An Ember in the Ashes(110)

“No! Laia!” I’m down beside her, shaking her, trying to turn her over. But I can’t get the damned Augur off her, because the woman is shaking in terror, her robes tangled with Laia’s skirts. Laia is silent, her body limp as a rag doll’s.
I spot the hilt of a dagger that’s fallen to the dais, the rapidly widening pool of blood spilling out of her. No one can lose that much blood and live.
Marcus.
Too late I see him standing at the back of the stage. Too late I realize that Helene and I should have killed him, that we shouldn’t have risked him waking up.
The explosion of sound that follows Laia’s death staggers me. Thousands of voices yell at once. Grandfather bellows louder than a gored bull.
Marcus jumps onto the dais, and I know he’s coming for me. I want him to come. I want to crush the life out of him for what he’s done.
I feel Cain’s hand on my arm, restraining me. Then the gates to the amphitheater burst open. Marcus jerks his head around, shocked into stillness as a foam-coated stallion gallops through the doors of the stadium. The legionnaire riding him slides to the ground, landing on his feet as the beast rears beside him.
“The Emperor,” the legionnaire says. “The Emperor is dead! Gens Taia has fallen!”
“When?” The Commandant cuts in. There’s not an ounce of shock on her face. “How?”
“A Resistance attack, sir. He was killed en route to Serra, only a day from the city. He and all who were with him. Even—even children.”
Waiting vines circle and strangle the oak. The way is made clear, just before the end. That was the foretelling the Commandant spoke of in her office weeks ago, and now it suddenly makes sense. The vines are the Resistance.
The oak is the Emperor.
“Bear witness, men and women of the Empire, students of Blackcliff, Aspirants.” Cain releases my arm and his voice booms out, shaking the foundations of the amphitheater and silencing the panic setting in. “Thus do the Augurs’ visions bear fruit. The Emperor is dead, and a new power must rise, lest the Empire be destroyed.”
“Aspirant Veturius,” Cain says. “You were given the chance to prove your loyalty. But instead of killing the girl, you defended her. Instead of following my order, you defied it.”
“Of course I defied it!” This isn’t happening. “This wasn’t a Trial of Loyalty for anyone but me. I’m the only one who cared about her. This Trial was a joke—”
“This Trial told us what we needed to know: You are not fit to be Emperor. You are stripped of name and rank. You will die tomorrow at dawn by beheading before the Blackcliff belltower. Those who were your peers will bear witness to your shame.”
Two Augurs fasten chains around my hands and wrists. I hadn’t noticed the chains before. Did they conjure them from thin air? I’m too dazed to fight. The Augur who restrained Laia lifts the girl’s body with difficulty and staggers off the dais.
“Aspirant Aquilla,” Cain says. “You were prepared to strike down the enemy. But you faltered when faced with Veturius, deferring to his wishes. Such loyalty to a peer is admirable. But not in an Emperor. Out of all three Aspirants, only Aspirant Farrar attempted to carry out my order without question, with unflinching loyalty to the Empire. Thus, I name him victor of the Fourth Trial.”
Helene’s face is white as bone, her mind, like mine, unable to take in the travesty occurring in front of our eyes.
“Aspirant Aquilla.” Cain pulls Hel’s scim from his robes. “Do you remember your vow?”
“But you can’t mean—”
“I will keep my vows, Aspirant Aquilla. Will you keep yours?”
She eyes the Augur as one would a traitorous lover, taking the scim when he offers it. “I will.”
“Then kneel now and swear fealty, for we, the Augurs, name Marcus Antonius Farrar Emperor, he who was Foretold, High Commander of the Martial Army, Imperator Invictus, Overlord of the Realm. And you, Aspirant Aquilla, are named his Blood Shrike, his second-in-command, and the sword that executes his will. Your allegiance cannot be broken, unless by death. Swear it.”
“No!” I roar. “Helene, don’t do it!”
She turns to me, and the look in her eyes is a knife twisting inside me. You chose, Elias, her pale eyes say. You chose her.

“Tomorrow,” Cain says, “after Veturius’s execution, we will crown the Foretold.” He looks at the Snake. “The Empire is yours, Marcus.”
Marcus glances over his shoulder with a smile, and I realize with a jolt that it’s something I’ve seen him do hundreds of times. It’s the look he would throw his brother when he’d insulted an enemy, or won a battle, or otherwise wished to gloat. But his smile fades. Because Zak’s not there.
His face goes blank, and he looks down at Helene without conceit or triumph. His utter lack of feeling chills my blood.
“Your fealty, Aquilla,” he says flatly. “I’m waiting.”
“Cain,” I say. “He’s not fit. You know he’s not. He’s mad. He’ll destroy the Empire.”
No one hears me. Not Cain. Not Helene. Not even Marcus.
When Helene speaks, she is everything a Mask should be: calm, collected, impassive.
“I swear fealty to Marcus Antonius Farrar,” she says. “Emperor, he who was Foretold, High Commander of the Martial Army, Imperator Invictus, Overlord of the Realm. I will be his Blood Shrike, his second-in-command, the sword that executes his will, until death. I swear it.”
Then she bows her head and offers the Snake her sword.