A Torch Against the Night (14 page)

If Red’s eyes could light a blaze, I’d be halfway to the tenth pit of the hells right now. Part of me is satisfied. Then I catch a glimpse of Laia’s face and feel immediately ashamed. She glances between me and Red, uncertain and anguished.

“It’s pointless to fight,” I make myself say. “More importantly, it’s not up to us. This isn’t our mission, Red.” I turn to Laia. “Tell me what you want.”

The grateful look that crosses her face is almost worth the fact that I’m probably going to have to put up with this idiot rebel until the poison kills me.

“Can we still make our way north with the help of the Tribes if there are four of us? Is it possible?”

I stare across the fire and into her dark gold eyes, the way I’ve tried not to for days. When I do, I remember why I haven’t looked: The fire in her, the fervent determination—it speaks to something at my very core, something caged and desperate to be free. A visceral desire for her grips me, and I forget Izzi and Keenan.

My arm twinges, sudden and sharp. A reminder of the task at hand. Convincing Afya to hide Laia and me will be difficult enough. But a rebel, two runaway slaves, and the Empire’s most wanted criminal?

I’d say it’s impossible, but the Commandant trained the word out of me.

“You’re
sure
this is what you want?” I search her eyes for doubt, fear, uncertainty. But all I see is that fire.
Ten hells.

“I am sure.”

“Then I’ll find a way.”

«««

T
hat night, I visit the Soul Catcher.

I find myself walking beside her on a scanty path through the woods of the Waiting Place. She wears a shift and sandals, and appears untouched by the bite of the autumn air. The trees around us are gnarled and ancient. Translucent figures flit between the trunks. Some are nothing but niveous wisps, while others are more fully formed. At one point, I’m certain I see Tristas, his features contorted in rage, but he’s gone a moment later. The figures’ whispers are soft, melding into one murmuring rush.

“Is this it?” I ask the Soul Catcher. I thought I had more time. “Am I dead?”

“No.” Her ancient eyes take in my arm. In this world, it is unscarred, unblemished. “The poison advances, but slowly.”

“Why am I back here?” I don’t want the seizures to begin again—I don’t want her controlling me. “I can’t stay.”

“Always so many questions with you, Elias.” She smiles. “In sleep, humans skirt the Waiting Place and do not enter. But you have a foot in the worlds of the living and the dead. I used that to call you here. Don’t worry, Elias. I won’t keep you long.”

One of the figures in the trees flutters closer—a woman so faded I cannot see her face. She peers through the branches, looks under bushes. Her mouth moves as if she’s speaking to herself.

“Can you hear her?” the Soul Catcher asks.

I try to listen beyond the other ghosts’ whispers, but there are too many. I shake my head, and the Soul Catcher’s face holds something I can’t decipher. “Try again.”

I close my eyes this time and focus on the woman—only the woman.

I can’t find—where—don’t hide, lovey—

“She’s—” I open my eyes, and the murmurs of the others drown her out. “She’s looking for something.”

“Someone,” the Soul Catcher corrects me. “She refuses to move on. It has been decades. She hurt someone too, long ago. Though she did not mean to, I think.”

A not so subtle reminder of the Soul Catcher’s request the last time I saw her. “I’m doing as you asked,” I say. “I’m keeping my distance from Laia.”

“Very good, Veturius. I’d hate to have to harm you.”

A chill runs up my spine. “You can do that?”

“I can do a great many things. Perhaps I shall show you, before your end.” She places her hand on my arm, and it burns like fire.

When I wake up, it’s still dark out, and my arm aches. I roll up my sleeve, expecting to see the knotted, scarred flesh where my injury was.

But the wound, which healed days ago, is now raw and bleeding.

“Y
ou’re insane,” Faris says as he, Dex, and I stare at the tracks in the dirt behind the storage building. I half believe him. But tracks don’t lie, and these tracks tell quite a tale.

A battle. One large opponent. One small. The small one nearly got the better of the larger one until the small opponent was knocked out—at least that’s what I assume, since there’s no dead body around. The large opponent and a companion dragged the small opponent into the storage building and escaped on horseback, out a gate in the back wall. The horse had the Gens Veturia motto carved into its shoe:
Always victorious.
I think back to Cook’s strange tale:
They brought the demon low and escaped victorious.

Even days old, the tracks are clear. No one has disturbed this place.

“It’s a trap.” Faris lifts his torch to illuminate the shadowy corners of the empty lot. “That crackpot Cook was trying to get you to come here so she could ambush us.”

“It’s a riddle,” I say. “And I’ve always been good at riddles.” This one took me longer than most—days have passed since Cook’s visit. “Besides, an old crone against three Masks isn’t really an ambush.”

“She got the jump on you, didn’t she?” Faris’s cowlick tufts out, as it always seems to when he’s agitated. “Why would she even help you? You’re a Mask. She’s an escaped slave.”

“She’s got no love for the Commandant. And”—I gesture to the ground—“it’s clear the Commandant is hiding something.”

“Besides, there’s no ambush to be seen.” Dex turns to a door in the wall behind us. “But there is
salvation half-touched by shadow
. The door faces east. It’s only in shadow for half the day.”

I nod to the kiln. “And that’s the
sleepless spire of suffering
.
Most of the Scholars who work there are born and die in its shadow.”

“But these tracks—” Faris begins.

“There are only two
silver-skinned she-demons
in the Empire,” I say. “And one of them was getting tortured by Avitas Harper that night.” Harper, suffice it to say, wasn’t invited on this little outing.

I examine the tracks again. Why didn’t the Commandant bring backup? Why didn’t she tell anyone she saw Elias that night?

“I need to talk to Keris,” I say. “Find out if—”

“That’s a terrible idea,” a mild voice calls from the darkness behind me.

“Lieutenant Harper.” I greet the spy, glaring at Dex as I do so. He grimaces, handsome face uneasy. He was supposed to make sure Harper didn’t follow us. “Skulking in the shadows as usual. I suppose you’ll tell her all about this?”

“I don’t need to. You’re going to give it away when you ask about it. If the Commandant tried to hide what happened here, there’s a reason. We should learn what it is before revealing we’re on to her.”

Faris snorts, and Dex rolls his eyes.

Obviously, idiot. That’s what I’m going to do.
But Harper doesn’t need to know that. In fact, the stupider he thinks
I
am, the better. He can tell the Commandant that I’m no threat to her.

“There is no
we
, Harper.” I turn away from him. “Dex, check the reports from that night—see if there’s anyone around here who saw anything. Faris, you and Harper track the horse. It’s probably black or chestnut and at least seventeen hands. Quin didn’t like variety in his stables.”

“We’ll track the horse,” Harper says. “Leave the Commandant, Shrike.”

I ignore him, swing into my saddle, and make my way to Villa Veturia.

«««

I
t’s not yet midnight when I arrive at the Veturia mansion. There are far fewer soldiers here than when I visited a few days ago. Either the Emperor has found another residence or he’s away.
Probably in a brothel. Or off murdering children for fun.

As I’m escorted through the familiar halls, I wonder briefly about Marcus’s parents. Neither he nor Zak ever spoke of them. His father is a farrier in a village north of Silas, and his mother is a baker. What must they feel, with one son murdered by the other and the living one now crowned emperor?

The Commandant meets me in Quin’s study and offers me a seat. I don’t take it.

I try not to stare as she sits at Quin’s desk. She wears a black robe, and the blue swirls of her tattoo—oft theorized about at Blackcliff—are just visible at her neck. I’ve only ever seen her in uniform. Without it, she seems diminished.

As if sensing my thoughts, her eyes sharpen. “I owe you thanks, Shrike,” she says. “You saved my father’s life. I didn’t want to kill him, but he wouldn’t have given up the rulership of Gens Veturia easily. Getting him out of the city allowed him his dignity—and a smoother transition of power.”

She isn’t thanking me. She was enraged when she learned her father had escaped Serra. She’s letting me know that she
knows
I was the one who helped him. How did she find out? Persuading Quin not to storm Blackcliff’s dungeons to save Elias was practically impossible, and sneaking him out under the nose of his guards was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. We were careful—beyond careful.

“Have you seen Elias Veturius since the morning he escaped from Blackcliff?” I ask. She doesn’t betray a flicker of emotion.

“No.”

“Have you seen the Scholar Laia, formerly your slave, since she escaped from Blackcliff the same day?”

“No.”

“You are the Commandant of Blackcliff and adviser to the Emperor, Keris,” I say. “But as Blood Shrike, I outrank you. You do realize I could haul you into interrogation and have you purged.”

“Don’t pull rank with me, little girl,” the Commandant says softly. “The only reason you’re not already dead is that I—not Marcus,
I—
still have use for you. But”—she shrugs—“if you insist on a purging, I will, of course, submit.”

I still have use for you.

“Did you, on the night of Veturius’s escape, see him at a storage building on the eastern wall of the city, fight him there, lose, and get knocked unconscious while he and the slave escaped on a horse?”

“I just answered that question,” she says. “Was there anything else, Blood Shrike? The Scholar revolution has spread to Silas. At dawn, I’m to lead the force that will crush it.”

Her voice is as mild as ever. But for a moment, something flares in her eyes. A well-deep flicker of rage. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared. I’ll get nothing from her now.

“Good luck in Silas, Commandant.” As I turn to leave, she speaks.

“Before you go, Blood Shrike, congratulations are in order.” She allows herself a slight sneer. “Marcus is finalizing the paperwork now. Your sister’s betrothal to the Emperor does him great honor. Their heir will be legitimately Illustrian—”

I am out the door and across the courtyard, my head filled with a rushing that makes me sick. I hear my father when I asked him what he’d traded for my freedom.
Nothing important, daughter.
And Livia, a few nights ago, telling me Hannah was acting strange.
Like she knows something we don’t.

I tear past the guards and vault onto my horse. All I can think is:
Not Livvy. Not Livvy. Not Livvy.

Hannah is strong. She’s bitter. She’s angry. But Livvy—Livvy is sweet and funny and curious. Marcus will see it, and he will crush her. He’ll enjoy doing it.

I reach home, and before my horse has had a chance to stop, I’m sliding off and shoving through the front gates—straight into a courtyard packed full of Masks.

“Blood Shrike.” One of them steps forward. “You are to wait here—”

“Let her through.”

Marcus saunters out the front door of my house, my mother and father flanking him.
Bleeding skies, no.
The sight is so wrong that I want to scrub it from my eyes with lye. Hannah follows, head held high. The shine in her eyes bewilders me. Is it her, then? If so, why does she look happy? I’ve never hid my contempt of Marcus from her.

As they enter the courtyard, Marcus bows and kisses Hannah’s hand, the epitome of a well-behaved, highborn suitor.

Get the bleeding hells away from her, you pig.
I want to scream it. I bite my tongue.
He’s the Emperor. And you’re his Shrike.

When he rises, he inclines his head to my mother. “Set a date, Mater Aquilla. Don’t wait too long.”

“Will your family wish to attend, Your Imperial Majesty?” my mother asks.

“Why?” Marcus curls his lip. “Too Plebeian to go to a wedding?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” my mother says. “Only I have heard tell that your mother is a woman of great piousness. I expect that she would observe the Augurs’ suggested mourning period of four months quite strictly.”

A shadow passes over Marcus’s face. “Of course,” he says. “It will take as long for you to prove that Gens Aquilla is worthy.”

He approaches me, and at the horror in my eyes, he grins, all the more savage for the pain he’s just felt in remembering Zak. “Careful now, Shrike,” he says. “Your sister is to be in my care. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would you?”

“She—you—” While I gibber, Marcus strides out, his guards trailing. When our slaves have closed the courtyard gates behind him, I hear Hannah’s quiet laugh.

“Won’t you congratulate me, Blood Shrike?” she says. “I am to be Empress.”

She’s a fool, but she’s still my little sister, and I love her. I cannot let this stand.

“Father,” I say through gritted teeth. “I would speak with you.”

“You should not be here, Shrike,” my father says. “You have a mission to complete.”

“Can’t you see, Father?” Hannah whirls on me. “Ruining my marriage is more important to her than finding the traitor.”

My father looks a decade older than he did yesterday. “The betrothal papers have been signed by the Gens,” he says. “I had to save you, Helene. This was the only way.”

“Father, he is a murderer, a rapist—”

“Isn’t that every Mask, Shrike?” Hannah’s words are a slap in the face. “I heard you and your
bastard
friend speaking ill of Marcus. I know what I’m getting into.”