Through the gates, half a dozen royal guardsmen proceeded into the garden, white-gloved hands resting on the hilts of their ornate lightswords. In the middle of them, her gait slow like the moon rising over the sky, was the Grand Duchess.
The threads of her gray gown shimmered with the colors of Nevaeh’s dusk in a beautiful array of oranges and pinks, like the surface of an opal.
Ana drank the woman in, from the delicate wrinkles across her face to her silvery-white hair pulled back into a simple bun, making her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut. Her skin was the color of soft earth and speckled with age, her hands bony knobs. She looked old, but in a terrifying and timeless way, the way mountains looked old but immovable.
The Grand Duchess wasn’t a true Armorov. She was an Aragon by blood. All the royal women had married into the family, because the crown had sired only boys for the last thousand years.
Until a daughter was born seventeen years ago. The Goddess returned, everyone said. But then she died with the rest of her family in the Rebellion.
Blood or not, the Grand Duchess was the last Armorov of an era that would die with her. And to Ana, that sounded a little sad.
And lonely.
One by one, the Ironbloods knelt. She’d never seen an Ironblood so much as nod before—it was always the galaxy bending to them.
Ana and the Ironblooded boy were trapped in the shrubbery, surrounded on all sides by men and women in billowy dresses and too-bright suits. She caught the boy’s elbow when he tried to sneak away, pinning him with a dangerous look.
If they moved—or so much as snapped a twig—the silence would tell on them.
“My friends, my court,” the Grand Duchess began, extending her hands. “Please rise.”
And like a tide, the Ironbloods swelled to their feet again.
“There is a story we tell our children. Once, I told this story to my beloved granddaughter. So in honor of her memory, I will tell you the story today.”
Even though her voice was small, Ana felt herself drawn toward it, hanging on her words in a strange, intoxicating way.
“Far above the crown of stars, there lay a kingdom cast in shadows. . . .”
Ana knew the story—everyone did. It was the beginning of The Cantos of Light. Of a kingdom in darkness and a girl of light. The Ironbloods mouthed the words they knew by heart, as far below citizens knelt in creaky pews of old shrines, praising the Goddess who had birthed the Iron Kingdom. It was said that after a thousand years the Goddess would return to defeat the Great Dark again. Ana quite liked the story. The thousand-year anniversary was a week away, during the alignment of the Holy Conjunction, but there was no sign of a Great Darkness, whatever that meant.
It was a bedtime story—some illuminating metaphor—for young kids and dusty old scholars.
As the Grand Duchess told the story, Ana’s cheek began to ache, and she massaged her scars against the pain, wondering if Di was all right. She hoped he’d found a good hiding spot.
“Thank you, my friends,” the Grand Duchess went on, nodding, “and thank you, Lady Valerio, for inviting us to your beautiful garden. It is a wonder, full of ancient heirlooms and new blossoms. It reminds us that from death we can bloom anew.”
Lady Valerio looked wicked, from her bloodred lipstick to her bloodred dress, as she gave a gracious bow. “It was my honor, Your Grace. These are difficult times.”
“Indeed they are,” the Grand Duchess agreed, “but we must push forward. Twenty years ago, a Plague ravaged our peaceful kingdom, taking with it the best and brightest of its age, including my husband, Emperor Nicholii I. But just as we thought the kingdom would perish under the rot of the Plague, our Iron Adviser came to us with a salvation—Metals. They tended to the sick, for the Plague was too easily spread, and helped those infected pass in peace until the Plague was eradicated.”
There was a rushing, festering whisper that swept across the crowd. Because Metals were no longer anyone’s salvation. Metals were looked down upon. Kicked at. HIVE’d. For creations that had saved the Iron Kingdom, its people sure knew how to express their gratitude.
“For thirteen years, we rebuilt our kingdom. We entrusted Metals to jobs, to lifestyles, for although they could not feel emotions, they could think as we could, and converse as we could, and some of us even found friendship in them.
“But we soon found out that Metals could also be callous, and hateful. On the eve of the nine hundred and ninety-third anniversary of the Goddess, Metals laid siege to the Iron Palace and burned the North Tower where my family slept, destroying the heart of our kingdom.” Her voice broke under the weight of the words. “They took my family—my son, Emperor Nicholii Armorov the Second, his wife, Selena Valerio Armorov, and their four young children. Those Metals took your Emperor, and your future. They burned the first daughter born to our kingdom in a thousand years—she was to be the coming of the Goddess, the savior predicted in our Cantos of Light. It is an unspeakable tragedy to lose the light in our lives.”
Ana scowled. “Does everyone really believe this trash? There are other tragedies, too,” she muttered to herself.
“None as great,” the Ironblood argued in a hushed whisper.
“None as great? What about the shantytowns in Nevaeh, or the crime-ridden cities on Iliad, or the mines on Cerces. Those people don’t matter, do they? All that matters is this one girl, who probably wasn’t the Goddess.”
The Ironblood opened his mouth to say something, but a cheer rose up across the garden, and whatever he was going to say sank into the noise.
“But we will not crumble into darkness,” the Grand Duchess continued with conviction. “For the last seven years, I have steered our kingdom the best I could, and our faithful Iron Adviser, Lord Rasovant, created the HIVE so the kingdom could be safe again.”
Safe. Ana had felt a little less than safe when the HIVE’d Messiers were shooting at her not an hour ago—and she hadn’t even done anything to warrant being shot at. The kingdom was only safe to the snotty Ironbloods, who could pay for that sort of protection with their own private guard.
Like the Valerios.
The Grand Duchess looked toward the stars high, high above, past the harbor and the thousands of ships docked there. “But we will grieve no longer. I have finally chosen my successor. Our Ironbloods are strong, and I have selected the one who embodies our greatest qualities—resilience, courage, and strength.”
The Grand Duchess reached out her hand to one of the men standing in the crowd. “Erik Valerio, ever since your father passed in the Rebellion, you have led your family through the hardship like very few young men I know. You have embodied all that it is to be Ironblood. Will you follow as Armorovs have for a thousand years? Will you be resilient, courageous, and strong? Will you be loyal to the Iron Crown?”
The dark-haired man in question stepped forward, swooping a low, low bow. Just looking at him made her skin crawl. It was the young man who had grabbed her wrist earlier, called her a rodent.
“It would be an honor, Your Grace,” Erik Valerio replied.
He was to be their new Emperor? He didn’t embody any of those traits, unless the Grand Duchess wanted a resiliently strong asshole. But the way he bowed to the other Ironbloods, a fixed smile of absolute sincerity on his face, she could see how they’d be fooled. How anyone could be.
And what about the Iron Crown? It rusted for everyone the Moon Goddess didn’t choose. Wouldn’t they test it on Erik Valerio? To see if he was worthy? It would rust for him—it had to.
A cheer erupted through the garden, his name on the lips of every Ironblood.
“Long live Emperor Erik!”
“Long live the Iron Kingdom!”
The cheer was so loud, she didn’t hear the Ironblooded boy until he grabbed her by the arm. “You really have to leave.”
“Not without what I came here for,” she snapped, and shoved him as hard as she could. He tripped back over his feet and landed flat on his back. She dove on top of him, slipping a hand into his pockets for the coordinates chip.
Around them, Ironbloods applauded over the sound of their scuffle. Trumpets sounded as the Grand Duchess departed, so no one heard Ana slam her fist into his face.
Then she took the chip.
“No hard feelings, though,” she added snarkily, echoing the very words he had said to her in the alleyway, before he grabbed her by the uniform sleeve.
“Please!” the Ironblood gasped, his lip bleeding against his pearly-white teeth. “I need—”
“There she is!” someone cried. From the honeysuckle-vined exit, a woman in royal purple emerged, arrowhead-shaped Cercian markings etched under her sharp eyes.
Great Dark take me, Ana thought, recognizing the Royal Captain of the Guard. Viera Carnelian.
Messiers spilled out from behind her, swarming around her like a legion of ants, their placid blue eyes on no one but Ana.
“Goddess’s spark,” she groaned.