“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 toprotecther.”
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. “WeareWestergards, 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 fatherneverremoved 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.
