An Ember in the Ashes

“It’s not just that,” he says. “I can’t confirm it, but I think he’s planning something else. Something big. Something that doesn’t involve Darin. But how can we save Darin and take on another mission? We don’t have enough men.”
“Ask him,” I say. “You’re his second. He trusts you.”
“Ah,” Keenan grimaces. “Not exactly.”
Has he fallen out of favor? I don’t get a chance to ask. Ahead of us, the caravan lurches out of the way, and the pent-up crowd surges forward. In the crush, my cloak rips free. Keenan’s eyes drop to the scar. It’s so prominent, so red and hideous, I think miserably. How could he not look?

“Ten bleeding hells. What happened?”
“The Commandant punished me. A few days ago.”
“I didn’t know, Laia.” All his aloofness dissolves as he stares at the scar.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have cared?” His eyes jerk to mine, surprised. “Anyway, it’s nothing compared to what it could have been. She took Izzi’s eye. And you should see what she did to Cook. Her entire face...” I shudder. “I know it’s ugly...horrible—”
“No.” He says the word like it’s an order. “Don’t think that. It means you survived her. It means you’re brave.”
The crowd moves around me, past me. People elbow and mutter at us.
But then it all fades, because Keenan has taken my hand and is looking from my eyes to my lips and back up in a way that needs no translation. I notice a freckle, perfect and round, at the corner of his mouth. A slow warmth uncurls low in my body as he pulls me to him.
Then a leather-clad Mariner shoves past, breaking us apart, and Keenan’s mouth twitches in a brief, rueful smile. He squeezes my hand once. “I’ll see you soon.”
He melts into the crowd, and I hurry back toward Blackcliff. If Izzi knows of an entrance, I still have time to see it for myself and head back here to pass along the information. The Resistance can get Darin out, and I’ll be done with all of this. No more scars or whippings. No more terror and fear. And maybe, a quiet part of me whispers, I’ll get more than just a few moments with Keenan.
I find Izzi in the back courtyard, scrubbing sheets beside the water pump.
“I only know of the hidden trail, Laia,” Izzi says to my question. “And even that’s not secret. Just so dangerous that most people don’t use it.”
I vigorously crank water from the pump, using the squeal of metal to drown out our voices. Izzi’s mistaken. She has to be. “What about the tunnels? Or...do you think one of the other slaves will know something?”
“You saw how it was last night. We only got through the tunnels because of Veturius. As for the other slaves, it’s risky. Some of them spy for the Commandant.”
No—no—no. What just minutes ago seemed like a wealth of time—eight whole days—is no time at all. Izzi hands me a freshly washed sheet, and I hang it on the line with impatient hands. “A map, then. There must be a map to this place somewhere.”
At this, Izzi brightens. “Maybe,” she says. “In the Commandant’s office—”
“The only place you’ll find a map of Blackcliff,” a raspy voice intrudes,
“is in the Commandant’s head. And I don’t think you want to go rummaging around in there.”
I gape like a fish as Cook, as silent-footed as her mistress, materializes from behind the sheet I’ve just hung up.
Izzi jumps at Cook’s sudden appearance, but then, to my shock, she stands and crosses her arms. “There must be something,” she says to the old woman.
“How’d she get the map in her head? She must have a point of reference.”
“When she became Commandant,” Cook says, “the Augurs gave her a map to memorize and burn. That’s how it’s always been done at Blackcliff.”
At the surprise on my face, she snorts. “When I was younger and even stupider than you, I kept my eyes and ears open. Now my head’s filled with useless knowledge that does no one any good.”
“But it’s not useless,” I say. “You must know of a secret way into the school—”
“I don’t.” The scars on Cook’s face are livid against her skin. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“My brother’s in Central’s death cells. He’s going to be executed in days, and if I don’t find a secret way into Blackcliff—”
“Let me ask you a question, girl,” Cook says. “It’s the Resistance who says your brother’s in prison, the Resistance who says he’s going to be executed, right? But how do they know? And how do you know they’re telling the truth? Your brother might be dead. Even if he is in Central’s death cells, the Resistance will never get him out. A blind, deaf stone could tell you that.”
“If he was dead, they’d have told me.” Why can’t she just help me? “I trust them, all right? I have to trust them. Besides, Mazen says he has a plan—”
“Bah,” Cook sneers. “The next time you see this Mazen, you ask him where, exactly, your brother is in Central. What cell? You ask him how he knows and who his spies are. Ask him how having an entrance to Blackcliff will help him break into the most fortified prison in the south. After he answers, we’ll see if you still trust the bastard.”
“Cook—” Izzi speaks up, but the old woman whirls on her.
“Don’t you start. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting into. The only reason I haven’t turned her in to the Commandant,” Cook practically spits at me, “is because of you. As it is, I can’t trust that Slave-Girl won’t give up your name to make the Commandant go easy on her.”
“Izzi...” I look to my friend. “No matter what the Commandant did, I would never—”
“You think that carving on your heart makes you an expert in pain?” Cook says. “Ever been tortured, girl? Ever been tied to a table while hot coals burned into your throat? Ever had your face carved up with a dull knife while a Mask poured salt water into your wounds?”
I stare at her stonily. She knows the answer.
“You can’t know if you’d betray Izzi,” Cook says, “because you’ve never had your limits tested. The Commandant was trained at Kauf. If she interrogated you, you’d betray your own mother.”
“My mother’s dead,” I say.