An Ember in the Ashes(36)

A gust of wind whips a strand free from her bun and across her cheekbone.
Defiance flashes across her face as she holds my gaze, and for a second, I see my own desire for freedom mirrored, intensified in her eyes. It’s something I’ve never detected in the eyes of a fellow student, let alone a Scholar slave. For one strange moment, I feel less alone.
But then she looks down, and I wonder at my own na?veté. She can’t fight.
She can’t escape. Not from Blackcliff. I smile joylessly; in this, at least, the slave and I are more similar than she’ll ever know.
“When did you start here?” I ask her.
“Three days ago. Sir. Aspirant. Um—” She wrings her hands.
“Veturius is fine.”
She walks carefully, gingerly—the Commandant must have whipped her recently. And yet she doesn’t hunch or shuffle like the other slaves. The straight-backed grace with which she moves tells her story better than words.
She’d been a freewoman before this—I’d bet my scims on it. And she has no idea how pretty she is—or what kind of problems her beauty will cause for her at a place like Blackcliff. The wind pulls at her hair again, and I catch her scent—like fruit and sugar.
“Can I give you some advice?”
Her head flies up like a scared animal’s. At least she’s wary. “Right now you
...” Will grab the attention of every male in a square mile. “Stand out,” I finish. “It’s hot, but you should wear a hood or a cloak—something to help you blend in.”
She nods, but her eyes are suspicious. She wraps her arms around herself and drops back a little. I don’t speak to her again.
When we arrive at my mother’s office, Marcus and Zak are already seated, clad in full battle armor. They fall silent as we enter, and it’s obvious they’ve been talking about us.
The Commandant ignores Helene and me and turns from her window, where she’s been staring out at the dunes. She motions the slave-girl close, then backhands her so hard that blood flies from her mouth.
“I said sixth bell.”
Anger floods me, and the Commandant senses it. “Yes, Veturius?” Her lips purse, and she tilts her head as if to say, Do you wish to interfere and bring my wrath down upon yourself?
Helene elbows me, and, fuming, I keep quiet.

“Get out,” Mother says to the trembling girl. “Aquilla, Veturius. Sit.”
Marcus watches the slave as she leaves. The lust on his face makes me want to push the girl out of the room faster while gouging the Snake’s eyes out. Zak, meanwhile, ignores the girl and glances surreptitiously at Helene. His angular face is pale, and purple shadows darken his eyes. I wonder how he and Marcus spent their leave. Helping their Plebeian father with his smithing? Visiting family? Plotting ways to kill me and Helene?
“The Augurs are otherwise occupied”—a strange, smug smile creeps onto the Commandant’s face—“and have asked that in their stead, I give you the details of the Trials. Here.” The Commandant slides a piece of parchment across her desk, and we all lean forward to read it.
Four they are, and four traits we seek:
Courage to face their darkest fears
Cunning to outwit their foes
Strength of arms and mind and heart
Loyalty to break the soul.
“It is a foretelling. You’ll learn its meaning in the coming days.” The Commandant faces her window again, her hands behind her back. I watch her reflection, unnerved at the self-satisfaction oozing off her. “The Augurs will plan and judge the Trials. But since this contest is meant to weed out the weak, I have proposed to our holy men that you remain at Blackcliff for the duration of the Trial. The Augurs agreed.”
I stifle a snort. Of course the Augurs agreed. They know this place is hell, and they’ll want the Trials to be as difficult as possible.
“I have ordered the Centurions to intensify your training to reflect your status as Aspirants. I have no say in your conduct during the competition. However, outside the Trials, you are still subject to my rules. My punishments.” She begins to pace her office, and her eyes stab into me, warning of whippings and worse.
“If you win a Trial, you will receive a token from the Augurs—a prize of sorts. If you pass a Trial but do not win, your reward is your life. If you fail a Trial, you will be executed.” She lets that pleasant fact sink in for a moment before going on.
“The Aspirant who wins two Trials first will be named victor. Whoever comes in second, with one win, will be named Blood Shrike. The others will die. There will be no tie. The Augurs wish me to stress that while the Trials are taking place, the accepted rules of sportsmanship apply. You will not engage in cheating, sabotage, or chicanery.”
I glance at Marcus. Telling him not to cheat is like telling him not to breathe.
“What about Emperor Taius?” Marcus says. “The Blood Shrike? The Black Guard? Gens Taia isn’t just going to disappear.”
“Taius will retaliate.” The Commandant passes behind me, and my neck prickles unpleasantly. “He has left Antium with his gens and is heading south to disrupt the Trials. But the Augurs shared another foretelling: Waiting vines circle and strangle the oak. The way is made clear, just before the end.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus asks.
“It means that the Emperor’s actions are not our concern. As for the Blood Shrike and Black Guard, their loyalty lies with the Empire—not Taius. They will be the first to pledge themselves to the new dynasty.”
“When do the Trials begin?” Helene asks.