Izzi finds me after I leave the kitchen, still shaken by Cook’s warning.
The girl offers me a sheaf of papers — the Commandant’s specs for
Teluman.
“I offered to take them,” she says. “But she — she didn’t like that idea.”
No one pays me heed as I make my way through Serra to Teluman’s
forge. No one can see the raw, bloody K beneath the cloak I wear. As I
stumble along, it’s clear I’m not the only injured slave. Some Scholar slaves
have bruises. Some have whip marks. Others walk as if injured inside,
hunched an d limping.
While still in the Illustrian Quarter, I pass a large glass display of saddles
and bridles and stop short, startled at my own reflection, at the haunted,
hollow - eyed creature looking back at me. Sweat soaks my skin, half from
fever, half from the unabating heat. My dress clings to my body, my skirt
bunching and tangling around my legs.
It’s for Darin. I ke ep walking. Whatever you’re suffering, he’s suffering
worse.
As I near the Weapons Quarter, my feet slow. I remember the
Commandant’s words fro m last night. You’re lucky I want a Teluman blade,
girl. You’re lucky he wants a taste of you. I loiter near the smithy door for
long minutes before entering. Surely Teluman won’t want to come near me
when my skin is the color of whey and I’m sweating buckets.
The shop is as quiet as it was the first time I visited, but the smith is
here. I know it. Sure enough, within seconds of me opening the door, I hear
the whisper of footst eps, and Teluman appears from the back room.
He takes one look at me and disappe ars, returning seconds later with a
dripping glass of cool water and a chair. I drop into the seat and drain the
water, not stopping to consider if it might be poisoned.
The forge is cool, the water cooler, and for a second, my fevered shaking
slows. Then Spiro Teluman slips past me to the forge door.
He locks it.
Slowly, I stand, holding the glass out like an offering, like a trade, like
I’ll give him his glass back and he’ll unlock the door and let me go without
hurting me. He takes it from my hand, and I wish then that I’d k ept it,
broken it to use as a weapon.
He looks into the glass. “Who did you see when the ghuls came?”
The question is so unexpected that I’m startled into the truth. “I saw my
brother.”
The smith scrutinizes my face, his brow furrowed as if he’s considering
something, making a decision. “You’re his sister then,” he says. “Laia.
Darin spoke of you often.”
“He — he spoke — ” Why would Darin speak to this man about me? Why
would he speak to this man at all?
“Strangest thing.” Teluman leans back against the counter. “The Empire
tried forcing apprentices on me for years, but I didn’t find one until I caught
Darin spying on me from up there.” The shutters on the high bank of
windows are open, revealing the crate - littered balcony of the building next
door. “Dragged him d own. Thought I’d haul him to the auxes. Then I saw
his sketchbook.” He shakes his head, not needing to explain. Darin put so
much life into his drawings that it seemed if you just reached out, you could
pull them from the page.
“He wasn’t just drawing the inside of my forge. He was designing the
weapons themselves. Such things I’d only seen in dreams. I offered him the
apprentice spot there and then, thinking he’d run, that I’d never see him
again.”
“But he didn’t run,” I whisper. He wouldn’t run — not Darin.
“No. He came into the forge, looked around. Cautious, yes. Not afraid. I
never saw your brother afraid. He felt fear — I’m sure he did. But he never
seemed to focus on what could turn out wrong. He only ever thought about
how things could turn out right.”
“The Empire thought he was Resistance,” I say. “All this time, he was
working for the Martials? If that’s true, why is he still in jail? Why haven’t
you gotten him out?”
“Do you think the Empire would allow a Scholar to learn their secrets?
He wasn’t workin g for the Empire. He was working for me. And I parted
ways with the Empire a long time ago. I do enough for them to ke ep them
off my back. Armor, mostly. Until Darin came, I hadn’t made a true
Teluman scim for seven years.”
“But . . . his sketchbook had pictures of swords — ”
“That damn sketchbook.” Spiro snorts. “I told him to ke ep it here, but he
wouldn’t listen. Now the Empire has it, and there’s no getting it back.”
“He wrote down formulas in it,” I say. “Instructions. Things — things he
shouldn’t have know n — ”
“He was my apprentice. I taught him to make weapons. Fine weapons.
Teluman weapons. But not for the Empire.”
I swallow nervously as the implications of his words sink in. No matter
how clever Scholar uprisings have been, in the end it comes down to steel
against steel, and in that battle, the Martials always win.
“You wanted him to make weapons for the Scholars?” That would be
treason. When Spiro nods, I can’t believe him. This is a trick, like with
Veturius this morning. It’s something Teluman’s planne d with the
Commandant to test my loyalty.
“If you’d really been working with my brother, someone would have
seen. Other people must work here. Slaves, assistants — ”
“I’m the Teluman smith. Other than my apprentice, I work alone, as my
forefathers did. It’s the reason your brother and I were never caught. I want
to help Darin. But I can’t. The Mask who took Darin recognized my work
in his sketches. I’ve been questioned about it twice already. If the Empire
learns I took your brother as my apprentice, they’ll kill him. Then they’ll
kill me, and right now I’m the only chance the Scholars have at casting off
their chains.”
“Were you working with the Resistance?”
“No,” Spiro says. “Darin didn’t trust them. He tried to stay away from
the fighters. But he used the tunnels to get here, and a few weeks ago, two
rebels spotted him leaving the Weapons Quarter. Thought he was a Martial
collaborator. He had to show them his sketchbook to ke ep them from killing
him.” Spiro sighs. “Then, of course, they wanted him to join up. Wouldn’t
leave him alone. Lucky, in the end. That connection to the Resistance is the
only reason either of us is still alive. As long as the Empire thinks he’s
holding rebel secrets, they’ll ke ep him in prison.”
“But he told them he wasn’t with the Resistance,” I say. “When the
Mask raided us.”
“Stock answer. Empire expects real rebels to deny membership for days
— weeks, even — before giving in. We pr epared for this. I taught him how to
survive interrogation and prison. As long as he stays here in Serra and out
of Kauf, he should be fine.”
For how long, I wonder.
I’m afraid to cut Teluman off, but I’m more afraid not to. If he’s telling
the truth, then the more of this I listen to, the more danger I’m in. “The
Commandant’s expecting a r eply. She’ll send me back for it in a few days.
Here.”
“Laia — wait — ”
But I shove the papers in his hands, dart to the door, and unlock it. He
can easily come after me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as I hurry
down the alley. When I turn the corner, I think I hear him curse.
«««
t night, I toss restlessly in the tiny box that is my room, the rope of my
pallet digging into my back, the roof and walls so close that I can’t breathe.
My wound burns, and my mind echoes with Teluman’s words.
Serric steel is the heart of the Empire’s strength. No Martial would give
up its secrets to a Scholar. And yet something about Teluman’s claims rings
t rue. When he spoke of Darin, he captured my brother perfectly — his
drawings, the way he thinks. And Darin, like Spiro, told me he wasn’t with
the Martials or the Resistance. It all aligns.
Exc ept the Darin I knew wasn’t interested in rebellion.
Or was he? Memories cascade through my head: Darin’s silence when
Pop told us of how he set the bones of a child beaten by auxes. Darin
excusing himself when Nan and Pop discussed the most recent Martial
raids, fists clenched. Darin ignoring us to draw Scholar women flinching
from Masks and children fighting over a rotted apple in the gutter.
I thought my brother’s silence meant he was pulling away from us. But
maybe silence was his solace. Maybe it was the only way he could fight his
outrage at what was happening to his people.
When I do fall asle ep, Cook’s warning about the Resistance burrows its
way into my dreams. I see the Commandant cut me over and over. Each
time, her face changes from Mazen’s to Kee nan’s to Teluman’s to Cook’s.
I wake to choking darkness and gasp for breath, trying to push away the
walls of my quarters. I scramble out of my bed, through the open - air
corridor, and into the back courtyard, guzzling the cool night breezes.
It’s past midnight, and clouds scud over a nearly full moon. In a few
days, it will be time for the Moon Festival, the Scholars’ midsummer
celebration of the largest moon of the year. Nan and I were supposed to
hand out cakes and pastries this year. Darin was supposed to dance until his
feet fell off.
In the moonlight, the forbidding buildings of Blackcliff are almost
beautiful, the sable granite softened to blue. The school is, as always, eerily
hushed. I never feared the night, not even as a child, but Blackcliff’s night
is different, heavy with a silence that makes you look over your shoulder, a
silence that feels like a living thing.
I look up at the stars hanging low in a sky that makes me think I’m
seeing the infinite. But beneath their cold gaze, I feel small. All the beauty
of the stars means nothing when life here on earth is so ugly.
I didn’t used to think so. Darin and I spent countless nights on the roof
of our grandparents’ house tracing the path of the Great River, the Archer,
the Swordsman. We’d watch for falling stars, and whoever saw one first
would issue a dare. Since Darin’s eyes were sharp as a cat’s, I was always
the one stuck stealing apricots from the neighbors, or pouring cold water
down the back of Nan’s shirt.
Darin can’t see the stars now. He’s s tuck in a cellblock, lost in the
labyrinth of Serra’s prisons. He’ll never see the stars again, unless I get the
Resistance what they want.
A light flares in the Commandant’s study, and I start, surprised she’s still
awake. Her curtains flutter, and voices drift down through the open window.
She’s not alone.
Teluman’s words come back to me. I never saw your brother afraid. He
never seemed to focus on what could turn out wrong. He only ever thought
about how things could turn out right.
A worn trellis runs u p alongside the Commandant’s window, covered in
summer - dead vines. I give the trellis a shake — it’s rickety, but not unclimbable.
She’s probably not saying anything useful anyway. She’s probably
talking to a student.
But why would she meet a student at midnight? Why not during the day?
She’ll whip you. My fear pleads with me. She’ll take an eye. A hand.
But I’ve been whipped and beaten and strangled, and I’ve survived. I’ve
been carved up with a hot knife, and I’ve survived.
Darin didn’t let fear control him. If I want to save him, I can’t let fear
control me either.
Knowing my courage will diminish the longer I think about it, I grab the
trellis and climb. Keenan’s advice pops into my head. Always have an exit
plan.
I grimace. Too late for that now.
Every scrape of my sandals sounds to me like a detonation. A loud creak
makes my heart stutter, but after a minute of paralysis, I realize the sound is
just the trellis groaning under my weight.
When I reach the top, I still can’t hear the Commandant. The windowsill
is a foot to my left. Three feet below the sill, a section of stone has
crumbled, leaving a small foothold. I take a breath, grab the sill, and swing
from the trellis to the window. My feet scrape against the sheer wall for a
terrifying moment before I find the foothold.
Don’t collapse, I beg the stone beneath my feet. Don’t break.
My chest wound has opened again, and I try to ignore the blood dripping
down my front. My head is even with the Commandant’s window. If she
leans out, I’m dead.
Forget that, Darin tells me. Listen. The clipped tones of the
Commandant’s voice float through the window, and I lean forward.
“ — be arriving with his entire retinue, my Lord Nightbringer. Everyone
— his councilors, the Blood Shrike, the Black Guard — as well as most of
Gens Taia.” The subdued nature of the Commandant’s voice is a revelation.
“Make sure of it, Keris. Tai us must arrive after the Third Trial, or our
plan is for naught.”
At the sound of the second voice, I gasp and nearly fall. The voice is
de ep and soft, not a sound so much as a feeling. It is storm and wind and
leaves twisting in the night. It is roots sucking de ep at the earth, and the
pale, sightless creatures that live below the ground. But there’s something
wrong with this voice, something diseased at its core.
Though I’ve never heard the voice before, I find myself trembling,
tempted for a second to dr op to the ground just to get away from it.
Laia. I hear Darin. Be brave.
I risk a peek through the curtains and catch a glimpse of a figure
standing in the corner of the room, swathed in darkness. He looks to be
nothing more than a medium - sized man in a cloak. But I know in my bones
that this is no normal man. Shadows pool near his feet, writhing, as if trying
to get the figure’s attention. Ghuls. When the thing turns toward the
Commandant, I flinch, for the darkness beneath his hood has no place in the
hum an world. His eyes glow, slitted suns filled with ancient male volence.
The figure moves, and I jerk away from the window.
The Nightbringer, my mind screams. She called him the Nightbringer.
“We have a different problem, my lord,” the Commandant says. “The
Augurs suspect my interference. My . . . instruments are not as subtle as I’d
hoped.”
“Let them suspect,” the creature says. “As long as you shield your mind
and we continue teaching the Farrars to shield theirs, the Augurs will
remain ignorant. Though I do wonder if you’ve chosen the right Aspirants,
Keris. They’ve just botched a second ambush, though I told them
everything they needed to end Aquilla and Veturius.”
“The Farrars are the only choice. Veturius is too stubborn, and Aquilla
too loyal to him.”
“ Then Marcus must win, and I must be able to control him,” the shadowman says.
“Even if it is one of the others.” The Commandant’s voice is filled with a
doubt I never imagined her capable of expressing. “Veturius, for instance.
You can kill him and take his form — ”
“Changing form is no easy task. And I am not an assassin, Commandant,
to be used to kill off those who are thorns in your side.”
“He’s no thorn — ”
“If you want your son dead, do it yourself. But do not let it interfere with
the task I have given yo u. If you cannot perform that task, our partnership is
at an end.”
“Two Trials remain, my Lord Nightbringer.” The Commandant’s voice is
low with suppressed rage. “As both will take place here, I’m sure I can — ”
“You have little time.”
“Thirteen days is plenty — ”
“And if your attempts at sabotaging the Trial of Strength fail? The
Fourth Trial is only a day later. In two weeks, Keris, you will have a new
Emperor. See that it’s the right one.”
“I will not fail you, my lord.”
“Of course not, Keris. You’ve never f ailed me before. As a token of my
faith in you, I’ve brought you another gift.”
A rustle, a rip, and then a sharp intake of breath.
“Something to add to that tattoo,” the Commandant’s guest says. “Shall
I?”
“No,” the Commandant breathes. “No, this one’s mine.”
“As you will. Come. See me to the gate.”
Seconds later, the window slams shut, nearly jarring me from my perch,
and the lamps go out. I hear the distant thud of the door, and all falls silent.
My whole body shakes. Finally, finally, I have something u seful for the
Resistance. It’s not everything they want to know. But it might be enough to
sate Mazen, to buy more time. Half of me is jubilant, but the other half is
still thinking about the creature the Commandant called the Nightbringer.
What was that thing?
Scholars do not, on principle, believe in the supernatural. Sk epticism is
one of the few remnants of our bookish past, and most of us hold on to it
tenaciously. Jinn, efrits, ghuls, wraiths — they belong in Tribal myth and
legend. Shadows coming alive are a trick of the eye. A shadow - man with a
voice out of hell — there should be an explanation for him too.
Exc ept there is no explanation. He is real. Just like the ghuls are real.
A sudden wind swe eps in from the desert, shaking the trellis and
threatening to rip me from my perch. Whatever that thing is, I decide, the
less I know about it, the better. All that matters is that I’ve gotten the
information I need.
I reach my foot out to the trellis but pull it back quickly when another
gust of wind whips past. The trellis creaks, tips, and, before my ho rrified
eyes, drops with a deafening clatter to the flagstones. Bleeding hells. I
wince, waiting for Cook or Izzi to come out and discover me.
Seconds later, sandals rasp on the courtyard stone. Izzi emerges from the
servants’ hallway, a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. She looks
down at the trellis and then up at the window. When she spots me, her
Tmouth is an O of surprise, but she simply lifts the trellis and watches as I
climb down.
When I turn to face her, I’m hastily composing a fleet of expl anations,
none of which make any sense. But she speaks first.
“I want you to know that I think what you’re doing is brave. Really
brave.” Her words come out in a torrent, as if she’s been hoarding them all
for this moment. “I know about the raid and your family and the Resistance.
I wasn’t spying on you, I swear it. It’s just, after I took up the sand this
morning, I realized I left the irons in the oven to heat. When I came back to
get them, you and Cook were talking, and I didn’t want to interrupt.
Anyway , I was thinking — I could help you. I know things, lots of things.
I’ve been at Blackcliff forever.”
For a second, I’m speechless. Do I beg her not to tell anyone else? Do I
get unfairly angry at her for eavesdropping? Do I just stare because I didn’t
think she had that many words in her? I have no idea, but I do know one
thing: I can’t acc ept her help. It’s too risky.
Before I’ve said anything, she stuffs her hands under her shawl and
shakes her head.
“Never mind.” She looks so lonely — a loneliness of years, of a whole
life. “It was a stupid idea. Sorry.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say. “Just dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt. If
the Commandant finds out, she’ll kill us both.”
“Might be better than how things are now. At least I’ll die having done
something useful.”
“I can’t let you, Izzi.” My rejection hurts her, and I feel terrible for it.
But I’m not so desperate that I’ll put her life at risk. “I’m sorry.”
“Right.” She’s back in her shell now. “Never mind. Just . . . forget it.”
I’ve made the right decisi on. I know it. But as Izzi walks away, lonely
and miserable, I hate the fact that it’s me who has made her feel that way.
«««
hough I beg Cook to let me run errands for her so I can be out in the
markets every day, I hear nothing from the Resistance.
Until finally, on the third day after overhearing the Commandant, I’m
shoving my way past the crowds in the couriers’ office, and a hand lands on
my waist. I instinctively jab back with my elbow to knock the wind out of
the fool who thinks he can take liberties. Another hand catches my arm.
“Laia.” A low voice murmurs into my ear. Keenan’s voice.
My skin thrills at the familiar scent of him. He lets my arm go, but his
hand tightens on my waist. I’m tempted to push him away and tell him off
for touching me, but at the same time, the feel of his hand sends a jolt up
my spine.
“Don’t turn,” he says. “Commandant’s put a tail on you. He’s trying to
work his way through the crowd. We can’t risk a meeting now. Do you have
anything for us?”
I raise the Commandant’s letter to my face and fan myself, hoping the
movement will conceal the fact that I’m talking.
“I do.” I’m practically vibrating with excitement, but I sense only
tension from Keenan. When I turn to look at him, he gives me a sharp
squeeze of warning, but n ot before I see the grim cast of his face. My
elation fades. Something is wrong.
“Is Darin okay?” I whisper. “Is he — ” I can’t say the words. My fear
stifles me into silence.
“He’s in a death cell here in Serra, in Central Prison.” Keenan speaks
softly, the way Pop used to when he gave patients the worst news. “He’s to
be executed.”
All the air drains from my lungs. I can’t hear the office clerks yelling, or
feel the hands pushing me, or smell the sweat of the crowd.
Executed. Killed. Dead. Darin will be dea d.
“We still have time.” To my surprise, Keenan sounds sincere. My parents
are dead too, he said when I saw him last. My whole family, actually. He
understands what Darin’s execution will do to me. Perhaps he’s the only
one who does.
“The execution will happen after the new Emperor is named. That might
not be for a while yet.”
Wrong, I think.
In two weeks, the shadow - man had said, you will have a new Emperor.
My brother doesn’t have a while. He has two weeks. I need to tell Keenan
this, but when I turn to d o so, I see a legionnaire standing in the entryway of
the couriers’ office, watching me. The tail.
“Mazen won’t be in the city tomorrow.” Keenan bends down, as if he’s
dropped something on the floor. Keenly aware of the Commandant’s man, I
continue looking straight ahead. “But the next day, if you can get out and
lose the tail — ”
“No,” I mutter, fanning myself again. “Tonight. I’ll get out again tonight.
When she’s sle eping. She never leaves her room before dawn. I’ll sneak
out. I’ll find you.”
“Too many pat rols out tonight. It’s the Moon Festival — ”
“The patrols will be focused on groups of revelers,” I say. “They won’t
notice one slave - girl. Please, Keenan. I have to talk to Mazen. I have
information. If I can get it to him, he can get Darin out before he’s
executed.”
“Fine.” Keenan looks casually toward the tail. “Make your way to the
festival. I’ll find you there.”
A moment later, he’s gone. I deliver my letter to the couriers’ desk and
pay the fee. Seconds later, I’m outside, watching market - goers rush by. Will
the information I have be enough to save my brother? Will it be enough to
convince Mazen that he should spring Darin now instead of later?
It will be, I decide. It must be. I haven’t come this far to watch my
brother die. Tonight, I’ll convince Mazen to get Darin out. I’ll vow to stay a
slave until I have the information he wants. I’ll promise myself to the
Resistance. I’ll do whatever it takes.
But first things first. How am I going to sneak out of Blackcliff?