An Ember in the Ashes (19 page)

“The Farrars are the only choice. Veturius is too stubborn, and Aquilla too loyal to him.”

“Then Marcus must win, and I must be able to control him,” the shadow-man says.

“Even if it is one of the others.” The Commandant’s voice is filled with a doubt I never imagined her capable of expressing. “Veturius, for instance. You can kill him and take his form—”

“Changing form is no easy task. And I am not an assassin, Commandant, to be used to kill off those who are thorns in your side.”

“He’s no thorn—”

“If you want your son dead, do it yourself. But do not let it interfere with the task I have given you. If you cannot perform that task, our partnership is at an end.”

“Two Trials remain, my Lord Nightbringer.” The Commandant’s voice is low with suppressed rage. “As both will take place here, I’m sure I can—”

“You have little time.”

“Thirteen days is plenty—”

“And if your attempts at sabotaging the Trial of Strength fail? The Fourth Trial is only a day later. In two weeks, Keris, you
will
have a new Emperor. See that it’s the right one.”

“I will not fail you, my lord.”

“Of course not, Keris. You’ve never failed me before. As a token of my faith in you, I’ve brought you another gift.”

A rustle, a rip, and then a sharp intake of breath.

“Something to add to that tattoo,” the Commandant’s guest says. “Shall I?”

“No,” the Commandant breathes. “No, this one’s mine.”

“As you will. Come. See me to the gate.”

Seconds later, the window slams shut, nearly jarring me from my perch, and the lamps go out. I hear the distant thud of the door, and all falls silent.

My whole body shakes. Finally,
finally
,
I have something useful for the Resistance. It’s not everything they want to know. But it might be enough to sate Mazen, to buy more time. Half of me is jubilant, but the other half is still thinking about the creature the Commandant called the Nightbringer. What
was
that thing?

Scholars do not, on principle, believe in the supernatural. Skepticism is one of the few remnants of our bookish past, and most of us hold on to it tenaciously. Jinn, efrits, ghuls, wraiths—they belong in Tribal myth and legend. Shadows coming alive are a trick of the eye. A shadow-man with a voice out of hell—there should be an explanation for him too.

Except there is no explanation. He is real. Just like the ghuls are real.

A sudden wind sweeps in from the desert, shaking the trellis and threatening to rip me from my perch. Whatever that thing is, I decide, the less I know about it, the better. All that matters is that I’ve gotten the information I need.

I reach my foot out to the trellis but pull it back quickly when another gust of wind whips past. The trellis creaks, tips, and, before my horrified eyes, drops with a deafening clatter to the flagstones.
Bleeding hells.
I wince, waiting for Cook or Izzi to come out and discover me.

Seconds later, sandals rasp on the courtyard stone. Izzi emerges from the servants’ hallway, a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. She looks down at the trellis and then up at the window. When she spots me, her mouth is an
O
of surprise, but she simply lifts the trellis and watches as I climb down.

When I turn to face her, I’m hastily composing a fleet of explanations, none of which make any sense. But she speaks first.

“I want you to know that I think what you’re doing is brave. Really brave.” Her words come out in a torrent, as if she’s been hoarding them all for this moment. “I know about the raid and your family and the Resistance. I wasn’t spying on you, I swear it. It’s just, after I took up the sand this morning, I realized I left the irons in the oven to heat. When I came back to get them, you and Cook were talking, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Anyway, I was thinking—I could help you. I know things, lots of things. I’ve been at Blackcliff forever.”

For a second, I’m speechless. Do I beg her not to tell anyone else? Do I get unfairly angry at her for eavesdropping? Do I just stare because I didn’t think she had that many words in her? I have no idea, but I do know one thing: I can’t accept her help. It’s too risky.

Before I’ve said anything, she stuffs her hands under her shawl and shakes her head.

“Never mind.” She looks so lonely—a loneliness of years, of a whole life. “It was a stupid idea. Sorry.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say. “Just dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt. If the Commandant finds out, she’ll kill us both.”

“Might be better than how things are now. At least I’ll die having done something useful.”

“I can’t let you, Izzi.” My rejection hurts her, and I feel terrible for it. But I’m not so desperate that I’ll put her life at risk. “I’m sorry.”

“Right.” She’s back in her shell now. “Never mind. Just . . . forget it.”

I’ve made the right decision. I know it. But as Izzi walks away, lonely and miserable, I hate the fact that it’s me who has made her feel that way.

«««

T
hough I beg Cook to let me run errands for her so I can be out in the markets every day, I hear nothing from the Resistance.

Until finally, on the third day after overhearing the Commandant, I’m shoving my way past the crowds in the couriers’ office, and a hand lands on my waist. I instinctively jab back with my elbow to knock the wind out of the fool who thinks he can take liberties. Another hand catches my arm.

“Laia.” A low voice murmurs into my ear. Keenan’s voice.

My skin thrills at the familiar scent of him. He lets my arm go, but his hand tightens on my waist. I’m tempted to push him away and tell him off for touching me, but at the same time, the feel of his hand sends a jolt up my spine.

“Don’t turn,” he says. “Commandant’s put a tail on you. He’s trying to work his way through the crowd. We can’t risk a meeting now. Do you have anything for us?”

I raise the Commandant’s letter to my face and fan myself, hoping the movement will conceal the fact that I’m talking.

“I do.” I’m practically vibrating with excitement, but I sense only tension from Keenan. When I turn to look at him, he gives me a sharp squeeze of warning, but not before I see the grim cast of his face. My elation fades. Something is wrong.

“Is Darin okay?” I whisper. “Is he—” I can’t say the words. My fear stifles me into silence.

“He’s in a death cell here in Serra, in Central Prison.” Keenan speaks softly, the way Pop used to when he gave patients the worst news. “He’s to be executed.”

All the air drains from my lungs. I can’t hear the office clerks yelling, or feel the hands pushing me, or smell the sweat of the crowd.

Executed. Killed. Dead. Darin will be dead.

“We still have time.” To my surprise, Keenan sounds sincere.
My parents are dead too
, he said when I saw him last.
My whole family, actually.
He understands what Darin’s execution will do to me. Perhaps he’s the only one who does.

“The execution will happen after the new Emperor is named. That might not be for a while yet.”

Wrong
,
I think.

In two weeks
, the shadow-man had said,
you will have a new Emperor
. My brother doesn’t have a while. He has two weeks. I need to tell Keenan this,
but when I turn to do so, I see a legionnaire standing in the entryway of the couriers’ office, watching me. The tail.

“Mazen won’t be in the city tomorrow.” Keenan bends down, as if he’s dropped something on the floor. Keenly aware of the Commandant’s man, I continue looking straight ahead. “But the next day, if you can get out and lose the tail—”

“No,” I mutter, fanning myself again. “Tonight. I’ll get out again tonight. When she’s sleeping. She never leaves her room before dawn. I’ll sneak out. I’ll find you.”

“Too many patrols out tonight. It’s the Moon Festival—”

“The patrols will be focused on groups of revelers,” I say. “They won’t notice one slave-girl. Please, Keenan. I have to talk to Mazen. I have information. If I can get it to him, he can get Darin out before he’s executed.”

“Fine.” Keenan looks casually toward the tail. “Make your way to the festival. I’ll find you there.”

A moment later, he’s gone. I deliver my letter to the couriers’ desk and pay the fee. Seconds later, I’m outside, watching market-goers rush by. Will the information I have be enough to save my brother? Will it be enough to convince Mazen that he should spring Darin now instead of later?

It will be, I decide. It must be. I haven’t come this far to watch my brother die. Tonight, I’ll convince Mazen to get Darin out. I’ll vow to stay a slave until I have the information he wants. I’ll promise myself to the Resistance. I’ll do whatever it takes.

But first things first. How am I going to sneak out of Blackcliff?

T
he singing is a river that winds through my pain-infused dreams, quiet and sweet, drawing out memories of a life I’ve nearly forgotten, a life before Blackcliff. The silk-draped caravan trundling through the Tribal desert. My playfellows, running riot in the oasis, their laughter ringing like bells. Walking in the shade of the date trees with Mamie Rila, her voice as steady as the hum of life in the desert around us.

But when the singing stops, the dreams fade, and I descend into nightmares. The nightmares transform into a black pit of pain, and the pain stalks me like a vengeful twin. A door of clutching darkness opens behind me, and a hand snatches at my back, trying to drag me through.

Then the singing begins again, a thread of life in the infinite black, and I reach for it and hold on as tight as I can.

«««

I
come to consciousness light-headed, as if I’ve returned to my body after long years away. Though I expect soreness, my limbs move easily, and I sit up.

Outside, the evening lamps have just been lit. I know I’m in the infirmary because it’s the only place in all of Blackcliff with white walls. The room is empty of everything but the bed in which I lie, a small table, and a plain wooden chair occupied by a dozing Helene. She looks terrible, her face covered in bruises and scratches.

“Elias!” Her eyes fly open when she hears me move. “Thank the skies. You’ve been out for two days.”

“Remind me,” I croak, my throat dry, head aching. Something happened on the cliffs. Something strange . . .

Helene pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. “We were attacked by efrits during the Second Trial, on our way down the cliffs.”

“One of them cut the rope,” I say, remembering. “But then—”

“You stuffed me in that niche but didn’t have the sense to hold on to it yourself.” Helene glowers at me, but her hands shake as she gives me the water. “Then you dropped like a lead weight. Smacked your head on the way down. You should have died, but that rope between us anchored you. I sang at the top of my lungs until every last efrit bolted. Then I got you to the desert floor and holed up in a little cave behind some tumbleweeds. Good little fort, actually. Easy to defend.”

“You had to fight? Again?”

“The Augurs tried to kill us four more times. The scorpions were obvious, but the viper almost got you. Then there were wights—evil little bastards, them, nothing like the stories. Pain in the ass to kill, too—you have to squash them like bugs. The legionnaires were the worst, though.” Helene goes pale, and the dark humor in her voice fades. “They kept coming. I’d take down one or two, and four more would replace them. They’d have rushed me, but the opening to the cave was too narrow.”

“How many did you kill?”

“Too many. But it was them or us, so it’s hard to feel guilty.”

Them or us.
I think of the four soldiers I killed in the watchtower stairwell. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t have to add to that tally.

“At dawn,” she continues, “an Augur showed up. Ordered the legionnaires to haul you to the infirmary. She said Marcus and Zak were injured too, and that since I was the only one unmarked, I’d won the Trial. Then she gave me this.” She pulls back the neck of her tunic to reveal a shimmering, tight-fitting shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d won?” Relief floods me. I’d have broken something if Marcus or Zak had taken the victory. “And they gave you a . . . shirt?”

“Made of living metal,” Helene says. “Augur-forged, like our masks. Turns away all blades, the Augur said—even Serric steel. Good thing, too. Skies only know what we’ll face next.”

I shake my head. Wraiths and efrits and wights. Tribal tales come to life. I never dreamt it possible. “The Augurs don’t let up, do they?”

“What do you expect, Elias?” Helene asks quietly. “They’re choosing the next Emperor. That’s no small thing. You—we—need to trust them.” She takes a breath, and her next words come out in a rush. “When I saw you fall, I thought you were dead. And there were so many things I needed to say to you.” She brings her hand hesitantly to my face, her shy eyes speaking an unfamiliar language.

Not so unfamiliar, Elias. Lavinia Tanalia looked at you like that. And Ceres Coran. Right before you kissed them.

But this is different. This is Helene.
So what? You want to see what it’s like—you know you do.
As soon as I think it, I’m disgusted at myself. Helene’s not a quick tumble or a night’s indiscretion. She’s my best friend. She deserves better.

“Elias . . . ” Her voice is slow as a summer breeze, and she bites her lip.
No. Don’t let her.

I pull my face away, and she snatches her hand back as if from a flame, her cheeks crimson.

“Helene—”

“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs, her tone falsely light. “I guess I’m just happy to see you. Anyway, you never said—how do you feel?”

The speed with which she moves on startles me, but I’m so relieved to avoid an awkward conversation that I, too, pretend nothing has happened. “My head hurts. I feel . . . fuzzy. There was this . . . this singing. Do you know . . . ?”

“You were probably dreaming.” Helene looks away uncomfortably, and, groggy though I might be, I can tell she’s hiding something. When the door opens to admit the physician, she jumps from her chair, seemingly relieved at the presence of someone else in the room.

“Ah, Veturius,” the physician says. “Awake at last.” I’ve never liked him. He’s a skeletal, pompous ass who delights in discussing his healing methods while patients writhe in pain. He bustles over and removes the bandage on my leg.

My mouth drops open. I expected a bloody wound. But there’s nothing left of the injury except a scar that looks weeks old. It tingles when I touch it but is otherwise free of pain.

“A southern poultice,” the physician says, “of my own making. I’ve used it many times, I confess, but with you, I’ve gotten the formula perfect.”

The physician removes the bandage from my head. It’s not even bloodstained. A dull ache flares out from behind my ear, and I reach up to feel the ridge of a scar there. If what Helene said was true, this wound should have left me knocked out for weeks. And yet it has healed in days. Miraculous. I contemplate the physician. Too miraculous for this smug bag of bones to have done it on his own.

Helene, I note, is pointedly not looking at me.

“Did an Augur visit?” I ask the physician.

“Augur? No. Just myself and the apprentices. And Aquilla, of course.” He gives Hel an irritated glance. “Sat in here singing lullabies every chance she got.”

The physician pulls a bottle from his pocket. “Bloodroot serum for the pain,” he says.
Bloodroot serum.
The words trigger something in my mind, but it flits away.

“Your fatigues are in the closet,” the physician says. “You’re free to go, though I recommend you take it easy. I’ve told the Commandant you won’t be fit for training or watch until tomorrow.”

The second the physician leaves, I turn on Helene. “No poultice in the world could heal wounds like this. And yet I didn’t get a visit from an Augur. Only you.”

“The wounds must not have been as bad as you thought.”

“Helene. Tell me about your singing.”

She opens her mouth, as if to speak, then breaks for the door faster than a whip. Unfortunately for her, I’m expecting it.

Her eyes flash when I grab her hand, and I see her weigh her options.
Do I fight him? Is it worth it?
I wait her out, and she relents, pulling her fingers from mine and sitting back down.

“It started in the cave,” she says. “You kept twitching, like you were having a fit of some kind. When I sang to keep the efrits away, you calmed down. Your color was better, your head wound stopped bleeding. So I—I kept singing. I got tired as I did it—weak, like I had a fever.” Her eyes are panicked. “I don’t know what it means. I’d never try to harness the spirits of the dead. I’m no witch, Elias, I swear—”

“I know that, Hel.” Skies, what would my mother make of this? The Black Guard? Nothing good. Martials believe that supernatural power comes from spirits of the dead and that only the Augurs are possessed by such spirits. Anyone else with even a touch of power would be accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death.

The evening’s shadows dance across Hel’s face, and it reminds me of how she looked when Rowan Goldgale grabbed her and lit her with that strange glow.

“Mamie Rila used to tell stories,” I say carefully, not wanting to spook Helene. “She talked of humans with strange skills that were awoken by contact with the supernatural. Some could harness strength, others could change the weather. A few could even heal with their voices.”

“Not possible. Only the Augurs have true power—”

“Helene, we fought wraiths and efrits two nights ago. Who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t? Maybe when that efrit touched you, it woke something up inside you.”

“Something strange.” Helene hands me my fatigues. I’ve only unsettled her more. “Something inhuman. Something—”

“Something that probably saved my life.”

Hel grabs my shoulder, her slim fingers digging into me. “Promise you won’t tell anyone, Elias. Let everyone think the physician is a miracle worker. Please. I have to—to understand this first. If the Commandant knows, she’ll tell the Black Guard and—”

They’ll try to purge it out of you.
“Our secret,” I say. She looks marginally relieved.

When we leave the infirmary, I’m greeted by a cheer—Faris, Dex, Tristas, Demetrius, Leander—hooting and banging me on the back.

“I knew the bastards wouldn’t off you—”

“Cause for celebration, let’s smuggle in a keg—”

“Back up,” Helene says. “Let him breathe.” She’s interrupted by the thudding of the drums.

All new graduates to training field one for combat practice immediately.

The message repeats, and groans and eye-rolling abound. “Do us a favor, Elias,” Faris says. “When you win and become grand overlord, get us out of here, will you?”

“Oi,” Helene says. “What about me? What if I win?”

“If you win, then the docks get shut down and we’ll never have any fun again,” Leander says, winking at me.

“You twit, Leander, I would not shut down the docks,” Helene fumes. “Just because I don’t like brothels—” Leander backs away, his hands protecting his nose.

“Forgive him, oh hallowed Aspirant,” Tristas intones, blue eyes sparkling. “Do not strike him down. He is but a poor servant—”

“Oh, piss off, all of you,” Helene says.

“Half past ten, Elias,” Leander calls as he and the others walk away. “My room. We’ll have a proper celebration. Aquilla, you can come too, but only if you promise not to break my nose again.”

I tell him I won’t miss it, and after he and the others leave, Hel hands me a vial. “You almost forgot the bloodroot serum.”

“Laia!” I realize the source of the niggling feeling I had earlier. I’d promised the slave-girl bloodroot three days ago. She’ll be in terrible pain from her wound. Has she been taking care of it? Has Cook been cleaning it? Has—

“Who’s Laia?” Helene interrupts my thoughts, her voice dangerously serene.

“She’s . . . no one.” My promise to a Scholar slave isn’t something Helene will understand. “What else happened while I was at the infirmary? Anything interesting?”

Helene throws me a look that says she’s allowing me to change the subject. “Resistance ambushed a Mask—Daemon Cassius—in his house. Pretty gruesome, apparently. His wife found him this morning. No one heard a thing. The bastards are getting bolder. And . . . there’s something else.” She drops her voice. “My father’s heard a rumor that the Blood Shrike’s dead.”

I stare at her incredulously. “The Resistance?”

Helene shakes her head. “You know that the Emperor’s a few weeks away from Serra—at the most. He’s started to plan his attack on Blackcliff—on us, the Aspirants.”

Grandfather warned me about this. Still, it’s unpleasant to hear.

“When the Blood Shrike heard about the attack plans, he tried to resign his post. So Taius had him executed.”

“You can’t resign
as Blood Shrike.” You serve until you die. Everyone knows that.

“Actually,” Helene says, “the Blood Shrike
can
resign, but only if the Emperor agrees to release him from service. It’s not commonly known—Father says it’s some odd loophole in Empire law. Anyway, if the rumor is true, then the Blood Shrike was a fool to even ask. Taius isn’t going to free his right-hand man right when Gens Taia is being shoved out of power.”

She looks up at me, expecting a response, but I just stare at her open-mouthed, because something huge has occurred to me, something I haven’t understood until now.

If you do your duty
, the Augur said,
you have a chance to break the bonds between you and the Empire forever.

I know how to do it. I know how I’ll find my freedom.

If I win the Trials, I become Emperor. Nothing but death can release the Emperor from his duty to the Empire. But that’s not the case for the Blood Shrike.
The Blood Shrike can resign, but only if the Emperor agrees to release him from service.

I’m not supposed to win the Trials. Helene is. Because if she wins and I become Blood Shrike, then she can set me free.

The revelation is like a punch to the gut and flying, all at once. The Augurs said whoever won two Trials first would become Emperor. Marcus and Helene are both up one. Which means I have to win the next Trial and Helene has to win the Fourth. And sometime between now and then, Marcus and Zak have to die.

“Elias?”

“Yes,” I say too loudly. “Sorry.” Hel looks annoyed.

“Thinking of
Laia
?”
The mention of the Scholar girl is so incongruous to my thoughts that for a second I’m stunned silent, and Helene stiffens.

“Well, don’t mind me, then,” she says. “Not like I just spent two days by your bedside singing you back to life or anything.”

For a second I don’t know what to say. I don’t know this Helene. She’s acting like an actual girl. “No, Hel, it’s not like that. I’m just tired—”