An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(67)

Until finally, on the third day after overhearing the Commandant, I’m shoving my way past the crowds in the couriers’ office, and a hand lands on my waist. I instinctively jab back with my elbow to knock the wind out of the fool who thinks he can take liberties. Another hand catches my arm.

“Laia.” A low voice murmurs into my ear. Keenan’s voice.

My skin thrills at the familiar scent of him. He lets my arm go, but his hand tightens on my waist. I’m tempted to push him away and tell him off for touching me, but at the same time, the feel of his hand sends a jolt up my spine.

“Don’t turn,” he says. “Commandant’s put a tail on you. He’s trying to work his way through the crowd. We can’t risk a meeting now. Do you have anything for us?”

I raise the Commandant’s letter to my face and fan myself, hoping the movement will conceal the fact that I’m talking.

“I do.” I’m practically vibrating with excitement, but I sense only tension from Keenan. When I turn to look at him, he gives me a sharp squeeze of warning, but not before I see the grim cast of his face. My elation fades. Something is wrong.

“Is Darin okay?” I whisper. “Is he—” I can’t say the words. My fear stifles me into silence.

“He’s in a death cell here in Serra, in Central Prison.” Keenan speaks softly, the way Pop used to when he gave patients the worst news. “He’s to be executed.”

All the air drains from my lungs. I can’t hear the office clerks yelling, or feel the hands pushing me, or smell the sweat of the crowd.

Executed. Killed. Dead. Darin will be dead.

“We still have time.” To my surprise, Keenan sounds sincere. My parents are dead too, he said when I saw him last. My whole family, actually. He understands what Darin’s execution will do to me. Perhaps he’s the only one who does.

“The execution will happen after the new Emperor is named. That might not be for a while yet.”

Wrong, I think.

In two weeks, the shadow-man had said, you will have a new Emperor. My brother doesn’t have a while. He has two weeks. I need to tell Keenan this, but when I turn to do so, I see a legionnaire standing in the entryway of the couriers’ office, watching me. The tail.

“Mazen won’t be in the city tomorrow.” Keenan bends down, as if he’s dropped something on the floor. Keenly aware of the Commandant’s man, I continue looking straight ahead. “But the next day, if you can get out and lose the tail—”

“No,” I mutter, fanning myself again. “Tonight. I’ll get out again tonight. When she’s sleeping. She never leaves her room before dawn. I’ll sneak out. I’ll find you.”

“Too many patrols out tonight. It’s the Moon Festival—”

“The patrols will be focused on groups of revelers,” I say. “They won’t notice one slave-girl. Please, Keenan. I have to talk to Mazen. I have information. If I can get it to him, he can get Darin out before he’s executed.”

“Fine.” Keenan looks casually toward the tail. “Make your way to the festival. I’ll find you there.”

A moment later, he’s gone. I deliver my letter to the couriers’ desk and pay the fee. Seconds later, I’m outside, watching market-goers rush by. Will the information I have be enough to save my brother? Will it be enough to convince Mazen that he should spring Darin now instead of later?

It will be, I decide. It must be. I haven’t come this far to watch my brother die. Tonight, I’ll convince Mazen to get Darin out. I’ll vow to stay a slave until I have the information he wants. I’ll promise myself to the Resistance. I’ll do whatever it takes.

But first things first. How am I going to sneak out of Blackcliff?





XXIV: Elias


The singing is a river that winds through my pain-infused dreams, quiet and sweet, drawing out memories of a life I’ve nearly forgotten, a life before Blackcliff. The silk-draped caravan trundling through the Tribal desert. My playfellows, running riot in the oasis, their laughter ringing like bells. Walking in the shade of the date trees with Mamie Rila, her voice as steady as the hum of life in the desert around us.

But when the singing stops, the dreams fade, and I descend into nightmares. The nightmares transform into a black pit of pain, and the pain stalks me like a vengeful twin. A door of clutching darkness opens behind me, and a hand snatches at my back, trying to drag me through.

Then the singing begins again, a thread of life in the infinite black, and I reach for it and hold on as tight as I can.

???

I come to consciousness light-headed, as if I’ve returned to my body after long years away. Though I expect soreness, my limbs move easily, and I sit up.

Outside, the evening lamps have just been lit. I know I’m in the infirmary because it’s the only place in all of Blackcliff with white walls. The room is empty of everything but the bed in which I lie, a small table, and a plain wooden chair occupied by a dozing Helene. She looks terrible, her face covered in bruises and scratches.

“Elias!” Her eyes fly open when she hears me move. “Thank the skies. You’ve been out for two days.”

“Remind me,” I croak, my throat dry, head aching. Something happened on the cliffs. Something strange . . .

Helene pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. “We were attacked by efrits during the Second Trial, on our way down the cliffs.”