In two weeks, the shadowman had said, you will have a new Emperor. My brother doesn’t have a while. He has two weeks. I need to tell Keenan this, but when I turn to do so, I see a legionnaire standing in the entryway of the couriers’ office, watching me. The tail.
“Mazen won’t be in the city tomorrow.” Keenan bends down, as if he’s dropped something on the floor. Keenly aware of the Commandant’s man, I continue looking straight ahead. “But the next day, if you can get out and lose the tail—”
“No,” I mutter, fanning myself again. “Tonight. I’ll get out again tonight.
When she’s sleeping. She never leaves her room before dawn. I’ll sneak out. I’ll find you.”
“Too many patrols out tonight. It’s the Moon Festival—”
“The patrols will be focused on groups of revelers,” I say. “They won’t notice one slave-girl. Please, Keenan. I have to talk to Mazen. I have information. If I can get it to him, he can get Darin out before he’s executed.”
“Fine.” Keenan looks casually toward the tail. “Make your way to the festival. I’ll find you there.”
A moment later, he’s gone. I deliver my letter to the courier’s desk and pay the fee. Seconds later, I’m outside, watching market-goers rush by. Will the information I have be enough to save my brother? Will it be enough to convince Mazen that he should spring Darin now instead of later?
It will be, I decide. It must be. I haven’t come this far to watch my brother die. Tonight, I’ll convince Mazen to get Darin out. I’ll vow to stay a slave until I have the information he wants. I’ll promise myself to the Resistance. I’ll do whatever it takes.
But first things first. How am I going to sneak out of Blackcliff?
XXIV: Elias
The singing is a river that winds through my pain-infused dreams, quiet and sweet, drawing out memories of a life I’ve nearly forgotten, a life before Blackcliff. The silk-draped caravan trundling through the Tribal desert. My playfellows, running riot in the oasis, their laughter ringing like bells.
Walking in the shade of the date trees with Mamie Rila, her voice as steady as the hum of life in the desert around us.
But when the singing stops, the dreams fade, and I descend into nightmares. The nightmares transform into a black pit of pain, and the pain stalks me like a vengeful twin. A door of clutching darkness opens behind me, and a hand snatches at my back, trying to drag me through.
Then the singing begins again, a thread of life in the infinite black, and I reach for it and hold on as tight as I can.
***
I come to consciousness light-headed, as if I’ve returned to my body after long years away. Though I expect soreness, my limbs move easily, and I sit up.
Outside, the evening lamps have just been lit. I know I’m in the infirmary because it’s the only place in all of Blackcliff with white walls. The room is empty of everything but the bed in which I lie, a small table, and a plain wooden chair occupied by a dozing Helene. She looks terrible, her face covered in bruises and scratches.
“Elias!” Her eyes fly open when she hears me move. “Thank the skies. You’ve been out for two days.”
“Remind me,” I croak, my throat dry, head aching. Something happened on the cliffs. Something strange...
Helene pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. “We were attacked by efrits during the Second Trial, on our way down the cliffs.”
“One of them cut the rope,” I say, remembering. “But then—”
“You stuffed me in that niche but didn’t have the sense to hold on to it yourself.” Helene glowers at me, but her hands shake as she gives me the water. “Then you dropped like a lead weight. Smacked your head on the way down. You should have died, but that rope between us anchored you. I sang at the top of my lungs until every last efrit bolted. Then I got you to the desert floor and holed up in a little cave behind some tumbleweeds. Good little fort, actually. Easy to defend.”
“You had to fight? Again?”
“The Augurs tried to kill us four more times. The scorpions were obvious, but the viper almost got you. Then there were wights—evil little bastards, them, nothing like the stories. Pain in the ass to kill, too—you have to squash them like bugs. The legionnaires were the worst though.” Helene goes pale, and the dark humor in her voice fades. “They kept coming. I’d take down one or two, and four more would replace them. They’d have rushed me, but the opening to the cave was too narrow.”
“How many did you kill?”
“Too many. But it was them or us, so it’s hard to feel guilty.”
Them or us. I think of the four soldiers I killed in the watchtower stairwell.
I guess I should be thankful I didn’t have to add to that tally.