An Ember in the Ashes(98)

“The Scholar Empire fell quickly, its people enslaved, broken. But still alive. And so the Nightbringer’s thirst for revenge remains unquenched. He lives now in the shadows, where he lures and enslaves the lesser of his brethren—the ghuls, the wraiths, the cave efrits—to punish them for their betrayal so long ago. He watches, he waits, until the time is right, until he can exact his full revenge.”
As Cook’s words die away, I realize I’m holding the press midair. Izzi gapes, her polishing forgotten. Lightning flashes outside, and a gust of wind rattles the windows and doors.
“Why do I need to know this story?” I ask.
“You tell me, girl.”
I take a deep breath. “Because it’s true, isn’t it?”
Cook smiles her twisted smile. “You’ve seen the Commandant’s nighttime visitor, I take it.”
Izzi looks between us. “What visitor?”
“He—he called himself the Nightbringer,” I say. “But it can’t be—”
“He’s exactly what he says he is,” Cook says. “Scholars want to close their eyes to the truth. Ghuls, wraiths, wights, jinn—they’re just stories. Tribal myths. Campfire tales. Such arrogance.” She sneers. “Such pride. Don’t you make that mistake, girl. Open your eyes to it, or you’ll end up like your mother. Nightbringer was right in front of her, and she never even knew it.”
I set the press down. “What do you mean?”
Cook speaks quietly, as if she’s afraid of her own words. “He infiltrated the Resistance,” she says. “Took human form and p-posed as—as a fighter.” She clenches her jaw and huffs before going on. “Got close to your mother. Manipulated and used her.” Cook pauses again, her face growing pinched and pale. “Y-your fath-father caught on. N-Nightbringer—had—help. A tr-trai-traitor. Out-outwitted Jahan and—and sold your parents to Keris—no—I—”
“Cook?” Izzi jumps up as the old woman grabs her head with one hand and staggers back into the wall with a moan. “Cook!”
“Away—” The older woman shoves Izzi in the chest, nearly knocking her to the floor. “Get away!”
Izzi raises her hands, her voice pitched low as if she’s speaking to a frightened animal. “Cook, it’s all right—”

“Get to work!” Cook pulls herself upright, the brief quiet in her eyes shattered, replaced with something close to madness. “Leave me be!”
Izzi pulls me from the kitchen hurriedly. “She gets like that sometimes,” she says once we’re out of earshot. “When she talks about the past.”
“What’s her name, Izzi?”
“She’s never told me. I don’t think she wants to remember it. Do you think it’s true? What she said about the Nightbringer? And about your mother?”
“I don’t know. Why would the Nightbringer go after my parents? What did they ever do to him?” But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. If the Nightbringer hates the Scholars as much as Cook says, then it’s no wonder he sought to destroy the Lioness and her lieutenant. Their movement was the only hope the Scholars ever had.
Izzi and I return to our work, each of us silent, our heads filled with thoughts of ghuls and wraiths and smokeless fire. I find that I can’t stop wondering about Cook. Who is she? How well did she know my parents? How did a woman who crafted explosives for the Resistance end up a slave? Why not just blow the Commandant to the tenth ring of hell?
Something occurs to me suddenly, something that makes my blood run cold.
What if Cook is the traitor?
Everyone caught with my parents was killed—everyone who would know anything about the betrayal. And yet Cook’s told me things about that time that I’ve never heard before. How would she know, unless she was there?
But why would she be a slave in the Commandant’s house if she’d handed over Keris’s biggest catch?
“Maybe someone in the Resistance will know who Cook is,” I say that evening as Izzi and I trudge to the Commandant’s bedroom with buckets and dusters. “Maybe they’ll remember her.”
“You should ask your red-haired fighter,” Izzi says. “He seems like a sharp one.”
“Keenan? Maybe...”
“I knew it,” Izzi crows. “You like him. I can tell by how you say his name. Keenan.” She grins at me, and a blush races up my neck. “He’s a looker,” she comments. “Which you’ve noticed, I take it.”
“Don’t have time for that. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“Oh stop,” Izzi says. “You’re human, Laia. You’re allowed to like a boy. Even Masks have crushes. Even I—”
We both freeze as the front door rattles downstairs. The latch clicks open, and wind gusts through the house with a bone-chilling shriek.
“Slave-Girl!” The Commandant’s voice cracks up the stairwell. “Come here.”
“Go.” Izzi shoves me to my feet. “Quick!”
Duster in hand, I hurry down the stairs, where the Commandant is waiting for me, flanked by two legionnaires. Instead of her usual disgust, her silver face is almost thoughtful as she regards me, as if I’ve transformed into something unexpectedly fascinating.
I notice a fourth figure then, lurking in the shadows behind the legionnaires, his skin and hair as white as bones bleached in the sun. An Augur.
“Well,” the Commandant throws a wary look at the Augur, “is she the one?”