“Jealousy and anger,” he says. “And … ownership? A connection. Something deeply irrational, I believe. Strange …”
A connection. The healing—the protectiveness I don’t wish to feel. Bleeding skies. He got all of that from one word? I school my face, refusing to let him know what I feel. Still, he smiles.
“Ah,” he says softly. “I see that I’m correct. Thank you, Blood Shrike. You have given me much. But now I must depart. I don’t like to be away from the prison for too long.”
As if Kauf is a new bride he pines for. “You promised me information, old man,” I say.
“I’ve already told you what you need to know, Blood Shrike. Perhaps you weren’t listening. I thought you would be”—the Warden looks vaguely disappointed—“smarter.”
The Warden’s bootsteps echo in the empty boathouse as he walks away. When I reach for my scim, fully intending to make him talk, Avitas grabs my arm.
“No, Shrike,” he whispers. “He never says anything without reason. Think—he must have given us a hint.”
I don’t need bleeding hints! I throw off Avitas’s hand, unsheathe my blade, and stride toward the Warden. And as I do, it hits me—the one thing he said that raised the hairs on my neck. I processed one myself quite recently. Not unexpected, however.
“Veturius,” I say. “You have him.”
The Warden stops. I cannot quite see the old man’s face as he half turns toward me, but I hear the smile in his voice. “Excellent, Shrike. Not so disappointing after all.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Laia
Keenan and I crouch behind a fallen log and survey the cave. It doesn’t look like much.
“A half mile from the river, surrounded by hemlock trees, east-facing, with a creek to the north and a granite slab turned on its side a hundred yards south.” Keenan nods to each landmark. “It can’t be anyplace else.”
The rebel pulls his hood lower. A small mountain of snow grows on each of his shoulders. The wind whistles around us, flinging bits of ice into our eyes. Despite the fleece-lined boots Keenan stole for me from Delphinium, I cannot feel my feet. But at least the storm covered our approach and muted the prison’s haunting moans.
“We haven’t seen any movement.” I pull my cloak tight. “And this storm is getting worse. We’re wasting time.”
“I know you think I’m mad,” Keenan says. “But I don’t want us to walk into a trap.”
“There’s no one here,” I say. “We’ve seen no tracks, no signs of anyone in these woods other than us. And what if Darin and Elias are in there and they’re hurt or starving?”
Keenan watches the cave for a second more, then stands. “All right. Let’s go.”
When we get close, my body will no longer allow me any caution. I draw my dagger, stride past Keenan, and step warily inside.
“Darin?” I whisper to the darkness. “Elias?” The cave feels abandoned. But then, Elias would make sure it didn’t look like the place was occupied.
A light flares from behind me—Keenan holds up a lamp, illuminating the cobwebbed walls, the leaf-strewn floor. The cave is not large, but I wish it were. Then the sight of its emptiness would not be so crushingly definitive.
“Keenan,” I whisper. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years. Elias might not have even reached here.”
“Look.” Keenan reaches into a deep crack at the back of the cave and pulls out a pack. I grab the lamp from him, my hope flaring. Keenan drops the pack, reaches in deeper, and digs out a familiar set of scims.
“Elias,” I breathe. “He was here.”
Keenan opens the pack, pulling out what looks like week-old bread and moldering fruit. “He hasn’t been back recently, or he’d have eaten this. And”—Keenan takes the lamp from me and illuminates the rest of the cave—“there’s no sign of your brother. Rathana is in a week. Elias should have gotten Darin out by now.”
The wind wails like an angry spirit desperate for release. “We can shelter here for now.” Keenan drops his own pack. “The storm is too bad for us to find another camp anyway.”
“But we have to do something,” I say. “We don’t know if Elias went in, if he got Darin out, if Darin is alive—”
Keenan takes my shoulders. “We made it here, Laia. We made it to Kauf. As soon as the storm blows over, we’ll find out what happened. We’ll find Elias and—”
“No,” a voice speaks from the entrance to the cave. “You won’t. Because he’s not here.”
My heart plunges, and I clutch the hilt of my dagger. But when I see the three masked figures standing at the entrance of the cave, I know it will do me little good.
One of the figures steps forward, a half head taller than me, her mask a quicksilver glimmer beneath her furred hood.
“Laia of Serra,” Helene Aquilla says. If the storm outside had a voice, it would be hers, gelid, deathly, and utterly unfeeling.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Elias
Darin is alive. He’s in a cell yards from me.
And he’s being tortured. Into insanity.
“I need to find a way into that cell,” I muse out loud. Which means I need schedules for guard shifts and interrogations. I need keys for my manacles and Darin’s door. Drusius runs this part of the interrogation block; he holds the keys. But he never gets close enough for me to get a good hold on him.
No key. Pins to pick the locks, then. I’d need two—
“I can help you.” Tas’s quiet voice cuts into my scheming. “And—there are others, Elias. The Scholars in the pits have a rebel movement. The Skiritae—dozens of them.”
Tas’s words take a long moment to sink in, but once they do, I stare at him, aghast.
“The Warden would skin you—and anyone who helped you. Absolutely not.”
Tas shies like a struck animal at my vehemence. “You—you said that my fear gives him power. If I help you …”
Ten hells. I have enough death on my hands without adding a child to the list.
“Thank you.” I meet his gaze squarely. “For telling me about the Artist. But I don’t need your help.”
Tas gathers up his things and slips toward the door. He pauses there for a moment, looking back at me. “Elias—”
“So many have suffered,” I say to him, “because of me. No more. Please go. If the guards hear you and me talking, you’ll be punished.”
After he leaves, I stagger to my feet, jerking at the lancing pain in my hands and feet. I force myself to pace, a once thoughtless movement that has, in the absence of the Tellis, transformed into a feat of near-impossible proportions.
A dozen ideas race through my head, each more outlandish than the last. Every single one requires the help of at least one other person.
The boy, a practical voice inside says. The boy can help you.
Might as well kill him myself, then, I hiss back at that voice. It would be a faster death, at least.
I must do this alone. I only need time. But time is one of the many things I just don’t have. Only an hour after Tas leaves, and with no solution in sight, my head spins and my body jerks. Damn it, not now. But all my cursing and stern words to myself are for nothing. The seizure drops me—first to my knees and then straight into the Waiting Place.
???
“I should just build a bleeding house here,” I mutter as I pick myself up from the snow-covered ground. “Maybe get a few chickens. Plant a garden.”
“Elias?”
Izzi peers at me from behind a tree, a wasted version of herself. My heart aches at the sight of her. “I—I hoped you’d come back.”
I look around for Shaeva, wondering why she hasn’t helped Izzi move on. When I grasp my friend’s hands, she looks down in surprise at my warmth.
“You’re alive,” she says dully. “One of the other spirits told me. A Mask. He said that you walk the worlds of the living and the dead. But I didn’t believe him.”
Tristas.
“I’m not dead yet,” I say. “But it won’t be long now. How did you …” Is it indelicate to ask a ghost how they died? I am about to apologize, but Izzi shrugs.
“Martial raid,” she says. “A month after you left. One second I was trying to save Gibran. The next I was here and that woman was standing in front of me … the Soul Catcher, welcoming me to the realm of ghosts.”