An Ember in the Ashes (20 page)

“Forget it,” she says. “I have to get to watch.”

“Aspirant Veturius.” A Yearling jogs toward me, a note in his hand. I take the note from him, all the while asking Helene to wait. But she ignores me and, even as I’m trying to explain, she walks away.

H
ours after telling Keenan I’d get out of Blackcliff to meet him, I feel like the world’s biggest fool. Tenth bell has come and gone. The Commandant dismissed me and retreated to her room an hour ago. She shouldn’t emerge until dawn, especially since I spiked her tea with kheb leaf—a scentless, tasteless herb Pop used to help patients rest. Cook and Izzi are asleep in their quarters. The house is silent as a mausoleum.

And still I sit in my room, trying to concoct a way out of this place.

I can’t just walk past the gate guards so late at night. Bad things happen to slaves foolish enough to do so. Besides which, the risk that the Commandant will hear about my midnight wandering is too great.

But I can, I decide, create a distraction and
sneak
past the guards. I think back to the flames that consumed my house on the night of the raid. Nothing distracts better than fire.

So, armed with tinder, flint, and a striker, I slip out of my room. A loose black scarf obscures my face, and my dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, conceals both my slaves’ cuffs and the Commandant’s mark, still scabbed and painful.

The servants’ corridor is empty. I move silently to the wooden gate leading to Blackcliff’s grounds and ease it open.

It squeals louder than a gutted pig.

I grimace and scurry back to my quarters, waiting for someone to come investigate the noise. When no one does, I creep out of my room—

“Laia? Where are you going?”

I jump and drop the flint and striker to the ground, barely keeping hold of the tinder.

“Bleeding skies, Izzi!”

“Sorry!” She picks up the flint and striker, brown eyes widening when she realizes what they are. “You’re trying to sneak out.”

“Am not,” I say, but she gives me a look that makes me fidget. “Fine, I am, but—”

“I . . . could help you,” she whispers. “I know a way out of the school that even the legionnaires don’t patrol.”

“It’s too dangerous, Izzi.”

“Right. Of course.” She retreats but then stops, small hands twisting together.

“If—if you were planning to set a fire and sneak through the front gate while the guards are distracted, it won’t work. The legionnaires will send the auxes to deal with the fire. They never leave a gate unattended. Never.”

As soon as she says it, I know she’s right. I should have realized that fact myself. “Can you tell me about this way out?” I ask her.

“It’s a hidden trail,” she says. “A rock path and a scanty one at that. I’m sorry, but I’d have to show you—which means I’d have to come with you. I don’t mind. It’s what a—a friend would do.” She says the word
friend
like it’s a secret she wishes she knew. “I’m not saying that we’re friends,” she continues in a rush. “I mean—I don’t know. I’ve never really had . . . ”

A friend.
She’s about to say it, but she looks away, embarrassed.

“I’m to meet with my handler, Izzi. If you come and the Commandant catches you—”

“She’ll punish me. Maybe kill me. I know. But she might do that anyway if I forget to dust her room or if I look her in the eye. Living with the
Commandant is like living with the Reaper. And anyway, do you really have a choice? I mean”—she looks almost apologetic— “how else are you planning to get out of here?”

Good point.
I don’t want her to get hurt. I lost Zara to the Martials a year ago. I can’t bear the thought of another friend suffering at their hands.

But I don’t want Darin to die either. Every second I waste is a second he is rotting in prison. And it’s not as if I’m forcing her into this. Izzi
wants
to help. A host of what-ifs parade through my head. I silence them.
For Darin.

“All right,” I say to Izzi. “This hidden trail—where does it let out?”

“The docks. Is that where you’re going?”

I shake my head. “I have to get into the Scholars’ Quarter for the Moon Festival. But I can make my way there from the docks.”

Izzi nods. “This way, Laia.”

Please don’t let her get hurt.
She ducks into her room for a cloak, then takes my hand and pulls me to the back of the house
.

T
hough the physician excused me from training and watch, my mother doesn’t seem to care. Her note to me is an order to report to training field two for hand-to-hand combat. I pocket the bloodroot serum—it will have to wait—and spend the next two hours attempting to keep the Combat Centurion from beating me to a pulp.

By the time I change into fresh fatigues and leave the training field, tenth bell’s come and gone, and I have a party to go to. The boys—and Helene—will be waiting. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk. I hope Hel loosens up a little—at least enough to forget that she was so irritated with me earlier. If I want her to set me free from the Empire, making sure she doesn’t hate me seems like a good first step.

My fingers brush up against the bottle of bloodroot in my pocket.
You told Laia you’d take it to her, Elias
,
a voice chides me.
Days ago.

But I also said I’d join Hel and the boys in the barracks. Hel’s already mad at me. If she finds out I’m visiting Scholar slave-girls in the dead of night, she won’t be pleased.

I stop and consider. If I’m quick about it, Hel will never know where I’ve been.

The Commandant’s house is dark, but I stick to the shadows anyway. The slaves might be in bed, but if my mother’s asleep, then I’m a swamp jinn. I prowl around to the servants’ entrance, thinking to leave the oil in the kitchen. Then I hear voices.

“This hidden trail—where does it let out?” I recognize the speaker’s murmur. Laia.

“The docks.” That’s Izzi, the kitchen slave. “Is that where you’re going?”

After listening a moment longer, I realize that they’re planning to take the treacherous hidden trail out of the school and into Serra. The trail isn’t watched, solely because no one is stupid enough to risk sneaking out that way. Demetrius and I tried it without ropes on a dare six months ago and nearly broke our necks.

The girls will have a hell of a time making it across. And it will be doubly miraculous if they make it back. I start after them, thinking to tell them that the risk isn’t worth it, not even for the legendary Moon Festival.

But then the air shifts and freezes me in my tracks. I smell grass and snow.

“So,” Helene says from behind me. “That’s who Laia is. A slave.” She shakes her head. “I thought you were better than the others, Elias. I never imagined you would take a
slave
to your bed.”

“It’s not like that.” I wince at how I sound: like a typical bumbling male, denying wrongdoing to his woman. Except Helene’s not my woman. “Laia’s not—”

“Do you think I’m stupid? Or blind?” There is something dangerous in Helene’s eyes.
“I saw how you looked at her. That day when she brought us to the Commandant’s house before the Trial of Courage. Like she was water
and you were just dying of thirst.” Hel collects herself. “Doesn’t matter. I’m reporting her and her friend to the Commandant right now.”

“For what?” I’m astounded at Helene, at the depths of her anger.

“For sneaking out of Blackcliff.”
Helene’s practically gnashing her teeth. “For defying their master, attempting to attend an illegal
festival—”

“They’re just girls, Hel.”

“They’re
slaves
, Elias. Their only concern is pleasing their master, and in this case, I assure you, their master would not be pleased.”

“Calm down.” I look around, worried someone will hear us. “Laia’s a person, Helene. Someone’s daughter or sister. If you or I had been born to different parents, we might be in her shoes instead of our own.”

“What are you saying? That I should feel sorry
for the Scholars? That I should think of them as equals? We conquered them. We rule them now. It’s the way of the world.”

“Not all conquered people are turned into slaves. In the Southern Lands, the Lake People conquered the Fens and brought them into the fold—”

“What is
wrong
with you?” Helene stares at me as if I’ve sprouted another head. “The Empire has rightfully annexed this land. It’s
our
land. We fought for it, died for it, and now we’re tasked with keeping it. If doing so means we have to keep the Scholars enslaved, so be it. Have a care, Elias. If anyone heard you spouting this trash, the Black Guard would toss you into Kauf without a thought.”

“What happened to you wanting to change things?” Her righteousness is getting damn irritating. I thought she was better than this. “That night after graduation, you said you’d improve things for the Scholars—”

“I meant better living conditions! Not setting them free! Elias, look at what the bastards have been doing. Raiding caravans, killing innocent Illustrians in their beds—”

“You’re not actually referring to Daemon Cassius as
innocent.
He’s a Mask—”

“The girl’s a slave,” Helene snaps. “And the Commandant deserves to know what her slaves are doing. Not telling her is tantamount to aiding and abetting the enemy. I’m turning them in.”

“No,” I say. “You’re not.” My mother’s already made her mark on Laia. She’s already gouged out Izzi’s eye. I know what she’ll do if she learns they snuck out. There won’t be enough left to feed the scavengers.

Helene crosses her arms in front of her. “How do you plan to stop me?”

“That healing power of yours,” I say, hating myself for blackmailing her but knowing it’s the only thing that will get her to back down. “The Commandant would be mighty interested in that, don’t you think?”

Helene goes still. In the light of the full moon, the shock and hurt on her masked face hit me like a blow to the chest. She backs away, as if worried that I’ll spread my sedition. As if it’s a plague.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “After—after everything.” She sputters, she’s so angry, but then she draws herself up, pulling out the Mask that lives at her core. Her voice goes flat, her face expressionless.

“I want nothing to do with you,” she says. “If you want to be a traitor, you’re on your own. You stay away from me. In training. At watch. In the Trials. Just stay away.”

Damn it, Elias.
I needed to make up with Helene tonight, not antagonize her further.

“Hel, come on.” I reach for her arm, but she wants none of it. She throws off my hand and stalks off into the night.

I gaze after her, poleaxed.
She doesn’t mean it
,
I tell myself.
She just needs to cool down
. By tomorrow, she’ll be rational—I can explain why I didn’t want to turn the girls in.
And apologize for blackmailing her with knowledge she trusted me to keep secret.
I grimace. Yes, I’ll definitely wait until tomorrow. If I approach her now, she’ll probably try to geld me.

But that still leaves Laia and Izzi.

I stand in the dark, considering.
Mind your own business, Elias
,
part of me says.
Leave the girls to their fate. Go to Leander’s party. Get drunk.

Idiot
,
a second voice says.
Follow the girls and talk them out of this lunacy before they get caught and killed. Go. Now.

I listen to the second voice. I follow.

I
zzi and I sneak across the courtyard, our eyes flicking nervously to the windows of the Commandant’s rooms. They’re dark, which I hope means that for once, she’s asleep.

“Tell me,” Izzi whispers. “You ever climbed a tree?”

“Of course.”

“Then this will be a cinch for you. It’s not much different, really.”

Ten minutes later, I teeter on a six-inch-wide ledge hundreds of feet above the dunes, glaring daggers at Izzi. She is skittering along ahead, swinging from rock to rock like a trim blonde monkey.

“This is not a cinch,” I hiss. “This is nothing like climbing trees!”

Izzi peers down at the dunes speculatively. “I hadn’t realized how high it was.”

Above us, a heavy yellow moon dominates the star-strewn sky. It’s a beautiful summer night, warm without a breath of wind. Since death lurks a misstep away, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it. After taking a deep gulp of air, I move another few inches down the path, praying the stone won’t crumble beneath my feet.

Izzi looks back at me. “Not there. Not there—not—”

“Gaaaaa!” My foot slips, only to land on solid rock a few inches lower than I expect.

“Shut it!” Izzi flaps a hand at me. “You’ll wake half the school!”

The cliff is pocked with knobs of jutting rock, some of which deteriorate as soon as I touch them. There is a trail here, but it is more appropriate for squirrels than humans. My foot slips on a particularly crumbly bit of stone,
and I hug the cliff face until the vertigo sweeps past. A minute later, I accidentally shove my finger into the home of some angry, sharp-pincered creature, and it scuttles over my hand and arm. I bite my lip to suppress a scream and shake my arm so vigorously that the scabs over my heart open. I hiss at the sudden, searing pain.

“Come on, Laia,” Izzi calls from ahead of me. “Almost there.”

I force myself forward, trying to ignore the maw of grasping air at my back. When we finally reach a wide patch of solid ground, I nearly kiss the dirt in thankfulness. The river laps calmly at the nearby docks, the masts of dozens of small riverboats bobbing gently up and down like a forest of dancing spears.

“See?” Izzi says. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“We still have to go back.”

Izzi doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks intently into the shadows behind me. I turn, searching them with her, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The only sound is of water slapping hull.

“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I thought . . . never mind. Lead the way.”

The docks crawl with laughing drunks and sailors stinking of sweat and salt. The ladies of the night beckon to anyone passing, their eyes like fading coals.

Izzi stops to stare, but I pull her after me. We stick to the shadows, trying our best to disappear into the darkness, to catch no one’s eye.

Soon we leave the docks behind. The further we get into Serra, the more familiar the streets become, until we climb over a low section of mud-brick wall and into the Quarter.

Home
.

I never appreciated the smell of the Quarter before: clay and earth and
the warmth of animals living close together. I trace my finger through the air, marveling at the whorls of dust dancing in the soft moonlight. Laughter tinkles from nearby, a door slams, a child shouts, and beneath it all, the low murmur of conversation thrums. So different from the silence that weighs on Blackcliff like a death shroud.

Home.
I want it to be true. But this isn’t home. Not anymore. My home was taken from me. My home was burned to the ground.

We make our way toward the square at the center of the Quarter, where the Moon Festival is in full swing. I push back my scarf and undo my bun, letting my hair fall loose like all the other young women.

Beside me, Izzi’s right eye is wide as she takes it all in. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says. “It’s beautiful. It’s . . . ” I take the pins from her fair hair. She puts her hands to her head, blushing, but I pull them down.

“Just for tonight,” I say. “Or we won’t blend in. Come on.”

Smiles greet us as we make our way through the exuberant crowds. Drinks are offered, salutations exchanged, compliments murmured, sometimes shouted, to Izzi’s embarrassment.

It is impossible not to think of Darin and how much he loved the festival. Two years ago, he dressed in his finest clothing and dragged us to the square early. That was when he and Nan still laughed together, when Pop’s advice was law, when he had no secrets from me. He brought me stacks of moon cakes, round and yellow like the full moon. He admired the sky lanterns that lit the streets, strung so cleverly that they looked as if they were floating. When the fiddles warbled and the drums thumped, he grabbed Nan and paraded her around the dance stages until she was breathless with laughter.

This year’s festival is packed, but remembering Darin, I feel wrenchingly
alone. I’ve never thought about all the empty spaces at the Moon Festival, all the places where the disappeared, the dead, and the lost should be. What’s happening to my brother in prison while I stand in this joyful crowd? How can I smile or laugh when I know he’s suffering?

I glance at Izzi, at the wonder and joy on her face, and sigh, pushing away the dark thoughts for her sake. There must be other people here who feel as lonely as I do. Yet no one frowns, or cries, or sulks. They all find reason to smile and laugh. Reason to hope.

I spot one of Pop’s former patients and make a sharp turn away from her, pulling my scarf back up to shadow my face. The crowd is thick, and it will be easy to lose anyone familiar in the throng, but it’s better if I go unrecognized.

“Laia.” Izzi’s voice is small, her touch light on my arm. “Now what do we do?”

“Whatever we want,” I say. “Someone is supposed to find me. Until he does, we watch, dance, eat. We blend in.” I eye a nearby cart, manned by a laughing couple and surrounded by a mob of outstretched hands.

“Izzi, have you ever tasted a moon cake?”

I cut through the crowd, emerging minutes later with two hot moon cakes dripping with chilled cream. Izzi takes a slow bite, closes her eye, and smiles. We wander to the dance stages, filled with pairs: husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, siblings, friends. I shed the slave’s shuffle I’ve adopted and walk the way I used to, my head straight and my shoulders thrown back. Beneath my dress, my wound stings, but I ignore it.

Izzi finishes off her moon cake and stares at mine so intently that I hand it over. We find a bench and watch the dancers for a few minutes until Izzi nudges me.

“You have an admirer.” She gobbles up the last bite of cake. “By the musicians.”

I look over, thinking it must be Keenan, but instead see a young man with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. He seems distantly familiar.

“Do you know him?” Izzi asks.

“No,” I say after considering for a few moments. “I don’t think so.”

The young man is tall as a Martial, with broad shoulders and sun-gold arms that gleam in the lantern-light. The hard lines of his stomach are visible beneath his hooded vest, even from this distance. The black strap of a pack cuts diagonally across his chest. Though his hood is up, shadowing much of his face, I see high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. His features are arresting, almost Illustrian, but his clothes and the dark shine of his eyes mark him as a Tribesman.

Izzi watches the boy, studying him, almost. “Are you sure you don’t know him? Because he definitely seems to know you.”

“No, I’ve never seen him before.” The boy and I lock eyes, and when he smiles, blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away, but the draw of his stare is powerful, and a moment later, my gaze creeps back. He’s still looking at me, arms folded across his chest.

A second later I feel a hand on my shoulder and smell cedar and wind.

“Laia.” The beautiful boy by the stage is forgotten as I turn to Keenan. I take in his dark eyes and red hair, not realizing that he’s staring back until a few seconds have passed and he clears his throat.

Izzi slips a few feet away, eyeing Keenan with interest. I told her that when the Resistance showed up, she was to act like she didn’t know me. Somehow, I don’t think they will appreciate that a fellow slave knows all about my mission.

“Come on,” Keenan says, weaving past the dance stages and between two tents. I follow, and Izzi trails us, discreetly and at a distance.

“You found your way,” he adds.

“It was . . . simple enough.”

“I doubt that. But you managed it. Well done. You look . . . ” His eyes search my face and then travel down my body. Such a look from another man would merit a slap, but from Keenan, it’s more tribute than insult. There is something different about his usually aloof features—surprise? Admiration? When I smile tentatively at him, he gives his head a slight shake, as if clearing it.

“Is Sana here?” I ask.

“She’s at base.” His shoulders are tense, and I can tell he’s troubled. “She wanted to see you herself, but Mazen didn’t want her to come. They had quite a battle over it. Her faction’s been pushing for Mazen to get Darin out. But Mazen . . . ” He clears his throat and, as if he’s said too much, nods tersely to a tent ahead of us. “Let’s head around back.”

A white-haired Tribal woman sits in front of the tent, peering into a crystal ball as two Scholar girls wait to hear what she’ll say, their faces skeptical. On one side of her, a torch-juggler has amassed a large crowd, and on the other, a Tribal
Kehanni
spins her tales, her voice rising and swooping like a bird in flight.

“Hurry up.” Keenan’s sudden brusqueness startles me. “He’s waiting.”

When I enter the tent, Mazen stops speaking to the two men flanking him. I recognize them from the cave. They are his other lieutenants, closer to Keenan’s age than Mazen’s and possessed of the younger man’s taciturn coolness. I stand taller. I won’t be intimidated.

“Still in one piece,” Mazen says. “Impressive. What have you got for us?”

I tell him everything I know about the Trials and the Emperor’s arrival. I don’t reveal how I got the information, and Mazen doesn’t ask. When I’m done, even Keenan looks stunned.

“The Martials will name the new Emperor in less than two weeks,” I say. “That’s why I told Keenan we had to meet tonight. It wasn’t easy to get out of Blackcliff, you know. I only risked it because I knew I had to get you this information. It’s not everything you wanted, but surely it’s enough to convince you that I’ll complete the mission. You can get Darin out now”—Mazen’s brows furrow, and I rush on—“and I’ll stay at Blackcliff as long as you need me to.”

One of the lieutenants, a stocky, fair-haired man who I think is called Eran, whispers something in Mazen’s ear. Irritation flashes briefly across the older man’s eyes.

“The death cells aren’t like the main prison block, girl,” he says. “They’re near impenetrable. I expected to have a few weeks to break your brother out, which is why I even agreed to do it. These things take time. Supplies and uniforms need procuring, guards need bribing. Less than two weeks . . . that’s nothing.”

“It’s possible,” Keenan speaks up from behind me. “Tariq and I were discussing it—”

“If I want your opinion, or Tariq’s,” Mazen says, “I’ll ask for it.”

Keenan’s lips go thin, and I expect him to retort. But he just nods, and Mazen goes on.

“It’s not enough time,” he muses. “We’d need to take the whole damn prison. That’s not something you can do unless . . . ” He strokes his chin,
deep in thought, before nodding. “I have a new mission for you: Find me a way into Blackcliff, a way no one else knows of. Do that and I’ll be able to get your brother out.”

“I have a way!” Relief floods me. “A hidden trail—it’s how I came here.”

“No.” Mazen punctures my elation as quickly as it had ballooned. “We need something . . . different.”

“More maneuverable,” Eran says. “By a large group of men.”

“The catacombs run under Blackcliff,” Keenan says to Mazen. “Some of those tunnels must lead to the school.”

“Perhaps.” Mazen clears his throat. “We’ve searched down there before and found nothing of use. But you, Laia, will have an advantage, since you’ll be looking from within Blackcliff itself.” He rests his fists on the table and leans toward me. “We need something soon. A week, at most. I’ll send Keenan to give you a specific date. Don’t miss that meeting.”

“I’ll find you an entrance,” I say. Izzi will know of something. One of the tunnels beneath Blackcliff must be unguarded. This, finally, is a task I know I can accomplish. “But how will an entrance into Blackcliff help you break Darin out of the death cells?”

“A fair question,” Keenan says softly. He meets Mazen’s gaze, and I’m surprised at the open hostility in the older man’s face.

“I have a plan. That’s all that any of you need to know.” Mazen nods at Keenan, who touches my arm and makes for the door of the tent, indicating I should follow.

For the first time since the raid, I feel light, as if just maybe I’ll be able to accomplish what I set out to do. Outside the tent, the fire-thrower is midshow, and I spot Izzi in the crowd, clapping as the flame lights the night. I
am almost giddy with hope until I see Keenan watching the dancers whirl, his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Will you, uh . . . ” He runs a hand through his hair, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so agitated. “Will you honor me with a dance?”

I’m not sure what I am expecting him to say, but it isn’t that. I manage a nod, and then he’s leading me to one of the dance stages. Across the stage, the tall Tribal boy from earlier is dancing with a dainty Tribeswoman who has a smile like lightning.

The fiddlers begin a swift, tempestuous tune, and Keenan takes my hip in one hand and my fingers in the other. At his touch, my skin comes alive as if warmed by the sun.

He’s a little stiff, but he knows the steps well enough. “You’re not bad at this,” I say to him. Nan taught me all the old dances. I wonder who taught Keenan.

“That shocks you?”

I shrug. “You don’t strike me as the dancing type.”

“I’m not. Usually.” His dark gaze roams over me, as if he’s trying to puzzle something out. “I thought you’d be dead within a week, you know. You surprised me.” He finds my eyes. “I’m not used to being surprised.”