You’d think it would be on the first floor, as I have heard it is underground, but I guess not.”

  “Well, this surely isn’t it,” Sathryn replied, staring about the room. “Something tells me this is a king’s bedroom. Maybe we should look around—”

  “Maybe we should get out,” Colette refuted. Sathryn smiled a little bit, because when was Colette ever on her side?

  “Let’s look around for just a second,” Julian said. He was already inside the room.

  “Fine,” Colette muttered. “But don’t touch anything, Julian.”

  This time, it was Julian that found a subtle hint. He was looking through the shelves, touching so as to not disturb much, when he found it.

  Sathryn had been watching him, but she didn’t think he would find anything. But then, he called Sathryn and Colette over, pointing at a glass vial filled with bright-red liquid, and Sathryn thought of what they had found in the cellar earlier.

  This time, the container was much smaller, much like the small, empty vials she had seen in the cellar. But this vial was filled with a red liquid that resembled what was in the large jugs. And when Julian picked it up and turned it upside down, the liquid was thick. Beside the vial was a small dagger and a cloth.

  “It’s that liquid again,” Julian said. “What is it doing up here?”

  “Whoever stays here must use it for something.”

  They placed the vial back on the shelf and left the room, as nothing else of much interest was on the shelves. They wandered through the hallways again, which were still empty, until they came across yet another bedroom, the pair of doors open once again. Like the last bedroom, the room had a four-poster canopy bed, though this one had black sheets lying across it.

  Everything in the room was abnormal and gloomy—navy-blue curtains along three windows choked off the midday sunlight, the walls hung black-handled swords by their dark stones, and the wood framing the bed and the shelves was the color of midnight.

  The shelves, besides holding books and weapons and jars—and cages—also held a bizarre collection of statuettes. One was a man morphing into a snake, another was a vulture with two heads, another was what looked like a horse being split down the middle. In another corner of the vast room, alongside one of the dark, wooden shelves, was a tall structure covered with a black blanket.

  “What do you think is behind it?” Sathryn asked Julian. He was standing too close for comfort, especially since she couldn’t even imagine what was underneath the blanket.

  “Only one way to find out.” Julian reached over and ripped away the blanket.

  Sathryn jerked and turned away, but when she looked again, it was just a mirror.

  “Hm,” Julian said, amused. “I didn’t expect that.” He covered the mirror back up, careful to cover it the same as it had been covered before.

  “Why do you think the king covered it?” Sathryn asked.

  “Maybe he is ashamed to look at his face because it reminds him of all the horrid things he has done,” Colette said.

  “Or maybe he fears his reflection at night,” Julian said with a laugh.

  Sathryn’s attention switched to a large bedside shelf, which held more disturbing statues, the occasional stack of jars flooded with questionable coagulants.

  Something on the top shelf caught her eye.

  It was a small glass vial full of bright-red liquid.

  Julian and Colette were still searching the room. “Hey—Julian, Colette, come here.”

  Julian rushed over, Colette by his side. Sathryn pointed up at the top shelf—the jar was teetering just out of her reach.

  “Is that—”

  “The same red liquid from before? Yes. Do you think all the kings have it?” Sathryn asked.

  Julian and Colette nodded in unison. “We have to figure out what it is,” Julian muttered.

  “It might be medicine,” Colette suggested as they shuffled toward the door.

  “There was a dagger beside both of the vials,” Sathryn pointed out, “so maybe they take the medicine through their blood?”

  Right in front of the door, Julian stopped. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he turned to them so suddenly that Sathryn thought something was wrong. Then, a smile grew on his face until it peaked at his eyes. “No—no, that’s not medicine—that’s the kings’ drug!”

  At the speechless expressions of both Sathryn and Colette, Julian continued in so much ecstasy that his voice got louder. “Do you remember the daggers I showed you, Sathryn?” He pulled the pair of daggers from his sheath now, careful not to touch the toxic blade—the one with the bright-red handle. “It was made using a Lucifer’s Phoenix’s venom—venom secreted from their teeth. And it’s red. Bright red. Just like the liquid we found! And do you both remember Lady Night and the Blazing Phoenix she hatched? The shell and the dragon were both bright red, and she said that Lucifer’s Phoenix was the dragon rumored to be the one the kings used to make the drug!”

  Julian carried on, but Sathryn had stopped listening. The door behind them was creaking open, unless, of course, she was imagining things. And if she were imagining things, the imagining was getting quite a bit too real.

  “Julian—Julian, be quiet and turn around,” Sathryn whispered.

  Just as Julian turned, the door stopped creaking and flung open, revealing a short, thin, old man in a red cloak.

  ound them.” The short man drew a sword from his belt.

  Julian had been frozen, but he quickly jumped to action, as did Colette, who grabbed Sathryn’s arm and pulled her back farther into the room. “Remember when I made fun of you for throwing your knives?” she asked. A few feet away, Julian had his sword drawn and was clashing it against the old man’s swords, though the old man was quicker than Julian, and a squadron of gray-coated sentries were tromping into the room on thick, clomping soles.

  Sathryn couldn’t make her lips respond—they were too busy trying to keep her teeth from cracking against each other under pressure.

  “Well that’s okay, because right now—” Colette snatched a throwing knife from her belt and flung it lightning fast across the room. The short man stepped from its path as if he’d known it was coming—instead, the knife lodged into a guard behind him. He cried out in pain and stumbled to the floor. “We need all the force we can get.”

  As more guards
hurried through the door, more of them noticed Colette and Sathryn in the corner and raced toward them, swords drawn, arrows raised. Chills raced through her spine, but as soon as Sathryn saw a blade soaring toward her, her adrenaline soared along with it. She unsheathed two long, narrow swords from her belt and slashed blindly at first, but soon, her arm fell into a rhythm. One man about her height but disturbingly large charged toward her, a long knife in his tight, white-knuckled grip. He was too big to fight against—she knew she would lose—so she instead ducked down and pushed her back against his knees just as Julian had taught her during their training days. The burly man realized too late what she was doing and fell. Sathryn kept rolling to avoid his weight on her back, then stood to see Colette’s boot pressed against the large man’s head while her hands, wielding two pink-handled stilettos, slashed at two other men in front of her. But the men were quickly overtaking her.

  Sathryn raced to one of the men and attacked him, slashing at his back and knees. As the man crumpled against the bloodstained stone, Julian called for them by the door. He was still fighting off the short man, but now he was also dodging three other men lunging and jabbing relentlessly at him.

  Sathryn saw a bloom of dark liquid grow against Julian’s vest. His eyes caught hers.

  “Run!” he shouted at her and Colette, who had managed to fend off another guard now lying still on the ground.

  Colette didn’t hesitate. She raced forward, sheathing her swords, and pulled Sathryn behind her—again—as they plunged through the blockade of guards and swords and arrows toward the door—toward Julian. In front of her, Colette cried out and stumbled, grasping at her thigh. An arrow was wedged in it, daring her to slow down, but it only drove her faster. Once they reached the door, Colette yanked free another sword and swung it at the short man, who flung his head back and missed the blade’s path for his neck. The missed blow didn’t hurt the old man, but it gifted Julian with enough time to spin away from the short man’s sword and flee through the doorway.

  To the right were more guards. So Sathryn, Colette, and Julian all raced to the left.

  When they rounded the corner, they came to a wide room full of books—a library.

  Sitting in a chair in the library was a man with a crown on his head.

  When the man glanced up, Sathryn noticed him as the king in the closet from earlier.

  Colette and Julian must have seen it too, for they rushed from the library and back into the wide hallway. From the opposite end of the hall, Sathryn heard the rushing footsteps of the sentries, but from the library, she could see the king rising from his chair and walking toward them.

  They were cornered.

  Julian was panting—trembling—with his back suctioned against the wall and his hand pasted against Sathryn’s. “No,“ he muttered. “No . . . this is not what will happen . . . I won’t let it . . .”

  Down the hall, the cluster of guards raced around the corner, but in front of them all, even in front of the quick old man in the red cloak, was a tall, pale man with bright, curly, red hair. Hair that looked just like Colette’s.

  The man was shouting something. “Go to your right! Your right!”

  They looked to the right, but it was just a plain, stone wall. From the other side, in the library, the king had almost reached them.

  “The right! Now!”

  Colette reached out and pushed on the right wall. It flew open like a door, revealing nothing but darkness and a puff of musty air. But Colette plunged inside, followed by Julian. With one last glance at the king in the library and the current of guards, Sathryn ran in after them.

  When the door slammed shut behind Sathryn, the sounds outside dissipated. Julian threw himself against the door, his bow and quiver skidding across the ground like stones over water, pulled out the key from his guard’s uniform, and shoved it into the little hole below the door handle. There was a little click, and then he slumped to the floor, panting. The burn in Sathryn’s chest yanked her to the ground as well, and the dirt beneath her slammed against her head and seeped through her fingers. She just needed air. And water. Water would have been nice.

  What little light there was shined dimly from far away, and it was hardly enough to see the hazy silhouette of Julian’s body, the silhouette of Colette’s body.

  “I put—I put the fire striker and the—the—the flint piece in my pocket,” Julian said. He was breaking himself off with coughs and pants.

  Sathryn crawled toward him, using her hands as her compass. When she felt his body, he used his own hands to guide her toward his pocket, where she grabbed the fire striker and the chunk of flint. Behind her, someone tapped her arm. Colette. She was holding two torches that she had unhooked from the wall.

  Sathryn sparked both torches. Colette stuck one back into the wall and carried the other around the room to ignite the rest of the mounted torches.

  In the warm sheen of light, Sathryn’s eyes trailed the perimeter of the room, noting the number of torches and the pitch-black tunnel opposite her. And then her eyes caught Julian against the door.

  The wound she had seen budding from his vest earlier was now a flower of blood so dark it was almost black.

  It was black.

  Was it?

  Colette finished lighting the rest of the torches around the room, and they bathed the room in bright light rather than dusk.

  Julian’s darker face looked golden in the light. He was still breathing hard, and sweat dripping from his face pooled at the ground below him.

  His hands fluttered down to his wound like birds to their babies—if their babies were bleeding black blood. “I’m—I’m bleeding—I’m—I’m—”

  He was bleeding.

  Sathryn’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened. What was she supposed to do? Julian was the one who knew about this. He had been the one to heal her burns in Deadland, had given her the medicine to relieve the pain that the Red Arrow on the streets had caused. And now, he lay before her yellow and panting and bleeding black blood, and she had no idea what she should do.

  But Julian already knew that. He was looking into her eyes—or trying to. It was hard for Sathryn to focus on his eyes or much else. Her eyes kept switching about the room, looking for something to help. Colette knelt beside her, looking just as stricken.

  Julian’s hand reached up and grasped her wrist. “Sathryn—Sathryn! Look at me . . .” Sathryn’s eyes found his steady blue ones. Even in pain, he anchored her down.

  But every so often he winced and curled in on himself. He was still in pain.

  “I need you two to bandage me up,” he said. “First, you need to take off my vest and the shirt underneath. You need a clear view—view—view of the wound . . .”

  Sathryn peeled the shirt and vest from his body and laid it beneath him. Colette handed Sathryn a small canteen of water. “Clean it,” she said. What had made Sathryn the medic?

  She slowly poured the warm water over the wound, apologizing every time he flinched. Once she’d rinsed the excess blood away, all that remained was a gash perhaps three inches wide, still leaking blood. The blood was still inky black. And despite it belonging to Julian, despite all that he’d done for her, she was still hesitant to touch it.

  Julian sighed. “I know, it’s black,” he muttered. “But it isn’t poisonous . . .” She felt as though she couldn’t make any expression without Julian reading her like an open book. “It’s because I’m a crossbreed, not because I’m sick or something.” His voice was raw.

  “It is still bleeding,” Sathryn said. She couldn’t look at him. “Should we just cover it?”

  Julian shook his head. “Do you remember the healing salve I gave you?”

  Sathryn pulled the flask from her pocket. It was filled to the brim with thick, green liquid.

  Julian guided her through the steps of applying the salve, careful not to add too much, as the bottle was supposed to last them multiple wounds. She tipped the flask above Julian’s wound. The liquid ooz
ed from the bottle and dripped onto his gash. As soon as the green salve touched his lacerated skin, he cried out and clenched his jaw and eyes tight as if it were hot wax being dripped onto his skin rather than something to heal him.

  Sathryn recoiled. “Was it supposed to hurt?”

  Julian nodded past clenched teeth. “Yes—it burns a—a—a bit, but keep—g-going. Then y-you have—t-to rub it in.”

  Sathryn rinsed her own dirt-covered hands with the water before crawling back to Julian and pouring the liquid again. After a few seconds of Julian writhing in agony and Sathryn flinching and apologizing and Colette trying to treat her own arrow wound and block out Julian’s cries at the same time, Sathryn managed to pour out enough salve to cover his gash. From there, Julian said the salve would dry and stop the bleeding, clotting the wound and stifling the pain. And Sathryn was grateful. She didn’t like the sight of blood and wounds—and it wasn’t even just the fact that Julian’s blood was leaking from his body as though he were a tar pit instead of a wounded young man.

  He lay there limply for a moment, his shirt beneath him rather than on his person, his face drenched with sweat, the color creeping back into his face. He was making Sathryn proud by simply being alive.

  “What’s wrong?” Julian asked Colette. Through his own agony, he hadn’t noticed Colette was still treating her own wounds and wincing through the whole thing.

  But Colette was okay. She must have been, because when Sathryn offered her help, she just pushed her away and insisted she was fine. “You should be treating your wounds instead of worrying about mine,” said Colette. She had just poured the thick, green salve into the wound on her leg herself, trying to choke off her cries but failing miserably. The bloody arrow that had once been lodged in her upper leg now lay encrusted in dirt on the ground.