Every scrape of my sandals sounds to me like a detonation. A loud creak makes my heart stutter, but after a minute of paralysis, I realize the sound is just the trellis groaning under my weight.
When I reach the top, I still can’t hear the Commandant. The windowsill is a foot to my left. Three feet below the sill, a section of stone has crumbled, leaving a small foothold. I take a breath, grab the sill, and swing from the trellis to the window. My feet scrape against the sheer wall for a terrifying moment before I find the foothold.
Don’t collapse, I beg the stone beneath my feet. Don’t break.
My chest wound has opened again, and I try to ignore the blood dripping down my front. My head is even with the Commandant’s window. If she leans out, I’m dead.
Forget that, Darin tells me. Listen. The clipped tones of the Commandant’s voice float through the window, and I lean forward.
“—be arriving with his entire retinue, my Lord Nightbringer. Everyone—his councilors, the Blood Shrike, the Black Guard—as well as most of Gens Taia.” The subdued nature of the Commandant’s voice is a revelation.
“Make sure of it, Keris. Taius must arrive after the Third Trial, or our plan is for naught.”
At the sound of the second voice, I gasp and nearly fall. The voice is deep and soft, not a sound so much as a feeling. It is storm and wind and leaves twisting in the night. It is roots sucking deep at the earth, and the pale, sightless creatures that live below the ground. But there’s something wrong with this voice, something diseased at its core.
Though I’ve never heard the voice before, I find myself trembling, tempted for a second to drop to the ground just to get away from it.
Laia. I hear Darin. Be brave.
I risk a peek through the curtains and catch a glimpse of a figure standing in the corner of the room, swathed in darkness. He looks to be nothing more than a medium-sized man in a cloak. But I know in my bones that this is no normal man. Shadows pool near his feet, writhing, as if trying to get the figure’s attention. Ghuls. When the thing turns toward the Commandant, I flinch, for the darkness beneath his hood has no place in the human world.
His eyes glow, slitted suns filled with ancient malevolence.
The figure moves, and I jerk away from the window.
The Nightbringer, my mind screams. She called him the Nightbringer.
“We have a different problem, my lord,” the Commandant says. “The Augurs suspect my interference. My...instruments are not as subtle as I’d hoped.”
“Let them suspect,” the creature says. “As long as you shield your mind and we continue teaching the Farrars to shield theirs, the Augurs will remain ignorant. Though I do wonder if you’ve chosen the right Aspirants, Keris.
They’ve just botched a second ambush, though I told them everything they needed to end Aquilla and Veturius.”
“They are the only choice. Veturius is too stubborn, and Aquilla too loyal to him.”
“Then Marcus must win, and I must be able to control him,” the shadowman says.
“Even if it is one of the others,” the Commandant’s voice is filled with a doubt I never imagined her capable of expressing. “Veturius, for instance. You can kill him and take his form—”
“Changing form is no easy task. And I am not an assassin, Commandant, to be used to kill off those who are thorns in your side.”
“He’s no thorn—”
“If you want your son dead, do it yourself. But do not let it interfere with the task I have given you. If you cannot perform that task, our partnership is at an end.”
“Two Trials remain, my Lord Nightbringer.” The Commandant’s voice is low with suppressed rage. “As both will take place here, I’m sure I can—”
“You have little time.”
“Thirteen days is plenty—”
“And if your attempts at sabotaging the Trial of Strength fail? The Fourth Trial is only a day later. In two weeks, Keris, you will have a new Emperor. See that it’s the right one.”
“I will not fail you, my lord.”
“Of course not, Keris. You’ve never failed me before. As a token of my faith in you, I’ve brought you another gift.”
A rustle, a rip, and then a sharp intake of breath.
“Something to add to that tattoo,” the Commandant’s guest says. “Shall I?”
“No,” the Commandant breathes. “No, this one’s mine.”
“As you will. Come. See me to the gate.”
Seconds later, the window slams shut, nearly jarring me from my perch, and the lamps go out. I hear the distant thud of the door, and all falls silent.
My whole body shakes. Finally, finally, I have something useful for the Resistance. It’s not everything they want to know. But it might be enough to sate Mazen, to buy more time. Half of me is jubilant, but the other half is still thinking about the creature the Commandant called the Nightbringer.
What was that thing?
Scholars do not, on principle, believe in the supernatural. Skepticism is one of the few remnants of our bookish past, and most of us hold onto it tenaciously. Jinn, efrits, ghuls, wraiths—they belong in Tribal myth and legend.