A Torch Against the Night (39 page)

And then I feel it, a tingling, first at the tip of my finger.
Inhale. Exhale. Don’t let it go.
The tingling spreads to my arms, my torso, my legs, my head.

I open my eyes, look down and nearly whoop for joy. Because it’s worked. I’ve done it. I’ve disappeared.

When Keenan returns to the cave hours later, a bundle tucked under his arm, I jump to my feet and he sighs. “No rest then, I assume,” he says. “I have good news and bad.”

“Bad first.”

“I knew you’d say that.” He sets his bundle down and begins to unwrap it. “Bad news: The Commandant has arrived. Kauf’s auxes have started digging graves. From what I heard, not a single Scholar prisoner will be spared.”

My elation at being able to disappear evaporates. “Skies,” I say. “All of those people …”
We should try to save them.
It’s such a mad idea that I know better than to speak it aloud to Keenan.

“They’ll begin tomorrow evening,” he says. “At sundown.”

“Darin—”

“Is going to be fine. Because we’re going to get him out before then. I know a way in.
And
I stole these.” He lifts a pile of black cloth from the bundle. Kauf uniforms.

“Burgled them from a storage outbuilding. We won’t fool anyone up close,” he says. “But if we can keep far enough away from prying eyes, we can use them to get in.”

“How will we know where Darin is?” I ask. “The prison is enormous. And once we’re inside, how will we move around?”

He pulls another pile of cloth from the bundle. This one dingier. I hear the clink of slaves’ cuffs. “We change,” he says.

“My face is all over the Empire,” I say. “What if I’m recognized? Or what if—”

“Laia,” Keenan says patiently. “You have to trust me.”

“Maybe …” I hesitate, wondering if he’ll be upset.
Don’t be stupid, Laia.
“Maybe we won’t need the uniforms. I know you said not to, but I tried the disappearing again. And I’ve got it.” I pause for his reaction, but he only waits for me to go on. “I figured it out,” I clarify. “I can disappear. I can hold it.”

“Show me.”

I frown, having expected …
something
from him. Perhaps anger or excitement. But then, he hasn’t seen what I can do—he’s only seen my failure. I close my eyes and keep my inner voice clear and calm.

But yet again, I fail.

Ten minutes after I begin, I open my eyes. Keenan, waiting calmly, simply shrugs.

“I don’t doubt that it works some of the time.” The kindness in his voice only frustrates me. “But it’s not reliable. We can’t stake Darin’s life on it. Once Darin is free, toy with it all you want. For now, leave it alone.”

“But—”

“Think about the past few weeks.” Keenan fidgets but doesn’t pull his gaze away. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s steeled himself for it. “If we’d broken away from Elias and Izzi, like I’d suggested, Elias’s Tribe would have been safe. And just before the raid on Afya’s camp—it’s not that I didn’t want to help the Scholars. I
did
.
But we should have thought about what would happen as a result. We didn’t, and Izzi
died
.”

He says
we
. I know he means
you
. My face feels hot. How dare he throw my failures in my face as if I’m a schoolchild to be reprimanded?

But he’s not wrong, is he?
Every time I needed to make a decision, I chose wrong. Disaster after disaster.
My hand goes to my armlet, but it feels cold—hollow.

“Laia, I haven’t cared about anyone in a very long time.” Keenan puts his hands on my arms. “I don’t have family like you do. I don’t have anyone or anything.” He traces a finger along my armlet, and a sudden weariness suffuses his movements. “You’re
all
I have. Please, my intent is not to be cruel. I simply don’t want anything to happen to you, or to the people who care for you.”

He
must
be wrong. The disappearing is at my fingertips—I can feel it. If only I could figure out what’s blocking me. If I could remove that one obstacle, it would change everything.

I force myself to nod and repeat the words he’s said to me before, when he’s given in.

“Your will, then.” I look at the uniforms he’s brought, at the resolve in his eyes. “Dawn?” I ask.

He nods. “Dawn.”

W
hen the Warden enters my cell, his mouth is turned downward, his brow furrowed, as if he’s encountered a problem that none of his experiments can solve.

After pacing back and forth a few times, he speaks. “You will answer my questions completely and in detail.” He lifts his white-blue eyes to me. “Or I will cut off your fingers one by one.”

His threats are usually far less blunt—one of the reasons he enjoys extracting secrets is the games he plays as he does so. Whatever he wants of me, he must want it badly.

“I know that Darin’s sister and Laia of Serra are one and the same. Tell me: Why did you travel with her? Who is she to you? Why do you care for her?”

I keep the emotion from my face, but my heart thuds uncomfortably fast.
Why do you want to know?
I want to scream.
What do you want with her?

When I don’t immediately answer, the Warden takes a knife from his fatigues and spreads my fingers flat against the wall.

“I have an offer for you,” I say quickly.

He raises his eyebrows, the knife inches from my forefinger. “If you examine the facts, Elias, you’ll see that you are in no position to make offers.”

“I won’t need fingers or toes or anything else for much longer,” I say. “I’m dying. So a deal: I’ll answer any question you put to me honestly if you do the same.”

The Warden appears genuinely mystified. “What information could you possibly use at death’s door, Elias? Oh.” He grimaces. “Skies, don’t tell me. You want to know who your father is?”

“I don’t care who my father is,” I say. “In any case, I’m certain you don’t know.”

The Warden shakes his head. “How little faith you have in me. Very well, Elias. Let us play your game. A slight adjustment to the rules, however: I ask all my questions first, and if I’m satisfied with your answers, you may ask me one—and only one—question.”

It’s a terrible deal, but I have no other options. If Keenan plans to double-cross Laia on the Warden’s behalf, I must know why.

The Warden leans out the cell door and barks at a slave to bring him a chair. A Scholar child carries it in, her gaze flitting to me with brief curiosity. I wonder if it’s Bee, Tas’s friend.

At the Warden’s prompting, I tell him about how Laia saved me from execution and about how I vowed to help her. When he presses, I tell him that I came to care for her after seeing her at Blackcliff.

“But
why
? Does she possess some peculiar knowledge? Is she, perhaps, gifted with power that is beyond human ken? What specifically makes you value her?”

I’d filed away Darin’s observations about the Warden, but now they come back to me:
He was frustrated. It was as if he wasn’t quite sure what to ask. As if the questions weren’t his to begin with.

Or, I realize, as if the Warden has no idea why he’s even asking the questions.

“I’ve only known the girl for a few months,” I say. “She’s smart, brave—”

The Warden sighs and waves a dismissive hand at me. “I do not care for moon-eyed blathering,” he says. “Think with your
rational
mind, Elias. Is there anything unusual about her?”

“She’s survived the Commandant,” I say, impatient now. “For a Scholar, that’s quite unusual.”

The Warden leans back, stroking his chin, gaze far away. “Indeed,” he says. “How
did
she survive? Marcus was supposed to have killed her.” He fixes me with an appraising stare. The freezing cell suddenly feels colder. “Tell me about the Trial. Exactly what happened in the amphitheater?”

It’s not the question I expected, but I relate what happened. When I describe Marcus’s attack on Laia, he stops me.

“But she survived,” he says. “How? Hundreds of people saw her die.”

“The Augurs tricked us,” I say. “One of them took the hit meant for Laia. Cain named Marcus victor. In the chaos, his brethren took Laia away.”

“And then?” the Warden says. “Tell me the rest. Leave nothing out.”

I hesitate, because something about this seems wrong. The Warden stands, flings open the cell door, and calls for Tas. Footsteps patter, and a second later, he yanks Tas in by the scruff of his neck and puts his knife to the boy’s throat.

“You are correct when you say that you will soon die,” the Warden says. “This boy, however, is young and relatively healthy. Lie to me, Elias, and I show you his insides while he still lives. Now, I’ll say it again: Tell me everything that happened with the girl after the Fourth Trial.”

Forgive me, Laia, if I give away your secrets. I swear it’s not for nothing.
I watch the Warden carefully as I speak about Laia’s destruction of Blackcliff, our escape from Serra, and all that happened after.

I wait to see if he reacts to my mention of Keenan, but the old man gives no sign that he knows any more about the rebel than what I’m telling him. My gut tells me his disinterest is genuine.
What the bleeding hells?
Perhaps Keenan isn’t working for the Warden. And yet from what Darin told me, it’s obvious that they are somehow communicating. Could they both be reporting to someone else?

The old man shoves Tas away, and the child cowers on the floor, waiting to be dismissed. But the Warden is deep in thought, methodically filing away relevant facts from the information I’ve given him. Sensing my gaze, he pulls himself from his musings.

“You had a question, Elias?”

An interrogator can learn as much from a statement as from a question.
My mother’s words coming to aid me when I least expect it.

“The questions you asked Darin about Laia,” I say. “You don’t know their purpose. Someone else is pulling your strings.” I watch the Warden’s mouth, for that is where he hides his truths, in twitches of those dry, too-thin lips. As I speak, his mouth tightens almost imperceptibly.
Got you.
“Who is it, Warden?”

The Warden stands so quickly that he knocks his chair over. Tas quickly lugs it out of the cell. My chains loosen when the Warden yanks down the lever on the wall.

“I answered everything you asked of me,” I say. Ten hells, why am I even trying? I was a fool to think he’d honor his vow. “You’re not upholding your end of the bargain.”

The Warden pauses at the cell’s threshold, his face half-turned toward me, unsmiling. The torchlight in the hallway deepens the grooves in his cheeks and jaw. For a moment, it’s as if I can see the stark outline of his skull beneath.

“That’s because you asked
who
it is, Elias,” the Warden says. “Instead of
what
.”

L
ike so many nights before this one, rest is elusive. Keenan sleeps beside me, arm thrown across my hip, his forehead tipped down against my shoulder. His quiet breathing almost lulls me into dreams, but every time I get close, I jerk awake and fret anew.

Does Darin live? If so, and if I
can
save him, how will we make it to Marinn? Will Spiro be waiting there, as he promised? Will Darin even
want
to make weapons for the Scholars?

What of Elias? Helene might already have him. Or he might be dead, destroyed by the poison coursing through his body. If he does live, I do not know if Keenan will help me save him.

But I
must
save him. And I cannot leave the other Scholars either. I cannot abandon them to be executed in the Commandant’s purge.

They’ll begin tomorrow evening. At sundown
,
Keenan said of the executions. A bloody gloaming then, and bloodier still as twilight fades to night.

I ease Keenan’s arm away and roll to my feet, pulling on my cloak and boots and slipping out into the cold night.

A nagging dread steals over me. Keenan’s plan is as unknowable as the inside of Kauf itself. His confidence offers some reassurance, but not enough to make me feel like we will succeed. Something about all of this just feels wrong. Rushed.

“Laia?” Keenan emerges from the cave, his red hair mussed, making him look younger. He offers his hand, and I wind my fingers through his, taking comfort from his touch. What a change a few months has wrought in him. I could not have imagined such a smile from the dark-visaged fighter I first met in Serra.

Keenan looks at me and frowns.

“You’re nervous?”

I sigh. “I cannot leave Elias.” Skies, I hope I’m not wrong again. I hope that pushing this, fighting for it, doesn’t lead to some other disaster. An image of Keenan lying dead floats through my mind, and I fight back a shudder.
Elias would do it for you. And going into Kauf is a terrible risk no matter what.
“I
will not
leave him.”

The rebel tilts his head, his eyes on the snow. I hold my breath.

“Then we must find a way to get him out,” he says. “Though it will take longer—”

“Thank you.” I lean into him, breathing in wind and fire and warmth. “It’s the right thing to do. I know it is.”

I feel the familiar pattern of my armlet against my palm and realize that, as ever, my hand has drifted to it for comfort.

Keenan watches me, his eyes strange. Lonely.

“What is it like to have something of your family’s?”

“It makes me feel close to them,” I say. “It gives me strength.”

He reaches out, almost touching the armlet but then self-consciously dropping his hand. “It’s good to remember those who are lost. To have a reminder in the dark times.” His voice is soft. “It’s good to know that you were … are … loved.”

My eyes fill. Keenan has never spoken of his family other than to tell me that they are gone. At least I had a family. He has had nothing and no one.

My fingers tighten on my armlet, and on impulse, I pull it off. At first, it is as if it doesn’t
want
to come off, but I give it a good yank, and it releases.

“I’ll be your family now,” I whisper, opening Keenan’s hands and placing the armlet on his palm. I close his fingers around it. “Not a mother, father, brother, or sister, perhaps, but family nonetheless.”