An Ember in the Ashes (21 page)

The warmth of his body envelops me like a cocoon. I feel suddenly, deliciously breathless. But then he breaks eye contact, his fine features cold. The prickle of rejection tingles unpleasantly across my skin even as we continue to dance.

He’s your handler, Laia. That’s all.
“If it makes you feel any better, I thought I’d be dead within a week too.” I smile, and he gives me a quirk of
his mouth in return.
He holds happiness at bay
, I realize.
He doesn’t trust it.
“Do you still think I’m going to fail?” I ask.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He glances down at me and then quickly away. “But I didn’t want to risk the men. Or—or you.” He mutters these words, and I lift my eyebrows in disbelief.

“Me?” I say. “You threatened to shove me into a crypt five seconds after meeting me.”

Keenan’s neck reddens, and he’s still refusing to look at me. “I’m sorry about that. I was a . . . a . . . ”

“Jackass?” I offer helpfully.

He smiles in full this time, dazzling and all too brief. When he nods, it’s almost shy, but moments later, he’s serious again.

“When I said you would fail, I was trying to scare you. I didn’t want you to go to Blackcliff.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew your father. No—that’s not right.” He shakes his head. “Because I
owe
your father.”

I stop mid-dance, only picking up again when someone jostles us.

Keenan takes that as his cue to continue. “He picked me up off the streets when I was six. It was winter, and I was begging. Not very successfully, either. I was probably a few hours from dead. Your father brought me to camp, clothed me, fed me. He gave me a bed. A family. I’ll never forget his face, or how he sounded when he asked me to come with him. Like I was doing him a favor instead of the other way around.”

I smile. That was my father, all right.

“The first time I saw your face in the light, you looked familiar. I couldn’t place you, but I—I knew you. When you told us . . . ” He shrugs.

“I don’t agree with the old-timers about much,” he says, “but I do agree that it’s wrong to leave your brother in prison when we can help him—especially since it’s our men who put him there, and especially since your parents did more for most of us than we can ever repay them for. But sending you to Blackcliff . . . ” He scowls. “That’s poor repayment to your father. I know why Mazen did it. He needed to make both factions happy, and giving you a mission was the best way. But I still don’t think it’s right.”

Now I’m the one flushing, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to me, and there’s a vehemence in his face that’s almost too much.

“I’m doing my best to survive,” I say lightly. “Lest you waste away with guilt.”

“You
will
survive,” Keenan says. “All of the rebels have lost someone. It’s why they fight. But you and me? We’re the ones who’ve lost everyone. Everything. We’re alike, Laia. So you can trust me when I say that you’re strong, whether you know it or not. You’ll find that entrance. I know you will.”

They are the warmest words I’ve heard in so long. Our eyes lock again, but this time, Keenan doesn’t look away. The rest of the world fades as we whirl. I say nothing, for the quiet between us is sweet and graceful and of our own choosing. And though he, too, doesn’t speak, his dark eyes smolder, telling me something I don’t quite understand. Desire, low and dizzying, unfurls in my stomach. I want to hold this closeness to me as if it’s a treasure. I don’t want to release it. But then the music stops, and Keenan lets go of me.

“Get back safe.” His words are perfunctory, as if he’s speaking to one of his fighters. I feel as if I’ve been doused with river water.

Without another word, he disappears into the crowd. The fiddlers begin a different tune, the dance picks up around me, and like a fool, I stare into the crush, knowing he won’t come back but hoping anyway.

S
neaking into the Moon Festival is child’s play.

I pocket my Mask—my face serves as my best disguise—and burgle riding clothes and a pack from a Tribal caravan. After that, I break into an apothecary for willadonna, a physician’s staple that, when pressed into an oil, dilates the pupils wide enough for a Martial to pass as a Scholar or Tribesman for an hour or two.

Easy. Moments after putting the willadonna in, I’m swept into the heart of the festival with a tide of Scholars. I count twelve exits and identify twenty potential weapons before I realize what I’m doing and force myself to relax.

I pass food stalls and dance stages, jugglers and fire-eaters, acrobats,
Kehannis
, singers, and players. Musicians strum ouds and lyres, guided by the jubilant beat of drums.

I pull out of the crowds, suddenly disoriented. It’s been so long since I’ve heard drums as music that I instinctively try to translate the beats into orders and find myself bewildered when I cannot.

When I finally am able to push the thudding to the back of my head, I’m bowled over by the colors and smells and unadulterated joy around me. Even as a Fiver, I never saw anything like this. Not in Marinn or the Tribal deserts, not even beyond the Empire, where woad-coated Barbarians danced beneath starlight for days, as if possessed.

A pleasant peacefulness steals over me. No one looks at me with loathing or fear. I don’t have to watch my back or keep up the granite exterior.

I feel free.

For a few minutes I meander through the crowd, eventually making my
way to the dance stages, where I’ve spotted Laia and Izzi. The two were surprisingly difficult to follow. While tracking them through the docks, I lost sight of Laia a few times altogether. But once in the Quarter, under the bright lights of the sky lanterns, I find the girls easily.

At first, I think to approach them, tell them who I am, and get them back to Blackcliff. But they look like I feel. Free. Happy. I can’t bring myself to ruin it for them, not when their lives are ordinarily so dismal. So instead, I watch.

They both wear plain black silk dresses, which, while excellent for sneaking around and keeping slaves’ cuffs hidden, don’t blend so well into the rainbow plumage of the throng.

Izzi has let her blonde hair fall into her face, masking her eyepatch surprisingly well. She makes herself small, barely noticeable as she peeks out from the curtain of her hair.

Laia, on the other hand, would be noticeable pretty much anywhere. The high-necked dress she’s wearing clings to her body in ways I find painfully unfair. Beneath the light of the sky lanterns, her skin glows the color of warm honey. She holds her head high, the elegance of her neck heightened by the inky fall of her hair.

I want to touch that hair, smell it, run my hands through it, wrap it around my wrist and—
damn it, Veturius, get a hold of yourself. Stop staring.

After I pull my eyes from her, I realize that I’m not the only one dumbstruck. Many of the young men around me sneak glances at her. She doesn’t seem to notice, which, of course, makes her all the more intriguing.

And here you are, Elias, staring at her again. You twit.
This time, my attention hasn’t gone unobserved.

Izzi is watching me.

The girl might have only one eye, but I’m fairly certain she sees more than most.
Get out of here, Elias
,
I tell myself.
Before she figures out why you look so damn familiar.

Izzi leans over and whispers something into Laia’s ear. I’m about to walk away when Laia looks up at me.

Her eyes are a dark jolt. I should look away. I should leave. She’ll figure out who I am if she stares long enough. But I can’t bring myself to move. For a heavy, heated moment, we are immobile, content to watch each other.
Skies, she’s beautiful.
I smile at her, and the blush that rises on her face makes me feel oddly triumphant.

I want to ask her to dance. I want to touch her skin and talk to her and pretend that I’m just a normal Tribal boy and she’s just a normal Scholar girl.
Stupid idea
,
my mind warns.
She’ll recognize you.

So what? What would she do? Turn me in? She can’t tell the Commandant she saw me here without incriminating herself too.

But while I’m still considering, a muscular, red-haired boy comes up behind her. He touches her shoulder with a possessiveness in his eyes that I don’t like. Laia, in return, stares at him as if no one else exists. Maybe she knew him before she became a slave. Maybe he’s the reason she snuck out. I scowl and look away. He’s not bad-looking, I suppose, but he seems too grim to be any fun.

Also, he’s shorter than me. Considerably shorter. Half a foot, at least.

Laia leaves with the redhead. Izzi gets up after a moment and follows.

“Looks like she’s taken, lad
.
”
A Tribal girl wearing a bright green dress covered in tiny circular mirrors sashays up to me, her dark hair done up in hundreds of braids. She speaks Sadhese, the Tribal tongue I grew up with.
Against her dusky skin, her smile is a blinding flash of white, and I find myself returning it. “I guess I’ll have to do,” she says.

Without waiting for a reply, she pulls me to the dance floor, a remarkably bold thing for a Tribal girl to do. I look at her closely and realize that she’s not a girl but a grown woman, perhaps a few years older than me. I eye her warily. Most Tribeswomen have a few children by their midtwenties.

“Don’t you have a husband who’ll take off my head if he sees me dancing with you?” I respond in Sadhese.

“I don’t. Why, are you interested in the position?” She runs a warm, slow finger down the skin of my chest and stomach, all the way to my belt. For the first time in a decade or so, I blush. Her wrist, I notice, is free of the Tribal braid tattoo that would mark her as married.

“What’s your name and Tribe, lad?” she asks. She’s a good dancer, and when I match her step for step, I can tell she’s pleased.

“Ilyaas.” I haven’t spoken my Tribal name in years. Grandfather Martialized it within about five minutes of meeting me. “Ilyaas An-Saif.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s a mistake. The story of Mamie Rila’s adopted son being taken to Blackcliff isn’t well known—the Empire ordered Tribe Saif to keep it quiet. Still, Tribesmen love to talk.

But if the woman recognizes the name, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m Afya Ara-Nur,” she says.

“Shadows and light,” I translate her first name and her Tribal name. “Fascinating combination.”

“Mostly shadows, to be honest.” She leans toward me, and the smolder in her brown eyes makes my heart beat a little faster. “But keep that between us.”

I tilt my head as I look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Tribal woman
with such sultry self-possession. Not even a
Kehanni
. Afya smiles a secret smile and asks me a few polite questions about Tribe Saif. How many weddings have we had in the past month? How many births? Will we journey to Nur for the Fall Gathering? Though the questions are suitable for a Tribal woman, I’m not fooled. Her simple words don’t match the sharp intelligence of her eyes. Where is her family? Who is she, really?

As if sensing my suspicion, Afya tells me of her brothers: rug-traders based in Nur, here to sell their wares before bad weather closes off the mountain passes. As she speaks, I look around surreptitiously for these brothers of hers—Tribal men are notoriously protective of their unwed women, and I’m not looking for a fight. But though there are plenty of Tribesmen in the crowd, none of them so much as look at Afya.

We stay together for three dances. When the last is over, Afya curtsies and offers me a wooden coin with a sun on one side and clouds on the other.

“A gift,” she says. “For honoring me with such fine dances, Ilyaas An-Saif.”

“The honor is mine.” I’m surprised. Tribal tokens mark a favor owed—they’re not offered lightly and are rarely given out by women.

As if she knows what I’m thinking, Afya stands on her tiptoes. She’s so tiny, I have to stoop to hear her. “If the heir of Gens Veturia should ever need a favor,
Ilyaas
,
Tribe Nur will be honored to be of service.” Immediately my body tenses, but she puts two fingers to her lips—the most binding of Tribal vows. “Your secret is safe with Afya Ara-Nur.”

I raise an eyebrow. Whether she recognized the name Ilyaas or has seen me around Serra masked, I don’t know. Whoever Afya Ara-Nur is, she’s no simple Tribal woman. I nod in acknowledgment, and her white teeth flash.

“Ilyaas . . . ” She drops down, no longer whispering. “Your lady is free
now—see.” I look over my shoulder. Laia has returned to the dance stage and is watching the redhead walk away from her. “You must claim her for a dance,” Afya says. “Go on!”

She gives me a small shove and disappears, the bells on her ankle tinkling. I stare after her for a moment, looking at the coin thoughtfully before pocketing it. Then I turn and make my way to Laia.

“M
ay I?”

My mind is still on Keenan, and I am startled to find the Tribal boy standing beside me. For a moment I can only stare dumbly up at him.

“Would you like to dance?” he clarifies, offering a hand. The low hood shadows his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile.

“Um . . . I . . . ” Now that I’ve given my report, Izzi and I should get back to Blackcliff. Dawn is still a few hours away, but I shouldn’t risk getting caught.

“Ah.” The boy smiles. “The redhead. Your . . . husband?”

“What? No!”

“Fiancé?”

“No. He’s not—”

“Lover?” The boy lifts an eyebrow suggestively.

My face grows hot. “He’s my—my friend.”

“Then why worry?” The boy flashes a grin tinged with wickedness, and I find myself smiling in return.
I glance over my shoulder at Izzi, talking to an earnest-looking Scholar. She laughs at something he says, her hands, for once, not straying to her eyepatch. When she catches me watching, she looks between the Tribal boy and me and waggles her eyebrows. My face goes hot again. One dance can’t hurt; we can leave after.

The fiddlers are playing a lilting ballad, and at my nod, the boy takes my hands as confidently as if we’ve been friends for years. Despite his height and the width of his shoulders, he leads with a grace that is effortless and sensual all at once. When I peek at him, I find him staring down at me, a faint smile on his lips. My breath hitches, and I cast about for something to say.

“You don’t sound like a Tribesman.” There. That’s neutral enough. “You’ve hardly got an accent.” Though his eyes are Scholar-dark, his face is all edges and hard lines. “You don’t really look like one either.”

“I can say something in Sadhese, if you like.” He drops his lips to my ear, and the spice of his breath sends a pleasant shiver through me.
“Menaya es poolan dila dekanala.”

I sigh. No wonder Tribesmen can sell anything. His voice is warm and deep, like summer honey dripping off the comb.

“What—” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat. “What does it mean?”

He gives me that smile again. “I’d really have to show you.”

Up comes the blush. “You’re very bold.” I narrow my eyes. Where
have
I seen him before? “Do you live around here? You seem familiar.”

“And you’re calling me bold?”

I look away, realizing how my comment must sound. He chuckles in response, low and hot, and my breath catches again. I feel suddenly sorry for the girls in his tribe.

“I’m not from Serra,” he says. “So. Who’s the redhead?”

“Who’s the brunette?” I challenge back.

“Ah, you were spying on me. That’s very flattering.”

“I wasn’t—I was—so were you!”

“It’s all right,” he says reassuringly. “I don’t mind if you spy on me. The brunette is Afya of Tribe Nur. A new friend.”

“Just a friend? Looked to me like a bit more than that.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “You never answered my question. About Red?”

“Red is a friend.” I mimic the boy’s pensive tone. “A new friend.”

The boy tosses his head back and laughs, a laugh that falls gentle and wild like desert rain. “You live in the Quarter?” he asks.

I hesitate. I can’t tell him I’m a slave. Slaves aren’t allowed at the Moon Festival. Even a stranger to Serra will know that.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve lived in the Quarter for years with my grandparents. And—and my brother. Our house isn’t far from here.”

I don’t know why I say it. Perhaps I think that by speaking the words, they will prove true, and I will turn to see Darin flirting with girls, Nan hawking her jams, and Pop dealing, ever gently, with overly worried patients.

The boy spins me around and then pulls me back into the circle of his arms, closer than before. His smell, spicy and heady and bizarrely familiar, makes me want to lean closer, to inhale. The hard planes of his muscles press into me, and when his hips brush mine, I nearly fumble my steps.

“And how do you fill your days?”

“Pop’s a healer.” My voice falters at the lie, but since I can’t very well tell him the truth, I rush on. “My brother’s his apprentice. Nan and I make jam. Mostly for the tribes.”

“Mmm. You strike me as a jam-maker.”

“Really? Why?”

He grins down at me. Up close, his eyes look almost black, especially shadowed as they are by long eyelashes. Right now, they shine with barely restrained mirth. “Because you’re so sweet,” he says in a mock-saccharine voice.

The mischief in his eyes makes me forget, for a too-brief second, that I am a slave and that my brother is in prison and that everyone else I love is dead. Laughter explodes out of me like a song, and my eyes blur and tear. A snort escapes, which sets my dance partner to laughing, which makes me laugh harder. Only Darin ever made me laugh like this. The release is foreign and familiar, like crying, but without the pain.

“What’s your name?” I ask, as I wipe my face.

But instead of answering, he goes still, his head cocked as if he’s listening for something. When I speak, he puts a finger to my lips. A moment later, his face hardens.

“We have to go,” he says. If he didn’t look so dead serious, I’d think he was trying to get me to come with him to his camp. “A raid—a Martial raid.”

Around us, dancers spin on obliviously. None of them has heard the boy. Drums thump, children scamper and giggle. All seems well.

Then he shouts it, loud enough that everyone can hear. “Raid! Run!” His deep voice echoes across the dance stages, as commanding as a soldier’s. The fiddlers stop mid-note, the drums cease. “Martial raid! Get out! Go!”

A burst of light shatters the silence—one of the sky lamps has exploded—and another—and another. Arrows zing through the air—the Martials are shooting out the lights, hoping to leave the festival-goers in darkness so they can herd us easily.

“Laia!” Izzi is beside me, eye wide with panic. “What’s happening?”

“Some years the Martials let us have the festival. Other years they don’t. We have to get out of here.” I grab Izzi’s hand, wishing I’d never brought her, wishing I’d thought more of her safety.

“Follow me.” The boy doesn’t wait for an answer, just pulls me to a nearby street, one that isn’t yet flooded with people. He keeps to the walls, and I follow behind, holding tightly to Izzi and hoping it’s not too late for us to escape.

When we reach the middle of the street, the Tribesman pulls us into a narrow, trash-strewn alley. Screams rend the air and steel flashes. Seconds later, festival-goers stream past, many falling out of sight, cut down as they run, like stalks of wheat beneath a sickle.

“We have to get out of the Quarter before they lock it down,” the Tribesman says. “Anyone caught in the streets will be thrown into Ghost Wagons. You’ll have to move fast. Can you do that?”

“We—we can’t go with you.” I pull my hand from the boy’s. He’ll head for his caravan, but Izzi and I will find no safety there. Once his people see we’re slaves, they’ll turn us over to the Martials, who will turn us over to the Commandant. And then . . .

“We don’t live in the Quarter. I’m sorry I lied.” I back away, pulling Izzi with me, knowing that the quicker we go our separate ways, the better it will be for all concerned. The Tribesman shoves back his hood to reveal a head of close-cropped black hair.

“I know that,” he says. And though his voice is the same, there’s something subtly different about him. A menace, a power in his body that wasn’t there before. Without thinking, I take another step back. “You have to go to Blackcliff,” he says.

For a moment, his words don’t register. When they do, my knees go weak. He’s a spy.
Did he see my slaves’ cuffs? Did he overhear me talking to Mazen? Will he turn Izzi and me in?

Then Izzi gasps. “A-aspirant Veturius?”

When Izzi says his name, it’s like lamplight flooding a murky chamber. His features, his height, his easy grace—everything makes perfect sense—and yet no sense at all. What is an Aspirant doing at a Moon Festival? Why was he trying to pass as a Tribesman? Where’s his damned mask?

“Your eyes . . . ”
They were dark
,
I think wildly.
I’m sure they were dark.

“Willadonna,” he says. “Broadens the pupils. Look, we should really—”

“You’re spying on me for the Commandant,” I burst out. It’s the only
explanation. Keris Veturia ordered her son to follow me, to see what I know. But if that’s the case, he probably overheard me talking to Mazen and Keenan. He has more than enough information to turn me in for treason. Why dance with me? Why laugh and joke with me? Why warn the festival-goers about the raid?

“I wouldn’t spy for her if it meant my life.”

“Then why are you here? There’s no possible reason—”

“There is, but it’s not one I can explain right now.” Veturius looks to the streets, then adds, “We can argue about it if you like. Or we can get the hell out of here.”

He’s a Mask, and I should look away from him. I should show my subservience. But I can’t stop staring. It’s a jolt, his face. A few minutes ago, I thought he was beautiful. I thought his words in Sadhese were hypnotic. I danced with a Mask. A bleeding, burning Mask.

Veturius peers out of the alleyway and shakes his head. “The legionnaires will have sealed off the Quarter by the time we get to one of the gates. We’ll have to take the tunnels and hope they haven’t sealed those off.” He moves confidently to a grate in the alleyway, as if he knows exactly where we are in the Quarter.

When I don’t follow, he makes a sound of irritation. “Look, I’m not in league with her,” he says. “In fact, if she finds out I came here, she’ll probably flay me. Slowly. But that’s nothing compared to what she’ll do to you if you’re caught in this raid or if she discovers you missing from Blackcliff at dawn. If you want to live, you’ll have to trust me. Now move.”

Izzi does as he says, and reluctantly, I follow, my whole body rebelling at the thought of putting my life in the hands of a Mask.

Almost as soon as we drop down into the tunnel, Veturius pulls fatigues and boots from the bag across his chest and begins tearing off his Tribal clothes. My face burns, and I turn away, but not before seeing the chilling map of silvery scars across his back.

Seconds later, he walks past us, masked once more and gesturing for us to follow. Izzi and I run to keep up with his long strides. He moves stealthily as a cat, silent but for a word of encouragement here and there.

We make our way north and east through the catacombs, stopping only to avoid passing Martial patrols. Veturius never falters. When we reach a pile of skulls blocking the passage ahead, he moves a few aside and helps us through the opening. When the tunnel we’re in narrows to a locked grate, he plucks two pins from my hair and picks the lock in seconds. Izzi and I exchange a glance at that—his sheer competence is unnerving.

I’ve no idea how much time has passed. At least two hours. It must be nearly dawn. We won’t make it back on time. The Commandant will catch us. Skies, I shouldn’t have brought Izzi. I shouldn’t have put her at risk.

My wound chafes against my dress until it’s bleeding. It is only a few days old, and the infection has lingered. The pain combined with my fear makes me lightheaded.

Veturius slows when he sees my face. “We’re almost there,” he says. “Do you need me to carry you?”

I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to be close to him again. I don’t want to breathe in his smell or feel the warmth of his skin.

Eventually, we stop. Low voices mutter from around a corner ahead of us, and a flickering torch deepens the shadows the light can’t reach.

“All the underground entrances to Blackcliff are guarded,” Veturius
whispers. “This one has four guards. If they see you, they’ll sound an alarm, and these tunnels will be swarming with soldiers.” He looks between Izzi and me to make sure we understand before going on. “I’m going to draw them off. When I say
docks
, you’ll have a minute to get around this corner, up the ladder, and out the grate. When I say
Madame Moh’s
, it means you’re nearly out of time. Shut the grate behind you. You’ll be in Blackcliff’s main cellar. Wait for me there.”

Veturius disappears into the gloom of a tunnel just behind us. A few minutes later, we hear what sounds like drunken singing. I peer around the corner to see the guards elbowing each other and grinning. Two leave to investigate. Veturius’s voice is convincingly slurred, and there’s a loud crash followed by a curse and burst of laughter. One of the soldiers who’s gone to investigate calls to the other two. They disappear. I lean forward, preparing to run.
Come on. Come on.

Finally, Veturius’s voice drifts down the tunnels:

“—dow’ by the docksh—”

Izzi and I bolt for the ladder, and in seconds, we’ve reached the grate. I’m congratulating myself on our speed when Izzi, perched above me, lets out a strangled cry.

“I can’t get it open!”

I climb past her, grab the grate, and shove it upward. It doesn’t budge.

The guards get closer. I hear another loud crash and then Veturius saying, “The best girls are at Madame Moh’s, they really know how to
—
”

“Laia!” Izzi looks frantically toward the fast-approaching torchlight.
Ten burning hells.
With a muffled grunt, I throw my whole body toward the grate, wincing at the pain lancing through my torso. The grate creaks open
unwillingly, and I practically shove Izzi through before leaping up myself, shutting it just as the soldiers emerge into the tunnel below.

Izzi takes cover behind a barrel, and I join her. A few seconds later, Veturius climbs out of the grate, giggling drunkenly. Izzi and I exchange another glance, and as preposterous as it is, I find I’m suppressing my laughter.

“Thanksh, boys,” Veturius calls down into the tunnel. He slams the grate shut, spots us, and holds a finger to his lips. The soldiers can still hear us through the slats in the grate.

“Aspirant Veturius,” Izzi whispers. “What will happen to you if the Commandant finds out you’ve helped us?”

“She won’t find out,” Veturius says. “Unless you plan on telling her, which I don’t suggest. Come on, I’ll take you back to your quarters.”