An Ember in the Ashes (11 page)

No. If I let myself go down that path, I won’t make it through the night, let alone survive weeks of spying on the Commandant.

As I pile shards of ceramic on the tray, I hear a rustle on the landing. I look up, cringing, terrified the Commandant has returned. But it’s only Kitchen-Girl. She kneels beside me and silently mops up the spilled tea with a cloth.

When I thank her, her head jerks up like a startled deer’s. She finishes mopping and scurries down the stairs.

Back in the empty kitchen, I place the tray in the sink and collapse at the worktable, letting my head fall into my hands. I’m too numb for tears. It occurs to me then that the Commandant’s office door is probably still open, her papers strewn about, visible to anyone with the courage to look.

Commandant’ s gone, Laia. Go up there and see what you can find.
Darin would do it. He’d see this as the perfect chance to gather information for the Resistance.

But I’m not Darin. And in this moment, I can’t think about the mission, or the fact that I’m a spy, not a slave. All I can think about is the throbbing in my back and the blood soaking my shirt.

You won’t survive the Commandant
,
Keenan had said.
The mission will fail.

I lower my head to the table, closing my eyes against the pain. He was right. Skies, he was
right.

T
he rest of leave disappears, and in no time, Grandfather is pelting me with advice as we roll toward Blackcliff in his ebony carriage. He spent half of my leave introducing me to the heads of powerful houses and the other half railing at me for not solidifying as many alliances as possible. When I told him I wanted to go visit Helene, he’d gone apoplectic.

“The girl’s befuddling your senses,” he’d raged. “Can’t you spot a siren when you see one?”
I choke back a laugh remembering this now, imagining Helene’s face if she knew she was being referred to as a siren.

Part of me feels sorry for Grandfather. He is a legend, a general who has won so many battles that no one counts them anymore. The men in his legions worshipped him not only for his courage and cunning but for his uncanny ability to evade death even when facing appalling odds.

But at seventy-seven, he’s long since ceased leading men into border wars. Which probably explains his fixation on the Trials.

Regardless of his reasoning, his advice is sound. I do
need to prepare for the Trials, and the best way to do that is to get more information about them. I’d hoped the Augurs had, at some point in time, expanded on their original prophecy—perhaps even described what the Aspirants should expect. But despite combing through Grandfather’s extensive library, I’ve found nothing.

“Damn you, listen to me.” Grandfather kicks me with a steel-toed boot, and I grab the seat of the carriage, pain shooting through my leg. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“The Trials are a test of my mettle. I might not know what’s in store, but I
must be prepared anyway. I must conquer my weaknesses and exploit competitors’ weaknesses. Above all, I must remember that a Veturius is—”

“Always victorious.”
We say it together, and Grandfather nods approvingly while I try not to betray my impatience.

More battles. More violence. All I want is to escape the Empire. Yet here I am.
True freedom—of body and soul.
That’s what I’m fighting for, I remind myself. Not rulership. Not power. Freedom.

“I wonder where your mother stands on all this,” Grandfather muses.

“She won’t favor me, that’s for sure.”

“No, she won’t,” Grandfather says. “But she knows you have the best odds of winning. Keris gains much if she backs the right Aspirant. And loses much if she backs the wrong one.” Grandfather looks broodingly out the carriage window. “I’ve heard strange rumors about my daughter. Things I might have once laughed at. She’ll do everything she can to keep you from winning this. Don’t expect anything less.”

When we arrive at Blackcliff amid dozens of other carriages, Grandfather crushes my hand in his grip.

“You will not disappoint Gens Veturia,” he informs me. “You will not disappoint
me
.” I wince at his handshake, wondering if my own will ever be as intimidating.

Helene finds me after Grandfather drives away. “Since everyone’s back to witness the Trials, there won’t be a new crop of Yearlings until the contest is over.” She waves to Demetrius, emerging from his father’s carriage a few yards away. “We’re still in our old barracks. And we’ll keep the same class schedule as before, except instead of Rhetoric and History, we have extra watches on the wall.”

“Even though we’re full Masks?”

“I don’t make the rules,” Helene says. “Come on, we’re late for scim training.”

We push through the throng of students toward Blackcliff’s front gate. “Did you find anything on the Trials?” I ask Hel. Someone taps my shoulder, but I ignore them. Probably an earnest Cadet trying to make class on time.

“Nothing,” Hel says. “Stayed up all night in Father’s library too.”

“Same here.” Damn. Pater Aquillus is a jurist, and his library is filled with everything from obscure law books to ancient Scholar tomes on mathematics. Between him and Grandfather, we have most relevant books in the Empire covered. There’s nowhere else to search. “We should check the— What, damn it?”

The tapping grows insistent, and I turn, intending to tell off the Cadet. Instead, I’m faced with a slave-girl looking up at me through impossibly long eyelashes. A heated, visceral shock flares through me at the clarity of her dark gold eyes. For a second, I forget my name.

I’ve never seen her before, because if I had, I’d remember. Despite the heavy silver cuffs and high, painful-looking bun that mark all of Blackcliff’s drudges, nothing about her says
slave
. Her black dress fits her like a glove, sliding over every curve in a way that makes more than one head turn. Her full lips and fine, straight nose would be the envy of most girls, Scholar or not. I stare at her, realize I’m staring, tell myself to stop staring, and then keep staring. My breath falters, and my body, traitor that it is, tugs me forward until there are only inches between us.

“Asp-aspirant Veturius.”

It’s the way she says my name—like it’s something to fear—that brings me back to myself.
Pull it together, Veturius.
I step away, appalled at myself when I see the terror in her eyes.

“What is it?” I ask calmly.

“The—the Commandant has requested you and Aspirant Aquilla to report to her office at—at sixth bell.”

“Sixth bell?” Helene shoves past the gate guards toward the Commandant’s house, apologizing to a group of Yearlings when she knocks two of them over. “We’re late. Why didn’t you summon us sooner?”

The girl trails us, too frightened to get closer. “There were so many people—I couldn’t find you.”

Helene waves off the girl’s explanation. “She’s going to kill us. It must be about the Trials, Elias. Maybe the Augurs told her something.” Helene hurries ahead, clearly still hoping to make it to my mother’s office on time.

“Are the Trials starting?” The girl claps her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I—”

“It’s all right.” I don’t smile at her. It will only scare her. For a female slave, a smile from a Mask is not usually a good thing. “I’m actually wondering the same thing. What’s your name?”

“S-slave-Girl.”

Of course. My mother would already have scourged her name out of existence.

“Right. You work for the Commandant?”

I want her to say no. I want her to say that my mother roped her into this. I want her to say she’s assigned to the kitchens or the infirmary, where slaves aren’t scarred or missing body parts.

But the girl nods in response to my question.
Don’t let my mother break you
,
I think. The girl meets my eyes, and there is that feeling again, low and hot and consuming.
Don’t be weak. Fight. Escape.

A gust of wind whips a strand free from her bun and across her cheekbone. Defiance flashes across her face as she holds my gaze, and for a second, I see my own desire for freedom mirrored, intensified in her eyes. It’s something I’ve
never detected in the eyes of a fellow student, let alone a Scholar slave. For one strange moment, I feel less alone.

But then she looks down, and I wonder at my own naïveté. She can’t fight. She can’t escape. Not from Blackcliff. I smile joylessly; in this, at least, the slave and I are more similar than she’ll ever know.

“When did you start here?” I ask her.

“Three days ago. Sir. Aspirant. Um—” She wrings her hands.

“Veturius is fine.”

She walks carefully, gingerly—the Commandant must have whipped her recently. And yet she doesn’t hunch or shuffle like the other slaves. The straight-backed grace with which she moves tells her story better than words. She’d been a freewoman before this—I’d bet my scims on it. And she has no idea how pretty she is—or what kind of problems her beauty will cause for her at a place like Blackcliff. The wind pulls at her hair again, and I catch her scent—like fruit and sugar.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Her head flies up like a scared animal’s. At least she’s wary. “Right now you . . . ”
Will grab the attention of every male in a square mile.
“Stand out,” I finish. “It’s hot, but you should wear a hood or a cloak—something to help you blend in.”

She nods, but her eyes are suspicious. She wraps her arms around herself and drops back a little. I don’t speak to her again.

When we arrive at my mother’s office, Marcus and Zak are already seated, clad in full battle armor. They fall silent as we enter, and it’s obvious they’ve been talking about us.

The Commandant ignores Helene and me and turns from her window,
where she’s been staring out at the dunes. She motions the slave-girl close, then backhands her so hard that blood flies from her mouth.

“I said sixth bell.”

Anger floods me, and the Commandant senses it. “Yes, Veturius?” Her lips purse, and she tilts her head as if to say,
Do you wish to interfere and bring my wrath down upon yourself?

Helene elbows me, and, fuming, I keep quiet.

“Get out,” Mother says to the trembling girl. “Aquilla, Veturius. Sit.”

Marcus watches the slave as she leaves. The lust on his face makes me want to push the girl out of the room faster while gouging the Snake’s eyes out. Zak, meanwhile, ignores the girl and glances surreptitiously at Helene. His angular face is pale, and purple shadows darken his eyes. I wonder how he and Marcus spent their leave. Helping their Plebeian father with his smithing? Visiting family? Plotting ways to kill me and Helene?

“The Augurs are otherwise occupied”—a strange, smug smile creeps onto the Commandant’s face—“and have asked that in their stead, I give you the details of the Trials. Here.” The Commandant slides a piece of parchment across her desk, and we all lean forward to read it.

Four they are, and four traits we seek:

Courage to face their darkest fears

Cunning to outwit their foes

Strength of arms and mind and heart

Loyalty to break the soul.

“It is a foretelling. You’ll learn its meaning in the coming days.” The Commandant faces her window again, her hands behind her back. I watch her reflection, unnerved at the self-satisfaction oozing off her. “The Augurs will
plan and judge the Trials. But since this contest is meant to weed out the weak, I have proposed to our holy men that you remain at Blackcliff for the duration of the Trial. The Augurs agreed.”

I stifle a snort. Of course the Augurs agreed. They know this place is hell, and they’ll want the Trials to be as difficult as possible.

“I have ordered the Centurions to intensify your training to reflect your status as Aspirants. I have no say in your conduct during the competition. However, outside the Trials, you are still subject to my rules. My punishments.” She begins to pace her office, and her eyes stab into me, warning of whippings and worse.

“If you win a Trial, you will receive a token from the Augurs—a prize, of sorts. If you pass a Trial but do not win, your reward is your life. If you fail a Trial, you will be executed.” She lets that pleasant fact sink in for a moment before going on.

“The Aspirant who wins two Trials first will be named victor. Whoever comes in second, with one win, will be named Blood Shrike. The others will die. There will be no tie. The Augurs wish me to stress that while the Trials are taking place, the accepted rules of sportsmanship apply. You will not engage in cheating, sabotage, or chicanery.”

I glance at Marcus. Telling him not to cheat is like telling him not to breathe.

“What about Emperor Taius?” Marcus says. “The Blood Shrike? The Black Guard? Gens Taia isn’t just going to disappear.”

“Taius will retaliate.” The Commandant passes behind me, and my neck prickles unpleasantly. “He has left Antium with his gens and is heading south to disrupt the Trials. But the Augurs shared another foretelling:
Waiting vines circle and strangle the oak. The way is made clear, just before the end.
”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus asks.

“It means that the Emperor’s actions are not our concern. As for the Blood Shrike and Black Guard, their loyalty lies with the Empire—not Taius. They will be the first to pledge themselves to the new dynasty.”

“When do the Trials begin?” Helene asks.

“They may commence at any time.” My mother finally sits and steeples her fingers, her expression remote. “And they may take any form. From the moment you leave this office, you must be prepared.”

“If they can take any form,” Zak speaks up for the first time, “then how are we supposed to prepare? How will we know they’ve begun?”

“You’ll know,” the Commandant says.

“But—”

“You’ll know.” She stares directly at Zak, and he falls silent. “Any other questions?” The Commandant doesn’t wait for a response. “Dismissed.”

We salute and file out. Not wanting to turn my back on the Snake and the Toad, I let them go ahead of me but immediately regret it. The slave-girl stands in the shadows near the stairs, and as Marcus passes her, he reaches out and yanks her close. She writhes in his grasp, trying to break his iron grip on her throat. He leans down and murmurs something to her. I reach for my scim, but Helene grabs my arm.

“Commandant,” she warns me. Behind us, my mother watches from her study door, arms crossed. “It’s her slave,” Helene whispers. “You’d be a fool to interfere.”

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” I turn to the Commandant, keeping my voice low.

“She’s a slave,” the Commandant says, as if that explains everything. “She’s
to receive ten lashes for her incompetence. If you’re intent on helping her, perhaps you wish to take on her punishment?”

“Of course not, Commandant.” Helene digs her nails into my arm and speaks for me, knowing that I’m on the verge of earning myself a whipping. She nudges me down the hall. “Leave it,” she says. “It’s not worth it.”

She doesn’t need to explain. The Empire doesn’t chance the loyalty of its Masks. The Black Guard will be all over me if they hear I’ve taken a whipping for a Scholar drudge.

Ahead of me, Marcus laughs and releases the girl, then follows Zak down the stairs. The girl gulps down air, bruises blooming on her neck.

Help her, Elias.
But I can’t. Hel is right. The risk of punishment is too great.