A Torch Against the Night

by Sabaa Tahir

  Then I look down.

  The stupidest bleeding thing you could have done, Aquilla. Freezing wind whips at me, but sweat rolls down my back anyway. Don't retch. Commandant wouldn't thank you for spewing sick all over the top of her tent. My mind flashes to the Second Trial. To Elias's ever-smiling mouth and silver eyes as he roped himself to me. I won't let you fall. I promise.

  But he's not here. I'm alone, perched like a spider over an abyss. I grab the rope, test it one last time, and jump.

  Weightlessness. Terror. My body slams into the wall. I swing wildly--you're dead, Aquilla. Then I center myself, hoping the Commandant didn't hear my scrabbling from her tent. I rappel down, slipping easily into the narrow, dark space between the tent and Kauf's wall.

  "--and I both serve the same master, Warden. His time has come. Give me your influence."

  "If our master wanted my aid, he would have asked for it. This is your plot, Keris, not his." The Warden's voice is flat, but its toneless boredom hides a deep wariness. He was not nearly so careful when he and I spoke.

  "Poor Warden," the Commandant says. "So loyal and yet always the last to know of our master's plans. How it must rankle you that he chose me as the instrument of his will."

  "It will rankle me more if your plan jeopardizes all we have worked for. Do not take this risk, Keris. He will not thank you for it."

  "I am speeding the pace at which we carry out his will."

  "You are furthering your own will."

  "The Nightbringer has been gone for months." The Commandant's chair scrapes back. "Perhaps he wishes for us to do something useful instead of awaiting his orders like Fivers facing their first battle. We're running out of time, Sisellius. Marcus has garnered fear, if not respect, from the Gens after the Shrike's display on Cardium Rock."

  "You mean after she foiled your plot to foment dissent."

  "The plot would have succeeded," Keris says, "if you had helped me. Don't make the same mistake this time. With the Shrike out of the way"--not yet, you hag--"Marcus is still vulnerable. If you would simply--"

  "Secrets are not slaves, Keris. They are not meant to be used and cast aside. I will deploy them with patience and precision, or I will not deploy them at all. I must consider your request."

  "Consider quickly." The Commandant's voice takes on the soft edge known to send men scurrying away in fear. "My men will march on Antium in three days and arrive on Rathana. I must leave by morning. I cannot claim my throne if I'm not leading my own army."

  I put my fist in my mouth to keep from gasping. My men . . . my throne . . . my army.

  Finally, the pieces fall into place. The soldiers ordered to report elsewhere, leaving garrisons empty. The lack of men in the countryside. The troop shortage on the embattled borders of the Empire. It all leads back to her.

  That army in the Argent Hills doesn't belong to Marcus. It belongs to the Commandant. And in less than a week she's going to use it to murder him and declare herself Empress.

  XLIII: Laia

  The moment the Blood Shrike is out of earshot, I turn to Keenan. "I'm not leaving Elias," I say. "If Helene gets her hands on him, he'll go straight to Antium for execution."

  Keenan grimaces. "Laia," he says. "It might be too late for that. There is nothing stopping her from walking in and taking custody of him." He lowers his voice. "Perhaps we should focus on Darin."

  "I will not leave Elias to die at her hands," I say. "Not when I'm the only reason he's in Kauf in the first place."

  "Forgive me," Keenan says, "but the poison will take Elias soon, in any case."

  "So you'd leave him to torture and public execution?" I know Keenan has never liked Elias, but I did not think the animosity ran this deep.

  The lamplight flickers, and Keenan runs a hand through his hair, brow furrowed. He kicks a few damp leaves out of the way and gestures for me to sit.

  "We can get him out too," I argue. "We just have to move fast and find a way in. I don't think Aquilla can just walk in and take him out. She would have already done it if that were the case. She wouldn't have bothered to talk to us."

  I roll out Elias's map--dirt-stained and faded now. "This cave." I point to a spot Elias marked on the map. "It's north of the prison, but perhaps we could get inside--"

  "We'd need firepowder for that," Keenan says. "We have none."

  Fair enough. I point to another path marked on the north side of the prison, but Keenan shakes his head. "That route is blocked, according to the information I have, which is from six months ago. Elias was last here six years ago."

  We stare at the parchment, and I point to the west side of the prison, where Elias marked a path. "What about this? There are sewers here. And it's exposed, yes, but if I could make myself invisible, like I did during the raid--"

  Keenan looks at me sharply. "Have you been working at that again? When you should have been resting?" When I don't answer, he groans. "Skies, Laia, we need all of our wits to pull this off. You're exhausting yourself trying to harness something you don't understand--something unreliable--"

  "Sorry," I mumble. If all my practice actually amounted to something, then perhaps I could argue that the risk of exhaustion was worth it. And yes, a few times, while Keenan was on watch or off scouting, I felt like I almost grasped that strange, tingling feeling that meant no one could see me. But as soon as I'd open my eyes and look down, I'd see that I'd failed again.

  We eat in silence, and when we're done, Keenan stands. I scramble to my feet.

  "I'm going to go scout the prison," he says. "I'll be gone for a few hours. Let me see what I can come up with."

  "I'll go with--"

  "Easier for me to scout alone, Laia," he says. At the irritated look on my face, he takes my hand and draws me close.

  "Trust me," he says against my hair. His warmth eases away the cold that seems to have taken up residence in my bones. "It'll be better this way. And don't worry." He pulls away, his dark eyes searing. "I'll find us a way in. I promise. Try to rest while I'm gone. We'll need all our strength in the next few days."

  After he leaves, I organize our limited belongings, sharpen all of my weapons, and practice the little that Keenan had a chance to teach me. The desire to try again to discover my power pulls at me. But Keenan's warning echoes in my head. Unreliable.

  As I unfurl my bedroll, the hilt of one of Elias's scims catches my eye. I gingerly pull the weapons from their hiding spot. As I examine the scims, a chill runs through me. So many souls sundered from the earth at the edges of these blades--some on my behalf.

  It's eerie to think of it, and yet I find the scims offer a strange sort of comfort. They feel like Elias. Perhaps because I am so used to seeing them poking up behind his head in that familiar V. How long since I saw him reaching back for those scims at the first hint of a threat? How long since I heard his baritone urging me on or drawing a laugh from me? Only six weeks. But it feels like much longer.

  I miss him. When I think of what will happen to him at Helene's hands, my blood boils in rage. If I were the one dying of Nightweed poisoning, the one chained in a prison, the one facing torture and death, Elias would not acquiesce. He would find a way to save me.

  The scims go back into their scabbards, the scabbards back into their hiding place. I drop into my bedroll with no intention of sleeping. One more time, I think to myself. If it doesn't work, I'll leave it, like Keenan asked. But I owe Elias at least this.

  As I close my eyes and try to forget myself, I think about Izzi. About how she would blend into the Commandant's house like a chameleon, unseen, unheard. She was soft-footed and soft-spoken and she heard and saw everything. Perhaps this is not just about a state of mind but about my body. About finding the quiet version of myself. The Izzi-like version of myself.

  Disappear. Smoke into cold air and Izzi with her hair in front of her eyes and a Mask moving stealthily through the night. Quiet mind, quiet body. I keep each word distinct, even when my mind begins to tire.

  And then I fe
el 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."

  XLIV: Elias

  When 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.