Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  “It does not particularly matter to me,” Shamaïra rasped, her voice gravelly from days of abandon. “I shall give you nothing.”

  The Empress gave her a lovely smile. She was impossibly beautiful, as they all said, and Shamaïra wondered sadly what part of her journey had gone wrong. Glimpses of her past swirled like shadows behind her; whispers and shouts of abuse. She had been born into darkness, into hatred and fear, and she had chosen that path.

  A second face came to Shamaïra: fierce brown eyes beneath the shadow of a hood. She knew another, she thought, who’d been born into the same circumstances.

  And that girl had chosen light.

  “This was the home of a leader of the rebels,” Morganya said. “Two days ago, they caught wind of my Imperial Inquisition and fled. I want you, fortune-teller, to find out where they went. Trace them, with your Affinity.” She gave a delicate pause and stretched out a hand. A poster dangled between her fingers: wet and smudged from snow and soot. But Shamaïra instantly recognized the figure painted on it, the curve of her crimson cloak. “I want you,” Morganya continued, her voice soft and dangerous, “to find her.”

  Hope lit a fierce fire in Shamaïra’s heart. Ana had gotten away.

  “I cannot track down a person without their possessions,” she replied, her words cut-and-dried. “More importantly, I simply won’t.”

  Morganya’s eyes bore into hers. “Bring the mother,” she said.

  Movement from the Whitecloaks stationed at the door and all around the restaurant; the sound of something being dragged, and a thump.

  Shamaïra looked down and felt her face drain of color.

  A body lay in front of her, but it wasn’t the corpse that she saw. It was the past: a woman, folding a young girl into her arms, her face crinkled with laughter, her fire-red hair tucked in a bun. The same woman, cooking in the kitchen, splotches of soups and sauces dotting her faded linen kirtle.

  The scene shifted, and the woman was carrying Yuri in her arms and tucking him gently in the back of a small wagon, beneath bags of beets and potatoes. She was crying as she kissed her daughter over and over again, and then the wagon was pulling away and she was running after them, following for as long as she could until her old legs gave out.

  Another scene, and she stood amid rubble, broom clutched in hand, frozen as her door creaked open and two men entered her house. One wore a pale white outfit and bore a tear mark on his cheek; the other was made of shadows and long, white hands.

  Shamaïra cut off the visions. She didn’t need to continue to know how this story ended. “You sicken me,” she growled.

  Morganya had been watching her closely, her eyes narrowed in cunning. She let out a laugh. “Oh, we’re just getting started.” She spun, spreading her arms. “Now that Goldwater Port belongs to me, I’m going to root out the rest of these rebels and stamp out the rebellion once and for all. The streets will flow crimson with their blood.” She smiled at Shamaïra. “Are you not proud to have a chance to serve your empire? To establish the foundation of a new regime?”

  Shamaïra looked the Empress in the eyes. “I would rather die,” she said calmly.

  Morganya’s smile stretched. Shamaïra suddenly felt her body seize, as though an invisible force had gripped her and frozen her in place. She couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, as Morganya stepped before her and gripped her chin with a hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.

  “Such lovely eyes,” she murmured. “A very rare color. Blue, like the coldest of glaciers. Like the hottest of flames.” She leaned in. “Do you have any family members, meya dama?”

  Shamaïra stopped breathing.

  “A…son, perhaps? Taken to Cyrilia at a very young age?” Twisted pleasure sparked in Morganya’s eyes. “We keep extremely thorough records of all our recruits in the Imperial Patrol, meya dama, and I happened to come across some very interesting information recently on a young man who defected. Our records indicate that he is a Nandjian migrant, and he had a mother at the time of his conscription. He has the most beautiful blue eyes…quite like yours.”

  Shamaïra was a woman of flames, her words rapid-fire, her spirit like gunpowder. But this time, when she opened her mouth, no words would come. All that existed was a sickening feeling of cold, of ice, slipping down her throat and spreading through her veins.

  “In fact, we’ve received reports that he was spotted here, several days ago. I’ve asked my forces to keep an eye out for him.” She leaned forward, bending her face close to Shamaïra’s. “Surely,” Morganya whispered, “we wouldn’t want something to happen to him.”

  “You lie.” Despite everything, Shamaïra found that she was trembling.

  Morganya looked at her a moment longer before straightening. “The Deities have looked upon you today, dama Shamaïra,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “I have grand plans for a rare Affinity like yours, which means I shall need you alive for a while longer. But I have other methods of persuasion. Vladimir?”

  The black-haired man stepped forward, his smile stretching, and Shamaïra suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. She’d seen that face on a dozen different posters, disseminated throughout Cyrilia.

  Konsultant Imperator, she thought, and her head spun.

  “One more chance, meya dama.” The Imperial Consultant held up a finger, his expression mocking. “Tell us where the rebels are, and where the Red Tigress hides.”

  Shamaïra had always considered herself brave. She’d traversed the Aramabi Desert by herself with Kaïs almost full-grown in her belly. She’d crossed the Dzhyvekha Mountains with nothing but a globefire and a dagger in search of her son. She’d survived, a lone woman without her husband in a world where that was almost sure to mean doom.

  But she could not stop her voice from shaking as she whispered, “You’ll never find them.”

  The Imperial Consultant sighed. “Do you know what my Affinity is to, dama Shamaïra? No, you wouldn’t be able to guess—it’s quite a special one.” He stepped forward, so close that she could see the darkness in his pupils, yawning wide as an abyss. “My Affinity…is to fear.”

  And then he reached out with those long, pale hands of his and clasped them over her cheeks, the shadows in his eyes morphing into monsters, growing and stretching until they turned into nightmares that swallowed her whole, and Shamaïra could do nothing but scream and scream.

  Ana set about trying to learn everything she could about the Kingdom of Bregon, from its government structure to its society, people, and culture.

  And with Ramson as the teacher, this made for some very lively learning sessions.

  “If you’re going to approach the Bregonian government, the first thing you have to know is who’s in charge,” Ramson began. He spread a piece of worn parchment before him. “On paper, we are a monarchy.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Ana pointed out.

  Ramson gave her a flat look. “I’ve literally spoken two sentences, and you’re already interrupting.”

  Sitting between them, Linn hid a smile behind her hands. Ana glared back at him. “I was just trying to clarify some nuances,” she said. “I’ve studied Bregonian government and history.”

  Ramson shoved the parchment toward her. “Then why don’t you teach?”

  “I will.” Ana took the charcoal pencil from him and began to draw out a diagram, filling in blanks as she spoke. “Nearly ten years ago, King Garan Rennaron died, leaving his young son to rule under the direct guidance of the Queen Regent Arsholla Rennaron. King Darias Rennaron should be about fourteen years old now, making him a young but capable ruler.” She looked up.

  Ramson raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

  “Well, yes, if you’re speaking of the leadership and decision makers.”

  Ramson gave her a smug look. “There’s a lot more to the picture. Allow me.” He
leaned forward and plucked the charcoal pencil from her fingers, then crossed out the box with the name of the King that Ana had written. “The Bregonian monarchy works on a supposed system of checks and balances. The King—and in our case, Queen Regent—is at the head of the government, but his policies and deals must pass the government’s approval. This was a law implemented by the government itself, to limit the power of the Queen Regent at the time and distribute it among the different courts.”

  “Checks and balances,” Ana said quietly, thinking for some reason of Yuri and Aleksey and their skepticism toward the monarchy.

  “Precisely.” Ramson began to draw out a diagram with his pencil, his strokes swift and precise. “This brings me to my point: You’ll want to focus your efforts on the government of Bregon as well. King Darias and the Queen Regent Arsholla can’t pass any laws by themselves; Bregonian law now states that any new decision must come to a vote.” He tapped the parchment. “So: the Three Courts. As you probably know, we have the Sky”—he drew a box with a figure of an eagle—“the Earth”—a stallion—“and the Sea”—a seadragon. “These represent our Three Gods and are meant to uphold a system of checks and balances to prevent any one Court from becoming too powerful.” Ramson looked up. “That’s all a lie.”

  Ana frowned. “Your faith in your government is inspiring.”

  “Oh, look—she can make jokes,” Ramson retorted, and Linn ducked her head to hide her laughter. He tapped the parchment, which had blossomed into a full-blown chart. “The Sky Court oversees Bregon’s spiritual needs: education and religion, governance structure. The Earth Court is responsible for agriculture and infrastructure and the like. And the Sea Court directs the Navy and trade.

  “Bregon relies heavily on its military and its seafaring prowess to establish its strength. That means the Navy holds huge sway in politics and government. Which brings me to…the Admiral of the Navy, who also heads the Sea Court.” Ramson’s expression had grown carefully blank. He drew a figurehead on top of the Sea Court’s box. “With the Sea Court’s overwhelming power in Bregon’s government and a monarch heavily restricted by a system of checks and balances, that makes the Admiral the most powerful man in Bregon after the King.”

  The charcoal pencil dropped from his hand; he shoved the diagram to Ana and stood. “You’ll need to win him over, too, if you want any form of an alliance.”

  Ana studied the sketch of the figurehead. “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing,” Ramson replied. “I’ve been away from Bregon for seven years, Ana. What I’m telling you is from what I learned as a Navy recruit.”

  “From back in the days, then,” she prompted. “You must have crossed paths with him, or heard things about him?”

  Ramson’s face was inscrutable. “I didn’t know him back then,” he said, and moved on to the structure of the Blue Fort.

  Ana paid particular attention to Ramson’s lessons on Affinites in Bregon. The magen existed in Bregon, but on a very different level from Cyrilia. They were treated no differently than regular civilians, living in harmony with their communities and towns and often contributing more due to the unique magek they wielded.

  Ana felt her stomach tighten at this, and she thought of her own empire, of how corrupt its treatment of Affinites had become. “How is it possible,” she mused, “to create a society of equality between Affinites and non-Affinites?”

  Ramson frowned, considering. “I suppose,” he said carefully, examining his sketches of Bregonian geography and the diagram of the Three Courts, “the Three Courts do have some form of use, after all. For example, a part of the Sky Court’s mission is to protect the balance of our Three Gods. And that means respecting the magen, and treating them as regular people.” He looked up, a sardonic smile playing about his lips. “You know, representation of different people and their rights, all those principles of governance. I guess it’s done something good for Bregon after all.”

  “In Kemeira,” Linn piped up, “we have a similar principle. Affinites and non-Affinites live in harmony, relying on each other’s strengths to build a stronger society.” She clasped her hands together, and Ana remembered Linn teaching her this principle. “Yin and yang. Action and counteraction.”

  “I haven’t come across these in the foreign policy books I studied,” Ana admitted.

  Ramson stretched his arms and leaned back. “That’s because the winners write history,” he said. “Whoever wrote your books probably didn’t want anyone realizing it was possible for people of different kinds to get along.”

  This lesson, in particular, burned deep in Ana’s mind long after the lamps of their ship had fizzled out in the night.

  Her skills with her Affinity also improved under Kaïs’s tutelage each day. At first, it was strange, sitting across from Kaïs and looking into his face, trying to reconcile the image of the boy before her and the cold-blooded killer she knew he was. And yet, beneath the quiet skies, the billowing sails, and the lapping of waves all around them, Kaïs’s voice was low and steady and patient.

  They started off slowly, by learning to consciously recognize signatures. Each person’s blood had a signature, like their scent, and Ana realized that a part of her had already begun distinguishing between them. The shifting sea-salt and sword-metal scent to Ramson’s blood, the fierceness of fire and rosewater to Shamaïra’s, the calming wind and shadows to Linn’s. She’d picked up on them by accident, in glimpses, but now, she learned to attribute them to every person she came across.

  Ana left their first few lessons exhausted both mentally and physically—but she could feel her control over her Affinity improving. In particular, her understanding of the nuances to her power had deepened, as though she were gaining deft control over a limb she had only used clumsily her entire life.

  She learned to observe the flow of blood through bodies, to memorize the rhythm, and to merge her Affinity into each and every stream of blood. He then taught her to heal. Not in the awkward way she’d been trying to do it, by clotting blood at the opening of the wound—but truly, completely, to heal from the inside out, like guiding the wayward streams of a river.

  And, finally, he taught her to fight. To coalesce blood and harden it, to mold it into blades as sharp as steel.

  Something else was improving, too: her relationship with Kaïs. Each lesson consisted of him reaching into her mind and senses with his Affinity, guiding her power. At first, they’d worked together stiffly, she subconsciously fighting against him for control.

  But one day, as they ended their lesson and she stood to leave, Ana caught herself doing something she’d never done before.

  She smiled at Kaïs.

  And he smiled back.

  As they drew steadily closer to Bregon, their plans began to come together. They would dock at the city of Sapphire Port, the largest port of Bregon, with the easiest entry rules due to the sheer number of trade ships and tourists. Ramson would see Ana and Linn safely to the Blue Fort before returning to Sapphire Port, where he planned to scour the black markets for news on Kerlan.

  On the fourteenth day of travel, they spotted land.

  The cry came from the crow’s nest in the morning. Linn had taken to perching there; the winds and open skies seemed to buoy her spirits. “Land!” she called, and it was as though an invisible string had pulled taut on the ship. Daya straightened at the wheel; Kaïs paused in whetting his swords and stood; Ramson sat up from where he lay on the deck.

  Ana scrambled to the prow, leaning as far forward as she could, her heart thudding in her chest.

  And…there.

  The sun had just risen and the clouds straight ahead at the horizon were burnished gold at the rims. And, right beneath, drenched in light, was the faint outline of a landmass, rising from the sea. As they drew closer, Ana saw shapes—gray stone cliffs jutting into the sky, haloed by the light of the sun.
/>
  Beneath the cliffs was a scattering of ships out at sea—a wide assortment, some of which Ana had never set eyes on—and even more lined up at the docks, a gleaming mass of metal and polished wood.

  By her side, Ramson gripped the railing of the ship. His expression had steeled, his eyes taking on a hard glint. “Welcome to Bregon,” he said, and there was no joy in his voice.

  Navigating the port seemed an impossible job with the number of ships waiting to dock, but Daya managed it with effortless skill. A clerk greeted them as soon as they docked, asking their order of business and diligently jotting down all of the words Ramson spewed.

  “Land ahoy!” Daya hollered when the paperwork was finished. She leaned against the wheel and tapped her forehead in a salute. “Pleasure doing business with you.” She winked at Ramson. “And you can expect to hear from me soon.”

  “Hear what?” Ana asked as Ramson ushered her off the gangplank.

  “Just a little reconnaissance,” he said vaguely.

  When Ana stepped onto the docks, Kaïs was waiting for her. She approached him warily. Their exchanges had been mostly through his lessons on her Affinity use, but over the past two weeks, something between them had thawed.

  Ana was surprised when he sank to one knee. “Kolst Imperatorya, please allow me to accompany you. My swords are yours to command.”

  Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw a lithe figure step off the gangplank. Linn approached them from beneath the shadows of the boat.

  Ana turned to follow Ramson away from the ship. “You’d better pray those swords of yours are sharper than our enemies’,” she called over her shoulder.

  They wound through docks crowded with merchants and crew unloading their goods, the air filled with soaring gulls. Ramson pointed out seadoves, the Bregonian messenger bird, their bodies flashing gray and the signature teal of their iridescent wings as they dipped through the crowd to deliver letters.