The 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 pr epare 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 pr epared 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 es cape 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 ke ep 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 ke ep
the same class schedule as before, exc ept 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 s cim
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 boo ks
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
Bl ackcliff’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 ke ep 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 some thing to fear — that brings
me back to myself. Pull it together, Veturius. I st ep 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
r eport 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 Au gurs 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. Es cape.
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 es cape. 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 m e 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 ke ep 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 surr eptitiously 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 cre eps
onto the Commandant’s face — “and have ask ed 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 acc epted 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 ci rcle 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 ste eples
her fingers, her expression remote. “And they may take any form. From the
m oment you leave this office, you must be pr epared.”
“If they can take any form,” Zak speaks up for the first time, “then how
are we supposed to pr epare? 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 sla ve - 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
Tgrip 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, ke eping my
voice low.
“S he’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.
Helene strides down the hall, giving me a pointed look. Move.
The girl pulls her feet back as we pass, trying to make herself small.
Disgusted with myself, I spare her no more attention than I would a heap of
trash. I feel heartless as I leave her there to face Mother’s punishment. I feel
like a Mask.
«««
hat night, my dreams are travels, filled with hisses and whispers.
Wind circles my head like a vulture, and I flinch from hands burning
with unnatural heat. I try to wake as discomfort turns into nightmare, but I
only slip de eper in, until eventually there is nothing but choking, burning
light.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the hard, sandy ground
beneath me. The second is that the ground is hot. Skin - shriveling hot.
My hand shakes as I shield my eyes from the sun and scan the wasted
lands cape around me. A lone, gnarled Jack tree rises from the cracked land
a few feet away. Miles to the west, a vast body of water lays shimmering
like a mirage. The air reeks something horrible, a combination of carrion,
rotting eggs, and Cadets’ quarters in high summer. The land is so pale and
desolate that I might be standing on a distant, dead moon.
My muscles ache, as if I’ve been lying in the same position for hours.
The pain tells me that this is no dream. I stagger to my feet, a lonely
silhouette in a vast emptiness.
The Trials, it seems, have begun.