"Aquilla." The Northman sounds . . . different. Tired. "You're out of time. Tell me about the girl."
"I don't--"
"Otherwise, I have orders to beat you to death."
"Emperor's orders?" I wheeze. I'm surprised. I thought Marcus would visit all sorts of horrors upon me himself before killing me.
"Doesn't matter whom the orders come from," the Northman says. He crouches down. His green eyes meet mine. For once, they are less than calm.
"He's not worth it, Aquilla," he says. "Tell me what I need to know."
"I--I don't know anything."
The Northman waits a moment. Watches. When I remain silent, he stands and pulls on the brass beaters.
I think of Elias, in this very dungeon not long ago. What went through his head as he faced death? He seemed so serene when he came to the execution podium. Like he'd made his peace as he faced his fate.
I wish I could borrow some of that peace now. Goodbye, Elias. I hope you find your freedom. I hope you find joy. Skies know none of the rest of us will.
Behind the Northman, the dungeon door clanks open. I hear a familiar, hated gait.
Emperor Marcus Farrar. Come to kill me himself.
"My lord Emperor." The Northman salutes. The legionnaires drag me to my knees and slant my head downward in a semblance of respect.
In the dim light of the dungeon--and with limited ability to see--I can't make out Marcus's expression. But I can make out the identity of the tall, pale-haired figure behind him.
"Father?" What in the bleeding hells is he doing here? Is Marcus using him as leverage? Planning to torture him until I give up information?
"Your Majesty." My father's voice as he addresses Marcus is smooth as glass, so uninflected as to be uncaring. But his eyes flick to me, horror-filled. With the little strength I have left in me, I glare at him. Don't let him see, Father. Don't let him know what you feel.
"A moment, Pater Aquillus." Marcus waves my father off and looks, instead, to the Northman. "Lieutenant Harper," he says. "Anything?"
"She knows nothing about the girl, your Majesty. Nor did she assist in the destruction of Blackcliff."
So he did believe me.
The Snake waves away the legionnaires holding me. I order myself not to collapse. Marcus takes me by my hair and jerks me to my feet. The Northman watches, stone-faced. I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. I push myself into the hurt, expecting--no, hoping--that Marcus's eyes will hold nothing but hate.
But he regards me with that eerie tranquility he sometimes has. Like he knows my fears as well as his own.
"Really, Aquilla?" Marcus says, and I look away from him. "Elias Veturius, your one true love"--the words are filthy when he speaks them--"escapes from under your nose with a Scholar wench, and you know nothing about her? Nothing about how she survived the Fourth Trial, for instance? Or her role in the Resistance? Are Lieutenant Harper's threats ineffective? Maybe I can think of something better."
Behind Marcus, Father's face pales further. "Your Majesty, please--"
Marcus ignores him, shoves my back against the dank dungeon wall, and presses his body against mine. He dips his lips close to my ear, and I close my eyes, wishing more than anything that Father wasn't witnessing this.
"Shall I find someone for us to torment?" Marcus murmurs. "Someone in whose blood we can bathe? Or shall I have you do other things? I do hope you paid attention to Harper's methods. You'll be using them frequently as Blood Shrike."
My nightmares--the ones he somehow knows of--rear before me with terrifying clarity: broken children, hollowed-out mothers, houses crumbling to ash. Me at his side, his loyal commander, his supporter, his lover. Reveling in it. Wanting it. Wanting him.
Just nightmares.
"I know nothing," I croak. "I'm loyal to the Empire. I have always been loyal to the Empire." Don't torture my father, I want to add, but I force myself not to beg.
"Your Majesty." My father is more forceful this time. "Our arrangement?"
Arrangement?
"A moment, Pater," Marcus purrs. "I'm still playing." He presses closer before a strange look crosses his face--surprise, or perhaps irritation. He flicks his head, like a horse shaking off a fly, before stepping back.
"Unchain her," he says to the legionnaires.
"What is this?" I try to stand. My legs fail. Father catches me before I fall, draping my arm across his wide shoulders.
"You're free to go." Marcus keeps his gaze fixed on me. "Pater Aquillus, report to me tomorrow at tenth bell. You know where to find me. Blood Shrike, you will come with him." He pauses before leaving, and slowly runs a finger across the blood coating my face. There's a hunger in his eyes as he brings it to his mouth, licks it off. "I have a mission for you."
Then he is gone, followed by the Northman and the legionnaires. It is only when their footsteps fade up the staircase leading out of the dungeon that I let my head drop. Exhaustion, pain, and disbelief rob me of my strength.
I didn't betray Elias. I survived the interrogation.
"Come, daughter." My father holds me as gently as if I were a newborn. "Let's get you home."
"What did you trade for this?" I ask. "What did you trade for me?"
"Nothing of consequence." Father tries to take more of my weight. I do not let him. Instead, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. As we inch out of the cell, I hone in on that pain instead of the weakness in my legs and the burning in my bones. I am Blood Shrike of the Martial Empire. I will leave this dungeon on my own two feet.
"What did you give him, Father? Money? Land? Are we ruined?"
"Not money. Influence. He is Plebeian. He has no Gens, no family, to back him."
"The Gens are all turning on him?"
My father nods. "They call for his resignation--or assassination. He has too many enemies, and he cannot jail or kill them all. They are too powerful. He needs influence. I gave it to him. In exchange for your life."
"But how? Will you advise him? Lend him men? I don't understand--"
"It doesn't matter right now." Father's blue eyes are fierce, and I find I cannot look into them without a lump rising in my throat. "You are my daughter. I would have given him the skin off my back if he asked it of me. Lean on me now, my girl. Save your strength."
Influence can't be all Marcus squeezed out of Father. I want to demand that he explain everything, but as we go up the stairs, dizziness surges through me. I'm too broken to challenge him. I let him help me out of the dungeon, unable to rid myself of the unsettling feeling that whatever price he paid for me, it was too high.
VI: Laia
We should have killed the Commandant.
The desert beyond Serra's orchards is quiet. The only hint of the Scholar revolution is the orange glow of fire against the limpid night sky. A cool breeze carries the smell of rain from the east, where a storm flashes over the mountains.
Go back. Kill her. I am torn. If Keris Veturia let us go, she has some diabolical reason for it. Besides which, she murdered my parents and sister. She took Izzi's eye. Tortured Cook. Tortured me. She led a generation of the most lethal, ignoble monsters while they pummeled my people into servile ghosts of themselves. She deserves to die.
But we are well beyond Serra's walls now, and it is too late to turn back. Darin matters more than vengeance against that madwoman. And getting to Darin means getting far away from Serra, as swiftly as possible.
As soon as we clear the orchards, Elias vaults on to the horse's back. His gaze never rests, and wariness suffuses his every move. He is, I sense, asking the same question I am. Why would the Commandant let us go?
I grasp his hand and pull myself up behind him, my face heating at the close fit. The saddle is enormous, but Elias is not a small man. Skies, where do I put my hands? His shoulders? His waist? I'm still deciding when he puts heels to flank and the horse leaps forward. I grab on to a strap of Elias's armor, and he reaches out to pull me flush against him. I wrap my arms around his waist and press
into his broad back, my head spinning as the empty desert streams past.
"Stay down," he says over his shoulder. "The garrisons are close." He wags his head, as if shaking something out of his eyes, and a shudder rolls through him. Years of watching my grandfather with his patients has me putting a hand to Elias's neck. He's warm, but that might be from the fight with the Commandant.
His shudder fades, and he urges the horse on. I look back at Serra, waiting for soldiers to come streaming from its gates, or for Elias to tense and say he's heard the drums sending out our location. But we pass the garrisons without incident, nothing but open desert around us. Ever so slowly, the panic that has gripped me since seeing the Commandant eases.
Elias navigates by starlight. After a quarter hour, he slows the horse to a canter.
"The dunes are to the north. They're hell on horseback." I lift myself up to hear him over the hoofbeats of the horse. "We'll head east." He nods to the mountains. "We should hit that storm in a few hours. It'll wash away our tracks. We'll aim for the foothills--"
Neither of us sees the shadow that hurtles out of the dark until it is already upon us. One second, Elias is in front of me, his face a few inches from mine as I lean in to listen. The next, I hear the thud of his body hitting the desert floor. The horse rears, and I grasp at the saddle, trying to stay on. But a hand latches on to my arm and yanks me off as well. I want to scream at the inhuman coldness of that grip, but I can only manage a yelp. It feels as if winter itself has taken hold of me.
"Givvve." The thing speaks in a rasp. All I see are streamers of darkness fluttering from a vaguely human form. I gag as the stench of death wafts over me. A few feet away, Elias curses, battling more of the shadows.
"Sssilver," the one holding me says. "Give."
"Get off!" I land a punch to clammy skin that freezes me from fist to elbow. The shadow disappears, and I'm suddenly, ridiculously grappling with air. A second later though, a band of ice closes about my neck and squeezes.
"Givvve!"
I cannot breathe. Desperately, I kick my legs. My boot connects, the shadow releases me, and I'm left wheezing and gasping. A screech shatters the night as an unearthly head sails past, courtesy of Elias's scim. He makes for me, but two more creatures dart out of the desert, blocking his path.
"It's a wraith!" he bellows at me. "The head! You have to take off its head!"
"I'm not a bleeding swordsman!" The wraith appears again, and I pull Darin's scim from across my back, halting its approach. The second it realizes I have no idea what I'm doing, it lunges and digs its fingers into my neck, drawing blood. I scream at the cold, the pain, dropping Darin's blade as my body goes numb and useless.
A flash of steel, a chilling screech, and the shadow drops, headless. The desert falls abruptly silent but for my and Elias's harsh breaths. He sweeps up Darin's blade and closes the distance between us, taking in the scratches on my neck. He lifts my chin, his fingers warm.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing." His own face is cut, and he does not complain, so I pull away and take Darin's scim. Elias seems to notice it for the first time. His jaw drops. He holds it up, trying to see it in the starlight.
"Ten hells, is this a Teluman blade? How--" A patter in the desert behind him has us both reaching for our weapons. Nothing emerges from the dark, but Elias lopes toward the horse. "Let's get out of here. You can tell me on the way."
We race east. As we ride, I realize that, other than what I told Elias on the night the Augurs locked us in his room, he knows almost nothing about me.
That might be a good thing, the wary part of me says. The less he knows, the better.
As I consider how much to say about Darin's blade and Spiro Teluman, Elias half turns in the saddle. His lips curve into a wry smile, like he can feel my hesitation.
"We're in this together, Laia. Might as well give me the whole story. And"--he nods to my wounds--"we've fought side by side. Bad luck to lie to a comrade-in-arms."
We're in this together. Everything he's done since the moment I made him vow to help me has reinforced that truth. He deserves to know what he's fighting for. He deserves to know my truths, however strange and unexpected they are.
"My brother wasn't an ordinary Scholar," I begin. "And . . . well, I wasn't exactly an ordinary slave. . . ."
*
Fifteen miles and two hours later, Elias rides silently in front of me as the horse trudges on. He holds the reins in one hand, keeping the other on a dagger. Rain mists from low-bellied clouds, and I've pulled my cloak tight against the damp.
Everything there is to tell--the raid, my parents' legacy, Spiro's friendship, Mazen's betrayal, the Augurs' help--I've shared it all. The words liberate me. Perhaps I have become so accustomed to the burden of secrets that I do not notice its weight until I am free of it.
"Are you upset?" I finally ask.
"My mother." His voice is low. "She killed your parents. I'm sorry. I--"
"Your mother's crimes are not yours," I say after a moment's surprise. Whatever I thought he would say, this was not it. "Do not apologize for them. But . . ." I look out at the desert--empty, quiet. Deceptive. "Do you understand why it is so important for me to save Darin? He's all I have. After what he did for me--and after what I did to him--leaving him--"
"You have to save him. I understand. But, Laia, he's more than just your brother. You must know that." Elias looks back at me, gray eyes fierce. "The Empire's steelcraft is the only reason no one has challenged the Martials. Every weapon from Marinn down to the Southern Lands breaks against our blades. Your brother could bring down the Empire with what he knows. No wonder the Resistance wanted him. No wonder the Empire sent him to Kauf instead of killing him. They'll want to know if he's shared his skills with anyone."
"They don't know he was Spiro's apprentice," I say. "They think he was a spy."
"If we can free him and get him to Marinn"--Elias stops the horse at a rain-swollen creek and motions for me to dismount--"he could make weapons for the Mariners, the Scholars, the Tribes. He could change everything."
Elias shakes his head and slides off the horse. As his boots hit the dirt, his legs buckle. He grabs the pommel of the saddle. His face blanches white as the moon, and he puts a hand to his temple.
"Elias?" Beneath my hand, his arm trembles. He shudders, just like he did when we first left Serra. "Are you--"
"Commandant landed a nasty kick," Elias says. "Nothing serious. Just can't seem to get my feet." The color returns to his face, and he plunges a hand into a saddlebag, handing me a palmful of apricots so fat they are splitting their skins. He must have taken them from the orchards.
When the sweet fruit bursts between my lips, my heart twinges. I cannot eat apricots without thinking of my bright-eyed Nan and her jams.
Elias opens his mouth as if to say something. But he changes his mind and turns to fill the canteens from the creek. Still, I sense he's working himself up to a question. I wonder if I'll be able to answer it. What was that creature you saw in my mother's office? Why do you think the Augurs saved you?
"In the shed, with Keenan," he finally says. "Did you kiss him? Or did he kiss you?"
I spit out my apricot, coughing, and Elias rises from the creek to pat me on the back. I had wondered if I should tell him about the kiss. In the end, I decided that with my life dependent on him, it was best to hold nothing back.
"I tell you my life story and that's your first question? Why--"
"Why do you think?" His tilts his head, lifts his brows, and my stomach flips. "In any case," he says, "you--you--"
He pales again, a strange expression crossing his face. Sweat beads on his forehead. "L-Laia, I don't feel--"
His words slur, and he staggers. I grip his shoulder, trying to keep him upright. My hand comes away soaked--and not from the rain.
"Skies, Elias, you're sweating--quite a lot."
I grab his hand. It's cold, clammy. "Look at me, Elias." He stares down into my eyes, his pupils
dilating wildly before a violent tremor shakes his body. He lurches toward the horse, but when he tries to take hold of the saddle, he misses and falls. I get under his arm before he cracks his head on the rocks of the creekside and lower him as gently as I'm able. His hands twitch.
This can't be from the blow to the head.
"Elias," I say. "Did you get cut anywhere? Did the Commandant use a blade on you?"
He grabs his bicep. "Just a scratch. Nothing seriou--"
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he turns to me, trying to form words. Before he can, he seizes once. Then he drops like a stone, unconscious. It doesn't matter--I already know what he's going to say.
The Commandant poisoned him.
His body is frighteningly still, and I grab his wrist, panicked at the erratic stutter of his pulse. Despite the sweat pouring off him, his body is cold, not fevered. Skies, is this why the Commandant let us go? Of course it is, Laia, you fool. She didn't have to chase you or set an ambush. All she needed was to cut him--and the poison took care of the rest.
But it didn't--at least not right away. My grandfather dealt with Scholars maimed by poisoned blades. Most died within an hour of being wounded. But it took several hours for Elias to even react to this poison.
She didn't use enough. Or the cut wasn't deep enough. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that he still lives.
"Sorry," he moans. I think at first that he is speaking to me, but his eyes remain shut. He puts up his hands, as if warding something off. "Didn't want to. My order--should have--"
I tear off a piece of my cloak and stuff it in Elias's mouth, lest he bite off his own tongue. The wound on his arm is shallow and hot. The moment I touch it, he thrashes, spooking the horse.
I dig through my pack with its vials of medicines and herbs, finally finding something with which to cleanse the wound. As soon as the cut is clean, Elias's body grows slack and his face, rigid with pain, relaxes.
His breathing is still shallow, but at least he is not convulsing. His lashes are dark crescents against the gold skin of his face. He looks younger in sleep. Like the boy I danced with on the night of the Moon Festival.
I reach out a hand and place it against his jaw, rough with stubble, warm with life. It pours from him, this vitality--when he fights, when he rides. Even now, with his body battling poison, he throbs with it.