A Torch Against the Night (30 page)

“Bleeding Scholars moaned about it for weeks when they heard,” Cultar, utterly oblivious, chuckles to himself. “Their great savior, gone—”

“
Jumped-up
, you called him.” I yank the legionnaire toward me by his collar. “Much like you, down here doing a job any idiot Fiver could, yammering about things you don’t
bleeding
understand.” I head butt him hard and shove, my rage and frustration exploding through my body and pushing my good sense aside. He flies back and hits the wall with a sick thud, his eyes rolling up into his head. He slithers to the floor, and I give him a last kick. He won’t be waking up any time soon. If ever.

Get out of here, Elias. Get to Laia. Tell her what’s happened.
Still enraged from the news that Darin is dead, I drag Cultar to one of the empty cells, toss him inside, and turn the lock.

But when I head to the door leading out of the block, the latch rattles.

Doorknob. Key in lock. Lock turning. Hide.
My mind screams the words at me.
Hide!

But there’s no place to do so other than behind Cultar’s desk. I dive down, pulling my body into a ball, heart thumping and knives at the ready.

I hope it’s a Scholar slave coming in to bring the meals. Or a Fiver delivering an order. Someone I can silence. Sweat beads on my forehead as the door opens, as I hear a light step on the stones.

“Elias.” I go utterly still at the Warden’s thin voice.
No, damn it. No.
“Come out of there. I’ve been waiting for you.”

M
y family or Elias.

My family. Or Elias.

Avitas follows me as I leave Cardium Rock. My body feels numb with disbelief. I do not notice him dogging my heels until I’m halfway to Antium’s northern gate.

“Leave me.” I wave a hand at him. “I don’t need you.”

“I’m tasked with—”

I whirl on him, a knife to his throat. He puts his hands up slowly, but without the wariness he’d have if he thought I was actually going to kill him. Something about it makes me even angrier.

“I don’t care. I need to be alone. So stay away from me, or your body will soon find itself looking for a new head.”

“With respect, Shrike, please tell me where you’re going and when you’ll return. If something happens—”

I’m already walking away from him. “Then your mistress will be pleased,” I call back. “Leave me be, Harper. That’s an order.”

Minutes later, I’m departing Antium.
Not enough men manning the north gate
,
I find myself thinking, a desperate attempt to keep my mind off what Marcus has just told me.
I should chat with the captain of the city guard about that.

When I look up, I realize where it is I am headed. My body knew before my mind. Antium is built in the shadow of Mount Videnns, where the Augurs lurk in their rocky lair. The path to their caves is well trod; pilgrims set out before dawn every day, climbing high into the Nevennes to pay homage to the red-eyed seers. I used to think I understood why. I used to think Elias’s frustration with the Augurs smacked of cynicism. Blasphemy, even.

Conniving tricksters
,
he’d said.
Cave-dwelling charlatans.
Perhaps, all this time, he was right.

I pass the few pilgrims making their way up the mountain, and I am fueled by rage and something I don’t care to identify. Something I last felt when I swore fealty to Marcus.

Helene, you are such a fool.
I realize now that some part of me hoped Elias would escape—no matter what happened to the Empire as a result. Such weakness. I loathe that part of myself.

Now I can have no such hope. My family are blood, kin, Gens. And yet I didn’t spend eleven months of every year with them. I didn’t make my first kill with them at my side or walk Blackcliff’s haunted, deadly halls with them.

The trail winds up two thousand feet before flattening out into a pebble-strewn bowl. Pilgrims mill in a crowd at the far end beside an unobtrusive cave.

Many approach the cave, but some unknown force stops them a few yards from its entrance.

Just try and stop me
,
I scream in my mind at the Augurs.
See what happens.

My anger propels me past the knot of pilgrims and straight to the entrance of the cave. An Augur waits there in the darkness, her hands folded before her.

“Blood Shrike.” Her red eyes glimmer from beneath the hood, and I strain to hear her. “Come.”

I follow her into a corridor lit with blue-fire lamps. Their glow tinges the glittering stalactites above us a startling cobalt.

We emerge from the long corridor into a high, perfectly square cave. A large pool of still water sits at its very center, lit by an opening in the cave rock directly above. A solitary form stands beside the pool, gazing into its depths.

My escort slows. “He awaits you.” She nods to the figure.
Cain.
“Temper your anger, Blood Shrike. We feel your rage in our blood the way you feel the bite of steel on your skin.”

I stride toward Cain, my hand tight on my scim.
I will crush you with my anger. I will flatten you.
I stop short before him, a vile curse upon my lips. Then I meet his sober gaze, and shudder. Strength fails me.

“Tell me he’ll be all right.” I know I sound like a child. But I can’t stop myself. “Like before. Tell me that if I hold to my oath of fealty, he won’t die.”

“I cannot do that, Blood Shrike.”

“You told me that if I held true to my heart, the Empire would be well served. You told me to have faith. How do you expect me to have faith if he’s going to die? I have to
kill
him—or my family is lost. I have to
choose
.
Do you—can you—comprehend—”

“Blood Shrike,” Cain says. “How is a Mask made?”

A question for a question.
Father did this when we argued philosophy. It always irritated me.

“A Mask is made through training and discipline.”

“No. How is a Mask made?”

Cain circles me, his hands in his robes, watching from beneath his heavy black cowl.

“Through rigorous instruction at Blackcliff.”

Cain shakes his head and takes a step toward me. The rocks beneath me quaver. “No, Shrike. How is a Mask
made
?”

My anger sparks, and I yank it back like I would the reins of an impatient horse.

“I don’t understand what you want,” I say. “We’re made through pain. Suffering. Through torment, blood, and tears.”

Cain sighs.

“It’s a trick question, Aquilla. A Mask is not made. She is remade. First, she is destroyed. Stripped down to the trembling child that lives at her core. It doesn’t matter how strong she thinks she is. Blackcliff diminishes, humiliates, and humbles her.

“But if she survives, she is reborn. She rises from the shadow world of failure and despair so that she might become as fearful as that which destroyed her. So that she might know darkness and use it as her scim and shield in her mission to serve the Empire.”

Cain lifts a hand to my face like a father caressing a newborn, his papery fingers cold against my skin. “You are a Mask, yes,” he whispers. “But you are not finished. You are my masterpiece, Helene Aquilla, but I have just begun. If you survive, you shall be a force to be reckoned with in this world. But first you will be unmade. First, you will be broken.”

“I’ll have to kill him, then?” What else could this mean? The best way to break me is Elias. He has always been the best way to break me. “The Trials, the vow I made to you. It was all for nothing.”

“There is more to this life than love, Helene Aquilla. There is duty. Empire. Family. Gens. The men you lead. The promises you make. Your father knows this. So will you, before the end.”

His eyes are unfathomably sad as he lifts my chin. “Most people,” Cain says, “are nothing but glimmers in the great darkness of time. But you, Helene Aquilla, are no swift-burning spark. You are a torch against the night—if you dare to let yourself burn.”

“Just
tell
me—”

“You seek assurances,” the Augur says. “I can offer you none. Breaking your fealty will have its cost, as will keeping it. Only you can weigh those costs.”

“What will happen?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s futile. “You see the future, Cain. Tell me. Better that I know.”

“You think knowing will make it easier, Blood Shrike,” he says. “But knowing makes it worse.” A millennia-old sadness weighs upon him, so consuming that I have to look away. His whisper is faint, and his body fades. “Knowing is a curse.”

I watch him until he’s gone. My heart is a vast chasm, empty of everything but Cain’s warning and a staggering fear.

But first you will be unmade.

Killing Elias will destroy me. I sense that truth in my bones. Killing Elias is my unmaking.

A
fya gave me no time to say goodbye, to mourn. I slipped Izzi’s eye patch off, threw a cloak over her face, and fled. At least I escaped with my pack and Darin’s scim. Everyone else has only their clothes and the goods stowed in the horses’ saddlebags.

The horses themselves are long gone, stripped of any sigils and sent galloping west the moment we reached the River Taius. Afya’s only words of farewell to the beasts were wrathful mutters about their expense.

The boat she stole off a fisherman’s pier will soon be gone too. Through the sagging door of a mold-fuzzed barn in which we have taken refuge, I can see Keenan standing at the riverside, sinking the boat.

Thunder rumbles. A drop of sleet shoots through the hole in the barn’s roof and lands on my nose. Hours remain until dawn.

I look to Afya, who holds a dim lamp to the ground as she draws a map in the dirt while speaking to Vana in a low voice.

“—and tell him I’m calling in this favor.” The
Zaldara
hands Vana a favor coin. “He’s to get you to Aish and get these Scholars to the Free Lands.”

One of the Scholars—Miladh—approaches Afya, standing firm against her blazing anger.

“I am sorry,” he says. “If one day I can repay you for what you’ve done, I will, a hundredfold.”

“Stay alive.” Afya’s eyes soften—just a touch—and she nods to the children. “Protect them. Help any others you can. That’s the only payment I expect I’ll get.”

When she’s out of earshot, I approach Miladh, who is now attempting to fashion a sling from a length of cloth. As I show him how to drape the cloth, he eyes me with nervous curiosity. He must be wondering about what he saw in Afya’s wagon.

“I don’t know how I disappeared,” I finally say. “That was the first time I even realized I had done it.”

“A good trick for a Scholar girl to have,” Miladh says. He looks at Afya and Gibran, speaking quietly on the other side of the barn. “In the boat, the boy said something about saving a Scholar who knows the secrets of Serric steel.”

I scuff my foot against the ground. “My brother,” I say.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve heard about him.” Miladh tucks his son into the sling. “But it is the first time I’ve had cause to hope. Save him, Laia of Serra. Our people need him. And you.”

I look to the little boy in his arms. Ayan. Tiny dark crescents curve beneath his lower lashes. His eyes meet mine, and I touch his cheek, soft and round. He should be innocent. But he’s seen things no child should. Who will he be when he grows up? What will all this violence make him? Will he survive?
Not another forgotten child with a forgotten name
,
I plead.
Not another lost Scholar.

Vana calls out and, with Zehr, leads Miladh, his sister, and the children into the night. Ayan twists about to look at me. I make myself smile at him—Pop always said you could never smile too much at a baby. The last thing I see before they are lost in darkness is his eyes, so dark, watching me still.

I turn to Afya, locked in conversation with her brother. From the look on her face, interrupting them would result in a fist to the jaw.

Before I decide what to do, Keenan ducks into the barn. The sleet falls steady now, and his red hair is plastered to his head, almost black in the darkness.

He halts when he sees the eyepatch in my hand. Then he takes two steps and pulls me to his chest without hesitation, wrapping his arms around me. This is the first time we’ve had a moment to even look at each other since we escaped the Martials. But I am numb as he holds me close, unable to relax into him or to allow his warmth to drive away a chill that set into my bones the moment I saw Izzi’s chest torn open.

“We just left her there,” I say into his shoulder. “Left her to—”
To rot. To have her bones picked clean by scavengers or tossed into some unmarked grave.
The words are too horrible to speak.

“I know.” Keenan’s voice cracks, and his face is chalk-white. “Skies, I know—”

“—can’t bleeding make me!”

I jerk my head around to the other end of the barn, where Afya looks as if she’s about to crush the lamp in her hand. Gibran, meanwhile, seems as if he’s more like his sister than is currently convenient for her.

“It’s your duty, you fool. Someone must take control of the Tribe if I don’t come back, and I won’t have it be one of our idiot cousins.”

“You should have thought of that before you brought me along.” Gibran stands nose to nose with Afya. “If Laia’s brother can make the steel that brings the Martials down, then we owe it to Riz—and Izzi—to save him.”

“We’ve dealt with the Martials’ cruelty before—”

“Not like this,” he says. “They’ve disrespected us, robbed us, yes. But they’ve never butchered us. They’ve been killing Scholars, and it’s making them bold. We’re next. For where will they find slaves if they’ve killed all the Scholars off?”

Afya’s nostrils flare. “In that case,” she says, “fight them from the Tribal lands. You certainly can’t do it from Kauf Prison.”

“Listen,” I say, “I don’t think—”

The Tribeswoman whirls, as if the sound of my voice has triggered an explosion that’s been building for hours. “You,” she hisses. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess. The rest of us bled while you—you
disappeared
.” She twitches with fury. “You went into that smugglers’ compartment, and when the Mask opened it, you were
gone
.
Didn’t realize I was transporting a witch—”