Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  They made a formidable line: steel-gray helmets and tomb-white cloaks, advancing with machinelike uniformity. And, in the midst of them all, their empress, sitting tall astride her valkryf, her face carved of stone as she watched atrocities unfold before her at the hands of her army.

  A father, begging as they hauled away his wife and children, as they forced him to his knees on the dust-covered cobblestones and raised a sword to his neck.

  The wife’s howls, cut short as they plunged blades through her chest.

  Fire, roaring to life at the coaxing of a Whitecloak’s hands, licking up the wood-paneled walls of the house and consuming it in a roaring inferno.

  “Ana!” A voice cried to her from several jetties down. Linn ran to her, weaving through the masses of people. Behind her, Kaïs followed, his double swords drawn. “Ana, we go!”

  But Ana couldn’t move. The screams of her people pulled her back, back, begging her to stay, to help. The winds were picking up speed, and the clouds churning across the sky, the air trembling with the promise of violence. She couldn’t leave, not now, not when the townspeople of Goldwater Port—her people—were being slaughtered like cattle.

  This couldn’t be the right choice.

  “Ana, please.” Linn slowed as she approached, reaching out for Ana. Her hands caught Ana’s wrists, grounding her. “You cannot win today. Live today, so that you may fight tomorrow.”

  Ana looked into her friend’s face. She thought of Novo Mynsk, of the fire that had raged both outside and within her, of her certainty that fighting for her people’s lives had been the right choice, right there, and right then.

  Leaving now meant abandoning people who needed her help.

  Leaving now meant returning to fight another day, to fight when she was more certain to win. It was the strategic choice. The choice of a leader.

  “Ana,” came another shout. Ramson stood at the end of the quay, motioning frantically at her. “This way!”

  Ana gritted her teeth. Forced her feet to move. Then she was running with Linn and the yaeger at her back, the end of the wharf in sight, and Ramson was ushering them up a gangplank onto a ship.

  “What in Amara’s name are you doing?” shouted the sailor as they stormed past her. “You bought one ticket—”

  “I’ll pay you the rest later!” Ramson yelled. “Haul anchor and set sail, or we all die!”

  Another explosion stained the clouds orange, as though they were swollen with blood. The sailor spewed a few profanities as the ship tilted hard under wind-tossed waves, the sails ballooning. The air filled with the sound of shattering glassware as bottles of liquor slid off the bar table in the center. “All right!” the sailor—presumably the ship’s captain—yelled, slapping her hand on the wheel. “Haul anchor! And hang on to your hats!”

  Ana threw herself against the wheel of the anchor windlass. Together, she, Ramson, and the yaeger turned it, and bit by bit, with great screeching sounds, the anchor chain rose.

  “Anchor’s up!” Ramson shouted. He ran to the captain’s side, where she struggled against the wheel. With a grunt, he grasped it, and the ship began to move. “Linn, a little help, if you will!”

  Linn stood, balancing easily on the rocking ship. A powerful gale rose, pushing against their sails in the direction of the open ocean.

  The ship lurched forward like a fish plunging through waves. The ocean battered it, and Ana clung tightly to the mast as the deck tilted beneath her. Several times, the ship groaned so loudly that Ana thought it would splinter right beneath their feet.

  And then, slowly, the rocking calmed. The winds began to die down, and soon, Goldwater Port was behind them, shrouded in the shadow of the looming storm.

  The ship’s captain slumped to the deck. “Amara’s flames,” she muttered, wiping her brow.

  Ramson leaned against the wheel, breathing hard. Linn sat beneath the sails, stonelike but for the winds that stirred her hair and clothes. The yaeger stood by her side.

  They all looked behind them at Goldwater Port, the city they had left to die. The docks grew smaller, and the once-colorful houses had drained gray in the storm and soot. Fires raged farther within the city, reflected red upon a sky that seemed to weep blood.

  The books Ana had read in her childhood, of the greatest rulers of history and legends, were all tales of warriors and heroines who fought against evil and triumphed.

  None of the stories, she realized, sang of empresses who ran from their falling kingdoms. Who chose to leave behind a world of bloodshed to survive.

  Some rulers’ reigns were forged with steel, some with gold, and some with might.

  And mine, Ana thought, closing her eyes. Mine is forged by blood.

  There was a time in her life when she’d never thought she would see the open ocean again. Or at least, Linn thought, not an ocean so beautiful.

  The seas had calmed, the storm clouds having given way to a periwinkle twilight that blinked into existence the light of a thousand stars. The moon hung low and round before them, carving a silver streak on the gently lapping waves. The air was cool and fresh, the winds out here salt-tanged.

  Ramson and the sailor named Daya spoke at the wheel, arguing over the technicalities of the ship. Their voices tided over Linn.

  In front of her, standing at the stern, was Kaïs.

  His dark hair billowed lightly in the breeze, sweeping past the dirt and blood and burn marks on his face. He’d gotten those when he’d shielded her from the explosion, back at Goldwater Port.

  As though sensing her gaze on him, he shifted to look at her. The silver in his eyes looked like smoke, like ghosts.

  And, abruptly, he turned away.

  Linn sensed someone come up behind her. Fingers, small but strong, closed over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t know if I’d be able to find you,” Ana said, leaning against the guardrail next to her. She sounded weary, her voice so soft.

  Gently, Linn slipped her hand into her friend’s and squeezed. “Our paths are irrevocably crossed,” she said. “It seems the fates looked upon us favorably.”

  Ana squeezed back. “Thank you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “For not giving up on me.”

  It was the first chance Linn had to look at her friend up close. It was as though, in the past moon, Ana had aged a year. Her cheekbones jutted sharper and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. What Linn wouldn’t forget, though, was the haunted look in her gaze.

  Those eyes flitted open, and Linn saw that behind the shadows smoldered a fire.

  “How did you and…” Ana’s expression darkened as she glanced at Kaïs.

  “Kaïs,” Linn said, and told Ana the story of their journey from the prison.

  Ana listened to Linn’s story with a crease between her brows. When Linn finished, she turned her gaze to Kaïs and said, “He took someone very dear to me.” So few words, with so much weight. It was a story for another time. “You trust him?”

  Linn hesitated. There was still so much left to untangle between her and that silent warrior, beginning with her own distrust and prejudice against soldiers like him. All this time, though, he had been the one saving her. “I want to” was all that she could offer. She thought of the steadiness to his grip as they’d leapt from the tower on the Wailing Cliffs, of how he’d offered her his cloak on the mountain. The way his face had filled with sadness when he’d spoken of his mother.

  “He saved my life,” Linn continued. “More than once.” Three times. She’d counted. “He tells me he is running from the Empress, too; that he searches for his mother, and that he wishes to join your ranks. Give him a chance. Please.”

  Ana’s eyes narrowed, and Linn saw them flick to Kaïs again, considering. A muscle twitched in her jaw.

  And then the flames, the anger went out. Ana exhaled. “All right. He stays with us. But
we tell him nothing—not until he proves to us that he is trustworthy. We don’t know if he’s working with the enemy.”

  In a low voice, Ana began to tell Linn of the few weeks they’d spent apart, of the pieces of information she and Ramson had come across. Linn listened in part fascination, part horror, as Ana recounted Tetsyev’s appearance back at Goldwater Port, of Morganya’s plan to create Affinities, and of the rumored weapon in Bregon.

  The words brought a memory back, one that she’d wanted to bury. Even thinking about it made her shudder. “During our travels together, we saw something.” Linn described the blackstone wagon, the man with the two Affinities, the way the Whitecloaks had lost control of him and murdered him. “Kaïs could help us,” she finished. “He knows more about the Imperial Patrols than any of us.”

  Ana’s face had gone pale. “So it’s true,” she muttered. “This is important. We need to talk with Ramson.” She paused, and her voice became gentle. In an instant, it was as though she’d switched from commander to friend—as though there were glimmers of two girls inside her, struggling to find a balance. “I’m sorry, Linn. I haven’t yet asked you what you want.” There was a vulnerability to her voice that Linn had seldom heard. “Are you still with me in this fight?”

  The chaos and destruction at Goldwater Port haunted Linn, the screams and pleas of helpless civilians lingering in her mind. She shivered when she remembered that man with Affinities to ice and fire, his moans cut short by the fall of a sword, the flash of a silver helmet.

  Morganya, Linn understood, had promised to bring justice to Affinites, to the oppressed, to those wronged by the system.

  Yet what Linn had seen that day, a scene of Imperial Patrols overpowering and hurting an Affinite, was utterly familiar. It held echoes of the memories that had been carved into her bones, of when she’d landed on the Empire’s icy shores and begged for help from the soldiers bearing Cyrilia’s Imperial insignia—only they had turned away.

  Nothing had changed with Morganya’s new regime.

  Looking into the ever-fierce eyes of her friend, Linn found that she’d known the answer all along. She would fight, for every Affinite and civilian who had felt the helplessness and terror she once had; for every child who had lost their innocence in that shadow war…and for every sister who had lost a brother to the traffickers.

  Linn leaned forward. “I am with you.” Her voice rang steady and clear. “I would not be anywhere else.”

  Ana exhaled, as though she had been holding a long breath. “And after all this, my friend?” she said gently. “What do you want after all this?”

  Linn wasn’t sure she could answer that question herself. The ship pulled them west, toward Bregon. Beyond that, she knew, beyond the expanse of sea that made up the Jade Trail, was the Kemeiran Empire.

  It suddenly hit her that she could very well be looking at the same sky, the same stars, as Ama-ka. And someday, someday, that same sky would no longer be unreachable, and she would watch the sun rise with Ama-ka’s hand in hers, the creak of their bamboo hammock stirring in the winds between the Kemeiran cypresses.

  Perhaps that was why she was here.

  “I want to go home,” she found herself saying, the words drifting from her lips as though the winds had stolen them from her breath.

  Linn looked at the ocean, and for the first time in a long time, it opened before her, a stretch of possibility.

  Night had fallen, surprisingly quickly and peacefully. They were far enough out now that there was nothing but ocean on all sides, reflecting the sky like a rippling mirror. Ramson had always loved how the stars were clearer out at sea.

  After going through the ship’s mechanics, he and Daya had been relieved to find that the Black Barge had sustained no major damage. There were some burn marks along the hull, and pieces of debris had smashed into the deck, but, as Daya had proclaimed, slapping her hand on the bar counter, there wasn’t much eight crates of alcohol couldn’t fix.

  Ramson had left her to count stock and supplies in the hold of the ship.

  The Black Barge was a generously sized cutter, double-masted and installed with makeshift booths from its now-bygone days as a floating bar. Ramson swiped an aluminum tankard—the glassware was all broken—from the counter, selected a remaining bottle of whiskey, and leaned against the guardrail.

  He drew a deep breath, and it hit him suddenly—the rocking boat, the star-strewn sky, and the whispering waters—it was something he hadn’t known since he’d been twelve years old and had turned his back on Bregon for what he’d thought was forever.

  He’d been running all these years, and now he was still chasing after the ghosts of his past—for what? He took a swig from his tankard, the liquor searing down his throat. He couldn’t look to the future when his past was still a part of him, haunting him every day.

  Once he ended this saga with Alaric Kerlan, he would be free to live as he wished. Go after whatever he wanted.

  He wanted…he wanted—

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Ramson spun, the liquor in his cup splashing. Ana stood before him. He was struck by how she managed to look imperious even with her clothes disheveled and soot streaked across her face. She held one hand near her back, where a dark stain blotted her shirt. Daya had found bandages for her on board the ship, and she’d managed to wrap up her wound. Gingerly, she leaned herself against the railing next to him.

  It was the first time he’d gotten a close look at her since the night they’d parted ways in Novo Mynsk. The silver of the moon softened the new sharpness to her features, coating the fall of her hair, the curve of her lashes.

  Ramson knew the look in her eyes. He knew it so well, in the form of a pale-skinned boy with crow-black hair.

  It was guilt. Earlier, she’d slumped against the guardrail as they sailed away, looking blankly at the burning city until the sea swallowed it.

  He leaned toward her, aware of every subtle shift of her muscles. “Well, I’m here.”

  They were silent for a few moments, the air between them heavy with words unspoken.

  At last, Ana said quietly, “Shamaïra warned me about this, in a way.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “My heart tells me I should be back there, fighting with my people—yet my mind tells me this is where I must be.”

  Ramson wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be fine. That might have been kinder, but it would also be a lie—and he had told too many of those in his lifetime. Instead, he raked a hand through his hair and broke the news to her. “They took her. The Whitecloaks—they took Shamaïra. I went to her dacha to find you, but you weren’t there.”

  Her knuckles turned white against the railing. “Those bastards.”

  “I overheard them talking,” he continued. “Morganya wants Shamaïra—which is a good thing. It means she’ll keep her alive.”

  Ana shut her eyes. Slowly, she nodded. “We’re going to get her out of there. As soon as I’m in Bregon, I’ll write to Yuri. He loves Shamaïra as much as I.” She hesitated, and then her expression crumbled. “It’s all my fault, Ramson. Shamaïra saved me the night of the Inquisition in Novo Mynsk. The Whitecloaks must have tracked me to her house, and…” Her voice broke into a whisper. “If something happens to her…I don’t know if I could ever forgive myself.”

  Standing by her side against the railing, Ramson might have understood a little of how she felt: the guilt of putting the ones you loved in harm’s way, and being powerless to do anything about it. “Shamaïra seemed…prepared,” he said slowly, the words tasting callous on his tongue. “I found a painting in her dacha—a painting of the ocean. It led me back to you.”

  “She seemed prepared?” Ana repeated. She looked pensive, that crease appearing between her eyebrows as it did whenever she was deep in thought. “Shamaïra told me something. She said that for my path, sh
e saw an ocean.”

  “Very precise of her.” His tone was light, the joke quiet.

  “I’m starting to think…” Ana hesitated. “I’m starting to think there’s a reason behind it. The weapon Tetsyev mentioned—the one he said could replicate Affinities…I think he was telling the truth. Linn told me she saw a prisoner with the Imperial Inquisition—a man with two Affinities.” She paused. “But why would the weapon be in Bregon?”

  Bregon.

  Hope sparked a small flame in him, and suddenly, his future unfolded like the pages of a storybook. A future in which his path and hers might lead to the same destination.

  “There is something else,” he said, and he told her everything he had found out about Alaric Kerlan and his new trafficking scheme with Bregon. She listened to him with a frown, chewing on her lip. “I’m going to find him and put an end to all this,” Ramson finished.

  “But you don’t know who the buying party in Bregon is?” Ana prompted.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Ramson replied. “The Bregonian Kingdom has never shown interest toward the magen—our term for Affinites. It must be a black market activity.”

  Ana turned to him. “We should work with the Bregonian government.”

  “No.” He spoke too fast, the word tumbling from him in panic.

  “Why not? I’ve been thinking about it. With the Redcloaks’ ”—she hesitated for a brief moment—“withdrawal, I need to think of other possible alliances. Bregon would be a good place to start. If I extend the offer of an alliance with their leadership—”

  “No,” Ramson repeated. His tankard clanked loudly against the guardrail.

  Ana raised her eyebrows. “No?”

  He fumbled, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. “The Bregonian leadership will never agree to negotiate with you.” His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

  She swept her eyes to the distant skyline, and for a moment, her pupils flashed red. “I’ll ask to speak to the King.” A thoughtful expression crossed her face. “I’ll warn the Bregonian government about Morganya’s pursuit of this artifact and propose a strategic alliance with them to protect it. They might even agree to a counterattack against her. They have the most powerful Navy in the world, after all.”