An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(66)

“The Farrars are the only choice. Veturius is too stubborn, and Aquilla too loyal to him.”

“Then Marcus must win, and I must be able to control him,” the shadow-man says.

“Even if it is one of the others.” The Commandant’s voice is filled with a doubt I never imagined her capable of expressing. “Veturius, for instance. You can kill him and take his form—”

“Changing form is no easy task. And I am not an assassin, Commandant, to be used to kill off those who are thorns in your side.”

“He’s no thorn—”

“If you want your son dead, do it yourself. But do not let it interfere with the task I have given you. If you cannot perform that task, our partnership is at an end.”

“Two Trials remain, my Lord Nightbringer.” The Commandant’s voice is low with suppressed rage. “As both will take place here, I’m sure I can—”

“You have little time.”

“Thirteen days is plenty—”

“And if your attempts at sabotaging the Trial of Strength fail? The Fourth Trial is only a day later. In two weeks, Keris, you will have a new Emperor. See that it’s the right one.”

“I will not fail you, my lord.”

“Of course not, Keris. You’ve never failed me before. As a token of my faith in you, I’ve brought you another gift.”

A rustle, a rip, and then a sharp intake of breath.

“Something to add to that tattoo,” the Commandant’s guest says. “Shall I?”

“No,” the Commandant breathes. “No, this one’s mine.”

“As you will. Come. See me to the gate.”

Seconds later, the window slams shut, nearly jarring me from my perch, and the lamps go out. I hear the distant thud of the door, and all falls silent.

My whole body shakes. Finally, finally, I have something useful for the Resistance. It’s not everything they want to know. But it might be enough to sate Mazen, to buy more time. Half of me is jubilant, but the other half is still thinking about the creature the Commandant called the Nightbringer. What was that thing?

Scholars do not, on principle, believe in the supernatural. Skepticism is one of the few remnants of our bookish past, and most of us hold on to it tenaciously. Jinn, efrits, ghuls, wraiths—they belong in Tribal myth and legend. Shadows coming alive are a trick of the eye. A shadow-man with a voice out of hell—there should be an explanation for him too.

Except there is no explanation. He is real. Just like the ghuls are real.

A sudden wind sweeps in from the desert, shaking the trellis and threatening to rip me from my perch. Whatever that thing is, I decide, the less I know about it, the better. All that matters is that I’ve gotten the information I need.

I reach my foot out to the trellis but pull it back quickly when another gust of wind whips past. The trellis creaks, tips, and, before my horrified eyes, drops with a deafening clatter to the flagstones. Bleeding hells. I wince, waiting for Cook or Izzi to come out and discover me.

Seconds later, sandals rasp on the courtyard stone. Izzi emerges from the servants’ hallway, a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. She looks down at the trellis and then up at the window. When she spots me, her mouth is an O of surprise, but she simply lifts the trellis and watches as I climb down.

When I turn to face her, I’m hastily composing a fleet of explanations, none of which make any sense. But she speaks first.

“I want you to know that I think what you’re doing is brave. Really brave.” Her words come out in a torrent, as if she’s been hoarding them all for this moment. “I know about the raid and your family and the Resistance. I wasn’t spying on you, I swear it. It’s just, after I took up the sand this morning, I realized I left the irons in the oven to heat. When I came back to get them, you and Cook were talking, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Anyway, I was thinking—I could help you. I know things, lots of things. I’ve been at Blackcliff forever.”

For a second, I’m speechless. Do I beg her not to tell anyone else? Do I get unfairly angry at her for eavesdropping? Do I just stare because I didn’t think she had that many words in her? I have no idea, but I do know one thing: I can’t accept her help. It’s too risky.

Before I’ve said anything, she stuffs her hands under her shawl and shakes her head.

“Never mind.” She looks so lonely—a loneliness of years, of a whole life. “It was a stupid idea. Sorry.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say. “Just dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt. If the Commandant finds out, she’ll kill us both.”

“Might be better than how things are now. At least I’ll die having done something useful.”

“I can’t let you, Izzi.” My rejection hurts her, and I feel terrible for it. But I’m not so desperate that I’ll put her life at risk. “I’m sorry.”

“Right.” She’s back in her shell now. “Never mind. Just . . . forget it.”

I’ve made the right decision. I know it. But as Izzi walks away, lonely and miserable, I hate the fact that it’s me who has made her feel that way.

???

Though I beg Cook to let me run errands for her so I can be out in the markets every day, I hear nothing from the Resistance.