An Ember in the Ashes (6 page)

T
he whites of the Augur’s eyes are demon-red, vivid against his jet irises. His skin stretches across the bones of his face like a tortured body on the rack. Other than his eyes, he has no more color to him than the translucent spiders that lurk in Serra’s catacombs.

“Nervous, Elias?” The Augur pushes my knife away from his throat. “Why? You needn’t fear me. I’m only a cave-dwelling charlatan. A reader of sheep’s entrails, yes?”

Burning, bleeding skies.
How does he know I’d thought such things? What else does he know? Why is he even here?

“That was a joke,” I say hastily. “A stupid, stupid joke—”

“Your plan to desert. Is that a joke also?”

My throat tightens. All I can think is
how does he—who told him—I’ll kill them—

“The ghosts of our misdeeds seek vengeance,” the Augur says. “But the cost will be high.”

“The cost . . . ” It takes me a second to understand. He’s going to make me pay for what I was planning to do. The night air is colder suddenly, and I remember the din and stench of Kauf Prison, where the Empire sends defectors to suffer at the hands of its most ruthless interrogators. I remember the Commandant’s whip and Barrius’s blood staining the courtyard stones. My adrenaline surges, my training kicking in, telling me to attack the Augur, to rid myself of this threat. But common sense overrules instinct. The Augurs are so highly respected that killing one isn’t an option. Groveling, however, might not hurt.

“I understand,” I say. “I will humbly accept any punishment you deem—”

“I am not here to punish you. In any case, your future is punishment enough. Tell me, Elias. Why are you here? Why are you at Blackcliff?”

“To carry out the will of the Emperor.” I know these words better than my own name, I’ve said them so many times. “To keep away threats, internal and external. To protect the Empire.”

The Augur turns to the diamond-patterned belltower. The words emblazoned in the tower’s bricks are so familiar I hardly notice them anymore.

From among the battle-hardened youth there shall rise the Foretold, the Greatest Emperor, scourge of our enemies, commander of a host most devastating. And the Empire shall be made whole.

“The foretelling, Elias,” the Augur says. “The future given to the Augurs in visions. That is the reason we built this school. That is the reason you are here. Do you know the story?”

The story of Blackcliff’s origin was the first thing I learned as a Yearling: Five hundred years ago, a warrior brute named Taius united the fractured Martial clans and swept down from the north, crushing the Scholar Empire and taking over most of the continent. He named himself Emperor and established his dynasty. He was called the Masked One, for the unearthly silver mask he wore to scare the hell out of his enemies.

But the Augurs, considered holy even then, saw in their visions that Taius’s line would one day fail. When that day came, the Augurs would choose a new Emperor through a series of physical and mental tests: the Trials. For obvious reasons, Taius didn’t appreciate this prediction, but the Augurs must have threatened to strangle him with sheep gut, because he didn’t make a peep when they raised Blackcliff and began training students here.

And here we all are, five centuries later, masked just like Taius the First, waiting for the old devil’s line to fail so one of us can become the shiny new Emperor.

I’m not holding my breath. Generations of Masks have trained and served and died without a whisper of the Trials. Blackcliff may have started out as a place to prepare the future Emperor, but now it’s just a training ground for the Empire’s deadliest asset.

“I know the story,” I say in response to the Augur’s question.
But I don’t believe a word of it, since it’s mythical horse dung.

“Neither mythical nor horse dung, I’m afraid,” the Augur says soberly.

It becomes harder to breathe suddenly. I haven’t felt fear in so long that it takes me a second to recognize it. “You
can
read minds.”

“A simplistic statement for a complex endeavor. But, yes. We can.”

Then you know everything.
My plan to escape, my hopes, my hates. Everything. No one turned me in to the Augur. I turned myself in.

“It’s a good plan, Elias,” the Augur confirms. “Nearly foolproof. If you wish to carry it out, I will not stop you.”

TRICK!
my mind screams. But I look into the Augur’s eyes and see no lie there. What game is he playing? How long have the Augurs known that I want to desert?

“We’ve known for months. But it wasn’t until you hid your supplies in the tunnel this morning that we understood you had committed yourself. We knew then we had to speak with you.” The Augur nods to the path that leads to the eastern watchtower. “Walk with me.”

I’m too numb to do anything but follow. If the Augur isn’t trying to keep me from deserting, then what does he want? What did he mean when he said my future would be punishment enough? Is he telling me I’ll be caught?

We reach the watchtower, and the sentries stationed there turn and walk away, as if following a silent order. The Augur and I are alone, looking out over darkened sand dunes that stretch all the way to the Serran Mountain Range.

“When I hear your thoughts, I’m reminded of Taius the First,” the Augur says. “Like you, soldiering was in his blood. And like you, he struggled with his destiny.” The Augur smiles at my stare of disbelief. “Oh, yes. I knew Taius. I knew his forefathers. My kindred and I have walked this land for a thousand years, Elias. We chose Taius to create the Empire, just as we chose you, five hundred years later, to serve it.”

Impossible
,
my logical mind insists.

Shut it, logical mind.
If this man can read minds, then immortality seems like the next reasonable step. Does this mean all that drivel about the Augurs being possessed by spirits of the dead is true? If only Helene could see me. How she’d gloat.

I watch the Augur out of the corner of my eye. As I take in his profile, I find that it’s suddenly, oddly familiar.

“My name is Cain, Elias. I brought you to Blackcliff. I chose you.”

Condemned me, more like.
I try not to think of the dark morning the Empire claimed me, but it haunts my dreams still. The soldiers surrounding the Saif caravan, dragging me from my bed. Mamie Rila, my foster mother, shrieking at them until her brothers pulled her back. My foster brother, Shan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, bewildered, asking when I would return. And this man, this thing, pulling me to a waiting horse with the barest explanation.
You’ve been chosen. You will come with me.

In my terrified child’s mind, the Augur seemed larger, more menacing. Now, he comes to my shoulder and looks as if a stiff wind could knock him into the grave.

“I imagine you’ve chosen thousands of children over the years.” I take care to keep my tone respectful. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“But you are the one I remember best. For the Augurs dream the future: all outcomes, all possibilities. And you are woven through every dream. A thread of silver in a tapestry of night.”

“And here I thought you drew my name out of a hat.”

“Hear me, Elias Veturius.” The Augur ignores my barb, and though his voice is no louder than it was a moment ago, his words are wrapped in iron, weighted down in certainty. “The Foretelling is truth. A truth you will soon face. You seek to run. You seek to abandon your duty. But you cannot escape your destiny.”

“Destiny?” I laugh, a bitter thing. “What destiny?”

Everything here is blood and violence. After I graduate tomorrow, nothing will change. The missions, the rote viciousness, will wear me down until there’s nothing left of the boy the Augurs stole fourteen years ago. Maybe that’s a type of destiny. But it’s not one I’d choose for myself.

“This life is not always what we think it will be,” Cain says. “You are an ember in the ashes, Elias Veturius. You will spark and burn, ravage and destroy. You cannot change it. You cannot stop it.”

“I don’t want—”

“What you want doesn’t matter. Tomorrow you must make a choice. Between deserting and doing your duty. Between running from your destiny and facing it. If you desert, the Augurs will not stop you. You will escape. You will leave the Empire. You will live. But you will find no solace in doing so. Your enemies will hunt you. Shadows will bloom in your heart, and you will become everything you hate—evil, merciless, cruel. You will be chained to the darkness within yourself as surely as if chained to the walls of a prison cell.”

He moves toward me, his black eyes pitiless. “But if you stay, if you do your duty, you have a chance to break the bonds between you and the Empire forever. You have a chance at greatness you cannot conceive. You have a chance at true freedom—of body and of soul.”

“What do you mean, if I stay and do my duty? What duty?”

“You’ll know when the time comes, Elias. You must trust me.”

“How can I trust you when you won’t explain what you mean? What duty? My first mission? My second? How many Scholars will I have to torment? How much evil will I commit before I’m free?”

Cain’s eyes are fixed on my face as he takes one step away from me and then another.

“When can I leave the Empire? In a month? A year? Cain!”

He fades as quickly as a star into the dawn. I reach out to grab him, to force him to stay and answer me. But my hand finds only air.

K
eenan pulls me to a cavern door, and I hang limp, my breath gone from my body. His mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. All I can hear are Darin’s screams echoing in my ears.

I’ll never see my brother again. The Martials will sell him if he’s lucky and kill him if he’s not. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it.

Tell them, Laia.
Darin whispers in my head.
Tell them who you are.

They might kill me
,
I argue back.
I don’t know if I can trust them.

If you don’t tell them, I’ll die
,
Darin’s voice says.
Don’t let me die, Laia.

“The tattoo on your neck,” I shout at Mazen’s retreating back. “The fist and flame. My father put it there. You were the second person he tattooed, after my mother.”

Mazen stops.

“His name was Jahan. You called him Lieutenant. My sister’s name was Lis. You called her the Little Lioness. My—” For a second, I falter, and Mazen turns around, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
Speak, Laia. He’s actually listening.
“My mother’s name was Mirra. But you—everyone—called her the Lioness. Leader. Head of the Resistance.”

Keenan releases me as quickly as if my skin has turned to ice. Sana’s gasp echoes in the sudden silence of the cavern. She’ll know now why she’d found me familiar.

I glance around at the shocked faces uneasily. My parents were betrayed from within the Resistance. Nan and Pop never learned who it was.

Mazen says nothing.

Please don’t let him be the traitor. Let him be one of the good ones.

If Nan could see me, she’d throttle me. I’ve kept the secret of my parents’ identities all my life. Telling it makes me feel hollow inside. And what happens now? All of these rebels, many of whom fought alongside my parents, suddenly know whose child I am. They’ll want me to be fearless and charismatic, like Mother. They’ll want me to be brilliant and serene, like Father.

But I’m not any of those things.

“You served with my parents for twenty years,” I say to Mazen. “In Marinn and then here, in Serra. You joined up the same time as my mother. You rose to the top with her and my father. You were third-in-command.”

Keenan’s eyes flash between Mazen and me, the rest of his face still. Work in the cavern halts, and fighters whisper to each other as they gather around us.

“Mirra and Jahan had one child.” Mazen limps toward me. His eyes go from my hair to my eyes to my lips as he remembers, compares. “She died when they did.”

“No.” I’ve held this in for so long that it feels wrong to speak of it. But I have to. It is the only thing I can say that might make a difference.

“My parents left the Resistance when Lis was four. They were expecting Darin. They wanted a normal life for their children. They disappeared. No trace. No trail.

“Darin was born. Then, two years later, I arrived. But the Empire was coming down hard on the Resistance. Everything my parents worked for was crumbling. They couldn’t sit by and watch. They wanted to fight. Lis was old enough to stay with them. But Darin and I were too young. They left us with Mother’s parents. Darin was six. I was four. They died a year later.”

“You tell a good tale, girl,” Mazen says. “But Mirra didn’t have parents. She was an orphan, like me. Like Jahan.”

“I’m not telling tales.” I pitch my voice low so it doesn’t shake. “Mother left home when she was sixteen. Nan and Pop didn’t want her to go. After she left, she cut off all contact. They didn’t even know she was alive until she knocked on their door asking them to take us in.”

“You’re nothing like her.”

He might as well have slapped me.
I know I’m not like her
,
I want to say.
I cried and cringed instead of standing and fighting. I abandoned Darin instead of dying for him. I’m weak in a way she never was.

“Mazen,” Sana whispers, like I’ll disappear if she speaks too loudly. “Look at her. She has Jahan’s eyes, his hair. Ten hells, she has his face.”

“I swear it’s true. This armlet—” I lift my hand, and it glints in the cavern’s light. “It was hers. She gave it to me a week before the Empire caught her.”

“I’d wondered what she’d done with it.” The stiffness in Mazen’s face dissolves, and the light of an old memory flares in his eyes. “Jahan gave it to her when they got married. I never saw her without it. Why didn’t you come to us before? Why didn’t your grandparents contact us? We’d have trained you up the way Mirra would have wanted.”

The answer dawns on his face before I can say it.

“The traitor,” he says.

“My grandparents didn’t know who to trust. They decided not to trust anyone.”

“And now they’re dead, your brother is in jail, and you want our help.” Mazen brings his pipe back to his mouth.

“We must give her aid.” Sana is beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “It’s our duty. She’s, as you say,
one of our own
.”

Tariq stands behind her, and I notice that the fighters have divided into two groups. The ones backing Mazen are closer to Keenan’s age. The rebels clustered behind Sana are older.
She’s the head of our faction
,
Tariq had said. Now I realize what he meant: The Resistance is divided. Sana leads the older fighters. And, as she’d hinted at before, Mazen leads the younger ones—and serves as overall leader.

Many of the older fighters stare at me, perhaps searching my face for evidence of Mother and Father. I don’t blame them. My parents were the greatest leaders in the Resistance’s five-hundred-year history.

Then they’d been betrayed by one of their own. Caught. Tortured. Executed along with my sister, Lis. The Resistance collapsed and never recovered.

“If the Lioness’s son is in trouble, we owe it to her to help,” Sana says to those gathered behind her. “How many times did she save your life, Mazen? How many times did she save all of us?”

Suddenly, everyone is talking.

“Mirra and I set fire to an Empire garrison—”

“She could cut right to your soul with her eyes, the Lioness—”

“Saw her fend off a dozen auxes once—not a bit of fear in her—”

I have stories of my own.
She wanted to leave us. She wanted to abandon her children for the Resistance, but Father wouldn’t let her. When they fought, Lis took me and Darin into the forest and sang so we wouldn’t hear them. That’s my first memory—Lis singing me a song while the Lioness raged a few yards away.

After my parents left us with Nan and Pop, it took weeks for me to stop feeling jumpy, to get used to living with two people who actually seemed to love each other.

I say none of this, instead knotting my fingers together as the fighters tell their stories. I know they want me to be brave and charming, like Mother. They want me to listen, really listen, like Father.

If they learn what I truly am, they’ll throw me out of here without a thought. The Resistance doesn’t tolerate weaklings.

“Laia.” Mazen speaks over them, and they quiet down. “We don’t have the manpower to break into a Martial prison. We’d risk too much.”

I don’t get the chance to protest because Sana’s speaking for me.

“The Lioness would have done it for you without a second thought.”

“We have to bring down the Empire,” a blond man behind Mazen says. “Not waste our time saving some boy.”

“We don’t abandon our own!”

“We’ll be the ones doing all the fighting,” another of Mazen’s men calls from the back of the crowd, “while you old-timers sit around taking all the credit.”

Tariq shoves past Sana, his face dark. “You mean while we plan and prepare to make sure you young fools don’t get ambushed—”

“Enough. Enough!” Mazen raises his hands. Sana pulls Tariq back, and the other fighters fall silent. “We won’t solve this by shouting at each other. Keenan, find Haider and bring him to my chambers. Sana, get Eran and join us. We’ll decide this privately.”

Sana hurries away but Keenan doesn’t move. I flush beneath his stare, not sure what to say. His eyes are almost black in the cavern’s dim light.

“I see it now,” he murmurs, as if to himself. “I can’t believe I almost missed it.”

He can’t have known my parents. He doesn’t look much older than me. I wonder how long he’s been in the Resistance, but before I can ask, he disappears into the tunnels, leaving me to stare after him.

Hours later, after I’ve forced food down my throat and pretended to sleep on a rock-hard bunk, after the stars have faded and the sun has risen, one of the cavern doors swings open.

Mazen enters, followed by Keenan, Sana, and two younger men. The Resistance leader limps to a table where Tariq is sitting and gestures me over. I try to read Sana’s face as I join them, but her expression is carefully neutral. The other fighters gather around, as interested as I am to see what my fate will be.

“Laia,” Mazen says. “Keenan here thinks we should keep you in camp. Safe.” Mazen infuses the word with scorn. Beside me, Tariq looks askance at Keenan.

“She’ll cause less trouble here.” The red-haired fighter’s eyes flash. “Breaking her brother out will cost men—good men—” He stops at a look from Mazen and clamps his mouth shut. And though I hardly know Keenan, I’m stung at how violently he’s opposing me. What have I ever done to him?

“It
will
cost good men,” Mazen says. “Which is why I’ve decided that if Laia wants our help, she has to be willing to give us something in return.” Fighters from both factions eye their leader warily. Mazen turns to me. “We’ll help you, if you help us.”

“What could I possibly do for the Resistance?”

“You can cook, yes?” Mazen asks. “And clean? Dress hair, press clothing—”

“Make soap, wash dishes, barter—yes. You’ve just described every freewoman in the Scholars’ Quarter.”

“You can read too,” Mazen says. When I begin to deny the charge, he shakes his head. “Empire rules be damned. You forget I knew your parents.”

“What does any of that have to do with helping the Resistance?”

“We’ll break your brother out of prison if you spy for us.”

For a moment, I don’t speak, though I feel a tug of curiosity. This is the last thing I expected. “Who do you want me to spy on?”

“The Commandant of Blackcliff Military Academy.”