Showing posts with label sunday steampunk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sunday steampunk. Show all posts
Sunday, October 12, 2025
👻🎃Sunday's Steampunk Spinner🎃👻: The Emperor's Bone Palace by Hailey Turner
Infernal War Saga #2
Every heart is meant to break.
THE NAMELESS. As a warden, Soren’s duty is to guard against the dead, but he was never trained to guard against his heart. Drawn into a web of Solarian politics, Soren finds himself at the center of a storm of his own making, unwilling to break free if it means losing the man he loves. But even the darkest secrets cannot remain hidden forever, and when lies come to light, the price he pays for his silence may very well be his undoing.
THE EMPEROR. When his claim to the Imperial throne is challenged by a traitorous House, Vanya Sa’Liandel must adhere to the ancient tradition of the Conclave to stay in power. Refusing to face his peers alone, Vanya will stand before the Houses of Solaria with Soren by his side, a decision that risks his heart when an unspeakable betrayal threatens everything he’s fought for.
THE REBEL. With her entire world upended, Caris Dhemlan is on the run, struggling to come to terms with the truth of her heritage. As the Clockwork Brigade is targeted by Daijal, she must fight to save the people she cares about. Every rebellion needs a figurehead, but Caris is determined not to become a martyr.
THE QUEEN. With a crown claimed, Eimarille Rourke sets her sights on Ashion and the continent beyond her country’s borders. Promised a world by a star god, Eimarille sets into motion the gears of war and launches the opening salvo of a battle whose repercussions will ripple across the whole of Maricol.
From the author who brought you the Soulbound series comes a queer steampunk-inspired epic fantasy.
Divergence
936 A.O.P.
One
VANYA
Some roads would always be lonelier than others, but they all had to be walked beneath the stars.
Emperor Vanya Sa’Liandel, of the House of Sa’Liandel, holder of the Imperial throne and ruler of Solaria, arrived back in the capital city of Calhames in the early hours before dawn three days after the rionetka attack in Oeiras. The trade talks with the Tovan Isles ambassador had been hastily concluded, and he’d returned by way of airship to a city he couldn’t assume was safe and a palace that didn’t feel like home—not without Raiah and Soren by his side.
Stalking through the low-lit corridors of the Imperial palace, Vanya made his way toward his private office in the family wing. The praetoria legionnaires guarding the antechamber to it made Vanya want to flinch, but an emperor never took a step back. Besides, the ones guarding him were at least trustworthy.
Captain Javier Molina, in charge of the praetoria legionnaires who’d escorted Vanya to Oeiras, planted his feet before the antechamber doors, fists on his hips. “Step forward.”
The praetoria legionnaires standing at attention on either side of the entrance obeyed immediately, saluting the captain before bowing to the Imperial degree at Vanya’s presence. The ones surrounding Vanya kept their hands on their pistols, eyeing their fellow soldiers. If the pair on guard duty were uneasy at the distrust being shown them, they didn’t acknowledge it.
“Strip off your shirts and jackets,” Javier ordered.
One of the praetoria legionnaires seemed taken aback by the order. She hesitated a couple of seconds before obeying. In that time, Vanya noticed the way the praetoria legionnaires around him tightened their grips on their pistols. No weapon was unholstered, but the sentiment of being willing to shoot was there.
The pair stripped, baring their chests to Javier’s critical eye. Their skin was unmarked, carrying no vivisection scars, and the praetoria legionnaires around Vanya relaxed ever so slightly at the proof they weren’t facing off against rionetkas.
Javier nodded sharply. “You may dress.”
While the two hastily redonned their uniforms, Vanya swept past everyone into the antechamber and headed for his private office. “Work with Alida to clear my household, the praetoria legionnaires on duty, and the staff.”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Such an undertaking could not be done quietly. Whatever spies from other Houses might be in the palace would be put on notice, but it couldn’t be helped. Everyone who stayed within the palace walls would be required to prove they weren’t a rionetka before sunrise. All the rest would arrive at a security check Javier would oversee until the higher-ranking praetoria legionnaire officers could be cleared.
If any rionetkas were within the palace’s employ, Vanya hoped to ensnare them. It was why he hadn’t formally announced his return to Calhames. The flag indicating he was in residence would not be flown over the palace until after the sun broke the horizon.
Vanya turned on the gas lamps once he entered his office, illuminating the space. The windows overlooking a narrow arcade and private inner courtyard were closed against the heat the flagstones hadn’t yet given up during the night. Vanya went to crank them open, the panes folding outward to settle flat against the exterior wall.
He drew in a breath, smelling the blooming flowers spilling over the edges of the pots scattered across the tiled floor outside in the courtyard. The riot of plants had been picked out by his mother, Empress Zakariya Sa’Liandel, and Vanya’s staff carefully tended the flowers she no longer got to enjoy. Oeiras had smelled of the sea, but here, in the private wing of the Imperial palace, it smelled like home.
The sound of raised voices in the antechamber caught his attention. Vanya stepped away from the window, moving to seat himself behind his wide wooden desk. Everything was exactly how he’d left it before departing for Oeiras weeks ago. His records of the newly signed treaty with the Tovan Isles would be presented to the Senate at some point, but for now, it would be delivered to the care of his chief minister.
Vanya reached for the framed tintype photograph of Raiah, her laughing face smiling up at him. He wondered where she was, if she and Soren had made it safely to Karnak yet. His televox hadn’t rung since Soren had driven out of Oeiras with Raiah in his care. The worry had not and would not leave him, not until he held his daughter in his arms again and Soren was back by his side.
“I find it insulting to strip in public when not in a bathhouse, Your Imperial Majesty,” Imperial General Chu Hua said irritably as she appeared in the doorway to his office.
Vanya set the tintype photograph aside. “There is a reason for that precaution.”
Chu Hua bowed to the Imperial degree, her uniform back in place after being required to prove she wasn’t a rionetka before allowed into his presence. Vanya eyed her, wondering about her loyalty after all that had happened in the last few days.
The crimson and white effiyeh she wore was edged in three gold lines, the mark of her high rank as the Imperial general. She’d spent the majority of her career rising through the ranks of the praetoria, the personal guard of the Imperial throne. She held no allegiance to any major or minor House. Her loyalty was to the Imperial throne and whoever sat upon it. The issue of the rionetkas was one she would find most distressing.
“You did not announce your return,” Chu Hua said as she straightened up.
Vanya waved her inside. “For good reason. The assassination attempt while I was in Oeiras wasn’t typical.”
Chu Hua raised an eyebrow, the faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening a little. Her hair was still nearly all black, but her age could be seen in the weathered lines gracing her face and the scattered strands of silver in her hair. “I heard they breached your sleeping chambers.”
“They would have killed me if Soren was not with me at the time.”
Chu Hua made a soft, considering sound as she closed the door behind her before sitting. She was armed, with both a pistol and a wand, and while she was a magician, her skill with the aether did not lend itself to magic other than shielding. Vanya’s attention lingered on the weapons for a second before he pushed aside his unease. If she’d had vivisection scars, the praetoria legionnaires would not have let her pass.
“Who were the perpetrators?”
Vanya never looked away from her face. “Praetoria legionnaires.”
Chu Hua stiffened in her seat, something like anger flashing across her brown eyes. “That goes against the duty to the Imperial throne the praetoria legionnaires are expected to adhere to.”
“Duty can be overridden.”
“If it were bribes—”
“It wasn’t.” Vanya stood. “Come with me. I will show you.”
Chu Hua silently followed him out of the office and through the halls of the Imperial palace. More and more people were coming awake as Javier and Alida worked to confirm the absence—or presence—of rionetkas.
The praetoria legionnaires guarding him remained those who had been with him in Oeiras. They followed Vanya and Chu Hua from the low-lit hallways of the Imperial palace to the coolness of a summer night, dawn closing in from the east.
The pathways to the private star temple on the palace grounds used by the Imperial family were lit by gas lamps. Typically guarded year-round, every hour of the day, the number of praetoria legionnaires on duty at the star temple had doubled since his arrival home. With them were spiderlike automatons patrolling in nonstop circles.
The reason for the heightened security lay within its walls, watched over not by a star priest but by a Legion magician, whose clarion crystal–tipped wand never left their hand.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the praetoria legionnaire said, coming to attention at their arrival. “Imperial General.”
The trio of metal coffins taking up space near the star temple’s altar were locked, though not welded shut. Each coffin carried the corpse of a rionetka, the rest of the bodies having been burned in Oeiras. A much smaller box sat on top of the center coffin, carrying the remains of the clockwork metal hearts that had given corrupted life to the men and women who had once served Vanya and ultimately found a different master.
Vanya gestured at the coffin on the left. “Open it.”
The legionnaire kept her wand pointed at the coffin as she stepped forward, tracing the spell lines wrapped around the locks with her wand. Vanya could sense the flow of the aether through the clarion crystal, the element transmuted into magic. Her control was perfect, and the magical ties keeping the metal locks in place went dormant. The keys she carried on her hip undid the locks themselves, the sound of gears turning loud in the star temple.
It reminded Vanya of what lay below the tiled mosaic floor and the mechanism that kept the crypt sealed away from prying eyes. Tonight, they weren’t there to bury the dead, merely to bear witness.
Two other praetoria legionnaires on duty inside the star temple stepped forward to lift the lid off the coffin. A faint hint of decay drifted up from it. Vanya didn’t react, for he’d smelled worse things in his twenty-eight years of life.
Because of the way the Houses vied for power—through marriage, murder, and skirmishes along vasilyet borders—death was a way of life in Solaria and sanctioned by their guiding star. The Imperial family always traveled with a royal embalmer to ensure their bodies could be brought back to Calhames for proper mourning and, eventually, secret burial.
Vanya had instructed the embalmers to preserve the bodies of the rionetkas. They’d been stored in a massive ice box in Oeiras under heavy guard before being loaded onto the airship. They could not be stored anywhere else on the palace grounds. The dead had to be handled with care, and while Vanya doubted the rionetkas would rise as revenants, one could never be too careful.
Chu Hua stepped up to the coffin, nostrils flaring at the rancid smell. She gazed down at the mutilated body inside, expression unchanging. “Are these the kinds of scars you’re searching for? No one has been forthcoming on that bit.”
“Yes.” Vanya joined her by the coffin, peering down at the body with its sunken-in chest, vivisection lines cut through cold flesh. “We found clockwork metal hearts inside each of their chest cavities.”
She turned her head fractionally to look at him. “Similar to the one found in the assassin who attacked during your coronation a few years ago?”
Vanya nodded slowly. “I did not know what it meant then. I do now.”
He’d allowed Soren to carry that heart back to the Warden’s Island for further examination. The wardens hadn’t been able to decipher the spellwork on the metal clockwork heart back then. The self-destruct spell embedded in the metal meant the devices broke apart after a certain period of time once the host was dead, whether or not magic was involved. Vanya had hoped to retain them whole, but the pieces were in the box on top of the center coffin.
What Soren had uncovered back then in that assassin’s chest had been known by very few people in Solaria. Chu Hua was one of them, which was why Vanya was meeting with her here, at this hour, keeping secrets for just a little longer.
“Javier used mind magic to interrogate them before they died. Part of their memory was missing, and who they were was no longer a truth they lived. They called themselves rionetkas,” Vanya said.
Chu Hua made a moue of distaste. “Puppets.”
“Ones who were sent to kill me and take Raiah from Oeiras.”
“Did they succeed?”
For all that the broadsheets had reported on his survival, Raiah’s absence had been noted as well. Vanya stepped back from the coffin, nodding at the magician to close the lid and lock the dead away again. “My daughter is safe.”
“But she is not with you.” Chu Hua tipped her head to the side. “Neither is your warden.”
Chu Hua had no vivisection scars on her chest. She belonged to no House. Her loyalty was to the throne, but that meant her loyalty could change with whoever claimed that seat of power. Vanya trusted her with Solaria’s Imperial throne and his country’s security, but he did not trust her with his daughter.
They were not one and the same—yet.
“Any news from Bellingham?” Vanya asked, redirecting the conversation. He’d ordered her to send a platoon of praetoria legionnaires to the vasilyet governed by the House of Kimathi under the guise of field training. He hadn’t been informed of the results, too busy finalizing the trade talks and then trying to guard against the threat of rionetkas.
Chu Hua moved away from the coffins, clasping her hands behind her back as she turned to face him. “The House of Kimathi arrived in Calhames several days ago. As for the rest of it, do you wish to speak of such things here?”
Vanya had spent a lifetime learning how not to react to terrible news. He kept his displeasure about the House of Kimathi off his face out of habit. “Let us return to my office.”
They left the star temple behind, taking the path back to the palace proper, praetoria legionnaires always within arm’s reach. The palace was far more active now than it had been at his early arrival. He’d yet to receive an update from Javier or Alida, which made Vanya hope they would come up empty with their task of searching for rionetkas.
When they reached his office again, he discovered Alida waiting there, carrying a tray with a small plate of finger food and drinks. She inclined her head at his arrival. “I thought you might like some chai, Your Imperial Majesty. I oversaw the making of it myself.”
“Thank you,” Vanya said.
Alida set the tray on his desk and deftly poured two cups of chai before setting the teapot down and leaving, closing the door behind her. Vanya retook his seat and picked up the cup, breathing in deep the scent of spices. The drink would give him some energy for the long day ahead. What little sleep he’d had on the flight to Calhames would have to be enough when he faced the Senate and the Houses.
“What of the quarry?” he asked.
Chu Hua picked up her glass and sipped at the piping hot chai. “Burned, with nothing left except the remnants of foundations. Everything was ash. If there were survivors, which I highly doubt, they were no longer there. Odds favor the House of Kimathi taking custody of them if that were the case. I have tintype photographs for you. I will have an aide courier them over once the sun rises.”
Vanya frowned, thinking of what Soren had told him days ago in Oeiras. “The entire quarry was burned?”
“According to the report flown back to me, some areas of the ground appeared melted, like a lightning strike. We’ve no record of a weapon that can slag land like that save starfire.”
“The warden who stumbled across the quarry escaped being put into a death-defying machine by use of a bomb.”
Chu Hua tapped her fingers in a slow, steady rhythm against the armrest of her chair. “I know my weapons, Your Imperial Majesty. The pictures do not show the wreckage from a bombing, but perhaps the wardens have a weapon that could scar the land so. Their alchemy is far more advanced than any country’s on Maricol.”
Vanya was doubtful starfire was the cause of whatever had been done at the quarry. Soren was a warden, and the wardens took in no one whose name was written down in the royal genealogies. But no evidence meant a weaker argument. The bodies in the star temple would have to be enough, along with the tintype photographs. His mother had done enough with less information than he currently had. He could only hope to emulate her.
“Recall the platoon you sent into the House of Kimathi vasilyet. I want them checked over for vivisection scars, but do so quietly.”
Chu Hua inclined her head. “Identifying these rionetkas in the Legion ranks will take weeks. It will be impossible to keep secret why we are inspecting everyone, and the targets may slip away. We’ll make note of any defectors and investigate accordingly.”
“I plan to meet with the Senate about this threat. I need the reason behind our search to stay quiet until then. If we find any rionetkas, I want them taken alive if possible. The ones who attacked me had no choice in doing so. Finding out who is targeting our people for this depravity is a top priority.”
Vanya had his suspicions, and judging by the look Chu Hua leveled him from across the desk, she had the same. “Do you know what magic binds them? Is the spell traceable?”
He shook his head. “No. We’re still researching it.”
“Then it may be prudent to install some spell-detecting security devices here in the palace. They could prove useful in specific areas.” She glanced up at the ceiling before shrugging. “Here would be a good location, though I would counsel you not to inform anyone in your House or household that it is present if you agree to its placement. The less people know, the less chance of tampering.”
“How would it work?”
“The device’s range can be adjusted. The clarion crystals are cut in such a way so as to detect most types of spellwork. We typically set them for military spells, but we can adjust the parameters for a broader range.”
“If you think it’s worth doing, then make it happen. I’ll block out a time to meet with you tomorrow to set everything up in here.”
“At your will, Your Imperial Majesty.”
They finished their chai in silence before Chu Hua left, bowing her way out of the office. In her wake, Vanya sent a prayer to the Dawn Star, hoping she would hear him. “I cannot walk this road alone, Callisto. For the good of Solaria, guide me true.”
Hailey Turner
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.
EMAIL: haileyturnerwriter@gmail.com
The Emperor's Bone Palace #2
Series
Sunday, October 20, 2024
👻🎃Sunday's Steampunk Spinner🎃👻: The Prince's Poisoned Vow by Hailey Turner
Summary:
Infernal War Saga #1
Every country is built on revolution.
THE WARDEN. Soren is a nameless, stateless man, tasked with keeping watch over Maricol’s borders. He isn’t meant for politics, only dealing with the dead. His past was buried in the poison fields, but after a fateful encounter with a prince, Soren comes to realize he can’t keep what magic burns inside him hidden forever.
THE PRINCE. Vanya Sa’Liandel was the spare who survived the Houses’ murderous games to become the Imperial crown prince of Solaria. He has a duty to his country, but he’ll owe his life to the wardens. Payment of any kind is costly, especially when he’s at risk of losing his heart to the man who saved his life.
THE COG. Caris Dhemlan hears the siren song of clarion crystals better than anyone in Ashion. That skill for inventing has enriched her bloodline, but it’s who she can become that will ultimately entangle her with the Clockwork Brigade.
THE PRINCESS. Eimarille Rourke should have been raised to be queen of one country; instead, she is prisoner of another. Guided by a star god, Eimarille bides her time in a gilded cage, spinning a political web to gain a throne and start a war the world isn’t ready for.
From the author who brought you the Soulbound series comes a queer steampunk-inspired epic fantasy.
Inferno
916 A.O.P.
One
BLAINE
Lord Blaine Westergard was ten years old when he carried the living heart of Ashion out of its capital city.
He didn’t know it at the time, because the less people knew of such things, the better.
Warning sirens rang through Amari’s air, the capital city awake when it should be sleeping, but it was difficult to sleep when smoke choked the streets. The sound of a scuffle past the pile of refuse Blaine knelt behind grew louder, and he chanced a look over the rancid mess that provided little in the way of cover.
The two men grappling with each other in the alleyway blocked the only way out, their movements quick and brutal. What light reached them from the gas lamps on the street was barely enough for Blaine to see his father’s face. Mal Westergard, Duke of Westergard and captain of the Royal Guard, wasn’t in uniform, while the other man was, and Blaine was too young to understand what betrayal meant.
Something skidded over the ground and came to a stop near Blaine. His father’s pistol, with its brass gears painted military black, was within reach. He snatched it up with one hand, the pistol almost heavier than the infant he carried close to his chest.
As the son of a duke whose duty was defined by service, Blaine had been around weapons all his life. He knew how to chamber a bullet into the barrel of a pistol or load a rifle, listening as the gears clicked and locked into place for firing. He knew how to aim at a practice target or an animal while on the hunt and pull the trigger.
He did not learn how to kill a man until that night.
Blaine laid the swaddled infant on the dirty ground behind a broken crate, tucked safely out of sight, before facing where his father fought one of his own men in a losing battle. Blaine breathed in like his mother had taught him, gaze steady even as his heart beat wildly against his ribs, waiting to take the shot.
The soldier knocked his father against the alley wall, the glint of light on sharp metal all the prompting Blaine needed to pull the trigger with a hard press of his finger. He wasn’t braced correctly, and the recoil almost toppled him over. Regaining his balance, Blaine stared wide-eyed at the body sprawled at his father’s feet.
“Blaine,” his father said hoarsely, limping toward him.
“Father,” Blaine replied, his hands shaking, voice cracking with shock.
Mal gently pried the pistol from his hands, and Blaine screwed up his face, trying not to cry. Then his father pulled him into a tight hug, one big hand smoothing over the back of Blaine’s head. “Hush, now. You’re all right.”
His father hugged him for a second longer before gently pushing him away. As much as he wanted the comfort, Blaine knew they still weren’t safe. They hadn’t been safe since fleeing the palace, a place he wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t stowed away in his father’s motor carriage when Mal had been summoned by the queen’s steward.
And if he hadn’t done that, he would surely be dead.
“Where is she?” Mal asked.
Blaine sniffed hard before retrieving the baby, picking her up off the ground. She hadn’t cried when the pistol went off, the drop of sleeping draught administered by the star priest enough to keep her under before they’d been put into a motor carriage. His father had abandoned the vehicle by Hollows Bridge on the western side of the Serpentine River, the singular waterway that cut the capital in two. Blaine wondered if maybe they should’ve stayed in the vehicle after all.
“Hold her close for me. We’re almost there,” Mal said.
“Where are we going?” Blaine asked for what felt like the dozenth time that night.
His father didn’t answer, merely steered him around the man Blaine had killed, his footsteps uneven. Warm fingers touched Blaine’s jaw, keeping his face averted, and he tried not to think about what he left behind in that alleyway.
They weren’t the only ones on the cobblestone street when they emerged, curiosity and fear driving people out of their beds. Despite the gunshot, they weren’t looked at askance, because a limping man dressed in neat, dark clothing with two children in tow was less interesting than the ugly shine of fire that glowed against the sky.
Two turns later found them hurrying along the Western Promenade that followed the length of the Serpentine River. The crowd of people in their nightclothes was growing along the riverside, every face turned east and the horror unfolding there.
A deadly, bright orange glow haloed the night sky above where Amari’s civic and royal centers were located. Windblown smoke made Blaine’s eyes water, stinging his nose. When he glanced in the direction it came from, he saw several small, two-person ornithopters skimming low over burning buildings. The aeronauts aimed hoses attached to water tanks at the fire below in a desperate attempt to contain it.
The fire crews must have been called up, but Blaine hadn’t seen any of their larger trucks with the water tanks pass them by. The only thing out in force, it seemed, were the peacekeepers who had followed them from the palace.
“This way!” a voice cried out.
His father’s hand tightened on Blaine’s thin shoulder, urging him on. “Hurry, Blaine.”
He didn’t know why the peacekeepers were after them when his father outranked them all as captain of the Royal Guard, a position that reported to the queen herself. The Westergard bloodline might not be royalty, but they were nobility and had dedicated generations to the preservation of the throne. It had been their singular duty ever since the civil war that had split Ashion in two, and an armistice kept the border in place.
Blaine was too numb to realize that fleeing through the dark like criminals while the city burned was how his bloodline kept their oath.
Pistols going off set the small crowd of observers shrieking and running away in a panic. Someone screamed in pain, and Blaine looked back, seeing the peacekeepers a block behind them and gaining through the panicking crowd.
“Don’t look back,” his father said, steering him around a corner with a steady hand.
The building that loomed before them was a grand thing at six stories tall, with a curved metal roof and a multitude of arched windows lining its walls. Situated alongside the waterfront, the airship hangar was one of a select group allowed within the city’s borders.
Blaine knew where all the hangars designated for private and diplomatic use were in Amari, having been fascinated with airships since he was a small child after being gifted a windup toy of one by the queen herself. His governess used to take him on motor carriage rides to each location when he was younger, imparting history lessons with every trip. Which was how Blaine knew this hangar belonged to the E’ridian embassy and that the people inside had no obligation to allow them entry.
“Open up!” his father cried, pounding his fist against the smaller side door.
Blaine huddled close, staring back the way they’d come, knowing it wouldn’t take but seconds more for the peacekeepers to arrive. Then the click of a lock being undone reached his ears, and the door opened.
Blaine let out a soft gasp when he saw the pistol held level with his father’s face. The E’ridian’s dark eyes never looked away. “Who calls?”
“I’m here by order of the North Star,” Mal said, one hand gripping Blaine’s shoulder tightly. “Please, there isn’t much time.”
“We were told to expect only you.”
“I couldn’t leave my son behind.”
The pistol tilted up, and the safety was clicked back on. The E’ridian gestured for them to enter the hangar. The steel-lined brass door was yanked shut behind them and locked with a heavy dead bolt.
Footsteps pounded past the hangar’s entrance moments later, muffled shouts reaching his ears. Blaine didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he had to draw in air, lest he choke. He stared at the E’ridian who had saved them, the man dressed in the flight leathers and fur-lined jacket of a people who preferred the sky to the land, poisoned or otherwise, that everyone else walked on.
Dark eyes flicked from one to the other before coming to rest on the baby Blaine carried. “This way.”
The hangar was half-lit and empty of people on the ground. They were led to the airship anchored to its dry dock by heavy ropes. The airship was on the small side, painted so dark a blue as to be almost black, with no other identifying marks on its hull. Its balloon was proportionate to the airship’s size, the make of the entire thing having all the hallmarks of E’ridian engineers, for they were the most skilled when it came to the mechanics of flying.
The airship was mostly enclosed save for a small section of the deck at the prow, which was open to the elements. A pair of E’ridians stood at the railing, looking down at them. Blaine blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, they’d been joined by a woman whose tanned face and braided black hair were drawn on the pages of scripture.
“You there,” the star god said.
Blaine knew his constellations, and he knew his prayers. He knew the Dusk Star watched over E’ridia the same way the North Star watched over Ashion. Nilsine was the goddess of the wind, carrying her blessing on the breeze to give her children flight. She was at once benevolent and wrathful, both the calm before the storm and the apex of it. She was a star fallen from the sky, but Blaine was too numb to make a wish.
As with all stories of the star gods, hers was an abstract tale Blaine had learned at the star temple during the Fourteen Month calendar’s main holidays, his parents never one to attend the weekly congregations. For a boy of ten, raised in a cosmopolitan city where the Inventor’s Guild held more clout than the Star Order, fun was had in science, not prayer.
Blaine didn’t know it yet, but he’d learn how to pray anew after that night.
Someone tossed a rope ladder over the railing, its knotted ends hitting the floor with a soft thump. The star god descended with sure hands, jumping the last few feet to solid ground.
As she turned to look at them, Blaine noticed her leather trousers were open along both sides at her hips and thighs, closing nearer to her knees. The purposefully parted seams showed off the gold lines and starbursts of the Eagle constellation tattoo on her right thigh, one of six designs found on every Star Order prayer book Blaine had ever opened.
“You’re late,” Nilsine said.
Mal’s voice cracked a little when he spoke, bowing deeply. “The queen is dead, my lady. We were pursued.”
The star god tilted her head, gaze settling on Blaine and the baby that slept in his arms. “Her death changes nothing.”
“It should.”
“Aaralyn told Ophelia what to expect if she raised import taxes on Daijal again and barred their debt slaves from her lands. Your queen sought to cripple that country and ended up crippling her own. You children never learn from your past mistakes.”
“It is the children I think of now.”
“As do I.” The star god stepped toward Blaine, and he felt very much like a beetle about to be crushed under someone’s heel just then. “Give her to me.”
Blaine’s father extended an arm between them, hand clenched into a fist. “This child is the only surviving Rourke. She is my duty.”
“She is your failure, like the rest of her bloodline. Princess Eimarille lives, though not as Rourke for much longer, despite the name she carries. The prince survives but is to be grieved for as dead. No other mortal outside these walls knows about this child, so tell me, how can she be Rourke?”
Blaine’s father bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut, before lowering his arm and stepping aside. As she passed him, the star god touched his shoulder with one gloved hand, the same way star priests did when they gave benedictions in festival crowds.
“Daijal’s Blades were sent to all the cadet bloodlines back a dozen generations. You could not stand against them all, much less the ones who set upon the throne. You weren’t meant to,” she said quietly.
“I could have tried,” Mal said.
“You would have died. You still might.” Nilsine pulled her hand away, light glinting off the mirrored lenses of her goggles as she turned her head from him, gaze alighting on Blaine. “News of the queen’s death will reach every country by way of telegraph wires before morning. The blood kin of Ashion royals no longer live, no matter what the rulers of Daijal or the Twilight Star will claim.”
Nilsine reached for the baby Blaine carried, but he jerked away from her seeking hands.
“Father, this isn’t right,” Blaine said desperately. “We’re Westergards. We’re supposed to protect her.”
Mal went to him, kneeling with a pained grimace, wavering there for a moment. He placed his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and turned him around so they faced each other. “We are Westergards, and this is how we protect her. By letting the star gods guide her travels.”
Nilsine hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, you are Westergards, are you not?”
His father’s shoulders stiffened as he turned his head to stare at her. “My lady?”
“The babe is not Rourke. Her name was never written down in the royal genealogies. Has your son been with you since you fled the palace?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will take him as witness.”
The hands on his shoulders tightened to the point of pain, but Blaine bit back a whimper that tried to escape. He stared wide-eyed at the star god, not realizing what she meant until his father smoothed back his hair and pressed a firm kiss to his forehead with trembling lips.
“Guard her well, Blaine,” Mal said in a ragged voice. He pulled the signet ring from his right index finger, tucking it into Blaine’s front pocket for safekeeping. Blaine opened his mouth to protest, because his father never removed that ring, but Mal shook his head. “It would’ve been yours when you came of age.”
Blaine blinked wetly, trying to steady his breathing. “Father.”
Mal smiled, a cracked, ragged thing that didn’t comfort Blaine at all. Then he stood and gently pushed Blaine toward the star god, who smiled in a way that made him flinch. He tightened his arms around the baby he carried, but this time, when Nilsine reached for the infant, he let the star god have her.
“Come, child. We must go,” Nilsine said.
Blaine was ushered to the rope ladder, and the E’ridian standing beside it held it steady as he reached for the first rung. He climbed up slowly, losing his footing every now and then as he tried not to look down. One of the E’ridians on the deck extended a hand toward him when he was almost at the railing.
“It’s all right,” the woman said in the trade tongue that crossed all six countries of Maricol.
Blaine was hauled on board with a firm grip, going to his knees on the decking. He was urged to his feet and tucked out of the way against the railing. He peered over the edge, watching as the star god deftly climbed the rope ladder while carrying the baby.
“The peacekeepers will double back and attempt to breach the hangar once they see us launch. They’ve been demanding entry everywhere since the fire started. I will open the roof and stay behind to ensure your escape,” the E’ridian on the ground said.
“Your sacrifice will be written in the stars,” Nilsine replied before swinging herself over the railing.
Blaine stared at where his father stood on the ground, looking back with as much love as grief on his face. “Father?”
“Remember this night, my son. Remember it for those of us who are gone,” Mal called out.
What happened next would come to Blaine in flashes when he was older: the sound of clockwork mechanisms grinding together as the roof cranked open; the rumble of the airship’s engine as it prepared for flight; the shouts from peacekeepers looking for a way in and finding it with the help of a magician’s clarion crystal–tipped wand.
The way Blaine’s father looked when he died beneath a hail of bullets as the airship cut loose its anchor and rose into the smoky night sky.
Blaine didn’t realize he was screaming until a hand clamped over his mouth and drew him back from the railing. Bullets peppered the air around them, pinging off the thin metal plating that shielded the belly of the airship’s balloon. He was dragged through a narrow doorway into the flight deck as they cleared the hangar for the sky.
“Hush,” Nilsine said as she knelt before him. She cradled the baby in one arm and raised her other hand to his eye level. Starfire shimmered at her fingertips, drawn from the aether, the same shade as the Eagle constellation tattoo branded into her skin. “This is your road now.”
Everything went soft and hazy, his vision going dark at the edges. A calm swept through him, foreign and cold, tucking the panic away. The wind howled outside the flight deck door while the creeping cold of altitude bit past his thin clothing.
When Nilsine removed her hand, Blaine kept the star god’s secret of a surviving bloodline behind closed white teeth.
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.
EMAIL: haileyturnerwriter@gmail.com
The Prince's Poisoned Vow #1
Series
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