Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(31)
Yet no amount of fighting prowess would have prepared him for what came next. Pain exploded on the nape of his neck, shooting through his nerves and limbs and down to his fingers. Stars burst in his eyes as he crumpled to the floor.
“All yours, boys.” Igor’s breathing was ragged as he set aside his brass tumbler. “That’ll be an extra charge for the help I gave you there at the end. Put in a good word to Lord Kerlan for me.”
Ramson fought for consciousness, but the darkness at the edges of his vision was closing in. He was dimly aware of a gag being shoved into his mouth and felt the sting of ropes tightening against his wrists. As the darkness rose to claim him, he realized that Igor had outschemed him, and that when a deal seemed too good to be true, it most likely was.
As a small child, Ana had stood by Papa’s side on the snow-covered streets of Salskoff, looking up at the Cyrilian Imperial Patrols with awe. She’d admired the way their blackstone-infused armor glittered in the sunlight and their pure white cloaks flapped against the brilliant blue sky. Even their horses had been a sight to behold: the tall valkryfs of the north, eyes the blue of ice, bred for speed and endurance and prized for their rare ability to scale snowy mountains using their split-toed hooves. She’d learned horsemanship on the backs of these creatures, and she’d dreamt of the day she would have an army of valkryfs and their masters under her command.
Imperial Patrols—heroic, majestic, and honorable.
She stared up at them now, standing in the wreckage of the pastry stall, their dark figures looming over her. Gone were their noble gazes and benevolent words. The kapitan, his white tiger’s badge gleaming on his chest, snarled down, his weathered skin wrinkling like leather. Two others in his squad flanked a large blackstone-enforced prison wagon, a dozen or so paces behind.
A third man followed the kapitan like a shadow. Unlike the cloaks of the Patrols, his tunic and cloak were black, lined with gold; his hair was bleached like wheat left too long in the sun, his eyes the ice of glaciers in the Silent Sea of the North. There was something hard about his expression that made Ana clutch May’s hand tighter.
“What is the disturbance?” demanded the kapitan. His cold eyes raked past Ana and May, lingered on the pastry vendor, and settled at last on the nobleman. “Mesyr?”
Ana took one slow step backward, and then another, May’s hand tight in hers. If she inched back far enough, she would blend into the crowd of onlookers. There was a stall of kechyans several steps to her right that she could duck behind. The Whitecloaks would never find her. Not unless they had a yaeger—which was exceedingly rare.
“A-Affinite,” wheezed the nobleman, who had pushed himself to his feet and was shakily brushing wooden splinters off his fine furs. “Filthy witches!”
Three, four steps. The kechyan stall was within reach—
“Where are you going?”
Ana’s blood turned to ice. The kapitan’s eyes, as emotionless as his voice, gazed straight at her.
“Stay where you are,” he continued. “This is a routine check.”
By her side, May was shaking, sucking in fast, shallow breaths.
Slowly, deliberately, the kapitan held out a black-gloved hand to the pastry vendor. “Your employment and identification papers.”
“Ana.” May was beginning to hyperventilate, her words rushing out quickly, unevenly. “We gotta go—they’re bad men—”
Cold sweat slicked the nape of her neck as Ana watched the pastry vendor fumble for scrolls in her tunic and then hold them out.
“A grain Affinite,” the kapitan remarked with disinterest. He ran a cursory glance over the scrolls before tossing them to the ground.
“Ana,” May pleaded. She was shrinking back, her eyes wide, her face drained of blood. “We don’t have papers—”
Dread sank in Ana’s stomach as the kapitan turned his lifeless gaze to her and May. She found herself rooted to the spot, her mind blank with fear and scattering any rational thoughts she might have had.
The kapitan’s black gloves extended toward them. “Your employment or identification papers.”
No, a part of Ana’s brain screamed. No, no, no, no, no—
She cut herself off, drawing in a deep breath to steady her heartbeat. These were Imperial Patrols—defenders of the law, watchers of her empire. They could not mean harm.
Yet…she had never known them to check for employment and identification papers.
Sucking in another gulp of air, Ana fought to keep her voice level as she replied, “We don’t have papers.”
The kapitan’s eyes narrowed, and he cut a glance to the blackstone wagon. It wasn’t until then that Ana noticed the feeling of being watched, the hairs on her arms and neck prickling.
One of the Patrols gazed at her from beside the prison wagon. Clad in the same whites as his kapitan, he stood in the shadows, his eyes as piercing as daggers. A strange sensation crept through her: a subtle tugging, as though someone were pulling at invisible bonds in the same way she called on others’ blood.
Yaeger, her senses screamed at her. He’s a yaeger.
A hunter, in Old Cyrilian: a type of Affinite with the power to sense and control other Affinities. Kapitan Markov had told her these were recognized as the most powerful and rarest of Affinites, often scouted by Imperial Patrols to keep peace between Affinites and non-Affinites.