An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(37)

“What is it?” I ask calmly.

“The—the Commandant has requested you and Aspirant Aquilla to report to her office at—at sixth bell.”

“Sixth bell?” Helene shoves past the gate guards toward the Commandant’s house, apologizing to a group of Yearlings when she knocks two of them over. “We’re late. Why didn’t you summon us sooner?”

The girl trails us, too frightened to get closer. “There were so many people—I couldn’t find you.”

Helene waves off the girl’s explanation. “She’s going to kill us. It must be about the Trials, Elias. Maybe the Augurs told her something.” Helene hurries ahead, clearly still hoping to make it to my mother’s office on time.

“Are the Trials starting?” The girl claps her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I—”

“It’s all right.” I don’t smile at her. It will only scare her. For a female slave, a smile from a Mask is not usually a good thing. “I’m actually wondering the same thing. What’s your name?”

“S-slave-Girl.”

Of course. My mother would already have scourged her name out of existence.

“Right. You work for the Commandant?”

I want her to say no. I want her to say that my mother roped her into this. I want her to say she’s assigned to the kitchens or the infirmary, where slaves aren’t scarred or missing body parts.

But the girl nods in response to my question. Don’t let my mother break you, I think. The girl meets my eyes, and there is that feeling again, low and hot and consuming. Don’t be weak. Fight. Escape.

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.”