A Torch Against the Night (31 page)

“Afya.” Keenan’s voice holds a note of warning. He’s said nothing about my invisibility. There hasn’t been time until now.

“I didn’t know I could do it,” I say. “It was the first time. I was desperate. Maybe that’s why it worked.”

“Well, it’s very convenient for you,” Afya says. “But the rest of us don’t have any black magic.”

“Then you need to leave.” I hold up a hand as she tries to protest. “Keenan knows the safe houses we can stay in. He suggested it before, but I didn’t listen.” Skies, how I wish I had. “He and I can get to Kauf alone. Without wagons, we can move even faster.”

“The wagons protected you,” Afya says. “I made a vow—”

“To a man who’s long gone.” The frost in Keenan’s voice reminds me of the first time I met him. “I can get her to Kauf safely. We don’t need your help.”

Afya rises to her full height. “As a Scholar and a rebel,
you
don’t understand honor.”

“What honor is there in a useless death?” I ask her. “Darin would hate that so many died to save him. I can’t order you to leave me. All I can do is ask.” I turn to Gibran. “I think the Martials
will
turn on the Tribesmen eventually. I vow that if Darin and I make it to Marinn, I will get you word.”

“Izzi was willing to die for this.”

“Sh-she had nowhere else to go.” The stark truth of my friend’s loneliness in this world hits me. I swallow back the grief. “I shouldn’t have brought her along. It was my decision, and it was the wrong one.” Saying it makes me feel hollow inside. “And I won’t make that decision again. Please, go. You can still catch up with Vana.”

“I don’t like this.” The Tribeswoman casts Keenan a look of distrust that surprises me. “I don’t like it at all.”

Keenan’s eyes narrow. “You’ll like being dead even less.”

“My honor demands that I escort you, girl.” Afya puts out the lamp. The barn seems darker than it should be. “But my honor also demands that I not take a woman’s decision about her own fate away from her. Skies knows there’s enough of that in this blasted world.” She pauses. “When you see Elias, you tell him that from me.”

That is all the goodbye I get. Gibran storms out of the barn. Afya rolls her eyes and follows.

Keenan and I stand alone, the sleet drumming the earth in a steady tattoo around us. When I look into his eyes, a thought enters my head:
This is right. This is how it should be. This is how it always should have been.

“There’s a safe house a half dozen miles from here.” Keenan touches my hand to pull me from my thoughts. “If we’re swift, we can get there before dawn.”

Part of me wants to ask him if I have made the right decision. After so many mistakes, I yearn for the reassurance that I haven’t ruined everything yet again.

He will say yes, of course. He will comfort me and tell me this is the best way. But doing the right thing now does not undo every mistake I have already made.

So I do not ask. I simply nod and follow as he leads the way. Because after all that has happened, I do not deserve comfort.

T
he Warden’s rail-thin shadow falls over me. His long, triangular head and thin fingers bring to mind a praying mantis. I have a clear shot, but my knives do not leave my hands. All thoughts of murder flee my mind when I see what he is holding.

It’s a Scholar child, nine or ten years old. Malnourished, filthy, and as silent as a corpse. The cuffs on his wrists mark him not as a prisoner but as a slave. The Warden digs a blade into his throat. Rivulets of blood trickle down the child’s neck and onto a filthy shift.

Six Masks follow the Warden into the block. Each wears the sigil of Gens Sisellia, the Warden’s family. Each has a notched arrow pointed at my heart.

I could take them, even with the arrows. If I drop fast enough, use the table as a shield—

But then the old man runs his pale hand through the child’s lank, shoulder-length hair with chilling tenderness.

“No star more fair than the bright-eyed child; for him I would lay down my life.”
The Warden delivers the quote in a clear tenor that matches his neat appearance. “He’s small”—the Warden nods to the boy—“but wonderfully resilient, I’ve discovered. I can make him bleed for hours if you wish.”

I drop the knife.

“Fascinating,” the Warden breathes. “See, Drusius, how Veturius’s pupils widen, how his pulse accelerates, how, even when faced with certain death, his eyes dart, seeking a way out? It is only the presence of the child that stays his hand.”

“Yes, Warden.” One of the Masks—Drusius, I assume—responds with flat disinterest.

“Elias,” the Warden says. “Drusius and the others will divest you of your weaponry. I suggest you not fight. I wouldn’t want to hurt the child. He’s one of my favorite specimens.”

Ten hells.
The Masks surround me, and in seconds I am stripped of weapons, boots, lock pick, the Tellis, and most of my clothes. I do not resist. If I want to break out of this place, I need to conserve my strength.

And I will break out. The very fact that the Warden didn’t kill me indicates that he wants something from me. He’ll keep me alive until he gets it.

The Warden watches as the Masks manacle me and shove me against a wall, his pupils pitch-black pinpricks in the white-blue of his eyes.

“Your punctuality pleases me, Elias.” The old man keeps the knife loose in his hand, about an inch from the boy’s neck. “A noble trait, and one that I respect. Though I confess, I don’t understand
why
you’re here. A wise young man would be well away to the Southern Lands by now.” He looks at me expectantly.

“You don’t actually expect me to tell you, do you?”

The boy whimpers, and I find the Warden pushing the knife slowly into the side of his neck. But then the old man smiles, revealing small, yellowing teeth. He releases the child.

“Of course I don’t,” he says. “In fact, I hoped you wouldn’t. I have a feeling you’d just lie until you convinced even yourself, and lies bore me. I’d much rather pull the truth from you. I haven’t had a Mask as a subject for quite a while. I fear my research is quite outdated.”

My skin prickles.
Where there’s life
,
I hear Laia in my head,
there’s hope.
He might experiment on me. Use me. But as long as I live, I still have a chance of getting out of here.

“You said you’ve been waiting for me.”

“Indeed. A little bird informed me of your arrival.”

“The Commandant,” I say. Damn her. She’s the only one who might have figured out where I was going. But why would she tell the Warden about it? She hates him.

The Warden smiles again. “Perhaps.”

“Where do you want him, Warden?” Drusius says. “Not with the rest, I assume.”

“Of course not,” the Warden says. “The bounty would tempt the lesser guards to turn him in, and I’d like a chance to study him first.”

“Clear out a cell,” Drusius barks at one of the other Masks, nodding to the row of solitary cells behind us. But the Warden shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I have somewhere else in mind for our newest prisoner. I’ve never studied the long-term effects of
that
place on a subject. Particularly one who demonstrates such”—he looks down at the Scholar boy—“empathy.”

My blood chills. I know exactly the part of the prison he’s talking about. Those long, dark hallways with air curdled from the smell of death. The moans and whispers, the scratches on the walls, the way you can’t do anything even when you hear people screaming for someone, anyone to help them …

“You always hated it in there,” the Warden murmurs. “I remember. I remember your face that time you brought me a message from the Emperor. I was mid-experiment. You went pale as the underbelly of a fish, and when you ran back out into the hallway, I heard you retching in a slop bucket.”

Ten bleeding hells.

“Yes.” The Warden nods, his expression pleased. “Yes, I think the interrogation block will do very nicely for you.”

A
vitas awaits me when I return to the Black Guard barracks. Midnight approaches, and my mind slumps in exhaustion. The Northman says nothing of my haggard appearance, though I’m certain he can read the devastation in my eyes.

“Urgent message for you, Shrike.” His sallow cheeks tell me he hasn’t slept. I don’t like that he stayed awake until I returned.
He’s a spy. That’s what spies do.
He hands me an envelope, the seal of which is untouched. Either he’s getting better at espionage or for once he didn’t open it.

“New orders from the Commandant?” I ask. “Gain my trust by
not
reading my mail?”

Avitas’s lips tighten as I tear open the letter. “It arrived at dusk with a runner. He said it left Nur six days ago.”

“North?” I hand the letter to Avitas, who reads it through. “Why in the bleeding skies would Veturius head north?”

“His grandfather?”

“Gens Veturia’s lands are west of Antium. If he cut straight north from Serra, he’d have gotten there faster. If he was headed for the Free Lands, he could have just taken a ship from Navium.”

Damn it, Elias, why couldn’t you have just left the bleeding Empire?
If he’d used his training to get as far away from here as fast as possible, I’d never have caught his trail, and my choice would have been made for me.

And your family would die.
Bleeding skies, what’s wrong with me? He
chose
this.

What did he do that was so wrong? He wished to be free. He wished to stop killing.

“Don’t try to puzzle it out now.” Avitas follows me into my room and sets Dex’s message on my desk. “You need food. Sleep. We’ll start on it in the morning.”

I hang up my weapons and go to the window. The stars are obscured, the purple-black sky promising snow. “I should go to my parents.” They heard what Marcus said—everyone on top of that damned rock did, and there’s no bigger bunch of gossips than Illustrians. The entire city must know of Marcus’s threat to my family.

“Your father came by.” Avitas hovers by the door, his Masked face suddenly uncomfortable. I suppress a wince. “He suggested you keep your distance for now. Apparently your sister Hannah is … upset.”

“You mean she wants to drink my blood.” I close my eyes. Poor Hannah. Her future rests in the hands of the one person she trusts the least. Mother will try to soothe her, as will Livia. Father will coax, then coerce, then order her to stop her hysterics. But in the end, they’ll all be wondering the same thing: Will I choose my family and the Empire? Or will I choose Elias?

I turn my mind to the mission. North, Dex had said.
And the girl is still with him.
Why would he take her deeper into the Empire? Even if he had some pressing reason to remain in Martial territory, why put the girl at risk?

It’s like he’s not making the decisions. But who else would be? The girl? Why would he let her? What could she possibly know about escaping the Empire?

“Blood Shrike.” I jump. I’d forgotten that Avitas was in the room—he’s so quiet. “Shall I bring you some food? You need to eat. I asked the kitchen slaves to keep some warm for you.”

Food—eat—slaves—Cook.

The Cook.

The girl—Laia
, the old woman said.
Don’t touch her.

They must have grown close while enslaved. Maybe the Cook knows something. After all, she figured out how Laia and Elias escaped Serra.

All I have to do is find her.

But if I start looking, someone will inevitably blab that the Blood Shrike is searching for a white-haired, scar-faced woman. The Commandant will hear, and that will be the end of Cook. Not that I care about the old hag’s fate. But if she knows anything about Laia, I need her alive.

“Avitas,” I say. “Does the Black Guard have contacts in Antium’s underground?”

“The Black Market? Of course—”

I shake my head. “The city’s unseen. Urchins, beggars, transients.”

Avitas frowns. “They’re mostly Scholars, and the Commandant’s been herding them for enslavement or execution. But I know a few people. What are you thinking?”

“I need to get a message out.” I speak carefully. Avitas doesn’t know Cook helped me—he’d go straight to the Commandant with such information.

“Singer seeks meal,” I finally say.

“Singer seeks meal,” Avitas repeats. “That’s … it?”

Cook seems a bit crazy, but hopefully she’ll understand.

“That’s it. Get it to as many people as you can, and swiftly,” I say. Avitas looks at me quizzically.

“Did I not say I wanted this done quickly?”

A ghost of a frown on his face. Then he’s gone.

After he leaves, I pick up Dex’s message. Harper didn’t read it. But why? I have never sensed malice in him, true. I’ve never sensed anything at all. And since leaving the Tribal lands, he’s been … not friendly, exactly, but slightly less opaque. What game is he playing now, I wonder?

I file Dex’s message away and drop into my cot, boots still on. Still, I cannot sleep. It will take Avitas hours to get the message out and hours more for Cook to hear it—if she hears it at all. I know this, yet I jump at every sound, expecting the old woman to materialize as suddenly as a wraith. Finally, I drag myself over to my desk, where I read through the old Blood Shrike’s files—information he’s gathered about some of the highest-ranking men in the Empire.

Many of the reports are straightforward. Others less so. I did not, for instance, know that Gens Cassia had hushed up the murder of a Plebeian servant on their premises. Or that the Mater of Gens Aurelia had four lovers, all Paters of noted Illustrian houses.