Laia’s brother is a high-value prisoner. The Warden will have heard the rumors that Spiro Teluman spread about the boy’s smithing prowess. He’ll want to keep him separate from the rest of Kauf’s population. Darin won’t be in the Scholar pits or the other major prison blocks. Prisoners stay in the interrogation cells for no more than a day—any longer and they come out in a coffin. Which leaves solitary confinement.
I move quickly past the other guards on their way to their varied postings. As I pass the entrance to the Scholar pits, a blast of stinking heat hits me. Most of Kauf is so frigid you can see your breath cloud the air. But to keep the pits hellishly hot, the Warden uses enormous furnaces. Clothing disintegrates in weeks in the pits, sores fester, wounds rot. Weaker prisoners die days after getting here.
When I was a Fiver stationed here, I asked a Mask why the Warden didn’t let the cold kill off the prisoners. Because heat makes them suffer more, he said.
I hear proof of that suffering in the wails that echo through the prison like a demon’s chorus. I try to block them out, but they punch through my mind anyway.
Go, damn it.
As I approach Kauf’s main rotunda, an uptick in activity catches my attention: soldiers moving swiftly away from the center staircase. A lean, black-clad figure descends the steps, his masked face gleaming.
Damn it. The Warden. The one man in this prison who will know me on sight. He prides himself on remembering the details of everything and everyone. I curse quietly. It’s a quarter after sixth bell, and he always enters the interrogation cells at this time. I should have remembered.
The old man is yards from me, speaking with a Mask at his side. A case dangles from his long, thin fingers. Tools for his experiments. I force down the disgust rising in my throat and keep walking. I’m passing the stairs now, just yards from him.
Behind me, a scream pierces the air. Two legionnaires march past, escorting a prisoner from the pits.
The Scholar wears a filthy loincloth, and his emaciated body is covered with sores. When he catches sight of the iron door that leads to the interrogation block, his cries grow frantic and I think he’s going to break an arm attempting to escape. I feel like a Fiver again, listening to the misery of the prisoners, unable to do anything but seethe with useless hate.
One of the legionnaires, sick of the man’s howls, lifts a fist to knock him unconscious.
“No,” the Warden calls from the stairs in his eerie, reedy voice. “The scream is the purest song of the soul,” he quotes. “The barbarous keen yokes us to the low beasts, to the unutterable violence of the earth.” The Warden pauses. “From Tiberius Antonius, philosopher to Taius the Tenth. Let the prisoner sing,” he clarifies, “so his brethren hear.”
The legionnaires drag the man through the iron door. The Warden moves to follow but then slows. I am nearly across the rotunda now, close to the hallway that leads to solitary confinement. The Warden turns, scanning the corridors on five sides before his eyes land on the one I’m about to enter. My heart nearly drops out of my chest.
Keep walking. Try to look grumpy. He hasn’t seen you for six years. You have a beard. He won’t recognize you.
Waiting for the old man’s gaze to pass is like waiting for the executioner’s ax to fall. But after long seconds, he finally turns away. The door to the interrogation cells clangs shut behind him, and I breathe again.
The corridor I enter is emptier than the rotunda, and the stone stairway leading to solitary confinement is emptier still. A lone legionnaire stands guard at the block’s entry door, one of three that lead to the prison cells.
I salute, and the man grunts a response, not bothering to look up from the knife he’s sharpening. “Sir,” I say. “I’m here to see about a prisoner transfer—”
He lifts his head just in time for his eyes to widen fractionally at the fist flying into his temple. I stop his fall, relieve him of his keys and uniform jacket, and ease him to the ground. Minutes later, he is gagged, bound, and stuffed into a supply closet nearby.
Hopefully, no one opens it.
The day’s transfer sheet is nailed to the wall beside the door, and I scan it quickly. Then I unlock the first door, the second, and the last, to find myself in a long, dank hallway lit by a single blue-fire torch.
The bored legionnaire manning the entry station glances up from his desk in surprise.
“Where’s Corporal Libran?” he asks.
“Ate something that turned his stomach,” I say. “I’m new. Came in on the frigate yesterday.” Surreptitiously, I drop my eyes to his tags. Cpl. Cultar. A Plebeian then. I offer a hand. “Corporal Scribor,” I say. Upon hearing a Plebeian name, Cultar relaxes.
“You should get back to your post,” he says. At my hesitation, he grins knowingly. “I don’t know about your old posting, but the Warden here doesn’t allow the men to touch the solitary prisoners. If you want jollies, you’ll have wait until you’re assigned to the pits.”
I bite back my disgust. “Warden told me to bring him a prisoner at seventh bell,” I say. “But he’s not on the transfer sheet. You know anything about it? Scholar lad. Young. Blond hair, blue eyes.” I force myself not to say more. One step at a time, Elias.
Cultar grabs his own transfer sheet. “Nothing on here.”
I let a touch of irritation enter my voice. “You sure? Warden was insistent. The boy’s high-value. Whole countryside is talking about him. They say he can make Serric steel.”
“Ah, him.”
I still my features into a semblance of boredom. Bleeding hells. Cultar knows who Darin is. Which means the boy is in solitary.
“Why in the bleeding hells would the Warden ask for him?” Cultar scratches his head. “Boy’s dead. Has been for weeks.”
My euphoria vanishes. “Dead?” Cultar looks at me askance, and I flatten my voice. “How’d he die?”
“Went down to the interrogation cells and never came out. Served him right. Jumped-up little rat. Refused to give his number during lineup. Always had to announce his filthy Scholar name. Darin. Like he was proud of it.”
I sag against Cultar’s desk. His words sink in slowly. Darin can’t be dead. He can’t be. What will I say to Laia?
You should have gotten here faster, Elias. You should have found a way. The enormity of my failure is staggering, and though Blackcliff trained me to show no emotion, I forget it all in this moment.
“Bleeding Scholars moaned about it for weeks when they heard,” Cultar, utterly oblivious, chuckles to himself. “Their great savior, gone—”
“Jumped-up, you called him.” I yank the legionnaire toward me by his collar. “Much like you, down here doing a job any idiot Fiver could, yammering about things you don’t bleeding understand.” I head butt him hard and shove, my rage and frustration exploding through my body and pushing my good sense aside. He flies back and hits the wall with a sick thud, his eyes rolling up into his head. He slithers to the floor, and I give him a last kick. He won’t be waking up any time soon. If ever.
Get out of here, Elias. Get to Laia. Tell her what’s happened. Still enraged from the news that Darin is dead, I drag Cultar to one of the empty cells, toss him inside, and turn the lock.
But when I head to the door leading out of the block, the latch rattles.
Doorknob. Key in lock. Lock turning. Hide. My mind screams the words at me. Hide!
But there’s no place to do so other than behind Cultar’s desk. I dive down, pulling my body into a ball, heart thumping and knives at the ready.
I hope it’s a Scholar slave coming in to bring the meals. Or a Fiver delivering an order. Someone I can silence. Sweat beads on my forehead as the door opens, as I hear a light step on the stones.
“Elias.” I go utterly still at the Warden’s thin voice. No, damn it. No. “Come out of there. I’ve been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Helene
My family or Elias.
My family. Or Elias.
Avitas follows me as I leave Cardium Rock. My body feels numb with disbelief. I do not notice him dogging my heels until I’m halfway to Antium’s northern gate.
“Leave me.” I wave a hand at him. “I don’t need you.”
“I’m tasked with—”