"You'll begin immediately. I'll be receiving daily reports--the Commandant has chosen a Black Guard to keep us appraised of your progress."
Naturally. I turn to go, my stomach churning as I reach for the door handle.
"One more thing," Marcus says, forcing me to turn, my teeth gritted, "don't even think about telling me that you're unable to catch Veturius. He's sly enough to escape the bounty hunters quite easily. But you and I both know that he would never be able to escape you." Marcus cocks his head, calm, collected, and full of hatred.
"Happy hunting, Blood Shrike."
*
My feet carry me away from Marcus and his terrible command, out the door of Quin Veturius's study. Beneath my ceremonial armor, blood from a wound soaks through a dressing. I skim a finger over the wound, pressing lightly, then harder. Pain lances through my torso, narrowing my sight to what is before me.
I must track Elias. Catch him. Torture him. Kill him.
My hands curl into fists. Why did Elias have to break his oath to the Augurs, to the Empire? He's seen what life is like beyond these borders: In the Southern Lands, there are more monarchies than people, each kinglet scheming to conquer the rest. In the northwest, the Wildmen of the tundra trade babies and women for firepowder and liquor. And south of the Great Wastes, the Barbarians of Karkaus live to reave and rape.
The Empire is not perfect. But we have held strong against the backward traditions of the broken lands beyond our borders for five centuries now. Elias knows that. And still he turned his back on his people.
On me.
Doesn't make a difference. He's a threat to the Empire. A threat I must deal with.
But I love him. How do I kill the man I love?
The girl I was, the girl who hoped, the weak little bird--that girl beats her wings and tosses her head against the confusion of it. What of the Augurs and their promises? You'd kill him, your friend, your comrade in arms, your everything, the only one you've ever--
I silence that girl. Focus.
Veturius has been gone for six days now. If he were alone and anonymous, trapping him would be like trying to trap smoke. But the news of his escape--and the reward--will force him to be more careful. Will it be enough to give bounty hunters a shot at him? I scoff. I've seen Elias rob half a camp of such mercenaries without any of them the wiser. He'll run circles around them, even injured, even hunted.
But then there's the girl. Slower. Less experienced. A distraction.
Distractions. Him, distracted. By her. Distracted because he and she--because they--
None of that, Helene.
Raised voices pull my attention outward, away from the frailty within. I hear the Commandant speaking from the drawing room, and I tense. She just left with my father. Does she dare to raise her voice to the Pater of Gens Aquilla?
I stride forward to shove open the cracked door of the drawing room. One of the benefits of being Blood Shrike is that I outrank everyone but the Emperor. I can dress the Commandant down and she can do nothing about it if Marcus isn't there.
Then I stop. Because the voice that responds does not belong to my father.
"I told you that your desire to dominate her would be problematic."
The voice makes me shudder. It also reminds me of something: the efrits in the Second Trial, the way their voices sounded like the wind. But the efrits were a summer storm. This voice is a winter gale.
"If the Cook offends you, you can kill her yourself."
"I have limitations, Keris. She is your creation. See to it. She has already cost us. The Resistance leader was essential. And now he's dead."
"He can be replaced." The Commandant pauses, choosing her words carefully. "And forgive me, my lord, but how can you speak to me of obsession? You did not tell me who the slave-girl was. Why are you so interested in her? What is she to you?"
A long, tense pause. I take a step back, wary now of whatever is in that room with the Commandant.
"Ah, Keris. Busy in your spare time, I see? Learning about her? Who she is . . . who her parents were . . ."
"It was easy enough to find out once I knew what to look for."
"The girl is not your concern. I tire of your questioning. Small victories have made you daring, Commandant. Do not let them make you stupid. You have your orders. Carry them out."
I step out of sight just as the Commandant leaves the room. She stalks down the hallway, and I wait until her footsteps fade before coming out from around the corner--and finding myself face to face with the other speaker.
"You were listening."
My skin feels clammy, and I find I'm clutching the hilt of my scim. The figure before me appears to be a normal man in simple garb, his hands gloved, his hood low to shadow his face. I look away from him immediately. Some lizard instinct screams at me to walk on. But I find, to my alarm, that I can't move.
"I am Blood Shrike." I take no strength from my rank but square my shoulders anyway. "I can listen where I wish."
The figure tilts its head and sniffs, as if scenting the air around me.
"You've been gifted." The man sounds mildly surprised. I shudder at the raw darkness of his voice. "A healing power. The efrits woke it. I smell it. The blue and white of winter, the green of first spring."
Bleeding skies. I want to forget about the strange, life-draining power I used on Elias and Laia.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The Mask within takes over.
"It will destroy you if you're not careful."
"And how would you know?" Who is this man--if he's even a man?
The figure lifts a gloved hand to my shoulder and sings one note, high, like birdsong. So unexpected, considering the gravelly depths of his voice. Fire lances through my body, and I grit my teeth together to keep from screaming.
But when the pain fades, my body aches less, and the man gestures at the mirror on a far wall. The bruises on my face are not gone, but they are considerably lighter.
"I would know." The creature ignores my slack-jawed shock. "You should find a teacher."
"Are you volunteering?" I must be insane to say it, but the thing makes a queer sound that might be a laugh.
"I a
m not." He sniffs again, as if considering. "Perhaps . . . one day."
"What--who are you?"
"I'm the Reaper, girl. And I go to collect what is mine."
At this, I dare to look into the man's face. A mistake, for in place of eyes he has stars blazing out like the fires of the hells. As he meets my gaze, a bolt of loneliness rolls through me. And yet to call it loneliness is not enough. I feel bereft. Destroyed. As if everyone and everything I care about has been ripped from my arms and cast into the ether.
The creature's gaze is a writhing abyss, and as my sight goes red and I stagger back into the wall, I realize I am not staring into his eyes. I am staring into my future.
I see it for a moment. Pain. Suffering. Horror. All that I love, all that matters to me, awash in blood.
IX: Laia
Raider's Roost juts into the air like a colossal fist. It blots out the horizon, its shadow deepening the gloom of the mist-cloaked desert. From here, it looks still and abandoned. But the sun has long since set, and I cannot trust my eyes. Deep in the labyrinthine cracks of that great rock, the Roost teems with the dregs of the Empire.
I glance at Elias to see his hood has slipped back. When I pull it up, he does not stir, and worry twists in my belly. He has been in and out for the past three days, but his last seizure was especially violent. The bout of unconsciousness that followed lasted for more than a day--the longest stretch yet. I do not understand as much as Pop about healing, but even I know that this is bad.
Before, Elias at least muttered, as if he was fighting the poison. But he hasn't spoken a word for hours. I'd be happy if he said anything. Even if it was more about Helene Aquilla and her ocean-colored eyes--a comment I found unexpectedly irritating.
He's slipping away. And I cannot let it happen.
"Laia." At Elias's voice, I nearly fall off the horse in surprise.
"Thank the skies." I look back to find his warm skin is gray and drawn, his pale eyes burning with fever.
He looks up at the Roost and then at me. "I knew you'd get us here." For a moment, he's his old self: warm, full of life. He peers over my shoulder at my fingers--chafed from four days of clutching the reins--and takes the leather straps from me.
For an awkward few seconds, he holds his arms away from me, as if I might take umbrage at his closeness. So I lean back against his chest, feeling safer than I have in days, like I've suddenly acquired a layer of armor. He relaxes, dropping his forearms to my hips, and the weight of them sends a flutter up my spine.