An Ember in the Ashes

I wonder, as the Illustrian city leaders file in, if the Augurs will attend.

“You best hope not,” Cook said when I’d voiced my worry in this very courtyard last night. “They hear you thinking what you’re thinking and you’re dead.”
By the time the dawn drums beat out, the courtyard is full. Legionnaires line the walls, and a few archers patrol Blackcliff’s rooftops, but other than that, security is light.
The Commandant arrives with Aquilla after nearly everyone else and stands at the front of the crowd beside the governor, her face harsh in the gray morning light. By now, I shouldn’t be surprised at her utter lack of emotion, but I can’t help but stare at her from where I crouch beneath the execution dais. Doesn’t she care that it’s her son who is going to die today?
Aquilla, standing on the stage, looks calm, almost serene—strange for a girl holding the ax that’s to take off her best friend’s head. I watch her through a crack in the wood at her feet. Had she ever cared about Veturius? Had their friendship, which seemed so precious to him, ever been real to her? Or had she betrayed him the way Mazen betrayed me?
The dawn drums fall silent, and boots march lockstep toward the courtyard, accompanied by the clank of chains. The crowd parts as four unfamiliar Masks escort Elias across the yard. Marcus leads them, veering off to stand beside the Commandant. I dig my nails into my palm at the satisfaction on his face. You’ll get yours, swine.
Despite the manacles on his hands and ankles, Elias’s shoulders are thrown back, and he holds his head proudly. I can’t see his face. Is he frightened? Angry? Does he wish he had killed me? Somehow, I doubt it.
The Masks leave Elias on the stage and take up positions behind it. I eye them nervously—I didn’t expect them to remain so close. One of them looks familiar.
Oddly familiar.
I look closer, and my stomach seizes. It’s the Mask who raided my home, who burned it to the ground. The Mask who killed my grandparents.
I find myself taking a step toward him, reaching for the scim beneath my skirt, before stopping myself. Darin. Izzi. Elias. I have bigger things to worry about than revenge.
For the hundredth time, I look down at the candles burning behind a screen at my feet. Cook gave me four, along with tinder and flint.
“The flame can’t go out,” she said. “If it goes out, you’re done.”
As I wait, I wonder if Izzi has reached the Badcat. Did she remember what to say? Did the crew take her on without questions? And what will Keenan say when he goes to Silas and realizes I’ve given my chance at freedom away to my friend?
He’ll understand. I know he will. If not, Izzi will explain it to him. I smile.
Even if none of the rest of my plan works, this wasn’t all for nothing. I got Izzi out. I saved my friend.
The Commandant reads out the charges against Veturius. I bend down, my hand hovering over the candles. This is it.
“The timing,” Cook said last night, “has to be perfect. When the Commandant begins reading the charges, watch the clock tower. Don’t take your eyes off it. No matter what happens, you have to wait for the signal. When you see it, move. Not a moment sooner. Not a moment later.”
When she gave me the order, it seemed like it would be easy enough to follow. But now the seconds are ticking away, the Commandant is droning on, and I’m getting antsy. I stare at the clock tower through a slim crack in the base of the dais, trying not to blink. What if one of the legionnaires catches Cook? What if she doesn’t remember the formula? What if she makes a mistake? What if I make a mistake?
Then I see it. A flicker of light skittering across the clock face quicker than a hummingbird’s wings. I grab a candle and light the fuse at the back of the stage.
It catches immediately and begins burning with more fury and sound than I expect. The Masks will see. They’ll hear.
But no one moves. No one looks. And I remember something else Cook said.
Don’t forget to take cover. Unless you want your head blown off. I scurry to the end of the stage farthest from the fuse and crouch, covering my neck and head with my arms and hands, waiting. Everything hinges on this. If Cook remembers the formula wrong, if she doesn’t get to her fuses on time, if my fuse is discovered or put out, it’s all over. There is no backup plan.
Above me, the stage creaks. The fuse hisses as it burns.
And then. BOOM. The stage explodes. Chunks of wood and scrap geyser into the air.
A deeper boom rumbles and another and another. The courtyard is suddenly fogged with clouds of dust. The explosions are nowhere and everywhere, ripping through the air like a thousand screams, leaving me momentarily deaf.
They have to be harmless, I told Cook a dozen times. Meant to distract and confuse. Strong enough to knock people down, but not strong enough to kill. I don’t want anyone dead because of me.
Leave it to me, she said. I’ve no wish to murder children.
I peer out from under the stage, but it’s difficult to see through the dust. It seems as if the walls of the belltower have burst out, though in truth, the dust is from more than two hundred bags of sand Izzi and I spent all night filling and ferrying to the courtyard. Cook set each one with a charge and connected them together. The result is spectacular.
Behind me, the entire back of the stage is gone, the Masks beyond it unconscious on the ground, including the one who murdered my family.
The legionnaires are in a panic, running, shouting, trying to escape. The students drain out of the courtyard, the older ones half dragging, half carrying the Yearlings. Deeper booms echo from further away. The mess hall, a few classrooms—all abandoned at this time and likely collapsing at this very moment. A gleeful grin spreads across my face. Cook hasn’t forgotten a thing.