A Torch Against the Night (6 page)

“You have to save him. I understand. But, Laia, he’s more than just your brother. You must know that.” Elias looks back at me, gray eyes fierce. “The Empire’s steelcraft is the only reason no one has challenged the Martials. Every weapon from Marinn down to the Southern Lands breaks against our blades. Your brother could bring down the Empire with what he knows. No wonder the Resistance wanted him. No wonder the Empire sent him to Kauf instead of killing him. They’ll want to know if he’s shared his skills with anyone.”

“They don’t know he was Spiro’s apprentice,” I say. “They think he was a spy.”

“If we can free him and get him to Marinn”—Elias stops the horse at a rain-swollen creek and motions for me to dismount—“he could make weapons for the Mariners, the Scholars, the Tribes. He could change everything.”

Elias shakes his head and slides off the horse. As his boots hit the dirt, his legs buckle. He grabs the pommel of the saddle. His face blanches white as the moon, and he puts a hand to his temple.

“Elias?” Beneath my hand, his arm trembles. He shudders, just like he did when we first left Serra. “Are you—”

“Commandant landed a nasty kick,” Elias says. “Nothing serious. Just can’t seem to get my feet.” The color returns to his face, and he plunges a hand into a saddlebag, handing me a palmful of apricots so fat they are splitting their skins. He must have taken them from the orchards.

When the sweet fruit bursts between my lips, my heart twinges. I cannot eat apricots without thinking of my bright-eyed Nan and her jams.

Elias opens his mouth as if to say something. But he changes his mind and turns to fill the canteens from the creek. Still, I sense he’s working himself up to a question. I wonder if I’ll be able to answer it.
What was that creature you saw in my mother’s office? Why do you think the Augurs saved you?

“In the shed, with Keenan,” he finally says. “Did you kiss him? Or did he kiss you?”

I spit out my apricot, coughing, and Elias rises from the creek to pat me on the back. I had wondered if I should tell him about the kiss. In the end, I decided that with my life dependent on him, it was best to hold nothing back.

“I tell you my life story and
that’s
your first question? Why—”

“Why do you think?” His tilts his head, lifts his brows, and my stomach flips. “In any case,” he says, “you—you—”

He pales again, a strange expression crossing his face. Sweat beads on his forehead. “L-Laia, I don’t feel—”

His words slur, and he staggers. I grip his shoulder, trying to keep him upright. My hand comes away soaked—and not from the rain.

“Skies, Elias, you’re sweating—quite a lot.”

I grab his hand. It’s cold, clammy. “Look at me, Elias.” He stares down into my eyes, his pupils dilating wildly before a violent tremor shakes his body. He lurches toward the horse, but when he tries to take hold of the saddle, he misses and falls. I get under his arm before he cracks his head on the rocks of the creekside and lower him as gently as I’m able. His hands twitch.

This can’t be from the blow to the head.

“Elias,” I say. “Did you get cut anywhere? Did the Commandant use a blade on you?”

He grabs his bicep. “Just a scratch. Nothing seriou—”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he turns to me, trying to form words. Before he can, he seizes once. Then he drops like a stone, unconscious. It doesn’t matter—I already know what he’s going to say.

The Commandant poisoned him.

His body is frighteningly still, and I grab his wrist, panicked at the erratic stutter of his pulse. Despite the sweat pouring off him, his body is cold, not fevered. Skies, is this why the Commandant let us go?
Of course it is, Laia, you fool. She didn’t have to chase you or set an ambush. All she needed was to cut him—and the poison took care of the rest.

But it didn’t—at least not right away. My grandfather dealt with Scholars maimed by poisoned blades. Most died within an hour of being wounded. But it took several hours for Elias to even react to this poison.

She didn’t use enough. Or the cut wasn’t deep enough.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he still lives.

“Sorry,” he moans. I think at first that he is speaking to me, but his eyes remain shut. He puts up his hands, as if warding something off. “Didn’t want to. My order—should have—”

I tear off a piece of my cloak and stuff it in Elias’s mouth, lest he bite off his own tongue. The wound on his arm is shallow and hot. The moment I touch it, he thrashes, spooking the horse.

I dig through my pack with its vials of medicines and herbs, finally finding something with which to cleanse the wound. As soon as the cut is clean, Elias’s body grows slack and his face, rigid with pain, relaxes.

His breathing is still shallow, but at least he is not convulsing. His lashes are dark crescents against the gold skin of his face. He looks younger in sleep. Like the boy I danced with on the night of the Moon Festival.

I reach out a hand and place it against his jaw, rough with stubble, warm with life. It pours from him, this vitality—when he fights, when he rides. Even now, with his body battling poison, he throbs with it.

“Come on, Elias.” I lean over him, speaking into his ear. “Fight back. Wake up.
Wake up.
”

His eyes fly open, he spits out the gag, and I snatch my hand back from his face. Relief sweeps through me. Awake and injured is always better than unconscious and injured. Immediately, he lurches to his feet. Then he doubles over and dry-heaves.

“Lay down.” I push him to his knees and rub his broad back, the way Pop did with ill patients.
Touch can heal more than herbs and poultices.
“We have to figure out the poison so we can find an antidote.”

“Too late.” Elias relaxes into my hands for a moment before reaching for his canteen and drinking the contents down. When he finishes, his eyes are clearer, and he tries to stand. “Antidotes for most poisons need to be given within an hour. But if the poison were going to kill me, it would have already. Let’s get moving.”

“To where, exactly?” I demand. “The foothills? Where there are no cities or apothecaries? You’re
poisoned
,
Elias. If an antidote won’t help, then you at least need medicine to treat the seizures, or you’ll be blacking out from here to Kauf,” I say. “Only you’ll die before we get there, because no one can survive such convulsions for long. So sit down and let me think.”

He stares at me in surprise and sits.

I pore over the year I spent with Pop as an apprentice healer. The memory of a little girl pops into my head. She had convulsions and fainting spells.

“Tellis extract,” I say. Pop gave the girl a drachm of it. Within a day, the symptoms eased. In two days, they stopped. “It will give your body a chance to fight the poison.”

Elias grimaces. “We could find it in Serra or Navium.”

Only we can’t go back to Serra, and Navium is in the opposite direction from Kauf.

“What about Raider’s Roost?” My stomach twists in dread at the idea. The giant rock is a lawless cesspit of society’s detritus—highwaymen, bounty hunters, and black market profiteers who know only the darkest corruption. Pop went there a few times to find rare herbs. Nan never slept while he was gone.

Elias nods. “Dangerous as the ten hells, but filled with people who wish to go as unnoticed as we do.”

He rises again, and while I’m impressed by his strength, I’m also horrified by the callous way he treats his body. He fumbles at the reins of the horse.

“Another seizure soon, Laia.” He taps the horse behind its left front leg. It sits. “Tie me on with rope. Head straight southeast.” He heaves himself into the saddle, listing dangerously to one side.

“I feel them coming,” he whispers.

I wheel about, expecting the hoofbeats of an Empire patrol, but all is silent. When I look back at Elias, his eyes are fixed on a point past my head. “Voices. Calling me back.”

Hallucinations.
Another effect of the poison. I bind Elias to the stallion with rope from his pack, fill the canteens, and mount up. Elias slumps against my back, blacked out again. His smell, rain and spice, washes over me, and I take a steadying breath.

My sweat-damp fingers slide along the horse’s reins. As if the beast senses I know nothing about riding, it tosses its head and pulls at the bit. I wipe my hands on my shirt and tighten my grip.

“Don’t you dare, you nag,” I say to its rebellious snort. “It’s you and me for the next few days, so you better listen to what I say.” I give the horse a light kick, and to my relief, it trots forward. We turn southeast, and I dig my heels deeper. Then we are away, into the night.

V
oices surround me, quiet murmurs that remind me of a Tribal camp awakening: the whispers of men soothing horses and children kindling breakfast fires.

I open my eyes, expecting the sunshine of the Tribal desert, unabashedly bright, even at dawn. Instead, I stare up at a canopy of trees. The murmuring grows muted, and the air is weighty with the green scents of pine needles and moss-softened bark. It’s dark, but I can make out the pitted trunks of great trees, some as wide as houses. Beyond the branches above, snatches of blue sky darken swiftly to gray, as if a storm approaches.

Something darts through the trees, disappearing when I turn. The leaves rustle, whispering like a battlefield of ghosts. The murmurs I heard rise and fade, rise and fade.

I stand. Though I expect pain to shoot through every limb, I feel nothing. The absence of pain is strange—and wrong.

Wherever I am, I shouldn’t be here. I should be with Laia, headed toward Raider’s Roost. I should be awake, fighting the Commandant’s poison. On instinct, I reach back for my scims. They aren’t there.

“No heads to lop off in the ghost world, you murdering bastard.”

I know that voice, though I’ve rarely heard it so heavily laced with vitriol.

“Tristas?”

My friend appears as he did in life, hair dark as pitch, the tattoo of his beloved’s name standing out in sharp relief against his pale skin.
Aelia.
He looks nothing like a ghost. But he must be. I
saw
him die in the Third Trial, on the end of Dex’s scim.

He doesn’t feel like a ghost either—something I realize with abrupt violence when, after considering me for a moment, he slams his fist into my jaw.

The burst of pain that shoots through my skull is dulled to half what it should be. Still, I back away. The hatred behind the punch was more powerful than the blow itself.

“That was for letting Dex kill me in the Trial.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have stopped him.”

“Doesn’t matter, seeing as I’m still dead.”

“Where are we? What is this place?”

“The Waiting Place. It’s for the dead who are not ready to move on, apparently. Leander and Demetrius left. Not me, though. I’m stuck listening to this bleating.”

Bleating?
I assume he’s referring to the murmur of the ghosts flitting through the trees, which to me is no more irritating than the swish of ocean tide.

“But I’m not dead.”

“Didn’t
she
show up to give you her little speech?” Tristas asks.
“Welcome to the Waiting Place, the realm of ghosts.
I am the Soul Catcher, and I am here to help you cross to the other side.”

When I shake my head, mystified, Tristas flashes me a malevolent smile. “Well, she’ll be here soon enough, trying to bully you into moving on. All of this is hers.” He gestures to the Forest, to the spirits still murmuring beyond the tree line. Then his face changes—twists.

“It’s her!” He disappears into the trees with unnatural speed. Alarmed, I spin around and see a shadow pull free from a nearby trunk.

I keep my hands loose at my sides—ready to grab, throttle, punch. The figure draws closer, moving not at all like a person. It is too fluid, too fast.

But when it’s only a few feet away, it slows and resolves into a trim, dark-haired woman. Her face is unlined, but I cannot guess her age. Her black irises and ancient stare suggest something I can’t fathom.

“Hello, Elias Veturius.” Her earthy voice is strangely accented, as if she’s not used to speaking Serran. “I am the Soul Catcher, and I am pleased to finally meet you. I’ve watched you now, for a time.”

Right.
“I need to get out of here.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Her voice is soft. “The hurt you cause? The pain? I can see it.” Her eyes trace the air about my head, my shoulders. “You carry it with you. Why? Does it bring you happiness?”

“No.” I recoil from the thought. “I don’t mean to—I don’t want to hurt people.”

“Yet you destroy all those who get close to you. Your friends. Your grandfather. Helene Aquilla. You hurt them.” She pauses as the horrible truth of her words sinks in. “I don’t watch those on the other side,” she says. “But you are different.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say. “I’m not dead.”

She regards me for a long time before cocking her head like a curious bird. “But you are dead,” she says. “You just don’t know it yet.”

«««

M
y eyes jolt open to a sky covered in clouds. It’s mid-morning, and I’m slumped forward, my head jouncing in the space between Laia’s neck and shoulder. Low hills rise and fall around us, dotted with Jack trees, tumbleweeds, and little else. Laia moves the horse southeast at a trot, straight toward Raider’s Roost. At my movement, she twists around.

“Elias!” She slows the horse. “You’ve been blacked out for hours. I—I thought you might not wake up.”

“Don’t stop the horse.” I possess none of the strength I felt in my hallucination, but I force myself to sit up. Dizziness sweeps over me, and my tongue is heavy in my mouth.
Stay, Elias
, I tell myself.
Don’t let the Soul Catcher pull you back.
“Keep us moving—the soldiers—”

“We rode through the night. I saw soldiers, but they were far away and heading south.” Shadows have settled beneath her eyes, and her hands shake. She’s exhausted. I take the reins from her, and she sags back against me, closing her eyes.