“I find it hard to believe,” I say quietly, “that you didn’t realize Helene was wearing scim-proof armor.”
“Of course we realized it. Why do you think we gave it to her? The Trials are not always about action. Sometimes, they are about intent. You weren’t meant to kill Aspirant Aquilla. We only wanted to know if you would.” He glances at my hand, which I didn’t even realize was inching toward my scim. “I’ve told you before, Aspirant. We cannot die. Besides, haven’t you had enough of death?”
“Zak. And Marcus.” I can barely speak. “You made him kill his own brother.”
“Ah. Zacharias.” Sadness flits across Cain’s face, infuriating me further.
“Zacharias was different, Elias. Zacharias had to die.”
“You could have picked anyone—anything for us to fight.” I don’t look at him. I don’t want to retch again. “Efrits or wights. Barbarians. But you made us fight each other. Why?”
“We had no choice, Aspirant Veturius.”
“No choice.” A terrible anger consumes me, virulent as a sickness. And though he is right, though I have had enough of death, in this moment all I want is to plunge my scim through Cain’s black heart. “You created these Trials. Of course you had a choice.”
Cain’s eyes flash. “Do not speak of things you do not understand, child. What we do, we do for reasons beyond your comprehension.”
“You made me kill my friends. I almost killed Helene. And Marcus—he killed his brother—his twin—because of you.”
“You’ll be doing far worse before this is over.”
“Worse? How much worse can this get? What will I have to do in the Fourth Trial? Murder children?”
“I’m not talking about the Trials,” Cain says. “I’m talking about the war.”
I stop walking. “What war?”
“The one that haunts our dreams.” Cain keeps walking, gesturing for me to follow. “Shadows gather, Elias, and their gathering cannot be stopped. Darkness grows in the heart of the Empire, and it will grow more still, until it covers this land. War comes. And it must come. For a great wrong must be righted, a wrong that grows greater with every life destroyed. The war is the only way. And you must be ready.”
Riddles, always riddles with the Augurs. “A wrong,” I say through gritted teeth. “What wrong? When? How can a war fix it?”
“One day, Elias Veturius, these mysteries will be made clear. But not this day.”
He slows as we enter the barracks. Every door is closed. I hear no curses, no sobs, no snores, nothing. Where are my men?
“They sleep,” Cain says. “For this night, they will not dream. Their sleep will not be haunted by the dead. A reward for their valor.”
A paltry gesture. They still have tomorrow night to wake up screaming.
And all the nights after.
“You have not asked about your prize,” Cain says, “for winning the Trial.”
“I don’t want a prize. Not for this.”
“Nonetheless,” the Augur says as we arrive at my room, “you will have it. Your door will be sealed until dawn. No one will disturb you. Not even the Commandant.” He drifts out of the barracks doors, and I watch him go, wondering uneasily about his talk of war and shadows and darkness.
I’m too exhausted to think long on it. My whole body aches. I just want to sleep and forget this ever happened, even if it’s just for a few hours. I push the questions out of my head and enter my quarters.
XLI: Laia
When the door to my cell opens, I bolt toward the sound, determined to escape into the hallway beyond. But the chill in the room has penetrated my bones. My limbs are too heavy, and a hand catches me easily about the waist.
“Door’s sealed by an Augur.” The hand releases me. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
My blindfold is pulled off, and a Mask stands before me. I know him instantly. Veturius. His fingers brush my wrists and neck as he unbinds my hands and pulls off my gag. For a second, I’m bewildered. He saved my life all those times so he could interrogate me now? I realize that some na?ve sliver of me hoped that he was better than this. Not good, necessarily. Just not evil.
You knew this, Laia, a voice chides me. You knew he was playing a sick game.
Veturius kneads his neck awkwardly, and that’s when I notice that his leather armor is covered in blood and muck. He has bruises and cuts all over, and his fatigues hang in dull, tattered strips. He looks down at me, and his eyes glint in brief, hot rage before cooling into something else—shock?
Sadness?
“I won’t tell you anything.” My voice is high and thin, and I grit my teeth.
Be like Mother. Don’t show fear. I grab my armlet with one hand. “I didn’t do anything wrong. So you can torture me all you want, but it won’t do you any good.”
Veturius clears his throat. “That’s not why you’re here.” He is rooted to the stone floor, regarding me as if I am a puzzle.
I glare back at him. “Why did that—that red-eyed thing bring me to this cell, if I’m not to be interrogated?”
“Red-eyed thing.” He nods. “Good description.” He looks around the chamber as if seeing it for the first time. “This isn’t a cell. It’s my room.”
I eye the narrow cot, the chair, the cold hearth, the ominous black bureau, the hooks on the wall—for torture, I assumed. It’s bigger than my quarters, though just as spare. “Why am I in your room?”
The Mask goes to the bureau and rifles through it. I tense—what’s in there?