Beneath the Citadel

by Destiny Soria

  Newt woke with a start, his heart racing. His shoulder had rolled out of joint again. He eased it back into place, wincing at the stab of pain. The bed in the Seras’ spare room was comfortable enough, but sleep had done nothing to relax his aching muscles, and his ankles and wrists protested every slight movement. He’d pushed himself too hard. He was lucky he hadn’t sprained an ankle or worse.

  We bend, but we don’t break.

  The daylight streaming past the curtains was weak and gray with the vestiges of night, but Newt climbed out of bed anyway. He bit his lip against the pain and made his way across the room. There was a roll of bandages in the top drawer of the rickety pine dresser. Last year, when he’d started spending less and less time in his father’s house and more and more time anywhere else, Lenore Sera had made up the guest bed for him a few times, when he’d been here late with Alys and Evander. In the past few months, without ever really discussing it, she’d started keeping the bed ready all the time. She’d tucked some towels, extra blankets, and bandages in the drawers, and she’d told Newt to leave some spare clothes too. It was easy to see where Alys had gotten her brisk practicality.

  Newt didn’t know if he had Evander and Alys to thank for the hospitality, and he’d never mustered up the courage to ask. He knew the Seras were aware of who his father was and what he had done. They had never technically been rebels, but they certainly had no love for the council or the chancellor. There were plenty of people who had never technically been rebels who still spat at the mention of his father’s name. The rebellion had waxed and waned over time, but all told it had lasted almost a hundred years. Firebrands were legends, especially in the lower wards, where most of them had been born and bred.

  What made it worse was that Newt’s parents had been firebrands once too. Though not quite legendary, they had done their part tirelessly for years. Then, when he was nine years old, his mother fell ill and never recovered. Almost a year to the day after her funeral, his father packed up their belongings and moved them both to a beautiful brick house in the third ward.

  The thought of home made Newt’s head ache, and suddenly the spare room felt cramped and warm. With practiced speed, he braced his wrists, ankles, and knees with the bandages, then pulled on some fresh clothes and boots. He peeked out the door into the corridor, but the second floor was still dark and silent. He’d had enough of the dark for a lifetime. Without really thinking about it, he went to the window and pushed it open. Once he’d climbed onto the narrow ledge, it was surprisingly easy to find purchase in the old, uneven brick, grip the edge of the roof, and pull himself up, though his muscles and bones screamed with the effort.

  It was worth it though, when he got a full breath of the fresh morning air. The first magnificent colors of dawn were spilling over the city walls and across the lower ward. He sat still for a long time, letting them wash over him, letting them clear away the shadows of the dungeons and the world below the citadel that clung to him like cobwebs.

  A sound from below caught his attention. He peered over the edge of the roof and watched with bemusement as Cassa descended from another open window to the street. She wasn’t particularly graceful about it, but she did manage to land on her feet, which was impressive. He was curious about where she was going but not enough to call out or risk following her. It didn’t even occur to him to be suspicious. Cassa was nothing if not fiercely, uncompromisingly loyal. It’s why she’d taken almost a year to warm up to Newt, even after Evander and then Alys and Vesper had welcomed him into the fold, even after Newt had proven himself useful in tight spots.

  Newt couldn’t really blame her. He had never been ignorant of his father’s crimes. After their sudden move to the third ward, it had taken him only a couple of days to figure out the reason for their sudden good fortune. The illustrious Valeras—then-leaders of the rebellion and practically gods in their own right—came to that beautiful brick house in the dead of night and called his father a traitor. They told him that the only reason he was still alive was for Newt’s sake, but if he ever set one foot outside the third ward, they would gut him in the street. Newt wasn’t supposed to be awake, wasn’t even supposed to know they were there, but even back then he was good at being invisible. Caris Valera, her hair glinting in the firelight, leaning against the doorframe with a smile as sharp as the knife she toyed with. Luc Valera, so quiet that Newt had to strain to hear him, but every word a precise blow.

  The Valeras were dead now. His father still never left the third ward. He’d always been a hard, exacting man, but over the years that drive decayed into something bitter and broken. On bad nights, he would rant about the rebellion, how he hadn’t defected because he was a coward but because he could see the rebels were losing and he had to make sure Newt was provided for. The house and the garden and the cushy stipend from the council in exchange for all the information he had on the rebellion—those were for Newt.

  Newt could understand perfectly well everything his father wasn’t saying. The vitriol he received from rebel sympathizers, the accusations of cowardice, the death threats that would sometimes be left on the door—those were Newt’s fault.

  “All I want,” his father would say, “is for you to make something of yourself.”

  Newt’s father had a lot of ideas about how to make something of his son, to teach him to bend without breaking. Newt learned how to twist his way out of rope and iron bindings if he wanted to eat. He learned how to dangle from just his fingertips if he wanted to save his bare feet from the glass shards below. He learned how to lie perfectly still in the crawl space below the house if he didn’t want the spiders and rats to notice him. He learned how to hold his breath for minutes at a time if he didn’t want to drown in a bucket of water.

  He learned how to hold a world of hatred inside him without a single crack in his exterior calm. Sometimes he felt that that was his greatest accomplishment. And sometimes he wished the Valeras hadn’t done him the favor of letting his father live.

  Newt flexed his left hand, scratching at the three scars on the back of it. Cassa had vanished into the city, but the quiet was broken by the ringing of the sixth morning bell. The lower ward was starting to stir. Newt remained still, unwilling to leave behind the ripening daylight and the crisp breeze. If he closed his eyes, it was almost like being in the valley again on a clear summer day, a fixed point while the rest of the world moved around him.

  His reverie was interrupted a second time, now by the sound of someone cursing repeatedly under their breath. Newt leaned over the edge of the roof just as Evander’s face popped into view.

  “How do you always make this seem so easy?” he demanded breathlessly.

  “I think you just make it seem hard.” Newt tried and failed to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “Need some help?”

  “Shit,” Evander replied. He’d managed to get his forearms onto the roof and was struggling to get a leg up. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  He finally pulled himself up enough to flop the rest of the way over like a struggling fish. Newt scooted over to give him some room, biting back a laugh at the absurdity of everything in that moment. Evander took a few seconds to catch his breath and then pushed onto his elbows, his eyes flicking appreciatively over the view. His black hair, pushed back from his forehead, was still mussed from sleep. Newt almost asked why he had climbed up here, but he swallowed the question at the last second and looked out at the city again. Evander made it about five seconds before coaxing a coin from his pocket to fiddle with, balancing it on each of his fingertips in turn. He’d never been one for idle hands.

  With Evander so close that their arms were almost touching, with the dawn light slowly turning golden around them, Newt couldn’t help but remember a day two years ago in the middle of Aurelia Valley. It had been clear like today but warm and humid. He remembered the stickiness of the heat, the ridges of the uneven ground against his back, the shivery sensation every time Evander shifted and brushed against his elbow.

&nbs
p; Evander had wanted to know why Newt spent so much time in the valley, so Newt tried to show him. Considering Evander couldn’t remain perfectly still to save his life, Newt wasn’t sure he really understood what was so appealing about the ritual. It didn’t matter though. They’d talked about Evander’s parents, about the caves that honeycombed beneath them, about Newt’s father. Evander was easy to talk to, even about that. It wasn’t just his natural charisma; it was the way he listened, like there was nothing else worth hearing, like everything he heard he’d take to the grave.

  Newt wasn’t sure if Evander remembered that day. If he did, it probably wasn’t in the same way Newt did. He knew Evander was bisexual, but that didn’t mean Evander would ever think of him as anything other than a friend. Why would he, when he could charm almost anyone with a single smile, when he was impossibly confident and clever and kind, when Newt was just . . . Newt?

  “So was there a particular reason you climbed up here?” Newt asked, as the silence he usually loved grew unbearable.

  “Probably,” Evander said, as the coin spun lazily on the tip of his thumb, “but I can’t remember. It’s too early in the morning for coherent thought.”

  Newt hesitated.

  “What you said last night—do you really think we should help Solan?”

  Evander looked at him over the impossibly balanced silver. The glibness had faded from his expression.

  “Before we left the caverns, Solan told me he’d seen something else in the runes. He said there was a way to save my parents, but not by giving in to the chancellor. I didn’t know what he meant then—I don’t even think he did. But now it makes sense.”

  Newt wanted to point out that if Solan was trying to manipulate them into helping him, then a convenient divination was just as effective as the chancellor’s blackmail. He didn’t say anything though. He had a feeling Evander already knew and that he just didn’t care. The council had taken everything from the Seras, and Evander and Alys had given up their childhoods to earn it all back. Now the chancellor was threatening to take even more.

  “I’m with you,” Newt said. Always, he didn’t say.

  “Thank you.” Evander palmed the coin, and a second later it had disappeared. “And thank you for . . . last night.”

  Newt swallowed hard, remembering the look in Evander’s eyes when he’d sent the blade flying. It wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the look that had frightened him—it was how chillingly familiar it actually was. A world of hatred locked inside.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

  Evander glanced at him but didn’t say anything more. For a long time, they just sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the city waking up.

  “I guess we’ll have to figure out how to convince Alys,” Evander said finally.

  “She’ll come around.” Newt lay back on the roof. The wooden tiles were uneven and splintery but pleasantly cool against his flushed skin. He closed his eyes against the brightening sky. Despite the trials looming over them, another smile curved his lips. “Although a more pressing problem might be how you plan on getting yourself off this roof.”

  A beat.

  “Shit,” said Evander.

  TWENTY

  ALYS

  Alys woke to the sight of Cassa tumbling through her open bedroom window. For a few seconds, she considered burying her face back in her pillow and ignoring the incident for the sake of her own sanity. But Cassa made a ridiculous ruckus latching the window, divesting herself of her shoes and the loose jacket she’d probably stolen from Evander, and splashing her face with water from the basin. Alys dragged herself into a sitting position against the headboard with a shiver. It was early enough that the room retained the night’s chill.

  “Is it even worth it to ask what on earth you’re doing?” Alys asked, a yawn chasing her words.

  “Ask me anything you like. I’m an open book.” Cassa flopped onto the bed at Alys’s feet, her legs dangling off the side and her head propped against the wall despite the fact that Alys had made her a perfectly comfortable pallet on the floor. It was messy enough that Alys knew she must have gotten at least a few hours’ sleep.

  “How long have you been gone?”

  “An hour or so.”

  Alys hadn’t even heard her get up. Heavy sleeping was not particularly conducive to survival, but she would have to worry about that later.

  “Where did you go?”

  Cassa shrugged—a difficult maneuver from her current position.

  “Nowhere special. I was just curious what rumors are circulating about us, and I wanted to see if there was any word on the streets about your parents.”

  Alys’s stomach twisted as the realities of the night before crashed around her. In the sweet place between dreaming and waking, she’d been able to forget the dread that clamped down on her like a vise, thinking about her parents at the chancellor’s mercy, their lives dependent on her and the others. It was enough to start the maelstrom spinning in her mind. She clenched her hands into fists and tried to breathe.

  “Anything?” she managed to ask, when Cassa didn’t go on.

  “No.” Cassa hesitated, her eyes flicking to Alys. “I’m really sorry they got dragged into this. I wish there had been another way.”

  An apology from Cassa was a rare enough occurrence that Alys was temporarily distracted from her worry. She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, concentrating on the crisp cotton of her nightclothes against her skin, the raspy sound of her own breath, the scent of the outdoors that Cassa had brought in with her. She opened her eyes to find her friend watching her with a faint frown of concern.

  “Any good rumors about us?” Alys forced a wryness into her tone that she didn’t necessarily feel, but pretending she was fine helped her believe that she really could be.

  “The most prominent one is that we were caught and executed immediately.” Cassa made a face and scratched her nose absently. In the stark morning light that spilled through the window, her dusting of freckles stood out on her flushed cheeks. “There is one going around I’m partial to—that we set diseased rats loose in the Judgment Hall and two councilors fainted right out of their chairs.”

  “Did you start that one?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And was there a reason you couldn’t use our front door like a normal person?” Alys tried to pull the blankets up to her shoulders, but they were bunched under Cassa. She kicked her shoulder lightly. Cassa swatted at her foot and didn’t budge. Alys kicked harder.

  “I didn’t want anyone to know we were here, in case someone recognized me,” Cassa said, begrudgingly rolling enough to the side for Alys to free the blankets.

  “You could have stayed inside.”

  “Then who would make sure that proper rumors are being started about our heroic feats?” Cassa flashed a grin and stretched her arms above her head with a wince. She closed her eyes against the sunlight slanting across her face. “Your window is trickier than Evander’s. There’s no drainpipe handy.”

  Alys wasn’t sure why her stomach flipped at that. Neither Cassa nor Evander were prone to secrets. They had never been tight-lipped about their relationship—except for exactly why they had ended things. Still, Alys had to take a moment to compose herself before replying with forced lightness.

  “Then maybe you should have used his window.”

  “Considered it,” Cassa said, giving no indication that she’d noticed Alys’s discomfort. “But I thought it might be unwise, given the circumstances.”

  Alys told herself to drop it. She should get out of bed and get dressed. It was so cold outside the blankets though.

  “Which circumstances?” she asked. “That we’re currently fugitives or that you two aren’t together anymore?”

  Cassa’s eyes sprang open, and she squinted thoughtfully at Alys, as if she had just realized what conversation they were having. She licked her chapped lips.

  “Both.”

  Alys d
ropped her gaze and fiddled with a lock of hair. Cassa let out a sigh, struggled up to her elbows, then rested her back against the wall.

  “You might as well ask what you really want to ask,” she said, “especially if we’re all going to die soon.”

  Alys flinched, although she knew that wasn’t Cassa’s intention. She still couldn’t bring herself to meet her eyes.

  “Are you two really done?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Their romance hadn’t surprised Alys. Her brother and Cassa were cut from the same cloth, kindred spirits in almost every regard. A part of her had suspected it was inevitable ever since she’d first introduced them four years ago. But the sudden end to the romance had surprised her. As far as she could tell, there hadn’t been a fight or another person or anything of the kind. They had just called it quits. There had been an initial few months of awkwardness, when Cassa suddenly had renewed interest in planning an infiltration of the citadel and Evander suddenly had renewed interest in exploring the valley with Newt or irritating Alys while she tried to help their parents with apothecary business. Now they were friends again, still close but in a different way. Alys was relieved that they’d been able to move past it. Even though she told herself it was because she didn’t like having her bored brother underfoot in the workroom, she knew deep down that she hadn’t been ready for Cassa to drift out of her life.

  But she still didn’t understand why. Alys hated mysteries. She decided that if there had ever been an opportunity to learn, it was now.

  “Why?”