An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(49)

The sun sinks lower. Not yet, I tell it. Not yet.

“Come on.” I dig my heels in deeper. “Faster!”

Then we are across the training field, up the hill, and inside the central courtyard. The belltower rises in front of me, a few precious yards away. I jerk the horse to a halt and leap off it.

The Commandant stands at the base of the tower, her face stiff—from anger or nerves, I can’t tell. Beside her, Cain waits with two other Augurs, both women. They look at me with mute interest, as if I am a mildly entertaining side act at a circus.

A scream tears through the air. The courtyard is lined with hundreds of people: students, Centurions, and families—including Helene’s. Her mother falls to her knees, hysterical at the sight of her blood-covered daughter. Hel’s sisters, Hannah and Livia, drop beside her as Pater Aquillus remains stone-faced.

Next to him, Grandfather stands in full battle dress. He looks like a bull about to charge, and his gray eyes blaze with pride.

I pull Helene into my arms and stride to the belltower. It’s never seemed so long, this courtyard, not even when I’ve run a hundred sprints across it in the dead of summer.

My body drags. All I want is to collapse onto the ground and sleep for a week. But I take those last few steps, laying Helene down against the tower and reaching out a hand to touch the stone. A moment after my skin meets the rock, the sunset drums boom out.

The crowd erupts. I’m not sure who starts the cheer. Faris? Dex? Maybe even Grandfather. The whole square echoes with it. They must hear it down in the city.

“Veturius! Veturius! Veturius!”

“Get the physician,” I roar at a nearby Cadet who cheers with all the others. His hands freeze mid-clap, and he gapes at me. “Now! Move!”

“Helene,” I whisper. “Hold on.”

She’s as waxen as a doll. I put a hand against her cold cheek, rubbing a circle over the skin with my thumb. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t draw breath. And when I put my fingers to her throat, to where her pulse should be, I feel nothing.





XVII: Laia


Sana and Mazen disappear up an interior staircase as Keenan walks me out of the basement. I expect him to beg off as quickly as possible. Instead, he beckons me to follow him to a weed-choked backstreet nearby. The street is empty but for a band of urchins crouching over some small treasure, and they scatter at our approach.

I sidle a glance at the red-haired fighter, to find his attention fixed on me with an intensity that sends an unexpected flutter through my chest.

“They’ve been hurting you.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I won’t let him think I’m weak. I’m on thin ice as it is. “Darin’s all that matters. The rest is just . . . ” I shrug. Keenan cocks his head and brushes a thumb across the now-faint bruises on my neck. Then he takes my wrist and turns it over to reveal the angry welts the Commandant left there. His hands are slow and gentle as candle flame, and the warmth in my chest spreads up through my collarbone and down to my fingertips. My pulse skitters, and I shake his hand away, unnerved at my own reaction.

“Was it all the Commandant?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I say more sharply than I intend. His eyes go cold at the bite in my voice, and I soften. “I can do this, all right? It’s Darin’s life at stake here. I just wish I knew . . . ” If he is nearby. If he is all right. If he is in pain.

“Darin’s still in Serra. I heard the spy who gave the report.” Keenan walks me further down the street. “But he’s not . . . well. They’ve been at him.”

A punch to the stomach would have been gentler. I don’t have to ask who “they” are, I already know. Interrogators. Masks.

“Look,” Keenan says. “You don’t know the first thing about spying. That’s clear. Here are some basics: Gossip with the other slaves—you’ll be surprised at what you learn. Keep your hands busy—sewing, scrubbing, fetching. The busier you are, the less likely it is that anyone will question your presence, wherever you might be. If you see a chance to get your hands on real information, take it. But always have an exit plan. The cloak you’re wearing is good—it helps you blend in. But you walk and act like a freewoman. If I noticed it, others will too. Shuffle, hunch. Act beaten. Act broken.”

“Why are you trying to help me?” I ask. “You didn’t want to risk the men to save my brother.”

He is suddenly very interested in the moldering bricks of a nearby building. “My parents are dead too,” he says. “My whole family, actually. A long time ago now.” He gives me a quick, almost angry glance, and for a second, I see them in his eyes, this lost family, flashes of fiery hair and freckles. Did he have brothers? Sisters? Was he the oldest? The youngest? I want to ask, but his face is shuttered.

“I still think the mission is a terrible idea,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you’re doing it. And it doesn’t mean I want you to fail.” He touches his fist to his heart and holds out his hand to me. “Death before tyranny,” he murmurs.

“Death before tyranny.” I take his hand, aware of every muscle in his fingers.

No one has touched me for the past ten days except to hurt me. How I miss being touched—Nan stroking my hair, Darin arm-wrestling me and pretending to lose, Pop squeezing my shoulder good night.