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PART II
THE TRIALS
93
T
XIV: Elias
he rest of leave disappears, and in no time, Grandfather is pelting me with
advice as we roll toward Blackcliff in his ebony carriage. He spent half of
my leave introducing me to the heads of powerful houses and the other half
railing at me for not solidifying as many alliances as possible. When I told him I
wanted to go visit Helene, he’d gone apoplectic.
“The girl’s befuddling your senses,” he’d raged. “Can’t you spot a siren when
you see one?”
I choke back a laugh remembering this now, imagining Helene’s
face if she knew she was being referred to as a siren.
Part of me feels sorry for Grandfather. He is a legend, a general who has won
so many battles that no one counts them anymore. The men in his legions
worshipped him not only for his courage and cunning but for his uncanny ability
to evade death even when facing appalling odds.
But at seventy-seven, he’s long since ceased leading men into border wars.
Which probably explains his fixation on the Trials.
Regardless of his reasoning, his advice is sound. I do
need to prepare for the
Trials, and the best way to do that is to get more information about them. I’d
hoped the Augurs had, at some point in time, expanded on their original
prophecy—perhaps even described what the Aspirants should expect. But
despite combing through Grandfather’s extensive library, I’ve found nothing.
“Damn you, listen to me.” Grandfather kicks me with a steel-toed boot, and I
grab the seat of the carriage, pain shooting through my leg. “Have you heard a
word I’ve said?”
“The Trials are a test of my mettle. I might not know what’s in store, but I
must be prepared anyway. I must conquer my weaknesses and exploit
competitors’ weaknesses. Above all, I must remember that a Veturius is—”
“Always victorious.”
We say it together, and Grandfather nods approvingly
while I try not to betray my impatience.
More battles. More violence. All I want is to escape the Empire. Yet here I
am.
True freedom—of body and soul.
That’s what I’m fighting for, I remind
myself. Not rulership. Not power. Freedom.
“I wonder where your mother stands on all this,” Grandfather muses.
“She won’t favor me, that’s for sure.”
“No, she won’t,” Grandfather says. “But she knows you have the best odds of
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winning. Keris gains much if she backs the right Aspirant. And loses much if she
backs the wrong one.” Grandfather looks broodingly out the carriage window.
“I’ve heard strange rumors about my daughter. Things I might have once
laughed at. She’ll do everything she can to keep you from winning this. Don’t
expect anything less.”
When we arrive at Blackcliff amid dozens of other carriages, Grandfather
crushes my hand in his grip.
“You will not disappoint Gens Veturia,” he informs me. “You will not
disappoint
me
.” I wince at his handshake, wondering if my own will ever be as
intimidating.
Helene finds me after Grandfather drives away. “Since everyone’s back to
witness the Trials, there won’t be a new crop of Yearlings until the contest is
over.” She waves to Demetrius, emerging from his father’s carriage a few yards
away. “We’re still in our old barracks. And we’ll keep the same class schedule as
before, except instead of Rhetoric and History, we have extra watches on the
wall.”
“Even though we’re full Masks?”
“I don’t make the rules,” Helene says. “Come on, we’re late for scim
training.”
We push through the throng of students toward Blackcliff’s front gate. “Did
you find anything on the Trials?” I ask Hel. Someone taps my shoulder, but I
ignore them. Probably an earnest Cadet trying to make class on time.
“Nothing,” Hel says. “Stayed up all night in Father’s library too.”
“Same here.” Damn. Pater Aquillus is a jurist, and his library is filled with
everything from obscure law books to ancient Scholar tomes on mathematics.
Between him and Grandfather, we have most relevant books in the Empire
covered. There’s nowhere else to search. “We should check the— What, damn
it?”
The tapping grows insistent, and I turn, intending to tell off the Cadet.
Instead, I’m faced with a slave-girl looking up at me through impossibly long
eyelashes. A heated, visceral shock flares through me at the clarity of her dark
gold eyes. For a second, I forget my name.
I’ve never seen her before, because if I had, I’d remember. Despite the heavy
silver cuffs and high, painful-looking bun that mark all of Blackcliff’s drudges,
nothing about her says
slave
. Her black dress fits her like a glove, sliding over
every curve in a way that makes more than one head turn. Her full lips and fine,
straight nose would be the envy of most girls, Scholar or not. I stare at her,
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realize I’m staring, tell myself to stop staring, and then keep staring. My breath
falters, and my body, traitor that it is, tugs me forward until there are only inches
between us.
“Asp-aspirant Veturius.”
It’s the way she says my name—like it’s something to fear—that brings me
back to myself.
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