The Commandant would rather put a scim in you than deal with tears.
“I don’t tolerate tardiness,” she says, her eyes eerily calm. “It won’t happen again.”
“Y-yes, Commandant.” My whisper is no louder than Kitchen-Girl’s had been. It hurts too much to speak any louder. The woman releases me.
“Clean up the mess in the hall. Report to me tomorrow morning at sixth bell.”
The Commandant steps around me, and moments later, the front door slams shut.
The silverware rattles as I pick up the tray. Only four lashes and I feel as if my skin has been torn open and drenched in salt. Blood drips down the back of my shirt.
I want to be logical, practical, the way Pop taught me to be when dealing with injuries. Cut the shirt off, my girl. Clean the wounds with witch hazel and pack them with turmeric. Then bandage them and change the dressings twice a day.
But where will I get a new shirt? Witch hazel? How will I bandage the wounds with no one to help me?
For Darin. For Darin. For Darin.
But what if he’s dead? a voice whispers in my head. What if the Resistance doesn’t find him? What if I’m about to put myself through hell for nothing?
No. If I let myself go down that path, I won’t make it through the night, let alone survive weeks of spying on the Commandant.
As I pile shards of ceramic on the tray, I hear a rustle on the landing. I look up, cringing, terrified the Commandant has returned. But it’s only Kitchen-Girl. She kneels beside me and silently mops up the spilled tea with a cloth.
When I thank her, her head jerks up like a startled deer’s. She finishes mopping and scurries down the stairs.
Back in the empty kitchen, I place the tray in the sink and collapse at the worktable, letting my head fall into my hands. I’m too numb for tears. It occurs to me then that the Commandant’s office door is probably still open, her papers strewn about, visible to anyone with the courage to look.
Commandant’ s gone, Laia. Go up there and see what you can find. Darin would do it. He’d see this as the perfect chance to gather information for the Resistance.
But I’m not Darin. And in this moment, I can’t think about the mission, or the fact that I’m a spy, not a slave. All I can think about is the throbbing in my back and the blood soaking my shirt.
You won’t survive the Commandant, Keenan had said. The mission will fail.
I lower my head to the table, closing my eyes against the pain. He was right. Skies, he was right.
PART II: THE TRAILS
XIV: Elias
The 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.