The Martial stronghold, built of black stone, is horribly out of place among the sand-colored structures of Nur. As I approach, I slink along the edges of a rooftop balcony across the street from it.
It’s clear from the blazing lights and the soldiers entering and leaving that the building is packed. And not just with auxes and legionnaires. In the hour that I spend watching, I count at least a dozen Masks, including one wearing pure black armor.
The Black Guard. Those are Helene’s men, now that she’s Blood Shrike. What are they doing here?
Another black-armored Mask emerges from the garrison. He is huge with pale, messy hair. Faris. I’d recognize that cowlick anywhere.
He calls out to a legionnaire saddling a horse.
“—runners to every single Tribe,” I overhear. “Anyone who shelters him is dead. Make that very clear, soldier.”
Another Black Guard emerges. The skin of his hands and chin is darker, but I can make out nothing more than that from here. “We need a cordon around Tribe Saif,” he says to Faris. “In case he seeks them out.”
Faris shakes his head. “That’s the last place El—Veturius would go. He wouldn’t put them at risk.”
Ten burning hells. They know I’m here. And I think I know how. A few minutes later, my suspicions are confirmed.
“Harper.” Helene’s voice is steel, and I start at the sound of it. She strides out of the barracks, seemingly unaffected by the storm. Her armor gleams darkly, her pale hair a beacon in the night. Of course. If anyone could puzzle out what I’d do, where I’d go, it’s her.
I sink a little lower, certain she’ll sense me—that she’ll know, in her bones, I’m nearby.
“Talk to the runners yourself. I want diplomatic men,” she says to the Black Guard named Harper. “They should seek out the Tribal chiefs—the Zaldars or the Kehannis, the storytellers. Tell them not to talk to the children—the Tribes are protective of them. And for skies’ sake, make sure none of them so much as think about looking at the women. I don’t want a bleeding war on my hands because some idiot aux couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Faris, get that cordon up around Tribe Saif. And keep a tail on Mamie Rila.”
Both Faris and Harper leave to carry out Hel’s orders. I expect her to go back into the garrison, to get out of the wind. Instead she takes two steps out into the storm, one hand on her scim. Her eyes are hooded, her mouth an angry slash.
My chest aches when I look at Helene. Will I ever stop missing her? What is she thinking? Is she remembering when she and I were here together? And why in the hells is she hunting me in the first place? She must know the Commandant poisoned me. If I’m dead anyway, what’s the point of capturing me?
I want to go down to her, to grab her in a bear hug and forget that we are enemies. I want to tell her about Soul Catcher and the Waiting Place and how, now that I’ve tasted freedom, I only wish I could find a way to keep it. I want to tell her that I miss Quin and that Demetrius, Leander, and Tristas haunt my nightmares.
I want. I want. I want.
I wrench myself halfway across the rooftop, then leap to the next, leaving before I do something stupid. I have a mission. So does Helene. I have to want mine more than she wants hers, or Darin is dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Laia
Izzi tosses in her sleep, her breathing ragged and labored. She flings out an arm, and her hand knocks into the ornate wooden paneling of the wagon. I stroke her wrist, whispering soothing words. In the muted lamplight, she looks pale as death.
Keenan and I sit cross-legged beside her. I’ve propped her head up so she can breathe easier, and I’ve washed out her eye. She still cannot open it.
I release a breath, remembering the violence of the storm, how small I felt against its raking claws. I thought I’d lose purchase with the earth and be flung into darkness. Against the storm’s violence, I was less than a mote of dust.
You should have waited, Laia. You should have listened to Keenan. What if the sand blindness is permanent? Izzi will lose her sight forever because of me.
Get a hold of yourself. Elias needed the Tellis. And you need Elias if you want to get to Darin. This is a mission. You are its leader. This is the cost.
Where is Elias? It’s been ages since he left. Dawn is no more than an hour or two away. While it’s still windy outside, it’s not bad enough to keep people off the streets. Eventually, the owners of this wagon will return. We can’t be here when they do.
“Elias is poisoned.” Keenan speaks softly. “Isn’t he?”
I try to keep my face blank, but Keenan sighs. The wind rises, rattling the wagon’s high windows.
“He needed medicine. It’s why you made for Raider’s Roost instead of heading straight north,” he says. “Skies. How bad is it?”
“It’s bad.” Izzi’s voice is a rasp. “Very bad. Nightweed.”
I stare incredulously at Izzi. “You’re awake! Thank the skies. But how do you know—”
“Cook amused herself by telling me all the poisons she’d use on the Commandant if she could,” Izzi said. “She was quite detailed in her description of their effects.”
“He’s going to die, Laia,” Keenan says. “Nightweed is a killer.”
“I know.” I wish I didn’t. “He knows too. It’s why we had to get into Nur.”
“And you still want to do this with him?” If Keenan’s brows went any higher, they’d disappear into his hairline. “Forget the fact that just being in his presence is a risk, or that his mother killed your parents, or that he’s a Mask, or that his people are currently wiping ours out of existence. He’s dead, Laia. Who knows if he’ll even live long enough to get to Kauf? And skies, why would he want to come?”
“He knows Darin could change everything for the Scholars,” I say. “He doesn’t believe in the Empire’s evil any more than we do.”
Keenan scoffs. “I doubt that—”
“Stop.” The word is a whisper. I clear my throat and reach for my mother’s armlet. Strength. “Please.”
Keenan hesitates, then takes my hands as I curl them into fists.
“I’m sorry.” For once, his gaze is unguarded. “You’ve been through the hells, and I’m sitting here making you feel worse. I won’t mention it again. If this is what you want, then this is what we’ll do. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
A sigh of relief escapes me, and I nod. He traces the K on my chest—the mark the Commandant carved into me when I was her slave. It is a pale scar now. His fingers drift up to my collarbone, my face. “I missed you,” he says. “Isn’t that strange? Three months ago, I’d never even met you.”
I study his strong jaw, the way his brilliant hair spills across his forehead, the muscles bunched in his arm. I sigh at his scent, lemon and woodsmoke, so familiar to me now. How did he come to mean so much to me? We hardly know each other, and yet at his proximity, my body goes still. I lean into his touch involuntarily, the warmth of his hand drawing me closer.
The door opens, and I jump back, reaching for my dagger. But it’s Elias. He glances between Keenan and me. His skin, so sickly when he left us in the wagon, is back to its usual gold hue.
“We have a problem.” He climbs into the wagon and unfolds a sheet of paper: a “wanted” poster with frighteningly accurate depictions of Elias and me.
“How in the skies did they know?” Izzi asks. “Did they track us?”
Elias looks down at the wagon floor, swirling the dust there with his boot. “Helene Aquilla is here.” His voice is oddly neutral. “I saw her at the Martial garrison. She must have worked out where we were going. She’s got a cordon around Tribe Saif, and hundreds of soldiers here to help search for us.”
I find Keenan’s eyes. Just being in his presence is a risk. Maybe coming into Nur was a bad idea.
“We need to get to your friend,” I say, “so we can leave with the rest of the Tribes. How do we do it?”
“I was going to suggest we wait for night again and then use disguises. But that’s what Aquilla would expect. So we do the opposite. We hide in plain sight.”