Izzi 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 asle ep.
“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 sum mer night, warm without a breath of wind. Since death lurks a
misst ep away, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it. After taking a de ep 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
a s 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 swe eps 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 cal ls 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 fu rther 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 hom e 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 ble nd 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 thic k, 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, stud ying 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 cre eps 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 e yes 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 a dds.
“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
sk eptical. 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 stunne d.
“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
dis cussing 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,
de ep 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 t ent, 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 st eps well enough. “You’re not bad at
this,” I sa y 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.”
The warmth of his body envelops me like a cocoon. I feel suddenly,
deliciously breathless. But then he breaks eye contact, his fine features cold.
The prickle of rejection tingles unpleasantly across my skin even as we
continue to dance.
He’s you r handler, Laia. That’s all. “If it makes you feel any better, I
thought I’d be dead within a week too.” I smile, and he gives me a quirk of
his mouth in return. He holds happiness at bay, I realize. He doesn’t trust it.
“Do you still think I’m going to fail?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He glances down at me and then quickly
away. “But I didn’t want to risk the men. Or — or you.” He mutters these
words, and I lift my eyebrows in disbelief.
“Me?” I say. “You threatened to shove me into a crypt five s econds after
meeting me.”
Keenan’s neck reddens, and he’s still refusing to look at me. “I’m sorry
about that. I was a . . . a . . . ”
“Jackass?” I offer helpfully.
He smiles in full this time, dazzling and all too brief. When he nods, it’s
almost shy, but moments later, he’s serious again.
“When I said you would fail, I was trying to scare you. I didn’t want you
to go to Blackcliff.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew your father. No — that’s not right.” He shakes his head.
“Because I owe your father.”
I stop mid - dance, only picking up again when someone jostles us.
Keenan takes that as his cue to continue. “He picked me up off the
streets when I was six. It was winter, and I was begging. Not very
successfully, either. I was probably a few hours from dead. Your father
brought me to camp, clothed me, fed me. He gave me a bed. A family. I’ll
never forget his face, or how he sounded when he asked me to come with
him. Like I was doing him a favor instead of the other way around.”
I smile. That was my father, all right.
“The f irst time I saw your face in the light, you looked familiar. I
couldn’t place you, but I — I knew you. When you told us . . . ” He shrugs.
“I don’t agree with the old - timers about much,” he says, “but I do agree
that it’s wrong to leave your brother in prison when we can help him —
especially since it’s our men who put him there, and especially since your
parents did more for most of us than we can ever r epay them for. But
sending you to Blackcliff . . . ” He scowls. “That’s poor r epayment to your
father. I kn ow why Mazen did it. He needed to make both factions happy,
and giving you a mission was the best way. But I still don’t think it’s right.”
Now I’m the one flushing, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to
me, and there’s a vehemence in his face that’s almost too much.
“I’m doing my best to survive,” I say lightly. “Lest you waste away with
guilt.”
“You will survive,” Keenan says. “All of the rebels have lost someone.
It’s why they fight. But you and me? We’re the ones who’ve lost everyone.
Everything. We’re alike, Laia. So you can trust me when I say that you’re
strong, whether you know it or not. You’ll find that entrance. I know you
will.”
They are the warmest words I’ve heard in so long. Our eyes lock again,
but this time, Keenan doesn’t look away. The rest of the world fades as we
whirl. I say nothing, for the quiet between us is sweet and graceful and of
our own choosing. And though he, too, doesn’t speak, his dark eyes
smolder, telling me something I don’t quite understand. Desire, low and
dizzying, unfurls in my stomach. I want to hold this closeness to me as if
it’s a treasure. I don’t want to release it. But then the music stops, and
Keenan lets go of me.
“Get back safe.” His words are perfunctory, as if he’s speaking to one of
his fighters. I feel as if I’ve been doused with river water.
Without another word, he disappears into the crowd. The fiddlers begin a
different tune, the dance picks up around me, and like a fool, I stare into the
crush, knowing he won’t come back but hoping anyway.