Blood Heir Page 13

  Ramson leapt back. In an extension of the same motion, he whipped out the length of rope, lashing it at his enemy. The motion was smooth, familiar. He’d done it a thousand times in a life long past.

  The rope met its mark. Like a living thing, it whipped around the mercenary’s neck.

  Ramson threw his weight backward and pulled, sharply and with all his strength. The mercenary stumbled off balance, his legs tangling as he fell to the ground. His fingers scrabbled at the noose around his neck.

  Ramson leaped forward, the hilt of his dagger slick but firm in his hands. He plunged it through skin and sinew and flesh, and slashed upward.

  The mercenary jerked, and with a few more twitches, his struggles ceased. Blood gushed, quietly pooling around him.

  Ramson sank to his knees. The rain fell steadily, already washing away the blood on his hands. He drew a deep breath, trying to still the frantic galloping of his heart and his shaking limbs.

  He’d been careless; he’d almost died. Perhaps prison had made him slower, softer. He couldn’t afford that again, because next time, the witch might not be there to help him.

  He was cold and drenched and injured, and he would have willingly handed over half the goldleaves in his possession for a soft bed, a warm fire, and a good bottle of Bregonian brandy right then. But he needed to move—quickly. There was no telling whether the mercenaries had allies close by.

  Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet.

  The witch lay motionless by the trunk of a tree, but it wasn’t her he looked at. Ramson paused at the body of the first mercenary. The man’s mouth was open, his face frozen in a silent scream, his skin oddly colorless, as though the blood had been drained from it.

  And it had, Ramson realized with sickening dread. The rainwater pooling around the body bled into crimson, the color seeping into the mud.

  He’d heard a tale once: a terrible haunting that had occurred ten years back with an Affinite. The bodies, twisted like a grotesque piece of artwork. The looks of terror on the victims’ faces. The lack of puncture wounds. And the blood, all the blood…

  They’d called her the Blood Witch of Salskoff—a story a decade old, at this point, the culprit having vanished to never be seen again. Some had taken it as a sign that Affinites were growing more powerful, that darker powers graced these monsters sculpted by the hands of demons.

  Ramson had thought it all a pile of waffles. But that hadn’t stopped him from keeping his eye out for the powerful Affinite who had become that myth.

  He’d simply never thought she’d come looking for him.

  A cough snatched his attention. He hurried to the witch. Blood dripped from her nose. She was shivering, but she was conscious.

  “Are you all right?” He touched a finger to her cheek; her skin was colder than ice. For the second time since they’d met, he examined her, running his gaze over her elegant cheekbones, the heart-shaped face and sharp chin that rendered her beautiful yet feral in appearance. She was young, too young, to be the Blood Witch of Salskoff—yet as he reached forward and tipped her face up, he caught the fading red hue of her eyes.

  Something stirred in his memory again—she looked faintly familiar, like a portrait he’d come across many years ago that had left a single, deep impression. But that was impossible.

  Ramson let his hand drop. “How did you find me?”

  “The Gray Bear’s Keep. The bartender.”

  “He told you?” She nodded. Ramson cursed. “We have to move. He’ll send men after us. Can you stand?”

  She tilted her head in a motion that might have been a nod or a shake. “I took a horse.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and she nodded toward the trees behind her. “That way.”

  The mercenaries’ horses had fled, which left them with a single steed—the one Ana had stolen. With a resigned sigh, he straightened and went in search of the horse.

  Finding the beast was hell itself, with the rain-turned-sleet reducing his vision, and his boots squelching through mud with every step. When he did see its pale outline, he almost laughed.

  “A valkryf?” he asked when he led the horse back. “Igor must be cursing the Deities that you took the most valuable living creature in his tavern.” The witch was curled against the tree in the same position as he’d left her. When she didn’t respond, he dropped the reins and knelt by her, lifting her chin and forcing her face toward his. “Witch?” he breathed. “Ana?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered. Ramson cursed. She was going to pass out again—and that would make it hugely inconvenient for him to hoist her onto the horse. “Ana,” he said urgently, shaking her shoulder. “I need you to stay awake for a little while longer. Can you do that?”

  Her head dipped in the faintest of nods.

  He stood and suddenly realized what was wrong. The absence of curious ocean-colored eyes. “Where’s May?”

  Ana’s face had been drawn and tired previously, but a steely spark had shown in her eyes. At the mention of May, though, whatever remaining resolve in her seemed to dissolve. Ana’s face crumpled, and such raw sorrow and vulnerability crossed her features that Ramson looked away. It felt as though he was gazing at something intensely private.

  A sob gurgled from her throat. “They took her.” Her shoulders drooped and she wrapped her shaking arms around herself. “The Whitecloaks. I couldn’t…I couldn’t—”

  “We’ll get her back.” He grasped the first comforting phrase that came to mind, and it was the first that wasn’t intentionally a lie. “But right now, we need to move. Can you stand?”

  She stirred weakly. Blood continued to drip from her nose.

  Ignoring the shaking in his own limbs, Ramson bent down, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her to her feet.

  They staggered unevenly to Ana’s horse. It stood silently in the downpour with the quintessential patience of a valkryf.

  Grunting, Ramson heaved the witch—Ana—onto the saddle. Keeping his hand on her back to steady her, he swung himself up behind her. As he took the reins in his hands, he felt a renewed sense of power surge through him despite the battered state of his body. He was alive, with a powerful Affinite beside him, riding a valkryf to shelter. Things had improved significantly since his kidnapping.

  Ana shifted, reaching for something in front of her. With what seemed like tremendous effort, she lifted a large leather pouch for him to see. “I took this from the bartender,” she croaked. “Since I won you from the bounty hunters, I suppose it belongs to me now.”

  Ramson stared at the bulging pouch of goldleaves in her hands, a laugh caught in his throat. For once, he had no interest in the gold. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many words at the tip of his tongue. Thank you for coming after me. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for saving my life.

  But Ramson couldn’t bring himself to utter any of those. Instead, he gave a raspy chuckle, tapped the pouch, and said, “I’ve taught you well.”

  Ana awoke slowly to the cool scent of a rain-soaked world and the crackling of a fire.

  Everything hurt. She had the strange sensation that every part of her had turned to stone—heavy, cold stone—and she would never move an inch again.

  Blearily, she opened her eyes. Just as reluctantly, the world came back into focus in a blur of light and shadows. She was lying on a hard stone floor. All around her, great pillars rose, curving into arched ceilings high above her head. The stone was embellished with ornate carvings, and she thought of the temples she’d frequented back in Salskoff. Men and women danced in a never-ending circle in a weaving interlude of the four seasons, from flowers to fall leaves to flakes of snow.

  Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.

  She was in a Temple of Deities, in the middle of the Syvern Taiga, judging from the whispers of the trees outside. Moonlight dripped through the cracked glass of th
e long windows, casting the world in silhouettes and light. At the top of the dome, circular windows formed a ring around the center. The windows were split into quadrants, each with a carving inside: a flower, a sun, a leaf, and a snowflake. The Deities’ Circle—the Deys’krug.

  Light filtered through the carvings and cast them in overlapping shadows on the white marble floor. A slight wind stirred, and as always, when she found herself in a temple, she thought of her aunt. Mamika Morganya had always devoutly worshipped the Deities, kneeling in the Palace temple with her dark hair twined in a braid, her beautiful doe eyes closed. If Ana closed her eyes now, she could almost hear the sigh of her mamika’s silk kechyan, the soft clinks of a silver Deys’krug around her neck.

  Her heart ached as she thought of her mamika. It was her aunt who had taught her to interpret the legends of the Deities, to find a sliver of relief in a world that despised Ana and her kind.

  Ana pushed herself up, drawing a deep breath and wincing as she felt a sharp pain in her midriff. One hand darted to her abdomen; the other reached out for May.

  Her hand clasped empty air.

  Details of the previous night came crashing back. The rain. The mercenaries. The blood. Bile rose in her throat; she rubbed her eyes to chase away Blackbeard’s image, his face contorting, crimson spilling from his mouth.

  Literally bled dry.

  The work of the deimhov.

  But…there had also been something else. Someone lifting her onto a horse, holding her steady throughout the night as they rode through a dark, rain-beaten forest. She’d lost consciousness at some point…and yet…

  Ana touched the roughspun linen of her undertunic and breeches, her hands automatically tugging for a hooded cloak that wasn’t there. It lay strewn out across a stone by the fire, drying. Her rucksack sat nearby.

  “Finally,” came a familiar voice, startling her. In the shadows beneath a pillar with the carving of a leaping fish, a figure moved. Ramson Quicktongue leaned into the firelight, eyes glinting, mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “I was tired of checking whether you’d died.”

  Unease coursed through her. How long had he been sitting there, watching her? Last night had been a mistake—she’d overspent her Affinity and left herself defenseless. He could easily have killed her.

  But…he hadn’t.

  Ana narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Her voice came out in a rasp, as though someone were rubbing sandpaper down her throat.

  Ramson chuckled and stood, clutching a waterskin. As he drew closer, she realized that the dark patches on his face were not shadows, but blooming bruises that were turning a nasty shade of purple. “Thank you for saving my life, Ramson,” he recited, spreading his hands and sauntering over. “Thank you for keeping me warm and dry, Ramson. Thank you for feeding me water and making sure I stayed alive, Ramson.” He paused as he reached her, and sank into a bow. “You’re very welcome, meya dama.”

  She glared at him, but softened as he passed her the waterskin. As she guzzled down the cool rainwater, she suddenly realized how thirsty and how hungry she was. “How long was I asleep?”

  “One day.”

  The words hit her like a punch. They had lost an entire day’s time doing nothing—nothing, when they should have been going after those Whitecloaks who had taken May.

  May.

  Panic seized her. The world tilted sharply when she scrambled to her feet. She slammed into the wall, pain bursting in her shoulder. “We need to go,” she gasped. “We’ve lost too much time, we—”

  Ramson was talking over her, his voice raised. “Calm your sails. We can’t leave now—”

  “They have her!” Her voice rose hysterically. “They have May. The yaeger—he said they were going to lock her up—”

  “Ana, stop!” His voice rang sharply in the empty temple chamber. The easy smile had slipped from Ramson’s face, and his hands were raised in a placating gesture. “Stop and think.”

  A lump rose in her throat as she thought of May, standing alone in that empty square, fists clenched. You will not hurt her.

  Tears burned behind her eyes. She had promised to protect May forever. “All right,” she said, and though her voice shook slightly, she steeled it. She was going to get May back. And she would do it Ramson’s way—by thinking through it thoroughly, and coming up with a plan and ten backup plans. “Sit.”

  Ramson’s brows twitched, but he gave a seemingly good-natured shrug and sat across from her.

  “You’re going to help me get her back, con man.”

  “Me? Deities, who would have thought?”

  “I’m not playing around. I don’t care if it isn’t part of our Trade. I saved you from whatever fate those bounty hunters had in mind for you. Since you speak so well in the language of bargaining, let me put it this way: you owe me, and you’re going to pay me back.”

  “Since you think you speak so well in the language of bargaining, let me tell you this.” Ramson’s eyes had taken on a playful glint, and he leaned forward as he spoke. “If you hadn’t saved me, you would have lost your Trade and your precious alchemist.”

  She would not be distracted by the taunts he threw her way. “I left you alone for thirty minutes and you were outsmarted by a bartender and two mercenaries.” Her mood perked slightly at the sullen look that flitted across his face. Ana leaned forward, mirroring his pose. They were barely an arm’s length from each other. “Why did they kidnap you? Who’s hunting you?”

  “I told you. It’s the mark of an excellent crime lord to have many enemies.”

  “It’s also the mark of an excellent crime lord to be able to defeat his enemies.” Ana leveled an even gaze on him. “You need me. You need my Affinity. I’m your Trade. And I’ll only uphold it if you help me.”

  Ramson ran a hand through his hair. “If you want to save May, we may not make it in time to find your alchemist. Whose name and location I now have, by the way.”

  He’d stolen the breath from her again. Yet Ana found herself leaning forward, reeled in by his line. “Where is he? Why won’t we make it?”

  “The only way we can find him,” Ramson said, “is if we arrive in Novo Mynsk before the Fyrva’snezh. There’s an event that we should…attend.”

  “Novo Mynsk,” she repeated breathlessly. “That’s where they’re taking May. They’re going to make her perform at a place called the Playpen.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The yaeger—the Whitecloak.”

  “Ah,” Ramson said slowly. “That…complicates things quite a bit.”

  “It doesn’t. Our destination is Novo Mynsk.”

  Ramson sighed. “There is a name you should know. Alaric Kerlan. Remember it well.”

  That name again. The Gray Bear’s Keep bartender had said it. He’d called him “Lord,” but there was something more alarming, something that hadn’t clicked until now—

  “Alaric Kerlan,” she whispered. “You mean A. E. Kerlan? The founder of the Goldwater Trading Group?” It was a name most nobles in the Cyrilian Empire were familiar with. Ana had read entire tomes of Cyrilian history with the Goldwater Trading Group lauded as a turning point for Cyrilia’s modern economy. Yet for the greatest businessman in the Empire, A. E. Kerlan remained reclusive. The most anyone knew of him was that he was a nobody who had come from the gutters of Bregon and single-handedly built a thriving trading route between the then-run-down Goldwater Port and the rest of the world.

  Caution flickered in Ramson’s eyes. “Yes,” he admitted, “but also the most powerful Affinite broker in the Empire.”

  “What?” Her world tilted. Ana gripped her arm, nails digging into flesh. “You’re lying.” The words came out sharp as shards of glass.

  The founder of the Goldwater Trading Group—the largest business corporation in the Cyrilian Empire—an Affinite b
roker?

  “I assure you, there are plenty of times I’ve lied to you, but this is not one of them,” Ramson answered, deadpan.

  Something in her was unraveling, her image of her empire crumbling into pieces and rearranging themselves into something sinister and strange and utterly unfamiliar. “How do you know?”

  It sounded like such a naïve question. Did everyone around her know?

  Had Papa known?

  “It’s my vocation to know things,” Ramson said. “Now, as I was saying, Kerlan is the complication to our plan.” He reached for her rucksack and fumbled through it, producing her map. With a flourish, he held it up and pointed. “Novo Mynsk is Kerlan’s territory. If May is being carted there, the broker must be under Kerlan’s Order. You say she’s going to perform at the Playpen? That is owned by Kerlan. And it just so happens that your alchemist is a close associate of his.”

  It was a struggle to bring her focus back to him. Ana tamped down the maelstrom of her thoughts, clearing her mind. She could think about her broken world later. Right now her sole objective was to save May. “So what’s the complication?” she asked wearily. “We’ll rescue May, and then locate the alchemist.”

  Ramson continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Kerlan hosts the grandest ball for the Fyrva’snezh each year. All of his associates—all the crime lords and thieves and traffickers in the Empire—will make an appearance. And that includes your alchemist.” He gave her a pointed look. Her stomach tightened. “I can get us into this ball. But it’s going to be difficult. Dangerous, even.” Ramson’s tone held a challenge. “Are you ready for that?”

  She’d been waiting for this for nearly twelve long moons. Ana leveled a cool gaze at Ramson. “I am.” She jabbed a finger at the map. “So that means we’ll have to find May before the Fyrva’snezh.”

  Ramson lowered the map. “You can’t have it both ways. Rescuing May at the Playpen is like knocking on Kerlan’s door and signaling to him we’re there. We need the element of surprise when we show up at the Fyrva’snezh.”