Empress of a Thousand Skies(11)

She crawled backward, slipping on the yards of fabric that pooled under her from her elaborate red dress. Veyron found the knife and retrieved it. His face was freckled and leathered by the sun. He’d fought and lived through a war. She saw in that instant how pathetic she was, how weak, despite all her years of training. She’d never face Seotra; she would never have a chance to avenge her family.

Finally, the wall was at her back. She had nowhere left to go. But Rhee struggled to get to her feet. She was the last Ta’an—twelve generations of emperors and empresses, all warriors in their own right. She wouldn’t die sitting down. Her ancestors were watching—their faces hovered in holo on the walls this very moment.

“Why?” she panted out.

“For my family,” Veyron said.

Silently, a ceiling hatch opened just behind him, and a boy descended from it, like some kind of upside-down bird. Tattoos all along his neck. Skin so fair it was translucent. His pointed ears poked through his light hair. A Fontisian. He caught Rhee’s eye and held a finger to his lips. She froze, paralyzed by the sight of him.

“Veyron, don’t.”

But her trainer raised the knife. She thought of Julian. She could still feel the small silver telescope tucked into her robes, lying against her heart. “Honor, bravery, loyalty,” she whispered.

But a second later, the Fontisian tackled, taking her trainer by surprise. The boy flipped Veyron over and hit him in the face, splattering the curious ring he wore with blood. Veyron didn’t wince, but the thud of bone was proof enough of pain. Still, he was a skilled fighter and soon managed to throw off the Fontisian. They rolled together, like a single body with two heads, until the Fontisian reared back, kicked a leg under Veyron’s chest, and heaved. He launched him over and backward. Rhee had to scramble out of the way as Veyron hit the window and collapsed on the floor, groaning. Instinctively, Rhee swooped down and snatched his abandoned switchblade.

The Fontisian stood, his chest heaving. He was probably only a few years older than Rhee, but easily a head taller than Veyron.

“Who are you?” she demanded. She brandished the knife, willing herself not to shake. The bones of his face were sharp in a way that couldn’t ever appear friendly.

“Not even a thank-you, then?” he asked in accented Kalu.

“Who are you?” Rhee repeated. Apart from their missionaries, Fontisians did not travel freely through the universe. She’d known only of high-level diplomats visiting their planet. They practiced an unusual religion that worshipped only one god, Vodhan. They didn’t venerate their ancestors, or leave offerings, or seek counsel from dead relatives in times of need. Rather than honor the family from which they were born, they drank sacred plant elixirs and prayed to this god.

“We’ve no time for introductions.” He motioned to Veyron. “His reinforcements aren’t more than two minutes away.”

She’d never met anyone from Fontis, but she’d heard that this was their way: speaking in negatives, gauging things by how far they fell short.

“Go, Rhiannon.” Veyron stirred. His voice was pained. “They’re coming for me. I’m dead either way.”

“Do not speak.” The Fontisian drove the heel of his boot into Veyron’s stomach. She looked away. Veyron had just tried to kill her. But still she could hardly believe it was real, that her trainer, the man who had carefully wrapped her knuckles when they were bloodied and taught her to move on her toes, could have done such a thing. “I’ve readied an escape pod. If we do not move now, we will die.”

His matter-of-factness scared her. As if he was used to violence. As if it didn’t frighten him at all. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said.

“You’ve no alternative.”

“What about him?” Rhee asked, gesturing to Veyron.

The Fontisian took a step toward Veyron. But Rhee grabbed his arm, and the boy turned to her stiffly, examining her hand as if it were an insect on his skin—but he did not advance. Rhee stepped in front of him and kneeled next to Veyron, gripping the switchblade.

“Why were you trying to kill me?” she asked Veyron in a whisper.

“Because I had no choice.”

“Don’t make excuses!” She tried to steady her breathing—to find focus, clarity, answers. “You had a choice. You tried to kill me. Why?”

“Are you really so young?” He opened his eyes, but they took a second to focus on her face. “You think we live in a universe where men like me have choices? You think Julian will grow up to have a choice?”

“Don’t you dare say his name.” She couldn’t think of Julian. Not with his father’s betrayal, and not after she’d almost died.

“He would have starved.”

Behind her, the Fontisian shifted. “This man is wasting your time,” he said, and she could feel his impatience, the energy coiled deep in his words. But she ignored him.

“It was Seotra, wasn’t it?” she asked Veyron. With only a day before the coronation, it must have been a last desperate attempt to quiet Rhee forever before she could take back the throne. He’d have her killed so he could remain regent. She was the last of her line; perhaps he was even hoping to become emperor.

Veyron wiped the blood from his lip where the Fontisian had split it open. “You think you have all the answers?” He began to cough. Her face burned, and she turned away. She knew what others said—that she was spoiled, entitled, for merely asking questions and expecting answers. But she didn’t think Veyron had ever thought of her that way. Never him. “Don’t lower your eyes, child.” He said the word with more tenderness than he’d shown in all the years he’d trained her. She wished it had been venom so she could feel a sting. “You’ve been blind. Blind and willful. You worship your ancestors for their bravery on the battlefield but never for how they ruled. With wisdom. Restraint. What would your ancestors think of you now?” he asked.