Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(48)

“Because we’re important,” Ramson had said. “They chose us to become future leaders of Bregon—”

“Don’t be na?ve, Ramson. I used to be one of those starving people. There’s nothing different between us and them.”

“Well…” The thought unsettled Ramson, that his scheduled life of coursework and training and a future as a Navy commander could be wrong, and could affect someone so close to him. “Once we work our way to the top, once we rank as Admiral, we’ll be able to change things. That’s why you should do your assignments, you know. Otherwise you’ll never make it.”

He hadn’t thought his words would have an impact on Jonah, but they did. That year, Jonah turned his attention to his studies. And, of course, he excelled annoyingly at everything he did, with an effortless grace and characteristic taciturnity.

Ramson, however, prided himself on being the better talker—in fact, the best talker among the Bregonian Navy recruits.



“What’s the point of being good at everything if you can’t tell everyone you’re good at everything?” he’d taunted Jonah once, when they were in their fourth year of training.

Jonah gave him a pointed look as he chewed through a mouthful of whatever kitchen pickings he’d stolen. He was still as thin as the day they’d met, and no matter how much he ate, he seemed to stay that way. “The point is that after you’re done talking, Ramson of the Quick Tongue, I’ll kick your ass.”

That shut Ramson up.

Jonah dipped his finger in the water and traced a lazy circle. They were stretched out on a fishing barge, basking in the midsummer sun that lanced off the white-capped waves and made everything glitter hazily. The ocean sighed, the air was balmy, Ramson’s stomach was full, and they smelled of sweat and salt and wet wood.

“Look,” Jonah said, and Ramson groaned. Jonah had a way of being brutally honest, and Ramson got the brunt of it. “I know you do it to compensate, in some ways.”

“Compensate? Thought big words were my thing, Fisher.”

“Your da,” Jonah continued, turning his head so that his dark eyes dug into Ramson like hooks. Ravens’ eyes. Even now, he spoke with that lowborn accent; instead of changing it, he’d taken it and made it acceptable, even admirable. “You’re doing all this for him.”

Ramson sat up. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Jonah continued calmly. “He’s got a daughter now, but you still think you’ve a chance at his title someday.”

Something in Ramson coiled tighter at Jonah’s mention of his half sister. Rumor had it that she was old enough to start training at the Blue Fort in a year, and he’d yet to meet her.



Ramson doubted he ever would. “Everyone has a chance at Admiral,” he snapped, and the next words left him before he could think. “Even you.”

Jonah’s finger paused; the circles stopped, and Ramson froze. He wished he could swallow his words. The waves seemed to fall still, the wood suddenly searing beneath his hands.

“Truth is, I probably won’t,” Jonah said at last. Ramson glanced at Jonah, startled, but the latter continued calmly. “The world’s divided into two, Ramson: the powerful, and the pawns. Orphans like me? Without a family or fortune or even a name? We’ll never become anything. Power breeds power, and few without it can claw their way to the top.”

The waves roared in Ramson’s ears, and specks of salt stung his face. “That’s not true,” he managed at last. “The top Navy commander becomes Admiral. We all have a chance.” I have a chance.

“That’s what they tell you. You’ll see the truth of it in a few years.” Jonah shrugged. “?’S all right. I’ve made my peace with it. I just wanted to say, you shouldn’t do something for anyone else but yourself. Especially someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.”

Ramson’s throat felt tight, Jonah’s words rattling around his skull, denying the single goal he’d dedicated himself to with every extra training hour he spent at the Blue Fort, honing his skills to become the best of the best.

To become Admiral.

“I don’t think—” he began, but Jonah tossed something at him. By instinct, Ramson snatched the object out of the air. It glinted bronze, larger than his palm.



A compass.

“They say this was the only thing they found on me when I got to the orphanage,” Jonah went on. “I’d no idea what it was, but I’ve thought about it over the years. Thing is, Ramson, you can achieve everything in this world, but if it’s for someone else, it’s pointless. Figure out what you want to do in this life. Live for yourself. You might be the world’s strongest battleship, but you can’t navigate without a compass.” Jonah turned away, closing his eyes to the sun’s rays. A faint trace of a smile hung about his lips as he dipped his hand in the ocean and began to make circular motions again. “Keep it, and remember this. Your heart is your compass, Ramson of the Quick Tongue.”

The compass was a rusty old thing, its bronze edges darkened with age and touch. The glass was yellowing, and the small paper map inside looked as though it had been stained by tea leaves and partially burned. It still worked, though, and Ramson had tucked it into his pocket and kept it on him. He had brushed his fingers against it for luck and for courage, or just for a small reminder that he had Jonah and all would be fine in the world.