A Reaper at the Gates_An Ember in the Ashes

by Sabaa Tahir

  The palace is calm. Faris has, at least, kept news of the Empress’s poisoning close. I expect Marcus to be nearby, but he is at court, listening to petitioners, and isn’t expected back in the royal quarters for hours. A small mercy, but a welcome one.

  Faris pauses outside Livia’s door. “She’s not what you remember, Shrike.”

  When I enter my sister’s room, I hardly notice her ladies-in-waiting, who wear expressions of genuine mourning. It makes me hate them a little less for being so very alive while my sister hovers near death.

  “Out,” I tell them. “Everyone. Now. And don’t bleeding say a word about this to anyone.”

  They file out quickly but reluctantly, looking back at my sister with sad longing. Livia always could make friends quickly—she treats everyone with such respect.

  When the women have finally left, I turn to Harper. “Guard the door with your life,” I say. “No one comes in. I don’t care if it’s the Emperor himself. Find a way to keep him out.”

  Avitas salutes, and the door is securely locked behind me.

  Livia’s room is laden with shadows, and she lies as still as death in the bed, her face bloodless. I see no wound, but I can feel the poison twisting through her body, a merciless foe eating away at her insides. Her breathing is shallow, her color poor. That she’s survived this long in such a weakened state is a bleeding miracle.

  “Not a miracle, Blood Shrike.” A shadow steps from beside her bed, ink-cloaked and sun-eyed.

  “What are you doing here?” The skies-forsaken jinn had to have known what the Commandant was doing. He might even have procured the poison for her.

  “You wear your thoughts openly, like you wear your blades,” the Nightbringer says. “The Commandant is not so transparent. I did not know of her plan. But I was able to hold your sister in stasis until you arrived. It is up to you now to heal her.”

  “Tell me why you’re helping me,” I demand, enraged that I have to speak to him, that I cannot immediately begin to help Livvy. “No lies. Tell me the truth. You’re Keris’s ally. You have been for years. This was her doing. What game are you playing?”

  For a long moment, I think that he will deny being a double agent. Or that he will grow angry and lash me to bits.

  When he does finally speak, it’s with great care. “You have something I want, Shrike. Something whose value you do not yet realize. But in order for me to use it, it must be given in love. In trust.”

  “You’re trying to win my love and trust? I will never grant it.”

  “Your love, no,” he says. “I would not expect it, in any case. But your trust, yes. I want your trust. And you will give it to me. You must. One day soon, you will be tested, child. All that you cherish will burn. You will have no friends that day. No allies. No comrades in arms. On that day, your trust in me will be your only weapon. But I cannot make you trust me.” He steps back to allow me access to Livia.

  With one eye on the jinn, I examine her more closely. I listen to her heart. I feel her heart, her body, her blood with my mind. The Nightbringer did not lie about her. This poison is not one a human could survive without help.

  “You waste precious time, Blood Shrike,” the Nightbringer says. “Sing. I will hold her until she is ready to hold herself.”

  If he’d wanted to hurt me, truly hurt me, he’d have let her die. He’d have already killed me.

  Livia’s song flows from my lips easily. I have known her since she was a baby. I held her, cuddled her, loved her. I sing of her strength. I sing of the sweetness and humor that I know still live within her, despite the horrors she has endured. I feel her body strengthening, her blood regenerating.

  But as I knit her back together, something is not right. I move down from her heart to her belly. My consciousness flinches back.

  The baby.

  He—and my sister is right, it is a he—sleeps now. But there is something wrong with him. His heartbeat, which instinct tells me should sound like the gentle, swift thud of a bird’s wings, is too slow. His still-developing mind too sluggish. He slips away from us.

  Skies, what is the child’s song? I do not know him. I know nothing about him except that he is part Marcus and part Livia and that he is our only chance for a unified Empire.

  “What do you want him to be?” the Nightbringer asks. At his voice, I jump, so deep in healing that I forgot he was here. “A warrior? A leader? A diplomat? His ruh, his spirit, is within, but it is not yet formed. If you wish him to live, then you must shape him from what is there—his blood, his family. But know that in doing so, you will be bound to him and his purpose forever. You will never be able to extricate yourself.”

  “He is family,” I whisper. “My nephew. I wouldn’t want to extricate myself from him.”

  I hum, searching for his song. Do I want him to be like me? Like Elias? Certainly not like Marcus.

  I want him to be an Aquilla. And I want him to be a Martial. So I sing my sister Livia into him—her kindness and laughter. I sing him my father’s conviction and prudence. My mother’s thoughtfulness and intelligence. I sing him Hannah’s fire.

  Of his father, I sing only one thing: his strength and skill in battle—one quick word, sharp and strong and clear—Marcus if the world had not ruined him. If he had not allowed himself to be ruined.

  But there is something missing. I feel it. This child will one day be Emperor. He needs something deeply rooted, something that will sustain him when nothing else will: a love of his people.

  The thought appears in my head as if it’s been planted there. So I sing him my own love, the love I learned in the streets of Navium, in fighting for my people, in them fighting for me. The love I learned in the infirmary, healing children and telling them not to fear.

  His heart begins to beat in time again; his body strengthens. I feel him give my sister an almighty kick, and, relieved, I withdraw.

  “Well done, Shrike.” The Nightbringer stands. “She will sleep now, and so must you, if you do not wish for the healing to ravage your strength. Stay away from any injured people, if you can. Your power will call to you. It will demand to be heard, used, reveled in. You must resist, lest you destroy yourself.”

  With that, he fades away, and I look back at Livvy, sleeping peacefully, the color returned to her face. Tentatively, I reach out a hand toward her belly, drawn to the life within. I keep my hand there for a long while, my eyes filling when I feel another kick.

  I am about to speak to the child when the curtains beside the bed rustle. Immediately, I scramble for the war hammer strapped across my back. The sound comes from the hallway between Marcus’s room and Livvy’s. My stomach sinks. I didn’t even think to check that entrance. Shrike, you fool!

  A moment later, Emperor Marcus steps out from behind the drapes there, smiling.

  Maybe he didn’t see me healing Livia. Maybe he doesn’t know. It’s been a few minutes. He couldn’t have been watching that whole time. The Nightbringer would have seen him, sensed him.

  But then I remember that Marcus learned to keep the Augurs out of his head from the Nightbringer. Perhaps he learned to keep the jinn out too.

  “You’ve been keeping secrets, Shrike,” Marcus says, his words dashing any hopes I had of keeping my magic to myself. “You know I don’t like secrets.”

  XXXII: Laia

  It had to be the Blood Shrike. It couldn’t be some soft-handed courtier or empty-headed stable boy—someone I could snitch the ring off of.

  “How the skies am I supposed to get it from her?” I pace in the courtyard of the smithy. The night is deep, and Taure and Zella have returned to the refugee camp to help, as the Mariners have all but abandoned the Scholars to the elements.

  “Even invisible,” I say, “it will be on her finger. She is a Mask, for skies’ sake. And if the Nightbringer is near her, I don’t know if my invisibility will work. It will take
me two months just to get to Navium. But the Grain Moon is less than seven weeks away.”

  “She’s not in Navium,” Musa says. “She’s headed for Antium. We can send someone who is already in the city to take it. I have plenty of people.”

  “Or your wights,” Darin says. “What if they—”

  A screeching chitter disabuses us of that notion. “They won’t touch any part of the Star,” Musa says after listening for a moment. “Too afraid of the Nightbringer.”

  “In any case, read it again.” I nod at the book before him. “Only the Ghost may stand against the onslaught. Should the Lioness’s heir claim the Butcher’s pride, it will evanesce. I’m my mother’s heir, Musa. You chose me yourself. And I’m the Ghost. Who else do you know who can disappear?”

  “If you’re the Ghost,” Musa says, “what’s this business about you falling . . . your flesh withering? Or am I remembering this Shaeva’s prophecy wrong?”

  I hadn’t forgotten. The Ghost will fall, her flesh will wither.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Do you want to risk the fate of the world on trying to figure it out?”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to risk you, aapan,” Musa says. “The refugee camp is a disaster. We have almost ten thousand homeless, another thousand injured. We need you as a voice for the Scholars. We need you as our scim and shield. And we’ll need you more if the Nightbringer succeeds. If you get yourself killed, you don’t do me much good.”

  “You knew this was the deal when you made it,” I say. “You help me find the last piece of the Star and take down the Nightbringer, and when I get back, I offer myself as leader of the northern Resistance. Besides, if all goes to plan, the Nightbringer won’t succeed.”

  “The Martials will still attack. Maybe not immediately, but it will happen. The Commandant has already tried to seize the Martial navy as well as the Karkaun fleet. She failed, but it’s common knowledge she wanted those ships to take on the Mariners. The Free Lands need to be ready for war. And the Scholars need a strong voice to speak up for them when that day comes.”

  “It’s not going to matter if we’re all dead.”

  “Look at you.” Musa shakes his head. “Half out the door, like you can just tear off for Antium this very instant.”

  “The Grain Moon is little more than six weeks away, Musa. I have no time.”

  “What do you propose?” Darin asks. “Laia’s right—we have no time.”

  “Your face is known in the Empire. The Nightbringer can read your mind, and your invisibility ceases to work around him. You need people to back you in Antium,” Musa says. “People who know the city and the Martials. I can, of course, provide this. We let them come up with a plan to get you close to the Shrike. That way, it can’t be picked from your mind.”

  “And it can’t be picked from theirs?”

  “My people—well, person—is trained to keep out invaders. Mind like a steel trap and as quiet and clever as a wraith. However . . .”

  “No however,” I say, alarmed. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it when I get back.”

  “I’ve hardly asked anything of you yet, Laia.”

  “Something tells me you’re about to make up for that,” Darin murmurs.

  “Indeed.” Musa rises from his seat beside one of the forges, wincing as he does. “Come with me. I’ll explain on the way. Though”—he looks me up and down distastefully—“you need to visit the bath first.”

  A sudden suspicion forms in my mind. “Where are we going?”

  “To the palace. To speak with the king.”

  * * *

  Four hours later, I perch upon an overstuffed chair in a palace antechamber beside Musa, awaiting an audience with a man I have no wish to meet.

  “This is a terrible idea,” I hiss at Musa. “We have no support from the refugees or the Adisan Scholars, no Resistance fighters at our backs—”

  “You’re leaving for Antium to hunt down a jinn,” Musa says. “I need you to talk to the king before you die.”

  “Just because he knew my mother doesn’t mean he’ll listen to me. You’ve lived here your whole life. You have a much better chance of persuading him to help the Scholars. Clearly he knows you; otherwise we never would have gotten this audience.”

  “We got this audience because he thinks he’s meeting the famed daughter of his old friend. Now remember, you must convince him that the Scholars need aid and that there is at least a threat from the Martials,” Musa says. “No need to mention the Nightbringer. Just—”

  “I understand.” Since this is the tenth time you have told me, I do not add. I take hold of the neckline of my dress—low enough to show the K the Commandant carved into me—and pull it up yet again. The gown Musa found for me is tight in the bodice and flows wide through the waist, turquoise blue silk overlaid with sea-green, gauzelike netting. The neck and hems sag with gold-threaded flowers, embroidered mirrors, and minuscule emeralds. The net deepens into a dark royal blue at the hem, which just brushes the soft fawn slippers Taure gave me. I’ve braided my hair into a high bun and scrubbed myself so hard my skin still smarts.

  When I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirrored wall of the antechamber, I look away, thinking of Elias, wishing he could see me like this. Wishing he were beside me, dressed in his finest, instead of Musa, and that we were walking into a party or festival.

  “Stop fidgeting, aapan.” Musa draws me from my reverie. “You’ll wrinkle the dress.” He wears a crisp white shirt beneath a long, fitted blue jacket with gold buttons. His hair, usually pulled back, falls past his shoulders in thick, dark waves, and he has a hood pulled low. Despite it, more than one head turned as we walked with Captain Eleiba through the halls of the palace. A few times, courtiers even tried to approach until Eleiba turned them away.

  “I can’t do this, Musa.” My worry drives me to my feet, and I pace the antechamber. “You said we’d have one chance to convince the king to help us. That the future of our people depends on this. I’m not my mother. I’m not the right person—”

  Boots clank beyond the door, and the entrance to the audience chamber opens. Captain Eleiba awaits.

  “Good luck.” Musa steps back. I realize that he doesn’t mean to come with me.

  “You get over here, Musa!”

  “Laia of Serra,” Eleiba announces in a booming voice, “daughter of Mirra and Jahan of Serra.” She gives Musa a cold look. “And Musa of Adisa, prince consort of Her Royal Highness Nikla of Adisa.”

  Only after my mouth has been hanging open a few seconds do I realize how foolish I must look. Musa shakes his head.

  “I’m not welcome here, Eleiba—”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come,” the captain says. “The king awaits.”

  Musa remains a few paces behind me, so I cannot even glare at him properly. I enter the audience chamber, immediately awestruck by the soaring, jewel-encrusted dome above me, the mother of pearl and ebony inlaid floor, the rose quartz columns that glow with inner light. I feel, suddenly, like a peasant.

  An elderly man who I assume is King Irmand waits at the north end of the room, a familiar, much younger woman at his side. Princess Nikla. The thrones they sit upon are fashioned from enormous, weathered chunks of driftwood, ornately carved with fish, dolphins, whales, and crabs.

  The room is empty of anyone but the royals and their guards. Eleiba goes to stand behind the king, her anxiety evident in the tap of her finger against her thigh.

  The king has the shrunken look of a once robust man who has aged suddenly. Nikla appears powerful beside her frail father, though nothing like the simply garbed woman I saw in the prison cell. Her heavily embroidered gown is similar to mine, and her dark hair is arranged in an elaborate turquoise headdress that looks, remarkably, like a wave breaking on a shore.

  At the wrath in her face, my steps falter, and I search out any exits in the
throne room. I wish I’d brought a weapon with me.

  But the princess merely glowers. She is not, I am relieved to see, surrounded by ghuls, though a few lurk in the shadows of the throne room.

  “Ah, my wayward son-in-law returns.” The old man’s deep voice belies his frail appearance. “I’ve missed your wit, boy.”

  “And I yours, Your Majesty.” Musa’s voice is sincere. He pointedly doesn’t look at Eleiba.

  “Laia of Serra.” The crown princess ignores her husband—husband! “Welcome to Adisa. Long have we wished to meet you.”

  Long have you wished to kill me, you mean. Hag. My irritation must show on my face, because Musa gives me a warning glance before dropping into a deep bow. Reluctantly, I emulate him. The lines around Nikla’s mouth tighten.

  Oh skies. How can I speak to a king? I’m no one. How can I convince him of anything?

  The king gestures for us to rise. “I knew your parents, Laia of Serra,” he says. “You have your father’s beauty. Handsome as a jinn, that one. No fire in him though. Not like the Lioness.” Irmand looks at me with interest. “Well, daughter of Mirra, you have a request? In honor of your late mother, who was a friend and ally for long years, I will hear it.”

  Princes Nikla barely suppresses a grimace at the words friend and ally, and her dark eyes glint. My ire rises as I think of the things she said about my mother. As I remember what children in the city were saying about the Lioness. Nikla’s stare bores into me, a challenge writ there. Behind her, something dark and furtive flits behind one of the rose quartz pillars—a ghul.

  A reminder of the darkness we face, one that makes me square my shoulders and meet the king’s gaze. I am not no one. I am Laia of Serra, and in this moment, I am the only voice my people have.

  “The Scholars suffer needlessly, Your Majesty,” I say. “And you can stop it.”

  I tell him of the fire in the refugee camp. Of all that the Scholars have lost. I tell him of the Empire’s war on my people, the Commandant’s genocide, the horrors of Kauf. And then, though Musa warned me not to, I speak of the Nightbringer. I am a Kehanni in this moment. And I must make them believe.