My blade cuts through Helene’s leather armor, and part of me
screams, Elias, what have you done? What have you done?
Then the dagger shatters, and while I’m still staring at it in disbelief, a
powerful hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me off Helene.
“Aspirant Aquilla.” Cain’s voice is cold as he flicks open the top of
Helene’s tunic. Glimmering beneath is the Augur - forged shirt Hel won in
the Trial of Cunning. Exc ept, like the mask, it’s no longer s eparate from her.
It’s melded to her, a second, scim - proof skin. “Do you not recall the rules of
the Trial? Battle armor is forbidden. You are disqualified.”
My battle rage fades, leaving me feeling like my insides have been
whittled away. I know that this image will haunt me forever, staring down at
Helene’s frozen face, the sleet thick around us, the screaming wind that
can’t drown out the sound of death.
You nearly killed her, Elias. You nearly killed your best friend.
Helene doesn’t speak. She stares at me and puts her hand to her heart, as
if she can still fee l that dagger coming down.
“She didn’t think to remove it,” a voice speaks from behind me. A slight
shadow emerges from the mist: a female Augur. Other shadows follow,
creating a circle around Hel and me.
“She didn’t think of it at all,” the female Augur says. “She’s worn it
since the day we gave it to her. It’s joined with her. Like the mask. An
honest error, Cain.”
“But an error nonetheless. She has forfeited the victory. And even if she
had not . . . ”
I would have won anyway. Because I would have killed her.
The sleet slows to a drizzle, and the mist on the battlefield clears,
revealing the carnage. The amphitheater is strangely quiet, and I notice then
that the stands are filled with students and Centurions, generals and
politicians. My mother watches from the front row, unreadable as ever.
Grandfather stands a few rows behind her, his hand tight on his scim. The
faces of my platoon are a blur. Who survived? Who died?
Tristas, Demetrius, Leander: dead. Cyril, Darien, Fortis: dead.
I drop to the ground beside Helene. I say her name.
I’m sorry I tried to kill you. I’m sorry I gave the order to kill your
platoon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The words don’t come. Only her name,
whispered over and over in the hopes that she will hear, that she will
understand. She looks past my face into the roiling sky as if I’m not there.
“Aspirant Veturius,” Cain says. “Rise.”
Monster, murderer, devil. Dark, vile creature. I hate you. I hate you . Am
I speaking to the Augur? To myself? I don’t know. But I do know that
freedom isn’t worth this. Nothing is worth this.
I should have let Helene kill me.
Cain says nothing of the bedlam in my mind. Maybe, in a battlefield
choked with the tormented thoughts of broken men, he cannot hear mine.
“Aspirant Veturius,” he says, “as Aquilla has forfeited, and you, of all
Aspirants, have the most men left alive, we, the Augurs, name you victor in
the Trial of Strength. Congratulations.”
Victor.
The word thuds to the ground like a scim falling from a dead hand.
»»»
welve men from my platoon survive. The other eighteen lie in the
back room of the infirmary, cold beneath thin white sheets. Helene’s
platoon fared worse, with only ten survivors. Earlier, Marcus and Zak
fought each other, but no one seems to know much about that battle.
The men of the platoons knew who their enemy would be. Everyone
knew what this Trial would be — everyone but the Aspirants. Faris tells me
this. Or maybe Dex.
I don’t remember how I arrive at the infirmary. The place is chaos, the
head physician and his apprentices overwhelmed as they try to save
wounded men. They shouldn’t bother. The blows we dealt were killing
blows.
The healers realize the truth soon enough. By the time night falls, the
infirmary is quiet, occupied by bodies and ghosts.
Most of the survivors have left, half ghost themselves. Helene is spirited
away to a private room. I wait outside her door, throwing black looks at the
apprentices trying to get me to leave. I have to speak to her. I have to know
if she’s all right.
“You didn’t kill her.”
Marcus. I don’t draw a weapon at the sound of his voice, though I have a
dozen at hand. If Marcus decides to kill me in this moment, I won’t lift a
finger to stop him. But for once, there’s no venom in him. His armor is
spattered with blood and mud, like mine, but he seems different.
Diminished, like something vi tal has been torn out of him.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t kill her.”
“She was your enemy on the battlefield. It’s not a victory until you
defeat your enemy. That’s what the Augurs said. That’s what they told me.
You were supposed to kill her.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“He died so easily.” Marcus’s yellow eyes are troubled, his lack of
malice so profound that I barely recognize him. I wonder if he actually sees
me or if he just sees a body — someone alive, someone listening.
“The scim — it tore through him,” Marcus says. “I wanted to stop it. I
tried, but it was too fast. My name was his first word, did you know? And
— and his last. Just before the end, he said it. Marcus, he said.”
It dawns on me then. I haven’t seen Zak among the survivors. I haven’t
heard anyone speak his name.
“You killed him,” I say softly. “You killed your brother.”
“They said I had to defeat the enemy commander.” Marcus raises his
eyes to mine. He seems confused. “Everyone was dying. Our friends. He
asked me to end it. To make it stop. He begged me. My brother. My little
brother.”
Revulsion rises inside me like bile. I’ve spent years loathing Marcus,
thinking of him as nothing more than a snake. Now I can only pity him,
though neither of us deserves pity. We are murderers of our own men — of
our own blood. I’m no better than he is. I watched and did nothing as
Tristas died. I killed Demetrius, Ennis, Leander, and so many others. If
Helene hadn’t unwittingly broken the rules of the Trial, I’d have killed her
too.
The door to Helene’s room opens, and I rise, but the physician shakes his
head.
“No, Veturius.” He’s pale and subdued, all his bluster gone. “She’s not
ready for visitors. Go, lad. Go get some rest.”
I almost laugh. Rest.
When I turn back to Marcus, he is gone. I should find my men. Check on
them. But I can’t face them. And they, I know, won’t want to see me. We
will never forgive ourselves for what we did today.
“I will see Aspirant Veturius,” a quarrelsome voice says from the
hallway outside the infirmary. “That’s my grandson, and I damn well want
t o make sure he’s — Elias!”
Grandfather shoves past a frightened apprentice as I walk out the
infirmary door, pulling me to him, his arms strong around me. “Thought
you were dead, my boy,” he says into my hair. “Aquilla’s got more spit than
I gave her credit for.”
“I nearly killed her. And the others. I killed them. So many. I didn’t want
to. I — ”
I’m going to be sick. I turn from him and retch right there, at the door of
the infirmary, not stopping until there’s nothing left to get out.
Grandfather calls for a glass of water, waiting quietly as I drink it down,
his hand never leaving my shoulder.
“Grandfather,” I say. “I wish . . . ”
“The dead are dead, my boy, and at your hand.” I don’t want to hear the
words, but I need them, for they are the truth. Anything less would be an
insult to the men I killed. “No amount of wishing will change it. You’ll be
trailing ghosts now. Like the rest of us.”
I sigh and look down at my hands. I can’t stop them from shaking. “I
have to go to my quarters. I have to get — get cleaned up.”
“I can walk you — ”
“That won’t be necessary.” Cain appears from the shadows, as welcome
as a plague. “Come, Aspirant. I would speak to you.”
I follow the Augur with heavy st eps. What do I do? What do I say to a
creature who cares nothing for loyalty or friendship or life?
“I find it hard to believe,” I say quietly, “that you didn’t realize Helene
was wearing scim - proof armor.”
“Of course we realized it. Why do you think we gave it to her? The
Trials are not always about action. Sometimes, they are about intent. You
weren’t me ant to kill Aspirant Aquilla. We only wanted to know if you
would.” He glances at my hand, which I didn’t even realize was inching
toward my scim. “I’ve told you before, Aspirant. We cannot die. Besides,
haven’t you had enough of death?”
“Zak. And Marcus.” I can barely speak. “You made him kill his own
brother.”
“Ah. Zacharias.” Sadness flits across Cain’s face, infuriating me further.
“Zacharias was different, Elias. Zacharias had to die.”
“You could have picked anyone — anything for us to fight.” I don’t lo ok
at him. I don’t want to retch again. “Efrits or wights. Barbarians. But you
made us fight each other. Why?”
“We had no choice, Aspirant Veturius.”
“No choice.” A terrible anger consumes me, virulent as a sickness. And
though he is right, though I have had enough of death, in this moment all I
want is to plunge my scim through Cain’s black heart. “You created these
Trials. Of course you had a choice.”
Cain’s eyes flash. “Do not speak of things you do not understand, child.
What we do, we do for reasons be yond your comprehension. “
“You made me kill my friends. I almost killed Helene. And Marcus — he
killed his brother — his twin — because of you.”
“You’ll be doing far worse before this is over.”
“Worse? How much worse can this get? What will I have to do in the
Fourth Trial? Murder children?”
“I’m not talking about the Trials,” Cain says. “I’m talking about the
war.”
I stop mid - stride. “What war?”
“The one that haunts our dreams.” Cain ke eps walking, gesturing for me
to follow. “Shadows gather, Elias, and their gathering cannot be stopped.
Darkness grows in the heart of the Empire, and it will grow more still, until
it covers this land. War comes. And it must come. For a great wrong must
be righted, a wrong that grows greater with every life destroyed. The war is
the only way. And you must be ready.”
Riddles, always riddles with the Augurs. “A wrong,” I say through
gritted teeth. “What wrong? When? How can a war fix it?”
“One day, Elias Veturius, these mysteries will be made clear. But not this
day.”
He slows as we enter the barracks. Every door is closed. I hear no
curses, no sobs, no snores, nothing. Where are my men?
“They sle ep,” Cain says. “For this night, they will not dream. Their sle ep
will not be haunted by the dead. A reward for their valor.”
A paltry gesture. They still have tomorrow night to wake up screaming.
And all the nights after.
“You have not asked about your prize,” Cain says, “for winning the
Trial.”
“I don’t want a prize. Not for this.”
“Nonetheless,” the Augur says as we arrive at my room, “you will have
it. Your door will be sealed until dawn. No one will disturb you. Not even
the Commandant.” He drifts out of the barracks doors, and I watch him go,
wondering uneasily about his talk of war and shadows and darkness.
I’m too exhausted to think long on it. My whole body aches. I just want
to sle ep and forget this ever happened, even if it’s just for a few hours. I
push the questions out of my head, unlock the door, and enter my quarters.