When Elias shifts his arm, the Shrike whips her head toward him, eyes narrowing. At that moment, Harper enters.
"Wagon's ready, Shrike," he says.
"Take her." She shoves me at Avitas. "Keep a knife at her throat." Harper pulls me close, and I ease back from his blade. If I could just distract the Shrike and Avitas for a moment, enough for Elias to attack . . .
I use a trick Elias taught me when we traveled together. I kick Avitas in the soft place between his foot and leg and then drop like a hammer from a roof.
Avitas curses, the Shrike turns, and Elias shoots from his seat, free of his manacles. He dives for his blades in less time than it takes to blink. A knife whooshes through the air above my head, and Harper ducks, dragging me with him. The Blood Shrike roars, but Elias is on her, using his bulk to bowl her over. He's got her pinned, a knife at her throat, but something glimmers at her wrist. She has a blade. Skies, she's going to stab him.
"Elias!" I shout a warning when suddenly, his body goes rigid.
A gasp bursts from his throat. The knife falls from his hand, and in a second, the Shrike has wriggled out from beneath him, lips curled in a sneer.
"Laia." Elias's eyes communicate his rage. His helplessness. And then darkness fills the room. I see the swing of long dark hair, a flash of brown skin. Depthless black eyes bore into me. Shaeva.
Then she--and Elias--disappear. The earth rumbles beneath us and the wind outside rises, sounding, for a second, like the wailing of ghosts.
The Blood Shrike leaps toward where Elias stood. She finds nothing, and a moment later, her hand is around my throat, her knifepoint at my heart. She shoves me back into a seat.
"Who the hells," she whispers, "was that woman?"
The door bursts open and Dex enters, scim drawn. Before he can speak, the Shrike is bellowing at him.
"Scour the village! Veturius disappeared like a bleeding wraith!"
"He's not in the village," I say. "She took him."
"Who took him?" I cannot speak--the knife is too close--but she doesn't let me move a muscle. "Tell me!"
"Ease up on the knife, Shrike," Avitas says. The dark-haired Mask scans the room carefully, as if Elias might reappear at any moment. "And perhaps she will."
The Blood Shrike pulls the knife back by no more than a hair. Her hand is steady, but her face beneath her mask is flushed. "Talk or die."
My words stumble over each other as I try to explain--as vaguely as I can--who Shaeva is and what Elias has become. Even as I speak the words, I realize how far-fetched they sound. The Blood Shrike says nothing, but incredulity is written in every line of her body.
When I finish, she stands, her knife loose in her hand, looking out into the night. Only a few hours until dawn. "Can you get Elias back here?" she asks quietly.
I shake my head, and she kneels before me. Her face is suddenly serene, her body relaxed. When I meet her eyes, they are distant, as if her thoughts have moved on from me.
"If the Emperor knew you lived, he'd want to interrogate you himself," she says. "Unless you're a fool, you'll agree that death would be preferable. I will make it swift."
Oh skies. My feet are free, but my hands are bound. I could wriggle my right hand free if I pulled hard enough . . .
Avitas sheathes his scim and bends behind me. I feel the brush of warm skin against my wrists and wait for them to tighten as he rebinds me.
But they do not.
Instead, the rope binding my wrists falls away. Harper breathes one word, so softly that I question whether I truly heard it.
"Go."
I cannot move. I meet the Blood Shrike's stare head on. I will look death in the eyes. Grief ripples across her silver features. She seems older, suddenly, than her twenty years, with the implacability of a five-body blade. All the weakness has been hammered out of her. She has seen too much blood. Too much death.
I remember when Elias told me what Marcus did to the Shrike's family. He learned it from the ghost of Hannah Aquilla, who plagued him for months before finally moving on.
As I'd listened to what happened, I'd felt sicker and sicker. I remembered another dark morning years ago. I woke up with a start that day, scared by the low, choking cries echoing through the house. I thought Pop must have brought home an animal. Some wounded creature, dying slowly and in agony.
But when I entered the main room of the house, there was Nan, rocking back and forth, Pop frantically shushing her wails, for no one could hear her mourn her daughter--my mother. No one could know. The Empire wished to crush all that the Lioness was, all that she stood for. That meant any and all connected to her.
We all went to market that day to sell Nan's jams--Pop, Darin, Nan, and I. Nan shed no tears. I only ever heard her in the dead of night, her quiet keening breaking me more than any scream could.
The Blood Shrike was also denied the right to mourn publicly. How could she? She is second-in-command of the Empire, and her family was condemned because she failed to carry out the Emperor's orders.
"I'm sorry," I whisper as she raises her dagger. I whip my fingers out--not to stop her blade, but to take her free hand. She stiffens in shock. The skin of her palm is cool, calloused. Less than a second has passed, but her surprise has kindled into anger.
The cruelest anger comes from the deepest pain. Nan used to say that. Speak, Laia.
"My parents were murdered too," I say. "My sister. In Kauf. I was younger, and I did not witness it. I could never mourn them. I wasn't allowed to. And no one ever spoke of them. But I think of them every day. I am sorry for you and what you lost. Truly."
For a moment, I see the girl who healed me. The girl who let Elias and me escape from Blackcliff. The girl who told me how to get into Kauf Prison.
And before that girl fades--as I know she will--I draw on my own power and disappear, rolling out of the chair, racing past Avitas and toward the door. Two steps and the Shrike is shouting, three and her dagger slices through the air after me, and then her scim.
Too late. By the time the scim drops, I am through the open door, past an unsuspecting Dex, and running for all I am worth, nothing but another shadow in the night.
VI: Elias
Shaeva plunges me into a darkness so complete that I wonder if I'm in one of the hells. She holds fast to me, though I cannot see her. We are not windwalking--it feels like we are not moving at all. And yet her body thrums with the tang of magic, and when it spills over to me, my skin burns as if I've been set alight.
Gradually, my vision brightens until I find myself hovering over an ocean. The sky above rages, thick with sallow yellow clouds. I feel Shaeva beside me, but I cannot tear my gaze from the water below, which seethes with huge forms rippling just below the surface. Evil emanates from those forms, a malevolence that I feel in the deepest parts of my soul. Terror fills me like I've never felt in all my life, not even as a child in Blackcliff.
Then the fear lifts, replaced by the weight of an ancient gaze. A voice speaks in my mind:
Night draws close, Elias Veturius. Beware.
The voice is so soft that I must strain to hear every syllable. But before I can make sense of it, the ocean is gone, the dark returns, and the voice and images fade from my memory.
* * *
The knotted wood joists above my head and feather pillow below it tell me instantly where I am when I wake. Shaeva's cabin--my home. A log pops in the fire, and the scent of spiced korma fills the air. For a long moment, I relax into my bunk, secure in the peace one feels only when they are safe and warm beneath their own roof.
Laia! When I remember what happened, I sit up too quickly; my head aches something vicious. Bleeding hells.
I need to get back to the village--to Laia. I drag myself to my feet, find my scims tucked haphazardly beneath my bed, and stagger to the cottage door. Outside, a freezing wind tears through the clearing, stirring the packed snow into wild, waist-high tornadoes. The ghosts wail and cluster at the sight of me, their anguish palpable.
"Hello, little one." One of the shades drifts close, so faded I get only the barest impression of her face. "Have you seen my lovey?"
I know her. The Wisp. One of the first ghosts I met here. My voice when I speak is a rusty growl.
"I--I'm sorry--"
"Elias." Shaeva appears at the edge of the clearing, a basket of winter herbs on her wrist. The Wisp, ever shy, vanishes. "You shouldn't be up and about."
"What's wrong with me?" I demand of the Soul Catcher. "What happened?"
"You've been unconscious for a day." Shaeva ignores my obvious ire. "I reeled us here instead of windwalking. It is swifter, but more detrimental to a mortal body."
"Laia--Mamie--"
"Stop, Elias." Shaeva sits at the base of a yew tree, settling into its exposed roots and taking a deep breath. The tree almost appears to curve around her, fitting itself to her body. She pulls a handful of greens from the basket and tears the leaves violently from their stems. "You nearly got yourself killed. Is that not enough?"
"You shouldn't have grabbed me like that." I cannot hold back my anger, and she glares at me, her own temper rising. "I would have been fine. I need to get back to that village."
"You imbecile!" She casts her basket down. "The Blood Shrike had a dagger in her gauntlet. It was an inch away from your vitals. Mauth tried to pull you back, but you did not heed him. If I had not arrived, I would be shouting at your ghost right now." Her scowl is fierce. "I let you aid your friends despite my misgivings. And you squandered it."
"You can't expect me to remain in the Waiting Place and never have any human contact," I say. "I'll go mad. And Laia--I care for her, Shaeva. I can't just--"
"Ah, Elias." She rises and reaches for my hands. Though my skin is numb from the cold, I take no comfort from her warmth. She sighs, and her voice is heavy with shame. "Do you think I have never loved? I did. Once. He was beautiful. Brilliant. That love blinded me to my duties, sacred though they were. The world suffered for my love. It suffers still." She draws breath raggedly, and around us, the wails of the ghosts intensify, as if in response to her distress.
"I understand your pain. Truly. But for us, Elias, duty must reign over all else: desire, sadness, loneliness. Love cannot live here. You chose the Waiting Place, and the Waiting Place chose you. Now you must give yourself to it wholly, body and soul."
Body and soul. A chill runs up my spine as I recall something Cain said to me long ago--that one day, I'd have a chance at freedom. True freedom--of body and of soul. Did he envision this, I wonder? Did he set me on the path to freedom knowing that one day it would be wrenched from me? Was this always my destiny?
"I need some time. A day," I say. If I'm to be chained to this place for eternity, then I at least owe Laia and Mamie a goodbye--though I've no idea what I'll say.
Shaeva pauses. "I'll give you a few hours," she finally says. "After that, no more distractions. You have much to learn, Elias. And I do not know how much time I have to teach you. The moment you took the vow to become Soul Catcher, my power began to fade."
"I know." I nudge her with my boot, smiling in an attempt to dispel the tension between us. "Every time you don't feel like doing the dishes, you remind me." I mimic her sober voice. "Elias, my power fades . . . so make sure you sweep the front steps, and bring in firewood, and--"
She chuckles. "As if you even know how to swee--sweep--"
Her smile vanishes. Frantic lines form around her mouth, and her hands clench and unclench, like she's desperate for weapons she doesn't possess.
The snow around us slows its swirling. The wind goes soft, as if cowed, and then ceases completely. The shadows in the trees deepen, so black they seem like a portal to another world.
"Shaeva? What the hells is happening?"
The Soul Catcher shudders, riven with dread. "Go inside the cabin, Elias."
"Whatever's going on, we face it tog--"
She digs her fingers into my shoulders. "There is so much you do not yet know, and if you fail, the world will fall. This is but the beginning. Remember: Sleep in the cottage. They cannot hurt you there. And seek the Tribes, Elias. Long have they been my allies. Ask about the stories of the dea--" Her voice chokes off as her back arches.
"Bleeding hells! Shaeva--"
"The moon sets on the archer and the shield maiden!" Her voice changes, multiplies. It is a child's voice and an old woman's layered over her own, as if all the versions that Shaeva was and ever could be are speaking at once.
"The executioner has arisen. The traitor walks free. Beware! The Reaper approaches, flames in his wake, and he shall set this world alight. And so shall the great wrong be set right."
She flings her hand up to the sky, to constellations hidden behind thick snow clouds.
"Shaeva." I shake her shoulders insistently. Get her inside! The cottage always soothes her. It's her only sanctuary in this skies-forsaken place. But when I try to pick her up, she throws me off. "Shaeva, don't be so damned stubborn--"
"Remember all that I say before the end," she whispers. "That is why he has come. That is what he wants from me. Swear it."
"I--I swear--"
She lifts her hands to my face. For once, her fingers are cold. "Soon you will learn the cost of your vow, my brother. I hope you do not think too ill of me."
She falls to her knees, knocking over the basket of herbs. The green and yellow leaves spill out, the bright color incongruous against the ashen snow. The clearing is quiet. Even the ghosts have gone silent.
That can't be right. The thickest concentration of ghosts is always around the cabin. But the spirits are gone. Every last one.
In the Forest to the west, where moments ago the shadows were only shadows, something stirs. The darkness moves, twisting as if in agony, until it writhes into a hooded figure cloaked in robes of purest night. From beneath the cowl, two tiny suns stare out at me.
I have never seen him before. I have only heard him described. But I know him. Bleeding, burning hells, I know him.
The Nightbringer.
VII: The Blood Shrike
A row of severed heads greets Dex, Avitas, and me as we pass beneath Antium's iron-studded main gate. Scholars, mostly, but I spot Martials too. The streets are lined with dirty piles of slush, and a blanket of clouds lies thick over the city, depositing more snow.
I ride past the grisly display, and Harper follows, but Dex stares at the heads, hands tight on his reins. His silence is unnerving. The interrogation of Tribe Saif still haunts him.
"Get to the barracks, Dex," I say. "I want reports on all active missions on my desk by midnight." My attention falls on two women loitering outside a nearby guard post. Courtesans. "And go distract yourself after. Get your mind off the raid."
"I do not frequent brothels," Dex says quietly as he follows my gaze to the women. "Even if I did, it's not that easy for me, Shrike. And you know it."
I shoot Avitas Harper a glare. Go away. When he's out of earshot I turn to Dex. "Madam Heera's in Mandias Square. The House of Forgetting. Heera is discreet. She treats her women--and men--well." At Dex's hesitation, I lose my patience. "You're letting your guilt eat at you, and it cost us in the village," I say. That raid was meant to get us something to use against Keris. We failed. Marcus won't be pleased. And it's my sister who will suffer that displeasure.
"When I am dispirited," I go on, "I visit Heera's. It helps. Go or don't. Doesn't matter to me. But stop being woeful and useless. I don't have the patience for it."
Dex leaves, and Harper nudges his horse over. "You frequent Heera's?" There's something more than mere curiosity in his voice.
"Reading lips again?"
"Only yours, Shrike." Harper's green eyes drop to my mouth so quickly I almost miss it. "Forgive my question. I assumed you had volunteers to meet your . . . needs. The previous Shrike's second-in-command did sometimes procure courtesans for him, if you need me to--"
My cheeks grow warm at the image that conveys. "Stop talking, Harper," I say. "While you're behi
nd."
We gallop ahead toward the palace, its pearlescent sheen a bare-faced lie that hides the oppressiveness within. The outer gates are bustling at this hour, Illustrian courtiers and Mercator hangers-on all jockeying to get into the throne room to obtain the Emperor's favor.
"An attack on Marinn would go a long way in--"
"--fleet is already engaged--"
"--Veturia will crush them--"
I suppress a sigh at the never-ending machinations of the Paters. It drove my father to distraction, the way they schemed. When they see me, they fall silent. I take grim pleasure in their discomfort.
Harper and I cut through the courtiers quickly. The men in their long, fur-edged cloaks back away from the slush kicked up by my mount. The women, sparkling in court finery, watch surreptitiously. No one meets my gaze.
Swine. Not one of them offered a word of remembrance in honor of my family after Marcus executed them. Not even privately.
My mother, father, and sister died as traitors, and nothing can change that. Marcus wanted me to feel shame, but I do not. My father gave his life trying to save the Empire, and one day that fact will be known. But now it is as if my family never existed. As if their lives were mere hallucinations.
The only people who have dared to mention my parents to me are Livia, a Scholar hag I haven't seen in weeks, and a Scholar girl whose head should be in a sack at my waist right now.
I hear the buzz of voices in the throne room long before I see its double doors. As I enter, every soldier salutes. They've learned, by now, what happens to those who don't.
Marcus sits rigid on his throne, big hands fisted on the armrests, masked face emotionless. His blood-red cape pools onto the floor, reflecting luridly off his silver-and-copper armor. The weapons at his side are razor-sharp, to the chagrin of the older Illustrian Paters, who appear soft beside their emperor.
The Commandant is not here. But Livia is, her face as impassive as a Mask's as she perches on her own throne beside Marcus. I hate that she is forced to sit here, but still, relief rushes through me; at least she's alive. She is resplendent in a lavender gown heavy with gold embroidery.
My sister's back is straight, her face powdered to hide the bruise on her cheek. Her ladies-in-waiting--yellow-eyed cousins of Marcus--cluster a few feet away. They are Plebeians, plucked from their village by my sister as a gesture of goodwill toward Marcus and his family. And I suspect that, like me, they find court insufferable.