An Ember in the Ashes(81)

I stifle a groan. I’ll just have to wait to talk to Izzi.
When I get to Teluman’s shop, I’m surprised to see the door open, the forge fire burning. Sweat streams down the smith’s face and into his burn-scarred jerkin as he hammers at a glowing chunk of steel. Beside him stands a Tribal girl clad in sheer, rose-colored robes, their hems embroidered with tiny round mirrors. The girl is murmuring something I can’t hear over the ringing of the hammer. Teluman nods a greeting at me but continues his conversation with the girl.
As I watch them speak, I realize she’s older than I first thought, perhaps in her midtwenties. Her silky black hair, shot through with fiery red, is done up in hundreds of tiny, intricate braids, and her dainty face is vaguely familiar. Then I recognize her: She danced with Veturius at the Moon Festival.
She shakes Teluman’s hand, offers him a sack of coins, and then makes her way out the forge’s back door with an appraising glance in my direction. Her eyes linger on my slaves’ cuffs, and I look away.
“Her name’s Afya Ara-Nur,” Spiro Teluman says when the woman is gone. “She’s the only female chieftain among the Tribes. One of the most dangerous women you’ll ever meet. Also one of the cleverest. Her tribe carries weapons to the Marinn branch of the Scholar’s Resistance.”
“Why are you telling me this?” What’s wrong with him? That’s the type of knowledge that will get me killed.
Spiro shrugs. “Your brother made most of the weapons she’s taking. I thought you’d want to know where they’re going.”
“No, I don’t want to know.” Why doesn’t he understand? “I want nothing to do with...whatever it is you’re doing. All I want is for things to go back to the way they were. Before you made my brother your apprentice. Before the Empire took him because of it.”
“You might as well wish away that scar.” Teluman nods to where my cloak has fallen open, revealing the Commandant’s K. Hastily, I pull the garment closed.
“Things will never go back to the way they were.” He flips the metal he’s shaping with a pair of tongs and continues hammering. “If the Empire freed Darin tomorrow, he’d come here and start making weapons again. His destiny is to rise, to help his people overthrow their oppressors. And mine is to help him do it.”
I’m so angry at Teluman’s presumption that I don’t think before I speak.

“So now you’re the savior of the Scholars, after spending years creating the weapons that have destroyed us?”
“I live with my sins every day.” He throws down the tongs and turns to me. “I live with the guilt. But there are two kinds of guilt, girl: the kind that drowns you until you’re useless, and the kind that fires your soul to purpose. The day I made my last weapon for the Empire, I drew a line in my mind. I’d never make a Martial blade again. I’d never have Scholar blood on my hands again. I won’t cross that line. I’ll die before I cross it.”
His hammer is clenched in his hand like a weapon, his hard-angled face lit with tightly controlled fervor. So this is why Darin agreed to be his apprentice. There’s something of our mother in this man’s ferocity, something of our father in the way he carries himself. His passion is true and contagious.
When he speaks, I want to believe.
He opens his hand. “You have a message?”
I give him the folio. “You said you’d die before you crossed that line. And yet you’re making a weapon for the Commandant.”
“No.” Spiro peruses the folio. “I’m pretending to make a weapon for her so she’ll keep sending you with messages. As long as she thinks my interest in you will get her a Teluman blade, she won’t do you any irreparable harm. I might even be able to persuade her to sell you to me. Then I’ll break those damned things off,” he nods to my cuffs, “and set you free.” At my surprise, Spiro looks away, as if embarrassed. “It’s the least I can do for your brother.”
“He’s going to be executed,” I whisper. “In a week.”
“Executed?” Spiro says. “Not possible. He’d still be in Central Prison if he was to be executed, and he was moved from there. Where, I don’t yet know.”
Teluman’s eyes narrow. “How did you learn he was to be executed? Who have you been talking to?”
I don’t answer. Darin might have trusted the smith, but I can’t bring myself to. Maybe Teluman really is a revolutionary. Or maybe he’s a very convincing spy.
“I have to go,” I say. “Cook’s expecting me back.”
“Laia, wait—”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already out the door.
As I walk back to Blackcliff, I try to push his words from my head, but I can’t. Darin’s been moved? When? Where? Why didn’t Mazen mention it?
How is my brother? Is he suffering? What if the Martials have broken his bones? Skies, his fingers? What if—
No more. Nan once said that there’s hope in life. If Darin’s alive, nothing else matters. If I can get him out, the rest can be fixed.
My path back takes me through Execution Square, where the gibbets are conspicuously empty. No one has been hung for days. Keenan said the Martials are saving the executions for the new Emperor. Marcus and his brother will enjoy such a spectacle. What if one of the others wins? Would Aquilla smile as innocent men and women twist at the end of a rope? Would Veturius?
Ahead of me, the crowd slows to a standstill as a Tribal caravan twenty wagons long ambles across the square. I turn to go around it, but everyone else has the same idea, resulting in a mess of swearing, shoving, mired bodies.