An Ember in the Ashes (24 page)

“Cook—” Izzi speaks up, but the old woman whirls on her.

“Don’t you start. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting into. The only reason I haven’t turned her in to the Commandant,” Cook practically spits at me, “is because of you. As it is, I can’t trust that Slave-Girl won’t give up your name to make the Commandant go easy on her.”

“Izzi . . . ” I look to my friend. “No matter what the Commandant did, I would never—”

“You think that carving on your heart makes you an expert in pain?” Cook
says. “Ever been tortured, girl? Ever been tied to a table while hot coals burned into your throat? Ever had your face carved up with a dull knife while a Mask poured salt water into your wounds?”

I stare at her stonily. She knows the answer.

“You can’t know if you’d betray Izzi,” Cook says, “because you’ve never had your limits tested. The Commandant was trained at Kauf. If she interrogated you, you’d betray your own mother.”

“My mother’s dead,” I say.

“And thank the skies for it. Who knows what d-d-damage she and her rebels would have caused if she still—still lived.”

I look at Cook askance. Again, the stutter. Again, when she’s speaking of the Resistance.

“Cook.” Izzi stands eye-to-eye with the old woman, though she somehow seems taller. “Please help her. I’ve never asked you for anything. I’m asking you now.”

“What’s your stake in it?” Cook’s mouth twists like she’s tasted something sour. “Did she promise to get you out? To save you? Stupid girl. Resistance never saves anyone they can leave behind.”

“She didn’t promise me anything,” Izzi says. “I want to help her because she’s my—my friend.”

I’m your friend
,
Cook’s dark eyes say. I wonder, for the hundredth time, who this woman is and what the Resistance—and my mother—did to her that she would hate and mistrust them so much.

“I just want to save Darin,” I say. “I just want out of here.”

“Everyone wants out of here, girl. I want out. Izzi wants out. Even the damn students want out. If you want to leave so badly, I suggest you go to
your precious Resistance and ask for another mission. Somewhere where you won’t get yourself killed.”

She stalks away, and I should be angry, but instead I’m repeating what she said in my head.
Even the damn students want out. Even the damn students want out.

“Izzi.” I turn to my friend. “I think I know how to find a way out of Blackcliff.”

«««

H
ours later, as I crouch behind a hedge outside Blackcliff’s barracks, I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake. The curfew drums thud and fall silent. I’ve been sitting here for an hour with roots and rocks digging into my knees. Not a single student has emerged from the barracks.

But at some point, one will. As Cook said, even the students want out of Blackcliff. They must sneak out. How else would they manage their drinking and whoring? Some must bribe the gate guards or tunnel guards, but surely there’s another way out of here.

I fidget and shift, exchanging one prickly branch for another. I can’t lurk in the shadow of this squat shrub for much longer. Izzi is covering for me, but if the Commandant calls and I don’t appear, I’ll be punished. Worse, Izzi might be punished.

Did she promise to get you out? To save you?

I promised Izzi no such thing, but I should. Now that Cook’s brought it up, I can’t stop thinking about it. What will happen to Izzi when I’m gone? The Resistance said they’d make my sudden disappearance from Blackcliff look like suicide, but the Commandant will question Izzi anyway. The woman’s not easily fooled.

I can’t just leave Izzi here to face interrogation. She’s the first true friend I’ve had since Zara. But how can I get the Resistance to shelter her? If it hadn’t been for Sana, they wouldn’t have even helped me.

There must be a way. I could bring Izzi with me when I leave this place. The Resistance wouldn’t be so heartless as to send her back—not if they knew what would happen to her. As I consider,
I set my sights back on the buildings before me, just in time to see two figures emerge from the Skulls’ barracks. Light glints off the lighter hair of one, and I recognize the prowling gait of the other. Marcus and Zak.

The twins turn away from the front gates and pass by the tunnel grates closest to the barracks, instead heading for one of the training buildings.

I follow them, close enough to hear them speak but far enough that they won’t notice me. Who knows what they’d do if they caught me trailing them?

“—can’t stand this,” a voice drifts back to me. “I feel like he’s taking over my mind.”

“Stop being such a damned girl,” Marcus replies. “He teaches us what we need to avoid the Augurs’ mind-leeching. You should be grateful.”

I edge closer, interested despite myself. Could they be speaking of the creature from the Commandant’s study?

“Every time I look into his eyes,” Zak says, “I see my own death.”

“At least you’ll be prepared.”

“No,” Zak says quietly. “I don’t think so.”

Marcus grunts in irritation. “I don’t like it any better than you do. But we have to win this thing. So man up.”

They enter the training building, and I grab the heavy oak door just before it shuts, watching them through the crack. Blue-fire lanterns dimly light the hall, and their footsteps echo between the pillars on either side. Just before
the building curves, they disappear behind one of the columns. Stone grates against stone, and all goes silent.

I enter the building and listen. The hallway is quiet as a tomb, but that doesn’t mean the Farrars are gone. I make my way to the pillar where they disappeared, expecting to see a training-room door.

But there’s nothing there, only stone.

I move on to the next room. Empty. The next. Empty. Moonlight from the windows tinges every room a ghostly blue-white, and they are, all of them, empty. The Farrars have disappeared. But how?

A secret entrance.
I’m certain of it. Giddy relief floods me. I found it, found what Mazen wants.
Not yet, Laia.
I still have to figure out how the twins are getting in and out.

The next night, at the same late hour, I position myself in the training building itself, across from the pillar where I saw the Masks disappear. The minutes pass. Half an hour. An hour. They don’t appear.

Eventually, I make myself leave. I can’t risk missing a summons from the Commandant. I feel like shouting in frustration.
The Farrars might have disappeared into the secret entrance before I ever got to the building. Or they might arrive there when I’m already in my bed. Whatever the case, I need more time to watch.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” Izzi says when she meets me in my quarters as the final peals of eleventh bell fade. “The Commandant rang for water. Asked where you were when I took it to her. I told her Cook sent you on a late-night errand, but that excuse won’t work twice.”

I don’t want to let Izzi help, but I know I won’t succeed without her. Every time she leaves for the training building, my resolve to get her out of Blackcliff grows stronger. I will not leave her here when I go. I cannot.

We alternate nights, risking all in the hopes that we’ll spot the Farrars again. But maddeningly, we come up with nothing.

“If all else fails,” Izzi says the night before I’m to make my report, “you can ask Cook to teach you how to blow a hole in the outer wall. She used to make explosives for the Resistance.”

“They want a
secret
entrance,” I say. But I smile, because the thought of a giant, smoking hole in Blackcliff’s wall is a happy one.

Izzi heads out to watch for the Farrars, and I wait for the Commandant to summon me. But she doesn’t, and instead I lay in my pallet, staring at the pitted stone of my roof, forcing myself not to imagine Darin suffering at the hands of the Martials, trying to figure out a way to explain my failure to Mazen.

Then, just before eleventh bell, Izzi bursts into my room.

“I found it, Laia! The tunnel the Farrars have been using. I found it!”

I
start losing battles.

It’s Tristas’s fault. He planted the seed of Helene being in love with me in my head, and now it’s sprouted like a misbegotten weed from hell.

At scim training, Zak comes at me with unusual sloppiness, but instead of obliterating him, I let him knock me on my ass because I’ve caught a glimpse of blonde across the field. What does that lurch in my stomach mean?

When the Hand-to-Hand Centurion screams at me for poor technique, I barely hear him, instead considering what will happen to Hel and me. Is our friendship ruined? If I don’t love her back, will she hate me? How am I supposed to get her on my side for the Trials if I can’t give her what she wants? So many bleeding, stupid questions. Do girls think like this all the time? No wonder they’re so confusing.

The Third Trial, the Trial of Strength, is in two days. I know I have to focus, to ready my mind and my body. I
must
win.

But in addition to Helene, there’s someone else crowding my thoughts: Laia.

I try for days not to think about her. In the end, I stop resisting. Life is hard enough without having to avoid entire rooms in my own head. I imagine the fall of her hair and the glow of her skin. I smile at how she laughed when we danced, with a freedom of spirit I found exhilarating in its possibility. I remember how her eyes closed when I spoke to her in Sadhese.

But at night, when my fears crawl out of the dark places in my mind, I think of the dread on her face when she realized who I was. I think of her disgust when I tried to protect her from the Commandant. She must hate me
for subjecting her to something so demeaning. But it was the only way I could think of to keep her safe.

So many times in the past week, I’ve nearly walked to her quarters to see how she is. But showing kindness to a slave will only bring the Black Guard down on me.

Laia and Helene: They’re so different. I like that Laia says things I don’t expect, that she speaks almost formally, as if she’s telling a story. I like that she defied my mother to go to the Moon Festival, whereas Helene always obeys the Commandant. Laia is the wild dance of a Tribal campfire, while Helene is the cold blue of an alchemist’s flame.

But why am I even comparing them? I’ve known Laia a few weeks and Helene all my life. Helene’s no passing attraction. She’s family. More than that. She’s part of me.

Yet she won’t speak to me, won’t look at me. The Third Trial is days away, and all I’ve gotten from her are glares and muttered insults.

Which brings another worry to the forefront of my mind. I’d been counting on Helene winning the Trials, naming me Blood Shrike, and then releasing me from my duty. I can’t see her doing that if she loathes me. Which means that
if
I win the next Trial and
if
she wins the final Trial, she could force me to remain Blood Shrike against my will. And if that happens, I’ll have to run, and then honor will demand that she have me hunted down and killed.

On top of that, I’ve heard students whispering that the Emperor is days away from Serra and planning vengeance against the Aspirants and anyone associated with them. The Cadets and Skulls pretend to shake off the rumors, but the Yearlings aren’t so skilled at hiding their fear. You’d think the Commandant would be taking precautionary measures against an attack on
Blackcliff, but she seems unconcerned. Probably because she wants us all dead. Or me, anyway.

You’re screwed, Elias
,
a wry voice tells me.
Just accept it. Should have run when you had the chance.

My spectacular losing streak doesn’t go unnoticed. My friends are worried about me, and Marcus makes a point of challenging me on the combat field every chance he gets. Grandfather sends a two-word note, inked with such force that the parchment is torn.
Always victorious
.

All the while, Helene watches, growing more infuriated every time she beats me in combat—or witnesses someone else beat me. She’s itching to say something, but her stubbornness won’t let her.

Until, that is, she finds Dex and Tristas tailing her to the barracks two nights before the Third Trial. After interrogating them, she finds me.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Veturius?” She grabs my arm outside the Skulls’ barracks, where I was heading for a bit of rest before a graveyard shift on the wall. “You think I can’t defend myself? You think I need
bodyguards
?”

“No, I just—”

“You’re the one who needs protection. You’re the one who’s been losing every battle. Skies, a dead dog could best you in a fight. Why don’t you just hand the Empire over to Marcus right now?”

A group of Yearlings watches us with interest, scurrying away only when Helene snarls at them.

“I’ve been distracted,” I say. “Worrying about you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. And I don’t need your . . . your henchmen following me.”

“They’re your friends, Helene. They’re not going to stop being your friends just because you’re mad at me.”

“I don’t need them. I don’t need any of you.”

“I didn’t want Marcus to—”

“Screw Marcus. I could beat Marcus to a pulp with my eyes closed. And I could beat you too. Tell them to leave me alone.”

“No.”

She gets in my face, anger radiating off her in waves. “Call them off.”

“Not gonna do it.”

She crosses her arms and stands inches from my face. “I challenge you. Single combat, three battles. You win, I keep the bodyguards. You lose, you call them off.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing I can beat her. I’ve done it a thousand times before. “When?”

“Now. I want this done with.” She makes for the closest training building, and I take my time following, watching the way she moves:
angry, favoring her right leg, must have bruised the left in practice, keeps clenching that right fist—probably because she wants to punch me with it.

Rage colors her every movement. Rage that has nothing to do with her so-called bodyguards and everything to do with me and her and the confusion rolling around inside both of us.

This should be interesting.

Helene heads for the largest of the empty training rooms, launching an attack the second I’m through the door. As I expected, she comes at me with a right hook, hissing when I duck it. She’s fast and vengeful, and for a few minutes, I think my losing streak might continue. But an image of Marcus
gloating, of Marcus ambushing Helene, sets my blood boiling, and I unleash a vicious offense.

I win the first battle, but Helene rebounds in the second, nearly taking my head off with the swiftness of her attack. Twenty minutes later, when I yield, she doesn’t bother to relish the victory.

“Again,” she says. “Try and show up this time.”

We circle each other like wary cats until I fly toward her, my scim high. She is undaunted, and our weapons crash together in a starburst of sparks.

Battle rage takes me
.
There is perfection in a fight like this. My scim is an extension of my body, moving so swiftly that it might be its own master. The battle is a dance, one I know so well I barely have to think. And though the sweat floods off me and my muscles burn, desperate for rest, I feel alive, obscenely alive.

We match each other stroke for stroke until I get a hit on her right arm. She tries to switch sword arms, but I jab my scim at her wrist faster than she can parry. Her scim goes flying, and I tackle her. Her white-blonde hair tumbles free of her bun.

“Surrender!” I pin her down at the wrists, but she thrashes and rips one arm free, scrabbling for a dagger at her waist. Steel stabs at my ribs, and seconds later, I am on my back with a blade at my throat.

“Ha!” She leans down, her hair falling around us like a shimmering silver curtain. Her chest heaves, she’s covered in sweat, hurt darkens her eyes—and she is still so beautiful that my throat tightens, and I want so badly to kiss her.

She must see it in my eyes, because the hurt turns to confusion as we gaze at each other. I know then that there is a choice to be made. A choice that might change everything.

Kiss her and she’ll be yours. You can explain everything and she’ll understand, because she’ll love you. She’ll win the Trials, you’ll be Blood Shrike, and when you ask for freedom, she’ll give it to you.

But will she? If I’m entangled with her, won’t that make it worse? Do I want to kiss her because I love her or because I need something from her? Or both?

All this passes through my head in a second.
Do it
,
my instincts scream.
Kiss her.

I wrap her silk-smooth hair around my hand
.
Her breath catches, and she melts into me, her body suddenly, intoxicatingly pliant.

And then, as I pull her face toward me, as our eyes are closing, we hear the scream.