An Ember in the Ashes

“Izzi, have you ever tasted a moon cake?”
I cut through the crowd, emerging minutes later with two hot moon cakes dripping with chilled cream. Izzi takes a slow bite, closes her eye, and smiles.

We wander to the dance stages, filled with pairs: husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, siblings, friends. I shed the slave’s shuffle I’ve adopted and walk the way I used to, my head straight and my shoulders thrown back.
Beneath my dress, my wound stings, but I ignore it.
Izzi finishes off the last of her moon cake and stares at mine so intently that I hand it over. We find a bench and watch the dancers for a few minutes until Izzi nudges me.
“You have an admirer.” She gobbles up the last bite of cake. “By the musicians.”
I look over, thinking it must be Keenan, but instead see a young man with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. He seems distantly familiar.
“Do you know him?” Izzi asks.
“No,” I say after considering for a few moments. “I don’t think so.”
The young man is tall as a Martial, with broad shoulders and sun-gold arms that gleam in the lantern-light. The hard lines of his stomach are visible beneath his hooded vest, even from this distance. The black strap of a pack cuts diagonally across his chest. Though his hood is up, shadowing much of his face, I see high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. His features are arresting, almost Illustrian, but his clothes and the dark shine of his eyes mark him as a Tribesman.
Izzi watches the boy, studying him, almost. “Are you sure you don’t know him? Because he definitely seems to know you.”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.” The boy and I lock eyes, and when he smiles, blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away, but the draw of his stare is powerful, and a moment later, my gaze creeps back. He’s still looking at me, arms folded across his chest.
A second later I feel a hand on my shoulder and smell cedar and wind.
“Laia.” The beautiful boy by the stage is forgotten as I turn to Keenan. I take in his dark eyes and red hair, not realizing that he’s staring back until a few seconds have passed and he clears his throat.
Izzi slips a few feet away, eyeing Keenan with interest. I told her that when the Resistance showed up, she was to act like she didn’t know me. Somehow, I don’t think they will appreciate that a fellow slave knows all about my mission.
“Come on,” Keenan says, weaving past the dance stages and between two tents. I follow, and Izzi trails us, discreetly and at a distance.
“You found your way,” he adds.
“It was...simple enough.”
“I doubt that. But you managed it. Well done. You look...” His eyes search my face and then travel down my body. Such a look from another man would merit a slap, but from Keenan, it’s more tribute than insult. There is something different about his usually aloof features—surprise? Admiration?
When I smile tentatively at him, he gives his head a slight shake, as if clearing it. “Is Sana here?” I ask.
“She’s at base.” His shoulders are tense, and I can tell he’s troubled. “She wanted to see you herself, but Mazen didn’t want her to come. They had quite a battle over it. Her faction’s been pushing for Mazen to get Darin out.
But Mazen...” He clears his throat and, as if he’s said too much, nods tersely to a tent ahead of us. “Let’s head around back.”
A white-haired Tribal woman sits in front of the tent, peering into a crystal ball as two Scholar girls wait to hear what she’ll say, their faces skeptical. On one side of her, a torch-juggler has amassed a large crowd, and on the other, a Tribal Kehanni spins her tales, her voice rising and swooping like a bird in flight.
“Hurry up.” Keenan’s sudden brusqueness startles me. “He’s waiting.”
When I enter the tent, Mazen stops speaking to the two men flanking him. I recognize them from the cave. They are his other lieutenants, closer to Keenan’s age than Mazen’s and possessed of the younger man’s taciturn coolness. I stand taller. I won’t be intimidated.
“Still in one piece,” Mazen says. “Impressive. What have you got for us?”
I tell him everything I know about the Trials and the Emperor’s arrival.
I don’t reveal how I got the information, and Mazen doesn’t ask. When I’m done, even Keenan looks stunned.
“The Martials will name the new Emperor in less than two weeks,” I say.
“That’s why I told Keenan we had to meet tonight. It wasn’t easy to get out of Blackcliff, you know. I only risked it because I knew I had to get you this information. It’s not everything you wanted, but surely it’s enough to convince you that I’ll complete the mission. You can get Darin out now”—Mazen’s brows furrow, and I rush on—“and I’ll stay at Blackcliff as long as you need me to.”
One of the lieutenants, a stocky, fair-haired man who I think is called Eran, whispers something in Mazen’s ear. Irritation flashes briefly across the older man’s eyes.
“The death cells aren’t like the main prison block, girl,” he says. “They’re near impenetrable. I expected to have a few weeks to break your brother out, which is why I even agreed to do it. These things take time. Supplies and uniforms need procuring, guards need bribing. Less than two weeks...that’s nothing.”
“It’s possible,” Keenan speaks up from behind me. “Tariq and I were discussing it—”