A Torch Against the Night (36 page)

I knew I couldn’t trust Harper. I never
have
trusted him. Yet he’s come clean now—here, where he has no allies and I have one at my back.

Still, I pinion him with my gaze. He doesn’t breathe.

“Double cross me,” I say, “and I’ll rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Avitas nods. “I’d expect no less, Blood Shrike.”

“Right,” I say. “Regarding the Warden, I’m not a Yearling still wetting the bed, Harper. I know what that monster trades in: secrets and pain disguised as science and reason.”

But he loves his foul little kingdom. He won’t want it taken away. I can use that against him.

“Get the old man a message,” I say. “Tell him I wish to meet in the boathouse tonight. He’s to come alone.”

Harper leaves immediately, and when we’re sure he’s gone, Faris turns to me.

“Please don’t tell me you believe he’s suddenly on our side.”

“I don’t have time to puzzle it out.” I grab Elias’s things and shove them back in the crack in the wall. “If the Warden knows anything about Veturius, he won’t share that knowledge for free. He’ll want information in return. I have to figure out what I’m going to give him.”

«««

A
t midnight, Avitas and I slip into Kauf’s boathouse. The broad cross-beams of the roof gleam dully in the blue torchlight. The only sound is the occasional slap of the river against the sides of the boats.

Though Avitas asked the Warden to come alone, I still expect him to bring guards. As I peer into the shadows, I loosen my scim and roll my shoulders. The wooden hulls of canoes clank against each other, and outside, the prisoner transports anchored to the boathouse cast long shadows across the windows. A stiff wind rattles the glass.

“You’re
sure
he’s coming?”

The Northman nods. “He’s very interested in meeting you, Shrike. But—”

“Now, now, Lieutenant Harper, no need to coach our Shrike. She’s not a child.”

The Warden, as spindly and pale as an overgrown catacomb spider, slinks out of the darkness on the far side of the boathouse. How long was he skulking there? I force myself not to reach for my scim.

“I have questions, Warden.”
You’re a worm. A twisted, pathetic parasite.
I want him to hear the indifference in my voice. I want him to know that he is beneath me.

He stops a few feet away from me, his hands clasped behind his back. “How may I serve?”

“Have any of your prisoners escaped in the past few weeks? Have you had any break-ins or thefts?”

“No on all counts, Shrike.” Though I watch him carefully, I see no indication that he is lying.

“What about strange activity? Any guards seen where they shouldn’t be? Unexpected prisoners coming in?”

“The frigates bring new prisoners all the time.” The Warden taps his long fingers together thoughtfully. “I processed one myself quite recently. None, however, have been unexpected.”

My skin tingles. The Warden is telling the truth. But he’s hiding something at the same time. I feel it. Beside me, Avitas shifts his weight, as if he too senses something off.

“Blood Shrike,” the Warden says. “Forgive me, but why are you here, in Kauf, looking for such information? I thought you had rather an urgent mission to find Elias Veturius?”

I draw myself up. “Do you always ask questions of your superior officers?”

“Do not take offense. I am merely wondering if something might have brought Veturius here.”

I notice how he watches my face for a reaction, and I steel myself for whatever he’s going to say next.

“Because if you were willing to tell me why you suspect he is here, then perhaps I might be able to share something … useful.”

Avitas glances at me. A warning.
The game begins.

“For instance,” the Warden says, “the girl he’s traveling with—who is she?”

“Her brother is in your prison.” I offer the information freely—a show of good faith.
You help me, I’ll help you.
“I believe Veturius is attempting to free him.”

The light in the Warden’s eyes means I’ve given him something he wants. For a second, guilt floods me. If the boy
is
in the prison, I’ve made it far more difficult for Elias to get him out.

“What is she to him, Blood Shrike? What hold does she have over him?”

I take a step toward the old man so he can see the truth in my eyes. “I don’t know.”

Outside the boathouse, the wind picks up. It sighs in the eaves, eerie as a death rattle. The Warden tilts his head, his lashless eyes unblinking.

“Say her name, Helene Aquilla, and I’ll tell you something worth your while.”

I exchange a glance with Avitas. He shakes his head. I grip my scim to find that my palms are slick on the hilt. As a Fiver, I spoke to the Warden no more than twice. But I knew—all of the Fivers knew—that he was watching. What did he learn about me in that time? I was a child, only twelve. What
could
he have learned about me?

“Laia.” I allow no inflection in my voice. But the Warden cocks his head in cold assessment.

“Jealousy and anger,” he says. “And … ownership? A connection. Something deeply irrational, I believe. Strange …”

A connection.
The healing—the protectiveness I don’t wish to feel. Bleeding skies. He got all of that from one word? I school my face, refusing to let him know what I feel. Still, he smiles.

“Ah,” he says softly. “I see that I’m correct. Thank you, Blood Shrike. You have given me much. But now I must depart. I don’t like to be away from the prison for too long.”

As if Kauf is a new bride he pines for.
“You promised me information, old man,” I say.

“I’ve already told you what you need to know, Blood Shrike. Perhaps you weren’t listening. I thought you would be”—the Warden looks vaguely disappointed—“smarter.”

The Warden’s bootsteps echo in the empty boathouse as he walks away. When I reach for my scim, fully intending to
make
him talk, Avitas grabs my arm.

“No, Shrike,” he whispers. “He never says anything without reason. Think—he must have given us a hint.”

I don’t need bleeding hints!
I throw off Avitas’s hand, unsheathe my blade, and stride toward the Warden. And as I do, it hits me—the one thing he said that raised the hairs on my neck.
I processed one myself quite recently. Not unexpected, however.

“Veturius,” I say. “You have him.”

The Warden stops. I cannot quite see the old man’s face as he half turns toward me, but I hear the smile in his voice. “Excellent, Shrike. Not so disappointing after all.”

K
eenan and I crouch behind a fallen log and survey the cave. It doesn’t look like much.

“A half mile from the river, surrounded by hemlock trees, east-facing, with a creek to the north and a granite slab turned on its side a hundred yards south.” Keenan nods to each landmark. “It can’t be anyplace else.”

The rebel pulls his hood lower. A small mountain of snow grows on each of his shoulders. The wind whistles around us, flinging bits of ice into our eyes. Despite the fleece-lined boots Keenan stole for me from Delphinium, I cannot feel my feet. But at least the storm covered our approach and muted the prison’s haunting moans.

“We haven’t seen any movement.” I pull my cloak tight. “And this storm is getting worse. We’re wasting time.”

“I know you think I’m mad,” Keenan says. “But I don’t want us to walk into a trap.”

“There’s no one here,” I say. “We’ve seen no tracks, no signs of anyone in these woods other than us. And what if Darin and Elias are in there and they’re hurt or starving?”

Keenan watches the cave for a second more, then stands. “All right. Let’s go.”

When we get close, my body will no longer allow me any caution. I draw my dagger, stride past Keenan, and step warily inside.

“Darin?” I whisper to the darkness. “Elias?” The cave feels abandoned. But then, Elias would make sure it didn’t look like the place was occupied.

A light flares from behind me—Keenan holds up a lamp, illuminating the cobwebbed walls, the leaf-strewn floor. The cave is not large, but I wish it were. Then the sight of its emptiness would not be so crushingly definitive.

“Keenan,” I whisper. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years. Elias might not have even reached here.”

“Look.” Keenan reaches into a deep crack at the back of the cave and pulls out a pack. I grab the lamp from him, my hope flaring. Keenan drops the pack, reaches in deeper, and digs out a familiar set of scims.

“Elias,” I breathe. “He was here.”

Keenan opens the pack, pulling out what looks like week-old bread and moldering fruit. “He hasn’t been back recently, or he’d have eaten this. And”—Keenan takes the lamp from me and illuminates the rest of the cave—“there’s no sign of your brother.
Rathana
is in a week. Elias should have gotten Darin out by now.”

The wind wails like an angry spirit desperate for release. “We can shelter here for now.” Keenan drops his own pack. “The storm is too bad for us to find another camp anyway.”

“But we have to
do
something,” I say. “We don’t know if Elias went in, if he got Darin out, if Darin is alive—”

Keenan takes my shoulders. “We made it here, Laia. We made it to Kauf. As soon as the storm blows over, we’ll find out what happened. We’ll find Elias and—”

“No,” a voice speaks from the entrance to the cave. “You won’t. Because he’s not here.”

My heart plunges, and I clutch the hilt of my dagger. But when I see the three masked figures standing at the entrance of the cave, I know it will do me little good.

One of the figures steps forward, a half head taller than me, her mask a quicksilver glimmer beneath her furred hood.

“Laia of Serra,” Helene Aquilla says. If the storm outside had a voice, it would be hers, gelid, deathly, and utterly unfeeling.

D
arin is alive. He’s in a cell yards from me.

And he’s being tortured. Into insanity.

“I need to find a way into that cell,” I muse out loud. Which means I need schedules for guard shifts and interrogations. I need keys for my manacles and Darin’s door. Drusius runs this part of the interrogation block; he holds the keys. But he never gets close enough for me to get a good hold on him.

No key. Pins to pick the locks, then. I’d need two—

“I can help you.” Tas’s quiet voice cuts into my scheming. “And—there are others, Elias. The Scholars in the pits have a rebel movement. The Skiritae—dozens of them.”

Tas’s words take a long moment to sink in, but once they do, I stare at him, aghast.

“The Warden would skin you—and anyone who helped you. Absolutely not.”

Tas shies like a struck animal at my vehemence. “You—you said that my fear gives him power. If I help you …”

Ten hells. I have enough death on my hands without adding a child to the list.

“Thank you.” I meet his gaze squarely. “For telling me about the Artist. But I don’t need your help.”

Tas gathers up his things and slips toward the door. He pauses there for a moment, looking back at me. “Elias—”

“So many have suffered,” I say to him, “because of me. No more. Please go. If the guards hear you and me talking, you’ll be punished.”

After he leaves, I stagger to my feet, jerking at the lancing pain in my hands and feet. I force myself to pace, a once thoughtless movement that has, in the absence of the Tellis, transformed into a feat of near-impossible proportions.

A dozen ideas race through my head, each more outlandish than the last. Every single one requires the help of at least one other person.

The boy
,
a practical voice inside says.
The boy can help you.

Might as well kill him myself, then
,
I hiss back at that voice.
It would be a faster death, at least.

I must do this alone. I only need time. But time is one of the many things I just don’t have. Only an hour after Tas leaves, and with no solution in sight, my head spins and my body jerks.
Damn it, not now.
But all my cursing and stern words to myself are for nothing. The seizure drops me—first to my knees and then straight into the Waiting Place.

«««

“I
should just build a bleeding house here,” I mutter as I pick myself up from the snow-covered ground. “Maybe get a few chickens. Plant a garden.”

“Elias?”

Izzi peers at me from behind a tree, a wasted version of herself. My heart aches at the sight of her. “I—I hoped you’d come back.”

I look around for Shaeva, wondering why she hasn’t helped Izzi move on. When I grasp my friend’s hands, she looks down in surprise at my warmth.

“You’re alive,” she says dully. “One of the other spirits told me. A Mask. He said that you walk the worlds of the living and the dead. But I didn’t believe him.”

Tristas.

“I’m not dead yet,” I say. “But it won’t be long now. How did you …” Is it indelicate to ask a ghost how they died? I am about to apologize, but Izzi shrugs.

“Martial raid,” she says. “A month after you left. One second I was trying to save Gibran. The next I was here and that woman was standing in front of me … the Soul Catcher, welcoming me to the realm of ghosts.”

“What of the others?”

“Alive,” Izzi says. “I’m not sure how I know, but I’m certain of it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “If I had been there, maybe I could have—”

“Stop.” Izzi’s eyes flash. “You always think everyone is your responsibility, Elias. But we’re not. We’re our own people, and we deserve to make our own decisions.” Her voice trembles with an uncharacteristic anger. “I didn’t die because of you. I died because I wanted to save someone else. Don’t you dare take that away from me.”

Immediately after she is done speaking, her wrath dissipates. She looks stunned.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks. “This place—it gets inside you. I don’t feel right, Elias. These other ghosts—all they do is cry and wail and—” Her eye goes dark, and she spins around, snarling at the trees.