A Torch Against the Night

by Sabaa Tahir

  The Soul Catcher regards me coldly. Damn it, she's going to keep me here. Skies know for how long. But then, to my relief, she nods once. "In the morning then." She hobbles to the door, waving me off when I try to help.

  "Wait," I say. "Soul Catcher. Shaeva."

  Her body stiffens at the sound of her name.

  "Why did you bring me here? Don't tell me it was just for Tristas, because that doesn't make any sense. It's your job to comfort souls, not mine."

  "I needed you to help your friend." I can hear the lie in her voice. "That is all."

  With that, she disappears out the door, and I curse, no closer to understanding her than the first time I met her. But Kauf--and Darin--await. All I can do is take my freedom and go.

  As promised, Shaeva delivers me to Kauf in the morning--despite the impossibility of such a thing. We depart from her cabin at a stroll, and minutes later, the trees above are bare. A quarter hour after that, we are deep in the shadows of the Nevennes Range, crunching through a fresh layer of snow.

  "This is my realm, Elias," Shaeva says to my unspoken question. She is far less wary now, as if my use of her name has unlocked a long-buried civility. "I can travel where and how I wish when I am within its boundaries." She nods to a break in the trees ahead. "Kauf is through there. If you wish to succeed, Elias, you must be swift. Rathana is a mere two weeks away."

  We walk to a high ridge that overlooks the long black ribbon of the River Dusk. But I hardly notice. The moment I am free of the trees I want nothing more than to turn back and lose myself among them.

  The smell hits me first; it's what I imagine the hells must smell like. Then the despair, borne upon the wind in the hair-raising cries of men and women who know nothing but torment and suffering. The cries are so unlike the peaceful whispers of the dead that I wonder how they can exist in the same world.

  I lift my eyes to the monstrosity of cold iron and carved stygian rock that erupts from the mountain at the north end of the valley. Kauf Prison.

  "Do not go, Elias," Shaeva whispers. "Should you find yourself trapped behind those walls, your fate will be dark indeed."

  "My fate is dark anyway." I reach back and loosen my scims in their sheaths, taking comfort from their weight. "At least this way, it won't be for nothing."

  XXVI: Helene

  In the three weeks it takes Harper and me to reach Antium, deep fall arrives in the capital, a red-gold blanket edged with white frost. The smell of pumpkin and cinnamon fills the air, and thick wood smoke curls up into the sky.

  But beneath the glowing foliage and behind heavy oaken doors, an Illustrian rebellion brews.

  "Blood Shrike." Harper emerges from the Martial garrison perched just outside the city. "The Black Guard escort is on its way from the barracks," he says. "The garrison sergeant says the streets are dangerous--particularly for you."

  "All the more reason to get in quickly." I squeeze my hand over dozens of messages in my pocket--all from Father, each more urgent than the next. "We can't afford to wait."

  "We also can't afford to lose the Empire's highest internal enforcer on the eve of a possible civil war," Harper says with typical frankness. "Empire first, Blood Shrike."

  "You mean Commandant first."

  A hairline crack fractures Avitas's unruffled facade. But he leashes whatever emotion lurks within.

  "Empire first, Blood Shrike. Always. We wait."

  I don't argue. Weeks on the road with him, riding for Antium as if wraiths were on our backs, have given me a new respect for Harper's skills as a Mask. At Blackcliff, he and I never crossed paths. He was four years ahead of me--a Fiver when I was a Yearling, a Cadet when I was a Fiver, a Skull when I was a Cadet. In all that time, he must never have distinguished himself, for I never heard anything about him.

  But I see now why the Commandant made him an ally. Like her, he has iron-fisted control over his emotions.

  A rumble of hooves beyond the garrison has me leaping upon my saddle in an instant. Moments after I do, a company of soldiers appears, the screaming shrikes on their breastplates marking them as my men.

  Upon seeing me, most salute smartly. Others appear more reluctant.

  I straighten my back and glower. These are my men, and their obedience should be immediate.

  "Lieutenant Harper." One man--a captain and the commanding officer of this company--kicks his horse forward. "Blood Shrike."

  The fact that he addressed Harper before me is offensive enough. The disgusted look on his face as he gives me the once-over has my fist aching to connect with his jaw.

  "Your name, soldier," I say.

  "Captain Gallus Sergius."

  Captain Gallus Sergius, sir, I want to say.

  I know him. He has a son at Blackcliff two years younger than me. The boy was a good fighter. Big mouth, though. "Captain," I say, "why are you looking at me like I just seduced your wife?"

  The captain draws back his chin and stares down his nose. "How dare--"

  I backhand him. Blood flies from his mouth, and his eyes spark, but he holds his tongue. The men of his company shift, a mutinous whisper rippling through them.

  "The next time you speak out of turn," I say, "I'll have you whipped. Fall in. We're late."

  As the rest of the Black Guard falls into formation, creating a shield against attack, Harper pulls his horse up beside mine. I examine the faces around me surreptitiously. They are Masks--and Black Guards to boot. The best of the best. Their expressions are flat and unfeeling. But I can sense the anger simmering beneath the surface. I have not won their respect.

  I keep one hand on the scim at my waist as we approach the Emperor's palace, a monstrosity built of white limestone that abuts the northern border of the city, the foothills of the Nevennes Range at its back. Arrow slats and guard towers line the crenellated battlements. The red-and-gold flags of Gens Taia have been replaced with Marcus's banner: a sledgehammer on a black field.

  Many Martials traversing the streets have stopped to watch us pass. They peer out from thick, furry hats and knitted mufflers, fear and curiosity mingling on their faces as they eye me, the new Blood Shrike.

  "Little sssinger . . ."

  I start, and my horse tosses his head in irritation. Avitas, riding beside me, cuts me a look, but I ignore him and search the crowd. A flash of white catches my eyes. Amid a gaggle of urchins and vagrants gathered around a bin fire, I spot the curve of a hideously scarred jaw with a wing of snowy hair swinging down to hide it. Dark eyes meet mine. Then she's gone, lost in the streets.

  Why in the bleeding skies is Cook in Antium?

  I've never seen the Scholars as enemies, exactly. An enemy is someone you fear. Someone who might destroy you. But the Scholars will never destroy the Martials. They can't read. They can't fight. They have no steelcraft. They are a slave class--a lesser class.

  But Cook is different. She is something more.

  I am forced to push the old bat from my mind when we arrive at the palace gate and I see who awaits us. The Commandant. Somehow she beat me here. By her calm demeanor and neat appearance, I'd guess it was by at least a day.

  All the men of the Black Guard salute upon seeing her, instantly giving her more respect than they afforded me.

  "Blood Shrike." The words saunter off her tongue. "The road has taken its toll on you. I'd offer you a chance to rest, but the Emperor insisted I bring you in immediately."

  "I don't need to rest, Keris," I say. "I thought you'd still be chasing Scholars all over the countryside."

  "The Emperor requested my counsel," the Commandant says. "I could not, of course, refuse. But be assured that I am not idle whilst here. The prisons of Antium are being cleansed of the Scholar disease as we speak, and my men carry out the purges farther south. Come, Shrike. The Emperor awaits." She glances at my men. "Your escort is unnecessary."

  Her insult is obvious: Why do you need an escort, Blood Shrike? Are you scared? I open my mouth to retort, but then hold my tongue. She probably wants me to engag
e so that she can embarrass me further.

  I expect Keris to lead me to the courtier-packed throne room. In fact, I'd hoped to see my father there. But instead, Emperor Marcus waits for us in a long drawing room filled with plush seats and low-hanging lamps. I see why he's chosen the space the second I enter. No windows.

  "About bleeding time." His mouth twists in disgust when I enter. "Ten hells, couldn't you have taken a bath before showing up?"

  Not if it makes you want to get an inch closer to me. "Civil war matters more than my hygiene, your Imperial Majesty. How may I be of service?"

  "You mean beyond catching the Empire's top fugitive?" Marcus's sarcasm is undercut by the hatred in his piss-yellow eyes.

  "I was close to catching him," I say. "But you called me back. I suggest you tell me what you need so that I can return to the hunt."

  I see his blow coming but still lose my breath when it lands on my jaw. A hot rush of blood fills my mouth. I make myself swallow it.

  "Don't cross me." Marcus's spit lands on my face. "You are my Blood Shrike. The sword that executes my will." He takes a sheet of parchment and slams it down on a table beside us.

  "Ten Gens," he says. "All Illustrian. Four have banded together with Gens Rufia. They propose an Illustrian candidate to replace me as Emperor. The other five offer their own Paters for the throne. All have sent assassins after me. I want a public execution and their heads on pikes in front of the palace by tomorrow morning. Understood?"

  "Do you have proof--"

  "He doesn't need proof." The Commandant, lurking silently near the door beside Harper, cuts me off. "These Gens have attacked the imperial house, as well as Gens Veturia. They openly call for the Emperor to be ousted. They are traitors."

  "Are you an oath-breaker, too?" Marcus says to me. "Shall I toss you off Cardium Rock and shame your name for five generations, Shrike? I hear the Rock thirsts for the blood of traitors. For the more it drinks, the stronger the Empire grows."

  Cardium Rock is a cliff near the palace with a pit of bones at its base. It's used to execute only one kind of criminal: traitors to the throne.

  I make myself examine the list of names. Some of these Gens are as powerful as Gens Aquilla. A few even more so. "Your Majesty, perhaps we can try to negotiate--"

  Marcus closes the space between us. And though my mouth still bleeds from his last attack, I hold my ground. I will not let him cow me. I force myself to look up into his eyes, only to suppress a shudder at what I see within: a controlled sort of madness, a rage that needs only the smallest spark to ignite into a conflagration.

  "Your father tried to negotiate." Marcus crowds me until my back is against a wall. The Commandant watches, bored. Harper looks away. "His unending blathering only gave the traitorous Gens time to find more allies, to attempt more assassinations. Do not speak to me of negotiation. I didn't survive the hell of Blackcliff to negotiate. I didn't go through those bleeding Trials so I could negotiate. I didn't kill--"

  He stops. A powerful and unexpected grief suffuses his body, as if another person deep within is attempting to get out. A tendril of fear unfurls in my belly. This is, perhaps, more terrifying than anything I've seen from Marcus yet. Because it makes him human.

  "I will hold the throne, Blood Shrike," he says quietly. "I've given up too much not to. Keep your vow to me, and I will bring order to this Empire. Betray me, and watch it burn."

  The Empire must come first--above your desires, your friendships, your wants. My father spoke so adamantly when I last saw him. I know what he'd say now. We are Aquilla, daughter. Loyal to the end.

  I must do Marcus's bidding. I must stop this civil war. Or the Empire will crumble under the weight of Illustrian greed.

  I bow my head to Marcus. "Consider it done, your Majesty."

  XXVII: Laia

  Laia,

  The Soul Catcher tells me I do not have enough time to get Darin out of Kauf if I remain with Afya's caravan. I'll move twice as fast if I go ahead on my own, and by the time you reach Kauf, I'll have found a way to break Darin out. We--or he, at least--will await you in the cave I told Afya about.

  In case it doesn't go as planned, use the map of Kauf that I drew and make a plan of your own in the time you have. If I fail, you must succeed--for your brother and for your people.

  Whatever happens, remember what you told me: There is hope in life.

  I hope I see you again.

  --EV

  Seven sentences.

  Seven bleeding sentences after weeks of traveling together, of saving each other, of fighting and surviving. Seven sentences and then he disappears like smoke in a north wind.

  Even now, four weeks after he's gone, my anger flares and fury reddens my gaze. Forget that Elias did not say goodbye--he did not even give me a chance to object to his decision.

  Instead he left a note. A pathetically short note.

  I find that my jaw is tight, my hands in a white-knuckled grip on the bow I hold. Keenan sighs beside me, his arms crossed as he leans against a tree in the clearing we've taken over. He knows me by now. He knows what I'm thinking about that's making me so angry.

  "Focus, Laia."

  I try to push Elias from my mind and do as Keenan asks. I sight my target--an old bucket hanging from a scarlet-leafed maple--and let my arrow fly.

  It misses.

  Beyond the clearing, the Tribal wagons creak as the wind howls around them, an eerie sound that frosts my blood. Deep autumn already. And winter soon. Winter means snow. Snow means blocked mountain passes. And blocked passes mean not reaching Kauf, Darin, or Elias until spring.

  "Stop worrying." Keenan pulls my right arm taut as I draw the bowstring again. Warmth emanates from him, beating back the icy air. His touch on my bow arm sends a tingle all the way up my neck, and I'm certain he must notice it. He clears his throat, his strong hand holding mine steady. "Keep your shoulders back."

  "We shouldn't have stopped so early." My muscles burn, but at least I haven't dropped the bow after ten minutes, like I did the first few times. We stand just outside the circle of wagons, making best use of the last scraps of daylight before the sun sinks into the forests to our west.

  "It's not even dark yet," I add. "We could have crossed the river." I look west, beyond the forest, to a square tower--a Martial garrison. "I'd like to put the river between us and them, anyway." I put down the bow. "I'm going to talk to Afya--"

  "I wouldn't." Izzi sticks her tongue out of the corner her mouth as she draws back her own bowstring a few yards away from me. "She's in a mood." Izzi's target is an old boot atop a low-hanging branch. She's graduated to using actual arrows. I'm still using blunted sticks so as not to accidentally murder anyone unfortunate enough to get in my way.

  "She doesn't like being so deep in the Empire. Or being within sight of the Forest." Gibran, lounging on a tree stump near Izzi, nods at the northeastern horizon, where low green hills stretch, thick with old-growth trees. The Forest of Dusk is the sentinel on Marinn's western border--one so effective that in five hundred years of Martial expansion, even the Empire hasn't been able to penetrate it.

  "You'll see," Gibran goes on. "When we cross the east branch north of here, she'll be even grumpier than normal. Very superstitious, my sister."

  "Are you afraid of the Forest, Gibran?" Izzi surveys the distant trees curiously. "Have you ever gotten close?"

  "Once," Gibran says, and his ever-present humor fades. "All I remember is wanting to leave."

  "Gibran! Izzi!" Afya calls from across the camp. "Firewood!"

  Gibran groans and flops his head back. As he and Izzi are the youngest in the caravan, Afya assigns them--and usually me--the most menial tasks: gathering firewood, doing the dishes, scrubbing the laundry.

  "She might as well put bleeding slaves' cuffs on us," Gibran grumbles. Then a sly look crosses his face.

  "Hit that shot"--Gibran flashes his lightning smile at Izzi, and a blush rises in her cheeks--"and I'll gather firewood for a week. Miss, and it's
on you."

  Izzi draws the bow, sights, and knocks the boot off the branch easily. Gibran curses.

  "Don't be such a baby," Izzi says. "I'll still keep you company while you do all the work." Izzi slings her bow on her back and gives Gibran a hand up. For all his blustering, he holds on to her a little longer than he needs to, his eyes lingering on her as she walks ahead of him. I hide a smile, thinking of what Izzi said to me a few nights ago as we fell into sleep. "It's nice to be admired, Laia, by someone who means well. It's nice to be thought beautiful."

  They pass Afya, who chivvies them along. I clench my jaw and look away from the Tribeswoman. A feeling of impotence seizes me. I want to tell her we should keep going, but I know she won't listen. I want to tell her she was wrong for letting Elias leave--for not even bothering to wake me until he was well away, but she won't care. And I want to rage at her for refusing to allow me or Keenan to take a horse and track Elias down, but she'll just roll her eyes and tell me again what she told me when I learned Elias left: My duty is to get you safely to Kauf. And you haring off after him interferes.

  I must admit that she has carried out her duty with remarkable cleverness. Here in the heart of the Empire, the countryside is crawling with Martial soldiers. Afya's caravan has been searched a dozen times. Only her savvy as a smuggler has kept us alive.

  I put the bow down, my focus shattered.

  "Help me get dinner going?" Keenan gives me a rueful smile. He knows well the look on my face. He's patiently suffered my frustration since Elias left, and he's realized the only cure is distraction. "It's my turn to cook," he says. I fall into step beside him, preoccupied enough that I do not notice Izzi running toward us until she calls out.

  "Come quickly," she says. "Scholars--a family--on the run from the Empire."

  Keenan and I follow Izzi back to camp to find Afya speaking rapidly in Sadhese with Riz and Vana. A small group of anxious Scholars looks on, their clothing torn, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Two dark-eyed women who appear to be sisters stand together. One of them has her arm around a girl of perhaps six. The man with them carries a little boy no more than two.

  Afya turns away from Riz and Vana, both of whom have similar, glowering expressions. Zehr keeps his distance, but he doesn't look happy either.