Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(50)
He had spent several hours on the observation deck, trying to puzzle out how to fix this, how to save Ana—but it had been staring him in the face this whole time.
You can do this, he told himself, remembering the moment Ana had picked up the ore, when he realized that it didn’t rust in her hands. It’s just another way to get in trouble. You’re good at trouble.
That still didn’t calm the twisting, clawing panic rising in his stomach. Because what if he failed?
At the end of the hall was another set of double doors as big as the ones at the entrance. These were carved with moons and stars, the motto of the Iron Kingdom in gold across its length.
Dvarek et su Lait.
In Darkness We Shine.
The Royal Captain planted a hand on each door and pushed them wide.
Robb winced as light flooded the hall, a blinding spectacle of beautifully gilded floors and antique tapestries. A plush purple runner trailed its way up a small set of stairs to the Iron Throne, and behind it stood an imposing ancient statue of the Goddess. She almost looked alive, the way Her hair and robes floated in an imagined breeze, as She stretched Her arms out, Her eyes looking up, and up, and up, toward a pinpoint in a sky no one could see.
The statue made him feel infinitely small.
The royal-purple tapestries on the walls fluttered in a breeze that made the lanterns overhead bob and sway, warm swaths of yellow-orange light moving over the people in the room like light under the sea. In the corner of the room stood Messiers, as still as statues, their blue eyes glowing, watching.
Viera took her place on the left side of the throne, while the Iron Adviser stood to the right, his long beard braided halfway down his chest, dressed in the kingdom’s finest—a black suit with draping tails, swirls of silver and purple sewn into the broad sleeves and fluttery hems, and a shimmery gorget around his neck. Lord Rasovant, the shadow who haunted the corners of the room and whispered in the Grand Duchess’s ear.
Robb bowed to the woman perched on the metal throne. “Your Grace.”
The Grand Duchess inclined her head.
The throne swallowed the old woman. Large steel beams spiked out from the chair’s back like sun rays, and she the center. Her glittering navy-colored dress accented the warm brown of her skin, ancient and soft. Her dress was all sharp lines and pointed shoulders, as though it was her choice of weapon against the universe.
Do you want to take this gamble? a voice whispered deep inside him. Is Ana really who you think she is?
Ana didn’t look like the Goddess returned, as the late princess was supposed to be. The girl of light. She simply looked like a tired and lost outlaw.
“I was promised a Metal,” the Grand Duchess said with mild disdain. “Where is it?”
“Smashed, Your Grace,” Robb replied. “In an accident—”
“So I suppose for bringing the girl here your family wants a reward?” the Grand Duchess went on, leaning her head on her hand, elbow propped on the armrest. “Tell me, Robb Valerio—your brother is about to be crowned Emperor of the entire Kingdom, and he will have all my worldly possessions, so what could you possibly want?”
He glanced back to Ana.
If his father had survived the Rebellion, if he had escaped, then couldn’t she have, too?
The room was quiet; the only sound was his thundering heart. There used to be people at these hearings. Hundreds of Ironbloods and citizens alike lined the throne room, waiting on the Emperor’s words with bated breath. His father used to stand with him by the door and whisper things only he knew about the Emperor—they had been best friends, along with Lord Rasovant’s son, Dmitri, and Marigold Aragon. They’d grown up together. They’d gone on adventures together.
He used to envy his father; he used to wonder what that sort of friendship was like.
And for a moment, in a rusted old transport ship with shoddy black sails, he’d known.
“Well?” prodded the Iron Adviser impatiently.
“I want to tell Your Grace a story,” Robb said, looking back at Ana, a dirty outlaw with blood staining her shirt, and burn scars on her face, and the eyes of an Imperial bloodline, “of how Princess Ananke Armorov of the Iron Kingdom survived.”
Ana
Princess Ananke Armorov.
She—Ana—couldn’t be. She had no recollection, no memory, no proof. She was Ana—she was the daughter of ship traders. They had died in mercenary raid, and she and Di had escaped. Siege found them drifting on the far side of Iliad, and healed her wounds, and raised her.
She was not an Ironblood.
Princess Ananke Armorov had died in the Rebellion. She had burned to death, and Ana pitied the girl, because she knew what it felt like to burn.
Her stomach clenched in fear.
Burns. Like the burns on the side of her face. The scars. But hers were from the raid. Siege said they were from a ship explosion.
Siege said.
“There was once a fire,” Robb said, his voice so loud it crackled, “that set the North Tower ablaze—”
“Silence!” the Grand Duchess hissed, and turned her scrutinizing gaze to Ana. “What game is this?”
“No game, Your Grace—”
“My granddaughter is dead, young Valerio.”
Robb lifted his hand to Ana. “She survived, Your Grace.”
The old woman looked as if she wanted to break Robb in two on her knee, the rage on her face was so potent. “Then how did the girl escape?” She turned her vicious gaze to Ana. “How did you survive when no one else did?”