An Ember in the Ashes(29)

The bootlickers are interspersed with friends—Faris, Dex, Tristas, Leander—but the person I wait most impatiently for is Helene. After I took the oath, the families of the graduates flooded the field, and she was swept away in a tide of Gens Aquilla before I had a chance to speak to her.
What is she thinking about the Trials? Are we competing against each other for emperorship? Or will we work together, as we have since entering Blackcliff? My questions lead to more questions, most urgently how becoming the leader of an Empire I loathe can possibly result in my attaining “true freedom—of body and of soul.”
One thing is certain: As much as I want to escape Blackcliff, the school isn’t done with me yet. Instead of a month of leave, we only get two days.
Then the Augurs have demanded that all students—even graduates—return to Blackcliff to serve as witnesses to the Trials.
When Helene finally arrives at Grandfather’s house, parents and sisters in tow, I forget to greet her. I’m too busy staring. She salutes Grandfather, slender and shining in her ceremonials, her black cloak fluttering lightly. Her hair, silver in the candlelight, pours down her back like a river.

“Careful, Aquilla,” I say as she approaches. “You almost look like a girl.”
“And you almost look like an Aspirant.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and instantly, I know something’s off. Her earlier elation has evaporated, and she’s jittery, the way she is before a battle she thinks she won’t win.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. She tries to get past me, but I take her hand and pull her back. There’s a storm in her eyes, but she forces a smile and gently untangles her fingers from mine. “Nothing’s wrong. Where’s the food? I’m starving.”
“I’ll come with you—”
“Aspirant Veturius,” Grandfather booms. “Governor Leif Tanalius wishes a word.”
“Best not keep Quin waiting,” Helene says. “He looks determined.” She slips away, and I grit my teeth as Grandfather coerces me into a stilted discussion with the governor. I repeat the same boring conversation with a dozen other Illustrian leaders over the next hour, until at long last, Grandfather steps away from the unending stream of guests and pulls me aside.
“You’re distracted when you can ill afford to be,” he says. “These men could be very helpful.”
“Can they take the Trials for me?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Grandfather snorts in disgust. “An Emperor is not an island. It takes thousands to run this Empire effectively. The city governors will report to you, but they’ll mislead and manipulate you at every step, so you’ll need a spy network to keep them in check. The Scholar Resistance, border raiders, and the more troublesome of the Tribes will see a change in dynasty as an opportunity to sow disorder. You’ll need the full support of the military to put down any hint of rebellion. In short, you need these men—as advisers, ministers, diplomats, generals, spymasters.”
I nod distractedly. There’s a Mercator girl in a tantalizingly flimsy dress eyeing me from the door leading to the crowded garden. She’s pretty. Really pretty. I smile at her. Maybe after I find Helene...
Grandfather grabs my shoulder and steers me away from the garden, which I’ve been inching toward. “Pay attention, boy,” he says. “The drums carried news of the Trials to the Emperor this morning. My spies tell me he left the capital as soon as he heard. He and most of his house will be here in a matter of weeks—the Blood Shrike too, if he wants to keep his head.” At my look of surprise, Grandfather snorts. “Did you think Gens Taia would go down without a fight?”
“But the Emperor practically worships the Augurs. He visits them every year.”
“Indeed. And now they’ve turned against him by threatening to usurp his dynasty. He’ll fight—you can count on it.” Grandfather narrows his eyes. “If you want to win this, you need to wake up. I’ve already wasted too much time cleaning up your messes. The Farrar brothers are telling anyone who will listen that you nearly let a deserter escape yesterday, that your mask not joining with you is a sign of disloyalty. You’re lucky the Blood Shrike is in the north.
He’d have had you in the stocks by now. As it is, the Black Guard chose not to investigate once I reminded them that the Farrars are lowborn Plebeian scum and you’re from the finest house in the Empire. Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am.” I act affronted, but since I’m half eyeing the Mercator girl and half looking into the garden for Helene, Grandfather isn’t convinced.
“I wanted to find Hel—”
“Don’t you dare get distracted by Aquilla,” Grandfather says. “How she managed to be named Aspirant in the first place I don’t understand. Women have no place in the military.”
“Aquilla’s one of the best fighters at the school.” At my defense of her, Grandfather slams his hand on an antique entryway table so hard that a vase falls from it and shatters. The Mercator girl yelps and scurries away. Grandfather doesn’t blink.
“Rubbish,” Grandfather says. “Don’t tell me you have feelings for the wench.”
“Grandfather—”
“She belongs to the Empire. Though I suppose if you were named Emperor, you could set her aside as Blood Shrike and marry her instead. She’s an Illustrian of strong stock, so at least you’d have a passel of heirs—”
“Grandfather. Stop.” I am uncomfortably aware of the heat rising in my neck at the prospect of making heirs with Helene. “I don’t think of her like that. She’s a—she’s—”