Ihe singing is a river that winds through my pain - infused dreams, quiet
and sweet, drawing out memories of a life I’ve nearly forgotten, a life
before Blackcliff. The silk - draped caravan trundling through the Tribal
desert. My playfellows, running riot in the oasis, their laughter ringing like
bells. Walking in the shade of the date trees with Mamie Rila, her voice as
steady as the hum of life in the desert around us.
But when the singing stops, the dreams fade, and I descend into
nightmares. The nightmares transform into a black pit of pain, and the pain
stalks me like a vengeful twin. A door of clutching darkness opens behind
me, and a hand snatches at my back, trying to drag me through.
Then the singing begins again, a thread of life in the infinite black, and I
reach for it and hold on as tight as I can.
«««
come to consciousness light - headed, as if I’ve returned to my body after
long years away. Though I expect soreness, my limbs move easily, and I sit
up.
Outside, the evening lamps have just been lit. I know I’m in the
infirmary because it’s the only place in all of Blackcliff with white walls.
The room is empty of everything but the bed in which I lie, a small table,
and a plain wooden chair occupied by a dozing Helene. She looks terrible,
her face covered in bruises and scratches.
“Elias!” Her eyes fly open when she hears me move. “Thank the skies.
You’ve been out for two days.”
“Remind me,” I croak, my throat dry, head aching. Something happened
on the cliffs. Something strange . . .
Helene pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. “We were
attacked by efrits during the Second Trial, on our way down the cliffs.”
“One of them cut the rope,” I say, remembering. “But then — ”
“You stuffed me in that niche but didn’t have the sense to hold on to it
yourself.” Helene glowers at me, but her hands shake as she gives me the
water. “Then you dropped like a lead weight. Smacked your head on the
way down. You should have died, but that rope between us anchored you. I
sang at the top of my lungs until every last efrit bolted. Then I got you to
the desert floor and holed up in a little cave behind some tumbleweeds.
Good little fort, actually. Easy to defend.”
“You had to fight? Again?”
“The Augurs tried to kill us four more times. The scorpions were
obvious, but the viper almost got you. Then there were wights — evil little
bastards, them, nothing like the stories. Pain in the ass to kill, too — you
have to squash them like bugs. The legionnaires were the worst, though.”
Helene goes pale, and t he dark humor in her voice fades. “They k ept
coming. I’d take down one or two, and four more would r eplace them.
They’d have rushed me, but the opening to the cave was too narrow.”
“How many did you kill?”
“Too many. But it was them or us, so it’s hard to feel guilty.”
Them or us. I think of the four soldiers I killed in the watchtower
stairwell. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t have to add to that tally.
“At dawn,” she continues, “an Augur showed up. Ordered the
legionnaires to haul you to the infirma ry. She said Marcus and Zak were
injured too, and that since I was the only one unmarked, I’d won the Trial.
Then she gave me this.” She pulls back the neck of her tunic to reveal a
shimmering, tight - fitting shirt.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d won?” Relief floods me. I’d have broken
something if Marcus or Zak had taken the victory. “And they gave you a . . .
shirt?”
“Made of living metal,” Helene says. “Augur - forged, like our masks.
Turns away all blades, the Augur said — even Serric steel. Good thing, too.
Skies only know what we’ll face next.”
I shake my head. Wraiths and efrits and wights. Tribal tales come to life.
I never dreamt it possible. “The Augurs don’t let up, do they?”
“What do you expect, Elias?” Helene asks quietly. “They’re choosing
the next Emperor. That’s no small thing. You — we — need to trust them.”
She takes a breath, and her next words come out in a rush. “When I saw you
fall, I thought you were dead. And there were so many things I needed to
say to you.” She brings her hand hesitantly to my face, her shy eyes
speaking an unfamiliar language.
Not so unfamiliar, Elias. Lavinia Tanalia looked at you like that. And
Ceres Coran. Right before you kissed them.
But this is different. This is Helene. So what? You want to see what it’s
like — you know you do. As soon as I think it, I’m disgusted at myself.
Helene’s not a quick tumble or a night’s indiscretion. She’s my best friend.
She deserves better.
“Elias . . . ” Her voice is slow as a summer breeze, and she bites her lip.
No. Don’t let her.
I pull my face away, and she snatches her hand back as if from a flame,
her cheeks crimson.
“Helene — ”
“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs, her tone falsely light. “I guess I’m
just happy to see you. Anyway, you never said — how do you feel?”
The speed with which she moves on startles me, but I’m so relieved to
avoid an a wkward conversation that I, too, pretend nothing has happened.
“My head hurts. I feel . . . fuzzy. There was this . . . this singing. Do you
know . . . ?”
“You were probably dreaming.” Helene looks away uncomfortably, and,
groggy though I might be, I can tell she’s hiding something. When the door
opens to admit the physician, she jumps from her chair, seemingly relieved
at the presence of someone else in the room.
“Ah, Veturius,” the physician says. “Awake at last.” I’ve never liked
him. He’s a skeletal, po mpous ass who delights in discussing his healing
methods while patients writhe in pain. He bustles over and removes the
bandage on my leg.
My mouth drops open. I expected a bloody wound. But there’s nothing
left of the injury exc ept a scar that looks weeks old. It tingles when I touch
it but is otherwise free of pain.
“A southern poultice,” the physician says, “of my own making. I’ve
used it many times, I confess, but with you, I’ve gotten the formula
perfect.”
The physician removes the bandage from my head . It’s not even
bloodstained. A dull ache flares out from behind my ear, and I reach up to
feel the ridge of a scar there. If what Helene said was true, this wound
should have left me knocked out for weeks. And yet it has healed in days.
Miraculous. I contemplate the physician. Too miraculous for this smug bag
of bones to have done it on his own.
Helene, I note, is pointedly not looking at me.
“Did an Augur visit?” I ask the physician.
“Augur? No. Just myself and the apprentices. And Aquilla, of course.”
He gives Hel an irritated glance. “Sat in here singing lullabies every chance
she got.”
The physician pulls a bottle from his pocket. “Bloodroot serum for the
pain,” he says. Bloodroot serum. The words trigger something in my mind,
but it flits away.
“Your fatigues are in the closet,” the physician says. “You’re free to go,
though I recommend you take it easy. I’ve told the Commandant you won’t
be fit for training or watch until tomorrow.”
The second the physician leaves, I turn on Helene. “No poultice in the
world could heal wounds like this. And yet I didn’t get a visit from an
Augur. Only you.”
“The wounds must not have been as bad as you thought.”
“Helene. Tell me about your singing.”
She opens her mouth, as if to speak, then breaks for the door faster than
a whip. Unfortunately for her, I’m expecting it.
Her eyes flash when I grab her hand, and I see her weigh her options. Do
I fight him? Is it worth it? I wait her out, and she relents, pulling her fingers
from mine and sitting back down.
“It started in the cave,” she says. “You k ept twitching, like you were
having a fit of some kind. When I sang to ke ep the efrits away, you calmed
down. Your color was better, your head wound stopped bleeding. So I — I
k ept singing. I got tired as I did it — weak, like I had a fever.” Her eyes are
panicked. “I don’t know what it means. I’d never try to harness the spirits of
the dead. I’m no witch, Elias, I swear — ”
“I know that, Hel.” Skies, what would my mother make of this? The
Black Guard? Nothing good. Martials believe that s upernatural power
comes from spirits of the dead and that only the Augurs are possessed by
such spirits. Anyone else with even a touch of power would be accused of
witchcraft and sentenced to death.
The evening’s shadows dance across Hel’s face, and it reminds me of
how she looked when Rowan Goldgale grabbed her and lit her with that
strange glow.
“Mamie Rila used to tell stories,” I say carefully, not wanting to spook
Helene. “She talked of humans with strange skills that were awoken by
contact with the su pernatural. Some could harness strength, others could
change the weather. A few could even heal with their voices.”
“Not possible. Only the Augurs have true power — ”
“Helene, we fought wraiths and efrits two nights ago. Who’s to say
what’s possible and what isn’t? Maybe when that efrit touched you, it woke
something up inside you.”
“Something strange.” Helene hands me my fatigues. I’ve only unsettled
her more. “Something inhuman. Something — ”
“Something that probably saved my life.”
Hel grabs my shoulder, her slim fingers digging into me. “Promise you
won’t tell anyone, Elias. Let everyone think the physician is a miracle
worker. Please. I have to — to understand this first. If the Commandant
knows, she’ll tell the Black Guard and — ”
They’ll try to purge it out of you. “Our secret,” I say. She looks
marginally relieved.
When we leave the infirmary, I’m greeted by a cheer — Faris, Dex,
Tristas, Demetrius, Leander — hooting and banging me on the back.
“I knew the bastards wouldn’t off you — ”
“Cause for celebration, let’s smuggle in a keg — ”
“Back up,” Helene says. “Let him breathe.” She’s interrupted by the
thudding of the drums.
All new graduates to training field one for combat practice immediately.
The message r epeats, and groans and eye - rolling abound. “Do us a favor,
Elias,” Faris says. “When you win and become grand overlord, get us out of
here, will you?”
“Oi,” Helene says. “What about me? What if I win?”
“If you win, then the docks get shut down and we’ll never have any fun
again,” Leander says, winking at me.
“You twit, Leander, I would not shut down the docks,” Helene fumes.
“Just because I don’t lik e brothels — ” Leander backs away, his hands
protecting his nose.
“Forgive him, oh hallowed Aspirant,” Tristas intones, blue eyes
sparkling. “Do not strike him down. He is but a poor servant — ”
“Oh, piss off, all of you,” Helene says.
“Half past ten, Elias,” Leander calls as he and the others walk away.
“My room. We’ll have a proper celebration. Aquilla, you can come too, but
only if you promise not to break my nose again.”
I tell him I won’t miss it, and after he and the others leave, Hel hands me
a vial. “Yo u almost forgot the bloodroot serum.”
“Laia!” I realize the source of the niggling feeling I had earlier. I’d
promised the slave - girl bloodroot three days ago. She’ll be in terrible pain
from her wound. Has she been taking care of it? Has Cook been cleaning it?
Has —
“Who’s Laia?” Helene interrupts my thoughts, her voice dangerously
serene.
“She’s . . . no one.” My promise to a Scholar slave isn’t something
Helene will understand. “What else happened while I was at the infirmary?
Anything interesting?”
Helen e throws me a look that says she’s allowing me to change the
subject. “Resistance ambushed a Mask — Daemon Cassius — in his house.
Pretty gruesome, apparently. His wife found him this morning. No one
heard a thing. The bastards are getting bolder. And . . . there’s something
else.” She drops her voice. “My father’s heard a rumor that the Blood
Shrike’s dead.”
I stare at her incredulously. “The Resistance?”
Helene shakes her head. “You know that the Emperor’s a few weeks
away from Serra — at the most. He’s started to plan his attack on Blackcliff
— on us, the Aspirants.”
Grandfather warned me about this. Still, it’s unpleasant to hear.
“When the Blood Shrike heard about the attack plans, he tried to resign
his post. So Taius had him executed.”
“You can’t resign as Blood Shrike.” You serve until you die. Everyone
knows that.
“Actually,” Helene says, “the Blood Shrike can resign, but only if the
Emperor agrees to release him from service. It’s not commonly known —
Father says it’s some odd loophole in Empire law. Anyway, if the rumor is
true, then the Blood Shrike was a fool to even ask. Taius isn’t going to free
his right - hand man right when Gens Taia is being shoved out of power.”
She looks up at me, expecting a response, but I just stare at her openmouthed, because
something huge has occurred to me, something I haven’t
understood until now.
If you do your duty, the Augur said, you have a chance to break the
bonds between you and the Empire forever.
I know how to do it. I know how I’ll find my freedom.
If I win the Trials, I become Emperor. Nothing but death can release the
Emperor from his duty to the Empire. But that’s not the case for the Blood
Shrike. The Blood Shrike can resign, but only if the Emperor agrees to
release him from service.
I’m not supposed to win the Trials. Helene is. Because if she wins and I
become Blood Shrike, then she can set me free.
The revelation is like a punch to the gut and flying, all at once. The
Augurs said whoever won two Trials first would become Emperor. Marcus
and Helene are both up one. Which means I have to win the next Trial and
Helene has to win the Fourth. And sometime between now and then,
Marcus and Zak have to die.
“Elias?”
“Yes,” I say too loudly. “Sorry.” Hel looks annoyed.
“Thinking of Laia?” The mention of the Scholar girl is so incongruous
to my thoughts that for a second I’m stunned silent, and Helene stiffens.
“Well, don’t mind me, then,” she says. “Not like I just spent two days by
your bedside singing you back to life or anything.”
For a second I don’t know what to say. I don’t know this Helene. She’s
acting like an actual girl. “No, Hel, it’s not like that. I’m just tired — ”
“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.