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My parents are
dead too
, he said when I saw him last.
My whole family, actually.
He understands
what Darin’s execution will do to me. Perhaps he’s the only one who does.
“The execution will happen after the new Emperor is named. That might not
169
be for a while yet.”
Wrong
,
I think.
In two weeks
, the shadow-man had said,
you will have a new Emperor
. My
brother doesn’t have a while. He has two weeks. I need to tell Keenan this, but
when I turn to do so, I see a legionnaire standing in the entryway of the couriers’
office, watching me. The tail.
“Mazen won’t be in the city tomorrow.” Keenan bends down, as if he’s
dropped something on the floor. Keenly aware of the Commandant’s man, I
continue looking straight ahead. “But the next day, if you can get out and lose
the tail—”
“No,” I mutter, fanning myself again. “Tonight. I’ll get out again tonight.
When she’s sleeping. She never leaves her room before dawn. I’ll sneak out. I’ll
find you.”
“Too many patrols out tonight. It’s the Moon Festival—”
“The patrols will be focused on groups of revelers,” I say. “They won’t notice
one slave-girl. Please, Keenan. I have to talk to Mazen. I have information. If I
can get it to him, he can get Darin out before he’s executed.”
“Fine.” Keenan looks casually toward the tail. “Make your way to the
festival. I’ll find you there.”
A moment later, he’s gone. I deliver my letter to the couriers’ desk and pay
the fee. Seconds later, I’m outside, watching market-goers rush by. Will the
information I have be enough to save my brother? Will it be enough to convince
Mazen that he should spring Darin now instead of later?
It will be, I decide. It must be. I haven’t come this far to watch my brother
die. Tonight, I’ll convince Mazen to get Darin out. I’ll vow to stay a slave until I
have the information he wants. I’ll promise myself to the Resistance. I’ll do
whatever it takes.
But first things first. How am I going to sneak out of Blackcliff?
170
T
I
XXIV: Elias
he singing is a river that winds through my pain-infused dreams, quiet and
sweet, drawing out memories of a life I’ve nearly forgotten, a life before
Blackcliff. The silk-draped caravan trundling through the Tribal desert. My
playfellows, running riot in the oasis, their laughter ringing like bells. Walking in
the shade of the date trees with Mamie Rila, her voice as steady as the hum of
life in the desert around us.
But when the singing stops, the dreams fade, and I descend into nightmares.
The nightmares transform into a black pit of pain, and the pain stalks me like a
vengeful twin. A door of clutching darkness opens behind me, and a hand
snatches at my back, trying to drag me through.
Then the singing begins again, a thread of life in the infinite black, and I
reach for it and hold on as tight as I can.
«««
come to consciousness light-headed, as if I’ve returned to my body after long
years away. Though I expect soreness, my limbs move easily, and I sit up.
Outside, the evening lamps have just been lit. I know I’m in the infirmary
because it’s the only place in all of Blackcliff with white walls. The room is
empty of everything but the bed in which I lie, a small table, and a plain wooden
chair occupied by a dozing Helene. She looks terrible, her face covered in
bruises and scratches.
“Elias!” Her eyes fly open when she hears me move. “Thank the skies.
You’ve been out for two days.”
“Remind me,” I croak, my throat dry, head aching. Something happened on
the cliffs. Something strange . . .
Helene pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. “We were
attacked by efrits during the Second Trial, on our way down the cliffs.”
“One of them cut the rope,” I say, remembering. “But then—”
“You stuffed me in that niche but didn’t have the sense to hold on to it
yourself.” Helene glowers at me, but her hands shake as she gives me the water.
“Then you dropped like a lead weight. Smacked your head on the way down.
You should have died, but that rope between us anchored you. I sang at the top
171
of my lungs until every last efrit bolted. Then I got you to the desert floor and
holed up in a little cave behind some tumbleweeds. Good little fort, actually.
Easy to defend.”
“You had to fight? Again?”
“The Augurs tried to kill us four more times. The scorpions were obvious, but
the viper almost got you. Then there were wights—evil little bastards, them,
nothing like the stories. Pain in the ass to kill, too—you have to squash them like
bugs. The legionnaires were the worst, though.” Helene goes pale, and the dark
humor in her voice fades. “They kept coming. I’d take down one or two, and
four more would replace them. They’d have rushed me, but the opening to the
cave was too narrow.”
“How many did you kill?”
“Too many. But it was them or us, so it’s hard to feel guilty.”
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