An Ember in the Ashes, Page 79

Page 79

  “I’m keeping the knife. ”

  “You can have a scim too. I have a pile of weapons I never want to see again. Take them all. ”

  He drops into the chair and begins cleaning his greaves. I sit stiffly on his bed, ready to bring up the knife if I have to. He is close enough to touch.

  He says nothing for a long time, his movements heavy and tired. Beneath the shadow of his mask, his full mouth seems harsh, his jaw unyielding. But I remember his face from the festival. It’s a handsome face, and even the mask can’t hide that. His diamond-shaped Blackcliff tattoo is a dark shadow on the back of his neck, parts of it tinged silver where the metal of his mask cleaves to his skin.

  He looks up, sensing my gaze, and then glances quickly away. But not before I see telltale redness in his eyes.

  I loosen my white-knuckled grip on the knife. What could upset a Mask, an Aspirant, enough to bring him to tears?

  “What you told me about living in the Scholar’s Quarter,” he breaks the quiet of the room, “with your grandparents and your brother. That was true, once. ”

  “Until a few weeks ago. The Empire raided us. A Mask came. Killed my grandparents. Took my brother. ”

  “And your parents?”

  “Dead. A long time ago now. My brother’s the only one left. But he’s in the death cells in Bekkar Prison. ”

  Veturius glances up at me. “Bekkar doesn’t have death cells. ”

  His comment is offhand and so unexpected that it takes a moment to sink in. He looks back down at his work, blind to the impact his words have had on me. “Who told you he was in a death cell? And who told you he was in Bekkar?”

  “I. . . heard a rumor. ” Idiot, Laia. You walked into this. “From. . . a friend. ”

  “Your friend’s wrong. Or confused. Serra’s only death cells are in Central. Bekkar’s much smaller and usually filled with swindling Mercators and Plebeian drunks. It’s no Kauf, that’s for sure. I would know. I’ve done guard duty at both. “

  “But if Blackcliff, say, got attacked. . . ” My mind races as I think of what Mazen told me. “Isn’t it Bekkar that provides your. . . security?”

  Veturius chuckles without smiling. “Bekkar, protecting Blackcliff? Don’t let my mother hear. Blackcliff has three thousand students bred for war, Laia. Some are young, but unless they’re green, they’re dangerous. The school doesn’t need backup, least of all from a pack of bored auxes who spend their days taking bribes and racing roaches. ”

  Could I have misheard Mazen? No, he said Darin was in the death cells in Bekkar and that the prison provided Blackcliff’s security backup, all of which Veturius has just refuted. Is Mazen’s information bad, or is he lying to me? Once, I’d have given him the benefit of the doubt, but Cook’s suspicions. . . and Keenan’s. . . and my own weigh heavy on me. Why would Mazen lie? Where is Darin, really? Is he even alive?

  He is alive. He must be. I’d know if my brother was dead. I’d feel it.

  “I’ve upset you,” Veturius says. “I’m sorry. But if your brother’s in Bekkar, he’ll be out soon. No one stays in there more than a few weeks. ”

  “Of course. ” I clear my throat and try to wipe the confusion from my face.

  Masks can smell a lie. They can sense deceit. I have to act as normal as I can.

  “It was just a rumor. ”

  He gives me a swift look, and I hold my breath, thinking he is about to question me further. But he just nods and raises his leather greaves, now clean, to the firelight before hanging them from the hooks embedded into the wall.

  So that’s what those hooks are for.

  Is it possible Veturius won’t hurt me? He’s pulled me from death so many times. Why do that if he wishes violence upon me?

  “Why did you help me?” I blurt out. “Down in the dunes after the Commandant marked me, and at the Moon Festival, and when Marcus attacked me—every time, you could have turned away. Why didn’t you?”

  He looks up, thoughtful. “The first time, I felt bad. I let Marcus hurt you the day I met you, outside the Commandant’s office. I wanted to make up for it. ”

  I make a small noise of surprise. I didn’t even think he noticed me that day.

  “And then later—at the Moon Festival and with Marcus—” He shrugs.

  “My mother would have killed you. Marcus too. I couldn’t just let you die. ”

  “Plenty of Masks have stood and watched as Scholars died. You didn’t. ”

  “I don’t enjoy others’ pain,” he says. “Maybe that’s why I’ve always hated Blackcliff. I was going to desert, you know. ” His smile is sharp as a scim and as joyless.

  “I had it all planned out. I dug a path from that hearth,” he points, “to the entrance of the West Branch tunnel. The only secret entrance in the whole of Blackcliff. Then I mapped my way out of here. I was going to use tunnels the Empire thinks are caved in or flooded. I stole food, clothing, supplies. I drained my inheritance so I could buy what I needed on the way. I planned to escape through the Tribal lands and take a ship south from Sadh. I was going to be free—from the Commandant, Blackcliff, the Empire. So stupid. As if I could ever be free of this place. ”

  I almost stop breathing as his words sink in. The only secret entrance in the whole of Blackcliff.

  Elias Veturius has just given me Darin’s freedom.

  That is, if Mazen is telling the truth. I’m not so sure anymore. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it—Veturius giving me the key to my brother’s freedom, just as I realize that such information might not mean anything.

  I’ve been silent too long. Say something.

  “I thought being chosen for Blackcliff was an honor. ”

  “Not for me,” he says. “Coming to Blackcliff wasn’t a choice. The Augurs brought me here when I was six. ” He picks up his scim and slowly wipes it clean. I recognize the intricate etchings on it—it’s a Teluman blade. “I lived with the Tribes back then. I’d never met my mother. I’d never even heard the name Veturius. ”

  “But how. . . ” Veturius as a child. I’ve never considered it. I’ve never wondered if he knew his father, or if the Commandant raised him and loved him.

  I’ve never wondered, because he’s never been anything more than a Mask.

  “I’m bastard-born,” Veturius says. “The only mistake Keris Veturia has ever made. She bore me and then exposed me in the Tribal desert. It’s where she was stationed. That would have been the end of me, but a Tribal scouting party happened along. Tribesmen think baby boys are good luck, even abandoned ones. Tribe Saif adopted me, raised me as one of their own. Taught me their language and stories, dressed me in their clothes. They even gave me my name. Ilyaas. My grandfather changed it when I came to Blackcliff. Turned it into something more appropriate for a son of Gens Veturia. ”

  The tension between Veturius and his mother is suddenly clear. The woman never even wanted him. Her ruthlessness astounds me. I’d helped Pop bring dozens of newborns into the world. What kind of person could leave something so small, so precious to die of heat and starvation?

  The same person who could carve a K into a girl for opening a letter. The same person who would dash out a five-year-old’s eye with a poker.