Heart of Iron Page 17

  A tingling spread across his fingertips, and instinctively he lowered his hand to the ports on the computer’s dash. An electric sensation coursed over his skin, and he found himself—his code, his programming—pulled toward the console like a magnet. Then he was rushing across the electrical currents of the ship, spreading across the motherboard, sinking into the programs. He was the ship, but he was also in his body. He was soaring through space and staring at the holo-screens. A hundred places at once, seeing everything.

  The couple in the bathroom, heavy breathing, moaning.

  Close the door.

  The door slid shut. The keypad gleamed red. Locked.

  Sixteen men in the galley. Refrigerator door opened. Letting cool frost onto the floor. The pop of beer tops. The crack of bottles onto the floor. Laughter. Pork roast and potatoes. Chewing like pigs. He closed the refrigerator door, and one of the humans complained. Pushed the guy beside him.

  Lights.

  The orange glow of the neon turned dark. Bloodred. Men panicked. One of them tried to exit the galley.

  Close.

  It slammed shut. Almost took off a hand—

  “Hey!”

  Someone pulled him away from the computer. The connection weakened, but it didn’t sever. He could still see. Still feel.

  Lock the door. Turn out the lights. Cut off the ventilati—

  There was the distinct click of a pistol.

  He blinked and refocused on the room. The heady power eased out of his programming and sank back into the computer. The naked couple in the bathroom, trousers around their ankles, banged their fists against the closed door, shouting for someone to let them out, but no one could hear them.

  He did not realize what he had done until he pulled away. He had closed the doors. He had controlled the lights. It reminded him of the moment he had infiltrated the Tsarina’s corrupted intelligence. Being everywhere at once. Doing everything. Had his memory core absorbed that function? Or was it new?

  He looked at his fingers, then back at the ports. What was he?

  “Sorry . . . I—” He turned around, and Siege pressed the barrel of her pistol against his forehead.

  Slowly, he raised his hands.

  “Who. Are. You.” She enunciated each word, through clenched teeth.

  “I—I do not know—”

  “Bullshit.” She drew the hammer back. “I’ll give you to the count of three. One . . .”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. This was not like him. He never had problems with words. He knew every word in the known language. He knew the Old Language. He knew Cercian. Solani. He knew synonyms and antonyms and a waterfall of adverbs and adjectives and—and—

  “Two.”

  E0S beeped frantically, banging on the door outside the infirmary.

  “Thr—”

  “I could not let her die.”

  The words slipped out, the only ones that came to mind. And they would not suffice. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, waiting for the sound.

  But Siege never pulled the trigger.

  He cracked open an eye.

  Her face went slack, eyebrows rising, hair shimmering with bright yellow strands. “What did you say?”

  “I—I could not let her die. On the ship. The malware that infected the Tsarina wanted her. It wanted to kill her. So I . . . I destroyed it first.” I—I did not say good-bye. I did not know how to say good-bye.

  She dropped her gun. “. . . D09?”

  “I—I think?” he replied, searching for the right words. “I do not know. D09 was my serial number, but I am not in that body anymore, and I . . . I do not feel like D09. Because I . . . I can feel. I can feel and I believe I am ninety-three point seven-eight percent sure that I am scared and—”

  Siege lurched forward and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. He stiffened at the feeling, being embraced, her scratchy coat against his skin, until she let go and took his face in her hands, looking into his eyes. “How did you get in this body? Goddess, that face. When Robb brought this Metal over, I didn’t get a good look, but . . .”

  “Is it offensive? I do not think I can change it—”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Just reminds me of someone. Here, put this on.” She shrugged out of her red coat and handed it to him. It smelled like musty cigar smoke and gunpowder. Exactly how he thought Siege might smell. “Let’s go see where they put the crew, yeah?”

  “The quarters, I think.”

  “Then let’s look there, and go save Ana.”

  Wrapping the coat around him, he followed the captain out of the infirmary and up the stairs, E0S trailing behind them, flying in happy circles.

  Jax

  He hated the darkness.

  He tried to blink the dizziness out of his eyes and pressed his forehead against the side of the cell, the cool metal wall soothing against his hot skin. He didn’t remember much after they had dragged Ana away. Someone had cuffed him upside the head. He was lucky he stayed conscious—but he couldn’t even begin to guess what awful level of the Valerios’ ship he was on. Whichever it was, his cell could use a little more light. Solani never did live well in darkness. The sickness felt like a dry well that went into some deep part of him he couldn’t quench with water or food or air.

  How the darkness crept closer and filled his lungs with shadows. How it made him frightened, calling upon old memories he hadn’t thought about in years.

  It is never far away, the Dark and the decay, the children in his memory sang, sipping on hot cider, staring at the stars and not knowing what it meant until they were older. First it tastes, then it waits, and then it will consume.

  He curled his fingers into his palms, feeling his gloves tighten. Not that his gloves had helped him when Robb had kissed him.

  Goddess, he wanted to kick himself. If he hadn’t been so afraid of his gifts, maybe Ana wouldn’t be captured. Maybe he could’ve saved Wick. Barger. Maybe things didn’t have to end this way. But he knew, deep down, they did.

  All fates in the universe connected in a river, and that river flowed only one way.

  The door opened and a shaft of light streaked into the bare room. A silhouette stepped inside.

  “Oh—oh, dear,” said the man. His deep voice held the same Erosian accent as Robb’s, but slithery. Like oil in molasses. “Mother must have forgotten to mention to the guard you star-kissers don’t like the dark. You’re like plants that way.”

  Jax looked up through his greasy silver hair and recognized the Valerio jawline and sky-colored eyes. “You must be the other brother. Erik.” He shifted so he could be in a little more of the light. The weakness in his body ebbed, making him keenly aware of how close the broad Ironblood was. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure.”

  In response, the elder Valerio grinned. “Oh, I doubt anything will be a pleasure for you ever again, star-kisser. Our little Robbert is leading your friend to her death as we speak. She might already be convicted by now. Maybe bleeding out, riddled with bullets.”

  A muscle in Jax’s jaw fluttered. This Ironblood was more insufferable than Robb, and he didn’t think that was possible.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Erik Valerio went on. “I’ll leave the door open if you tell me what was on the Tsarina. And when I’m Emperor, I might even let you go.”

  “You won’t be Emperor.”

  “Oh, won’t I?”

  Jax drew himself up to sit tall, even though he did not feel tall or imposing, his favorite trousers stained with his crewmate’s blood. “You won’t be anything—”

  “Lord Valerio!” a guard called from down the hallway, coming to a stop in front of the cell. He was sweating—quite profusely. “Lord Valerio—there’s been—that girl has—”

  Erik hissed, “Spit it out!”

  “The lost princess has been found!” the guardsman gasped. “I—I ran here as fast as I could!”

  “The what?”

  “The prisoner, sir! She’s the lost princess!”
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br />   Jax thought he had heard incorrectly. The darkness was getting to him. Ana? Ana was the lost princess?

  “You won’t be Emperor,” he heard himself say, remembering the bloodied crown in Robb’s stars.

  With a rage-filled cry, Erik went for Jax’s throat. “I’m going to kill you—”

  “Erik,” chided a calm voice from the doorway, and Erik stopped in his tracks. Jax squinted toward the door to the thin figure blocking the light. Graying brown hair, olive skin, Erosian blue-sky eyes—Goddess damn him, couldn’t he catch a break?

  He slumped against the wall, again. He just wanted a little light. Just enough to breathe easy.

  “It’s not true, is it?” Erik asked his mother. “The princess is dead, and we know it.”

  “She is not,” Lady Valerio replied, “and as luck would have it, your brother found her.”

  “Then what about me, Mother?” Erik asked. “What’ll I do? He did it on purpose, Mother. You know he did. He never liked me—”

  “Quiet. Nothing is set in stone. As for you, C’zar Taizu”—she turned to address Jax, who felt about as far from a C’zar as the stars felt from the sun—“I expected to find you in better company than in the riffraff on the Dossier.”

  “C’zar?” her son asked, baffled. “The Solani named him C’zar?”

  “Surprise,” Jax muttered. She’d probably known who he was the moment she’d laid eyes on him on the Dossier.

  “What’s he the prince of?”

  “Nothing,” Lady Valerio replied. The word struck him in the stomach and twisted.

  The prince of nothing. No, he was a prince of less than nothing. Of things forgotten. Of a people who couldn’t feel the stars anymore. Of a people who treated the one who could as a weapon.

  She turned to leave. “Come, Erik. We’re needed at the palace.”

  Dutifully, her son followed, and the sliver of light began to close.

  Panic rose in Jax’s throat, tasting like the sharp bitterness of Robb’s kiss. And with it came the glint of knuckle rings, an image from Robb’s stars that felt like a knife slicing deep into his gut. If Ana was the lost princess, then the bloody crown meant her death. It had to. Robb’s brother was going to kill Ana.

  Jax had to do something. He didn’t want her to die.

  But what can I do?

  The glimpses of Robb’s stars were supposed to be beacons to be followed, not stories to be changed.

  What would happen if I tried? He swallowed the knot of panic in his throat. Could I?

  As the Valerio woman left, he realized he would be damned if he didn’t. Ana was family. Ana was his family—more than his mother or father had ever been. She was one of the only people he’d ever cared about in his life. One of the only ones who truly mattered.

  Princess or not.

  “I can read your stars,” he called out after Lady Valerio, even though when he did read someone’s stars, it drained away a little more of his life. “I—I’m the only one who still can, and I’ll read yours.”

  Lady Valerio stopped in the doorway. She inclined her head, listening.

  “Don’t you want to know?” he asked, trying to balance all his deceit with nothing but truths. “A powerful woman like yourself could use a little hint. You might find me useful.”

  “Mother, it’s an old wives’ tale,” Erik scoffed. “You don’t actually believe that star-kissers can tell the future, do you?”

  But the longer the woman stayed silent, the more his panic ebbed. Ironbloods didn’t believe in Solani superstitions, but Robb had said his mother valued legacy. At least that was what he was counting on.

  With a sharp flick of her hand, she dismissed Erik. He tried to argue, but she sent him away again, and turned back toward the darkened cell, her blue marble eyes gleaming in the shadowy light.

  Jax spread a grin across his teeth to mask his fear. “I’m glad I’ve got your attention. Let’s make a deal.”

  Ana

  Everything she knew was a lie. Her parents. Her history. Her scars—had Siege lied to her, too? Had Siege known who she was all this time? She must have—she found Ana, after all. It must have been why Siege didn’t want her on the Tsarina. The realization hurt deeply, somewhere in the center of herself, carving out a hole like a bullet wound.

  She was a lie.

  People flooded into the throne room, more than there had been a few moments before, kissing the back of her hand, pressing their foreheads against her palms, telling her how happy they were that she was alive. But she wasn’t so sure she was anymore. She didn’t remember the faces of these Advisers who knew her name, or the servants who bowed to the floor, or even the Grand Duchess, who disappeared so quickly after everyone had risen to their feet in the throne room that Ana almost believed that she had been a ghost.

  “Don’t overwhelm Her Grace,” a short man with a gray mustache said, shooing the Advisers away. Her thoughts were a blur, spinning. “I’m sure she is very tired. Would you like to retire to your room, Your Grace?”

  “My . . . room? Who’re you?”

  “I am the Grand Duchess’s, and now your, steward. And yes, Your Grace, your room. You are home.”

  She was very far away from that. Glancing around the throne room for Robb, at a loss for what else to do, she realized he was gone. Of course he was. He’d probably left the second he could.

  “Yeah,” she replied, defeated. “Yes—please.”

  The steward excused her from the throne room, and in the hallways she could finally breathe. Large potted plants grew against the walls, flowering with moonlilies and roses and purple dragon-tongues.

  A small patrol of Messiers accompanied her and her steward to her room. She doubted they were guarding her. The crown might not have rusted, but she had just been convicted of treason not an hour ago.

  But at the moment, she was too tired to care.

  The steward showed her to a room somewhere in one of the towers. Hallway after hallway, each lit with bobbing lanterns that floated in an invisible river above them. When the steward finally stopped at a room at the end of a long corridor, and the Messiers took up position on either side of the door, she was lost. There was a crest above the door—the Armorov insignia.

  A crescent moon with a sword down its middle.

  Inside was a queen-size four-poster bed with a silken white canopy draped over the mahogany bedposts. The breeze from the open balcony window fluttered the silks so they danced in the evening light and drew shadows across the marble floor. There was a dressing table against the far wall, filled with opulent perfumes and pearl-studded accessories, and a wardrobe so big she could live in that, instead.

  The bedroom was so large she felt like a mouse inside a lion’s cage.

  Through a connecting door there looked to be a parlor of sorts, and beyond that a study—there were certainly a lot of expensive-looking books. None of them must have been very good—the best stories were the ones with cracked spines and dog-eared edges.

  “If it is not to your liking, please don’t hesitate to say so, Your Grace,” said the steward, his gray mustache twitching. “There is so much to be done before your coronation—”

  “My coronation?” She wanted to laugh—or cry, she wasn’t sure which. “You barely know me! And you’re going to give me a kingdom?”

  “You’re the lost princess, Your Grace. You are the Goddess returned—the girl of light who will lead us out of the darkness of the last seven years. You arrived exactly when you needed to,” he added smugly. “And on the morning of the Holy Conjunction, you’ll be crowned Empress to the kingdom.”

  One week, she thought.

  She had one week to escape this madness.

  “Don’t fret,” the steward said as he backed out of the room. He must have sensed the desperation seeping through her sweat glands. “Ruling is in your blood. The Goddess will never lead us wrong—and neither will you.”

  He closed her in this foreign room, promising to retrieve her for dinner.

>   As if she could eat at a time like this!

  Her stomach twisted, nauseous at the thought of food.

  Was this real? Or was she still in that terrible nightmare? Why had the Grand Duchess let her touch that crown? She was a citizen—Ironbloods would never let a normal citizen touch it. They were unworthy.

  But you aren’t a citizen, she realized. You are Princess Ananke.

  She needed to get out of here—now. Hurrying out onto the open-air balcony, she looked down at the drop into the gardens. Ten feet—she could handle that. Hiking one leg over the rail, she began to climb over when a voice made her pause.

  “What are you doing, Your Grace?”

  She glanced up. It was a servant girl.

  “How did you get in here?” Ana asked, perplexed.

  The servant girl waved toward a panel in the door that was still cracked open—a servants’ entrance. She’d heard Di read about them in his books about the palace. There was an entire network of secret corridors within the very walls of the palace. Maybe . . . maybe she could escape that way?

  The girl was fourteen, maybe fifteen, with spun-gold hair pinned up behind her head, her dress the deep, deep purple of the royal family.

  Ana had begun to loop her other leg over when the bushes rustled in the garden below her, and as if called by some remote dog whistle, a Messier came to stand underneath her. Its blue eyes watched patiently.

  Frustrated, she climbed back over the rail and cleared her throat. “What do you want?”

  The girl curtsied. “Your Grace, I was assigned to be your handmaiden. My name is Mellifare. I will see to your personal needs for the immediate future.”

  “I don’t—I don’t need anyone to help me dress or anything.”

  “Then I can assist you with other daily matters. Altering your clothes, deciding what to wear, bathing—”

  “I don’t need that kind of help, either.”

  “It is my job,” the servant girl replied, her dark eyes flickering down the length of Ana, making her keenly aware of just how filthy she looked. Dried blood stained the knees of her trousers, her braid half fallen out of its tight coil. “The Grand Duchess has asked me to see to your needs. Is there anything you would like?”