Dawn is still a blue rumor on the horizon when I limp into the
Commandant’s chambers. She sits at her dressing table, observing
her reflection in the mirror. Her bed looks untouched, as it does every
morning. I wonder when she sle eps. If she sle eps.
She’s clad in a loose black robe that softens the disdain on her masked
face. It’s the first time I’ve seen her out of uniform. The robe slips down her
shoulder, and the unusual swirls of her tattoo are revealed to be part of an
ornate A, the dark ink vivid against the chill paleness of her skin.
Ten days have passed since my mission began, and while I haven’t
learned anything that will help me save Darin, I have learned how to press a
Blackcliff uniform in five minutes flat, how to carry a heavy tray up the
stairs with half a dozen welts on my back, and how to remain so silent that I
forget my own existence.
Keenan gave me only the barest details about th is mission. I’m to gather
information about the Trials, and then, when I leave Blackcliff for my
errands, the Resistance will contact me. Might take us three days, Keenan
said. Or ten. Be pr epared to r eport every time you go into the city. And
never come looking for us.
At the time, I’d suppressed the urge to ask him a dozen questions. Like
how to get the information they want. Like how to ke ep the Commandant
from catching me.
Now I’m paying for it. Now I don’t want the Resistance to find me. I
don’t want t hem to learn what a terrible spy I am.
At the back of my mind, Darin’s voice grows fainter: Find something,
Laia. Something that will save me. Hurry.
No, another, louder part of me says. Lay low. Don’t risk spying until
you’re certain you won’t get caught.
Which voice do I listen to? The spy or the slave? The fighter or the
coward? I thought the answers to such questions would be easy. That was
before I learned what real fear was.
For now, I move around the Commandant quietly, setting down her
breakfast tra y, clearing her tea from the night before, laying out her
uniform. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. My pleas seem to work. The
Commandant acts as if I don’t exist.
When I open the curtains, the first rays of morning illuminate the room. I
stop to look at the emptiness beyond the Commandant’s window, miles of
whispering dunes, rippling like waves in the dawn wind. For a second, I
lose myself in their beauty. Then Blackcliff’s drums thud out, a wake - up
call for the entire school and half the city.
“Slave - G irl.” The Commandant’s impatience has me moving before she
says another word. “My hair.”
As I take a brush and pins from a table drawer, I catch a glimpse of
myself in the mirror. The bruises from my run - in with Aspirant Marcus a
week ago are fading, and the ten lashes I received afterward have scabbed
over. Other wounds have r eplaced them. Three lashes on my legs for a dust
stain on my skirt. Four lashes on my wrists for not finishing her mending. A
black eye from a Skull in a foul mood.
The Commandant ope ns a letter sitting on her dressing table. She ke eps
her head still as I pull back her hair, ignoring me entirely. For a second, I
stand frozen, staring down at the parchment as she reads. She doesn’t
notice. Of course she doesn’t. Scholars don’t read — or so she assumes. I
brush out her pale hair swiftly.
Look at it, Laia. Darin’s voice. Discover what it says.
She will see. She will punish me.
She doesn’t know you can read. She’ll think you’re an idiot Scholar
gawping at pretty symbols.
I swallow. I should look. Ten days at Blackcliff with nothing to show for
it but bruises and lashes is disastrous. When the Resistance demands a
r eport, I won’t have anything for them. What will happen to Darin then?
Again and again, I glance at the mirror to make sure the Commandant is
enmesh ed in her letter. When I’m sure, I risk a quick look down.
— too dangerous in the south, and the Commandant is not trustworthy. I
advise that you return to Antium. If you must come south, travel with a
small force —
The Commandant shifts, and I tear my eyes away, paranoid that I’ve
been too obvious. But she reads on, and I risk another glance. By then, she’s
turned the parchment over.
— allies are deserting Gens Taia like rats fleeing a fire. I have learned
that the Commandant is planning —
But I do not find ou t what the Commandant is planning, for at that
moment, I look up. She is watching me in the mirror.
“The — the marks are beautiful,” I say in a choked whisper, dropping one
of the hairpins. I bend to retrieve it, taking those precious seconds to hide
my panic. I’ll be whipped for reading something that doesn’t even make
any sense. Why did I let her see me? Why wasn’t I more careful? “I haven’t
seen much of words,” I add.
“No.” The woman’s eyes flicker, and for a moment, I think she’s
mocking me. “Your kind do esn’t need to read.” She examines her hair. “The
right side’s too low. Fix it.”
Though I feel like crying from relief, I ke ep my face carefully bland and
slide another pin into her silken hair.
“How long have you been here, slave?”
“Ten days, sir.”
“Have you made any friends?”
This question is so pr eposterous coming from the Commandant that I
almost laugh. Friends? At Blackcliff? Kitchen - Girl is too shy to talk to me,
and Cook only speaks to give me orders. The rest of Blackcliff’s slaves live
and work on t he main grounds. They are silent and distant — always alone,
always wary.
“You’re here for life, girl,” the Commandant says, inspecting her nowfinished hair.
“Maybe you should get to know your fellows. Here.” She
hands me two sealed letters. “Take the one with the red seal to the couriers’
office and the one with the black seal to Spiro Teluman. Don’t leave him
without a r eply.”
Who Spiro Teluman is and how to find him I don’t dare to ask. The
Commandant punishes questions with pain. I take the letters and ba ck out of
the room to avoid any surprise attacks. A breath explodes out of me when I
close the door. Thank the skies the woman is too arrogant to think her
Scholar drudge can read. As I walk down the hall, I peek at the first letter
and nearly drop it. It’s addressed to Emperor Taius.
What would she be corresponding with Taius about? The Trials? I run an
experimental finger near the seal. Still soft, it lifts cleanly.
There’s a scrape behind me, and the letter falls from my hand as I whip
around. My mind screams Comm andant! But the hall is empty. I pick up the
letter and shove it into my pocket. It seems alive, like a snake or spider I’ve
decided to ke ep as a pet. I touch the seal again before jerking my hand
away. Too dangerous.
But I need something to give the Resistance. Every day when I leave
Blackcliff to run the Commandant’s errands, I fear Keenan will pull me
aside and demand a r eport. Every day he doesn’t is a r eprieve. Eventually,
I’ll run out of time.
I have to get my cloak, so I head to the servants’ quarter s in the open - air
hallway just outside the kitchen. My room, like Kitchen - Girl’s and Cook’s,
is a dank hole with a low entrance and a ragged curtain that serves as a
door. Inside, it’s just wide enough to fit a rope pallet and a crate that serves
as a side table.
From here, I can hear the low tones of Cook and Kitchen - Girl speaking.
Kitchen - Girl, at least, has been slightly friendlier than Cook. She’s helped
me with my duties more than once, and at the end of my first day, when I
thought I’d faint from the pain of the lashes I’d received, I saw her scuttle
away from my quarters. When I went in, I found a healing salve and a mug
of pain - numbing tea.
That’s as far as her friendship extends. I’ve asked her and Cook
questions, discussed the weather, complained about the Commandant. No
response. I’m fairly certain that if I walked into the kitchen stark - naked and
squawking like a chicken, I still wouldn’t get a word out of them. I don’t
want to approach them again only to hit a wall of silence, but I need
someone to tell me who Spiro Teluman is and how to find him.
I enter the kitchen to find them both sweating from the heat of the
blazing hearth. Lunch is baking already. My mouth waters, and I long for
Nan’s food. We never had much, but whatever we did have was made with
love, which I now know transforms simple fare into a feast. Here, we eat
the Commandant’s scraps, and no matter how hungry I am, they taste like
sawdust.
Kitchen - Girl gives me a glance in greeting, and Cook ignores me. The
older woman perches on a rickety st epstool to reach a string of garlic. She
looks like she’s about to fall, but when I offer a hand to brace her, she glares
daggers at me.
I drop my hand and stand there awkwardly for a moment.
“Can — can you tell me where to find Spiro Teluman?”
Silence.
“Look,” I say. “I know I’m new, but the Commandant told me to make
friends. I thought — ”
Ever so slowly, Cook turns to me. Her face is gray, as if she might be ill.
“Friends.” It’s the first word she’s said to me that isn’t an order. The old
woman shakes her head and takes her garlic to the counter. The anger in her
strokes as she chops it is unmistakable. I don’t know what I’ve done that’s
so terrible, but she won’t help me now. I sigh and leave the kitchen. I’ll
have to ask someone else about Spiro Teluman .
“He’s a swordsmith,” I hear a soft voice say. Kitchen - Girl has followed
me out. She looks over her shoulder, worried Cook will hear her. “You’ll
find him along the river, in the Weapons Quarter.” She quickly turns, ready
to walk away, and it’s this more than anything else that makes me speak to
her. I haven’t had a conversation with a normal person in ten days; I’ve
barely said anything other than “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.”
“I’m Laia.”
Kitchen - Girl freezes. “Laia.” She turns the word over in her mouth. “I’ m
— I’m Izzi.”
For the first time since the raid, I smile. I’d nearly forgotten the sound of
my own name. Izzi looks up toward the Commandant’s room.
“The Commandant wants you to make friends so she can use them
against you,” she whispers. “That’s why Cook is upset.”
I shake my head — I don’t understand.
“It’s how she controls us.” Izzi fingers her ey epatch. “It’s the reason
Cook does whatever she asks. The reason why every slave in Blackcliff
does what she asks. If you do something wrong, she won’t always pun ish
you. Sometimes, she’ll punish the people you care about instead.” Izzi’s so
quiet I have to lean forward to hear her. “If — if you want to have friends,
make sure she doesn’t know. Make sure it’s secret.”
She slips back into the kitchen, quick as a cat in the night. I leave for the
couriers’ office, but I can’t stop thinking about what she’s told me. If the
Commandant is sick enough to use the slaves’ friendships against them,
then it’s no wonder Izzi and Cook ke ep their distance. Is that how Izzi lost
he r eye? Is that how Cook got her scars?
The Commandant hasn’t punished me in any permanent way — yet. But
it’s only a matter of time. The Emperor’s letter in my pocket seems
suddenly heavier, and I close my hand over it. Do I dare? The faster I get
information, the faster the Resistance can save Darin and the faster I can
leave Blackcliff.
I debate with myself all the way to the school’s gates. When I approach,
the leather - armored auxes, who usually delight in tormenting slaves, barely
notice me. They’re inten t on two horsemen making their way up to the
school. I use the distraction to slip quietly past.
Though it’s still early morning, the desert heat has set in, and I fidget
under the itchy weight of the cloak I’ve taken to wearing. Every time I put
it on, I think of Aspirant Veturius, of that unabashed fire that burned in him
when he first turned to me, of his smell when he st epped close, distractingly
clean and masculine. I think of his words, spoken almost thoughtfully. Can
I give you some advice?
I don’t know what I expected of the Commandant’s son. Someone like
Marcus Farrar, who left me with a collar of bruises that ached for days?
Someone like Helene Aquilla, who spoke to me as if I was less than dirt?
At the very least, I thought he’d look like his mother — blonde and wan
and cold to the bone. But he is black - haired and gol d - skinned and though
his eyes are the same pale gray as the Commandant’s, there is no trace there
of the gimlet flatness that defines most Masks. Instead, when he’d met my
gaze for a jolting moment, I’d seen life bursting through, chaotic and
alluring beneath the shadow of the mask. I’d seen fire and desire, and my
heart had thumped faster.
And his mask. So strange that it sits atop his face like a thing apart. Is it
a sign of weakness? It can’t be — I ke ep hearing he’s Blackcliff’s finest
soldier.
Stop, Laia . Stop thinking of him. If he’s thoughtful, then there’s devilry
behind it. If there’s fire in his eyes, it’s a lust for violence. He’s a Mask.
They’re all the same.
I wind my way down from Blackcliff, out of the Illustrian Quarter and
into Execution Square, home to the city’s largest open - air market as well as
one of only two couriers’ offices. The gallows that give the square its name
sit empty. But then, the day’s just begun.
Darin once drew the Execution Square gallows, complete with bodies
hanging from the gibbet. Nan saw the image and shuddered. Burn it, she’d
said. Darin nodded, but later that night, I caught him working on it in our
room.
“It’s a reminder, Laia,” he’d said in his quiet way. “It would be wrong to
destroy it.”
The crowds move through the square sluggishly, wilted by the heat. I
have to push and elbow to make any headway, eliciting grumbles from
irritated merchants and a shove from a hatchet - faced slaver. As I dart under
a palanquin marked with the symbol of an Illustrian house, I spot t he
couriers’ office a dozen yards away. I slow, my fingers straying toward the
letter to the Emperor. Once I hand it over, there’s no getting it back.
“Bags, purses, and satchels! Silk - stitched!”
I need to open the note. I need to have something for the Resistance. But
where can I do it without anyone noticing? Behind one of the stalls? In the
shadows between two tents?
“We use the finest leather and hardware!”
The seal will lift cleanly enough, but I can’t be jostled. If the letter tears
or the seal is smu dged, the Commandant will probably cut off my hand. Or
my head.
“Bags, purses, and satchels! Silk - stitched!”
The bag - seller is right behind me, and I’ve a mind to tell him off. Then I
smell cedarwood and glance over my shoulder to see a shirtless Scholar
man, his muscled torso tanned and sweating. His hair, flaming red, glows
below a black cap. Shock and recognition jolt my stomach. It’s Keenan.
His brown eyes meet mine, and as he continues to yell out his wares, he
tilts his head ever so slightly toward a side alley leading out of the square.
My hands sweat in uneasy anticipation, and I make my way to the alley.
What will I say to him? I have nothing — no leads, no information. Keenan
dou bted me from the beginning, and I am about to prove him right.
Dust - coated brick houses rise four stories on either side of the alley, and
the noises of the market fade. Keenan is nowhere to be seen, but a woman
draped in rags detaches herself from a wall and approaches me. I eye her
warily until she lifts her head. Through the filthy tangle of dark hair, I
recognize Sana.
Follow, she mouths.
I want to ask her about Darin, but she’s already hurrying away. She leads
me through alley after alley, not stopping until we’re close to Cobbler Row,
nearly a mile from Execution Square. The air is dense with the chattering of
shoemakers and the gamy scents of leather and tannin and dye. I think
we’re going to enter the row, but Sana turns instead into the narrow space
between two buildings. She heads down a set of basement stairs so grimy
that they look like the inside of a chimney.
Keenan opens the door at the base of the stairs before Sana can knock.
He’s r eplaced the leather bags with the black shirt and brace of kn ives he
was wearing the first time I met him. A lock of red hair falls into his face,
and he looks me over, his gaze lingering on my bruises.
“Thought she might have a tail,” Sana says as she pulls off the cloak and
wig. “But she didn’t.”
“Mazen’s waiting.” Keenan puts a hand on my back to nudge me
forward into the narrow hallway. I wince and recoil — my lashes are still
painful.
His eyes cut sharply to me and I think he’s going to say something, but
instead he drops his hand awkwardly, brow slightly furrowed , and leads us
down the hallway and through a door. Mazen sits at a table in the room
beyond, his scarred face lit by a lone candle.
“Well, Laia.” He lifts his gray eyebrows. “What do you have for me?”
“Can you tell me about Darin first?” I ask, finally able to voice the
question that has plagued me for a week and a half. “Is he all right?”
“Your brother’s alive, Laia.”
A sigh gusts out of me, and I feel like I can breathe again.
“But I can’t tell you any more until you tell me what you have. We did
make a deal.”
“Let her at least sit.” Sana pulls out a chair for me, and almost before
I’m in it, Mazen leans forward.
“We have little time.” he says. “Whatever you’ve got, we need.”
“The Trials started about — about a week ago.” I scramble to connect the
few scraps of information I do have. I’m not ready to give him the letter —
not yet. If he breaks the seal or tears it, I’m done for. “That’s when the
Aspirants disappeared. There are four of them. Their names — ”
“We know all that.” Mazen dismisses my words with the wave of a
hand. “Where were they taken? When does the Trial end? What’s the next
one?”
“We’ve heard that two of the Aspirants returned today,” Keenan says.
“Not long ago, in fact. Maybe half an hour.”
I think of the guards talking excitedly at Bla ckcliff’s gate as two
horsemen came up the road. Laia, you fool. If I’d paid closer attention to the
auxes’ gossip, I might have learned which Aspirants had survived the Trial.
I might have had something useful to tell Mazen.
“I don’t know. It’s been so — so hard,” I say. Even as I speak, I hear how
pathetic I sound and hate myself for it. “The Commandant killed my
parents. She has this wall with posters of every rebel she’s caught. My
parents were up there — their faces — ”
Sana’s eyes widen, and even Keenan loo ks slightly sick, his aloofness
falling away for a moment. I wonder why I’m telling Mazen this. Perhaps
because some part of me wonders if he knew the Commandant killed my
parents — if he knew and sent me to Blackcliff anyway.
“I didn’t know,” Mazen says, sensing my unasked question. “But it’s all
the more reason that this mission must succeed.”
“I want to succeed more than anyone, but I can’t get into her office. She
never has visitors, so I can’t eavesdrop on her — ”
Mazen holds up a hand to stop me. “What do you know, exactly?”
For one frantic moment I consider lying. I’ve read a hundred tales of
heroes and the trials they face — what harm if I invent one and pass it off as
truth? But I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when the Resistance is placing
their trust in me.
“I . . . nothing.” I stare at the floor, ashamed at the incredulity on
Mazen’s face. I reach for the letter but don’t pull it out. Too risky. Maybe
he’ll give you another chance, Laia. Maybe you can try again.
“What, exactly, have you been doing al l this time?”
“Surviving, from the looks of it,” Keenan says. His dark eyes flash to
mine, and I can’t tell if he’s defending or insulting me.
“I was loyal to the Lioness,” Mazen says. “But I can’t waste my time
helping someone who won’t help me.”
“Mazen, for skies’ sake.” Sana sounds aghast. “Look at the poor girl — ”
“Yes.” Mazen eyes the bruises on my neck. “Look at her. She’s a mess.
The mission’s too difficult. I made a mistake, Laia. I thought you’d take
risks. I thought you were more like your mother.”
The insult levels me faster than a blow from the Commandant. Of course
he’s right. I’m nothing like my mother. She’d have never been in this
position to begin with.
“We’ll see about getting you out.” Mazen shrugs and stands. “We’re
done here.”
“Wait . . . ” Mazen can’t abandon me now. Darin is lost if he does.
Reluctantly, I take out the Commandant’s letter. “I have this. It’s from the
Commandant to the Emperor. I thought you could look at it.”
“Why didn’t you say that to begin with?” He takes the envelope, and I
want to tell him to be careful. But Sana beats me to it, and Mazen gives her
a brief, annoyed look before gently lifting the seal.
Seconds later, my heart sinks again. Mazen tosses the letter to the table.
“Useless,” he says. “Look.”
Your Imperial Majesty,
I will make the arrangements.
Ever your servant,
Commandant Keris Veturia
“Don’t give up on me,” I say when Mazen shakes his head in disgust.
“Darin doesn’t have anyone else. You were close to my parents. Think of
them — please. They wouldn’t want their only son to die because you
refused to help.”
“I’m trying to help.” Mazen is unrelenting, and something about the set
of his shoulders and the iron in his eyes reminds me of my mother. I
understand now why he’s leader of the Resistance. “But you have to help
me. This rescue mission will cost more than just lives. We’ll be putting the
Resistance itself on the line. If our fighters are caught, we risk them giving
up information under interrogation. I’m gambling everything to help you,
Laia.” He crosses his arms. “Make it worth my while.”
“I will. I promise I will. One more chance.”
He stares stonily at me for a moment longer before looking to Sana, who
nods, and Keenan, who offers a shrug that could mean any number of
things.
“One chance,” Mazen says. “Fail me again and we’re done. Keenan, see
her out.”