by Sabaa Tahir
Page 76
Izzi pulls me from the kitchen hurriedly. “She gets like that sometimes,” she says once we’re out of earshot. “When she talks about the past. ”
“What’s her name, Izzi?”
“She’s never told me. I don’t think she wants to remember it. Do you think it’s true? What she said about the Nightbringer? And about your mother?”
“I don’t know. Why would the Nightbringer go after my parents? What did they ever do to him?” But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. If the Nightbringer hates the Scholars as much as Cook says, then it’s no wonder he sought to destroy the Lioness and her lieutenant. Their movement was the only hope the Scholars ever had.
Izzi and I return to our work, each of us silent, our heads filled with thoughts of ghuls and wraiths and smokeless fire. I find that I can’t stop wondering about Cook. Who is she? How well did she know my parents? How did a woman who crafted explosives for the Resistance end up a slave? Why not just blow the Commandant to the tenth ring of hell?
Something occurs to me suddenly, something that makes my blood run cold.
What if Cook is the traitor?
Everyone caught with my parents was killed—everyone who would know anything about the betrayal. And yet Cook’s told me things about that time that I’ve never heard before. How would she know, unless she was there?
But why would she be a slave in the Commandant’s house if she’d handed over Keris’s biggest catch?
“Maybe someone in the Resistance will know who Cook is,” I say that evening as Izzi and I trudge to the Commandant’s bedroom with buckets and dusters. “Maybe they’ll remember her. ”
“You should ask your red-haired fighter,” Izzi says. “He seems like a sharp one. ”
“Keenan? Maybe. . . ”
“I knew it,” Izzi crows. “You like him. I can tell by how you say his name. Keenan. ” She grins at me, and a blush races up my neck. “He’s a looker,” she comments. “Which you’ve noticed, I take it. ”
“Don’t have time for that. I’ve got other things on my mind. ”
“Oh stop,” Izzi says. “You’re human, Laia. You’re allowed to like a boy. Even Masks have crushes. Even I—”
We both freeze as the front door rattles downstairs. The latch clicks open, and wind gusts through the house with a bone-chilling shriek.
“Slave-Girl!” The Commandant’s voice cracks up the stairwell. “Come here. ”
“Go. ” Izzi shoves me to my feet. “Quick!”
Duster in hand, I hurry down the stairs, where the Commandant is waiting for me, flanked by two legionnaires. Instead of her usual disgust, her silver face is almost thoughtful as she regards me, as if I’ve transformed into something unexpectedly fascinating.
I notice a fourth figure then, lurking in the shadows behind the legionnaires, his skin and hair as white as bones bleached in the sun. An Augur.
“Well,” the Commandant throws a wary look at the Augur, “is she the one?”
The Augur gazes at me with black eyes that swim in a sea of blood red. Rumor says the Augurs can read minds, and the things in my head are enough to take me straight to the gallows for treason. I force myself to think of Pop and Nan and Darin. A great, familiar grief fills my senses. Read my mind then. I meet the Augur’s gaze. Read the pain your Masks have caused me.
“She’s the one. ” The Augur doesn’t break eye contact, seemingly mesmerized by my anger. “Bring her. ”
“Where are you taking me?” The legionnaires bind my hands. “What’s going on?” They’ve learned about the spying. They must have.
“Quiet. ” One of the soldiers gags and blindfolds me. The Augur draws up his hood, and we follow him into the storm. I expect the Commandant to accompany us, but instead she slams the door behind me. At least they haven’t taken Izzi. She’s safe. But for how long?
Within seconds, I’m soaked to the skin. I struggle against the legionnaires, but all I succeed in doing is ripping my dress so that it’s barely decent. Where are they taking me? The dungeons, Laia. Where else?
I hear Cook’s voice, telling the story of the Resistance spy who came before me. Commandant caught him. Tortured him in the school’s dungeon for days. Some nights we could hear him. Screaming.
What will they do to me? Will they take Izzi too? Tears leak from my eyes.
I was supposed to save her. I was supposed to get her out of Blackcliff.
After endless minutes of trudging through the storm, we stop. A door opens, and a moment later, I’m airborne. I land hard on a chilly stone floor.
I try to stand and scream through the gag, straining at the bonds around my wrists. I try to work off my blindfold so I can at least see where I am.
To no avail. The lock clicks, footsteps retreat, and I’m left alone to await my fate.
XL: Elias
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. Except, like the mask, it’s no longer separate 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 feel 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.
