And then he is pressing me against the wall, his hand at the small of my back. He kisses me—a hungry kiss, unyielding in its desire. A kiss that has been stored up for days, a kiss that has been stalking me impatiently, waiting to be released.
For a moment, I stand frozen, Elias’s face and the Augur’s voice swirling in my head. Your heart wants Keenan, and yet your body is alight when Elias Veturius is near. I push the words away. I want this. I want Keenan. And he wants me back. I try to lose myself in the feel of his hand tangled with mine, in the silk of his hair between my fingers. But I keep seeing Elias in my mind, and when Keenan pulls away, I can’t meet his gaze.
“You’ll need this.” He hands me Elias’s dagger. “I’ll find you in Silas. I’ll find a way to Darin. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
I force myself to nod, wondering why the words bother me so. Seconds later he’s out the shed’s door, and I’m staring at the packet of acid he gave me.
My future, my freedom, all here in a little packet that will break me from these bonds.
What had this envelope cost Keenan? What had passage on the ship cost?
And once Mazen realizes he’s been betrayed by his former lieutenant? What will that cost Keenan?
He only wants to help me. Yet I take no comfort in what he said: I’ll find you in Silas. I’ll find a way to Darin. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.
Once, I’d have wanted that. I’d have wanted someone to tell me what to do, to fix everything. Once, I’d have wanted to be saved.
But what has that gotten me? Betrayal. Failure. It’s not enough to expect Keenan to have all the answers. Not when I think of Izzi, who even now might be suffering at the Commandant’s hands because she chose friendship over self-preservation. Not when I think of Elias, who gave up his own life for mine.
The shed is stifling suddenly, hot and close, and I’m across the floor and out the door. A plan forms in my head, tentative, outlandish, and mad enough that it just might work. I wind my way through the city, across Execution Square, past the docks, and down to the Weapons Quarter. To the forges.
I need to find Spiro Teluman.
XLVI: Elias
Hours pass. Or maybe days. I have no way to know. Blackcliff’s bells don’t penetrate the dungeon. I can’t even hear the drums. The granite walls of my windowless cell are a foot thick, the iron bars two inches wide.
There are no guards. There’s no need for them.
Strange, to have survived the Great Wastes, to have fought supernatural creatures, to have sunk so low as to kill my own friends, only to die now—in chains, still masked, stripped of my name, branded a traitor. Disgraced—an unwanted bastard, a failure of a grandson, a murderer. A nobody. A man whose life means nothing.
Such foolish hope, to have thought that despite being raised to violence I might one day be free of it. After years of whippings and abuse and blood, I should have known better. I should never have listened to Cain. I should have deserted Blackcliff when I had the chance. Maybe I’d have been lost and hunted, but at least Laia would be alive. At least Demetrius and Leander and Tristas would be alive.
Now it’s too late. Laia’s dead. Marcus is Emperor. Helene’s his Blood Shrike. And soon I’ll be dead. Lost as a leaf on the wind.
The knowledge is a demon gnawing insatiably at my mind. How did this happen? How could Marcus—mad, depraved Marcus—be overlord of the Empire? I see Cain naming him Emperor, see Helene kneeling before him, swearing to honor him as her master, and I bang my head against the bars in a futile and painful attempt to get the images out of my mind.
He succeeded where you failed. He showed strength where you showed weakness.
Should I have killed Laia? I’d be Emperor if I had. She died anyway, in the end. I pace my prison cell. Five steps one way, six another. I wish I’d never carried Laia up the cliffs after my mother marked her. I wish I’d never danced with her or spoken with her or seen her. I wish I had never allowed my accursedly single-minded male brain to linger over every detail about her.
That is what brought her to the Augurs’ attention, what made them choose her as the prize for the Third Trial and the victim for the Fourth. She’s dead, and it’s because I singled her out.
So much for keeping my soul.
I laugh, and it echoes in the dungeon like shattered glass. What did I think was going to happen? Cain was clear enough: Whoever killed the girl won the Trial. I just didn’t want to believe that rulership of the Empire could come down to something so brutal. You’re na?ve, Elias. You’re a fool. Helene’s words from a few hours before come back to me.
I couldn’t agree more, Hel.
I try to rest but instead fall into the dream of the killing field. Leander, Ennis, Demetrius, Laia—bodies everywhere, death everywhere. My victims’ eyes are open and staring, and the dream is so real I can smell the blood. I think for a long time that I must be dead, that this is some ring of hell I’m walking.
Hours, or minutes later, I jerk awake. I know immediately that I’m not alone.
“Nightmare?”
My mother stands outside my cell, and I wonder how long she’s been watching me.