Hel hands me a scim. “Fall in,” she says. “Please, Elias. Just for a day.
Then we’re free.”
Right. Free to report for duty as full-fledged servants of the Empire, AnEmberintheAshes_INT.indd 42
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after which we’ll lead men to their deaths in the never-ending border wars with Wildmen and Barbarians. Those of us not ordered to the border will be given city commands, where we’ll hunt down Resistance fighters or Mariner spies. We’ll be free, all right. Free to laud the Emperor. Free to rape and kill.
Funny how that doesn’t seem like freedom.
I keep quiet. Helene’s right. I’m drawing too much attention to myself, and Blackcliff is the worst place to do so. Students here are like starving sharks when it comes to sedition. One whiff of it, and they swarm.
For the rest of the day, I do my best to act like a Mask on the verge of graduation—smug, brutish, violent. It’s like covering myself in filth.
When I return to my cell-like quarters in the evening for a precious few minutes of free time, I tear off my mask and toss it on my cot, sighing when the liquid metal releases its hold.
At the sight of my reflection in the mask’s polished surface, I grimace.
Even with the thick black lashes that Faris and Dex love to mock, my eyes are so much my mother’s that I hate seeing them. I don’t know who my father is, and I no longer care, but for the hundredth time, I wish that he’d at least given me his eyes.
Once I escape the Empire, it won’t matter. People will see my eyes and think Martial instead of Commandant. Plenty of Martials roam the south as merchants, mercenaries, and craftsmen. I’ll be one among hundreds.
Outside, the belltower tolls eight. Twelve hours until graduation. Thirteen until the ceremony is done. Another hour for pleasantries. Gens Veturia is a distinguished house, and Grandfather will want me to shake dozens of hands. But eventually, I’ll beg off and then . . .
Freedom. At last.
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No student has ever deserted after graduating. Why would they? It’s the hell of Blackcliff that drives its students to run. But after we’re out, we get our own commands, our own missions. We get money, status, respect.
Even the lowest-born Plebeian can marry high, if he becomes a Mask. No one with any sense would turn his back on that, especially after nearly a decade and a half of training.
Which is what makes tomorrow the perfect time to run. The two days after graduation are madness—parties, dinners, balls, banquets. If I disappear, no one will think to look for me for at least a day. They’ll assume I’ve drunk myself into a stupor at a friend’s house.
The passageway that leads from below my hearth into Serra’s catacombs pulses at the edge of my vision. It took me three months to dig out that damn tunnel. Another two months to fortify and hide it from the prying eyes of aux patrols. And two more months to map out the route through the catacombs and out of the city.
Seven months of sleepless nights and peering over my shoulder and trying to act normal. If I escape, it will all have been worth it.
The drums beat, signaling the start of the graduation banquet. Seconds later, a knock comes at my door. Ten hells. I was supposed to meet Helene outside the barracks, and I’m not even dressed yet.
Helene knocks again. “Elias, stop curling your eyelashes and get out here. We’re late.”
“Hang on,” I say. As I pull off my fatigues, the door opens and Helene marches in. A blush blooms up her neck at my undressed state, and she looks away. I raise an eyebrow. Helene has seen me naked dozens of times—when wounded, or ill, or suffering through one of the Com-AnEmberintheAshes_INT.indd 44
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mandant’s cruel strength-training exercises. By now, seeing me stripped shouldn’t cause her to do anything more than roll her eyes and throw me a shirt.
“Hurry up, would you?” she fumbles to break the silence that’s descend-ed. I grab my dress uniform off a hook and button it on quickly, edgy at her awkwardness. “The guys already went ahead. Said they’d save us seats.”
Helene rubs the Blackcliff tattoo on the back of her neck—a four-sided black diamond with curved sides that is inked into every student upon arrival at the school. Helene took it better than most of our class fellows, stoic and tearless while the rest of us whimpered.
The Augurs have never explained why they only choose one girl per generation for Blackcliff. Not even to Helene. Whatever the reason, it’s clear they don’t select at random. Helene might be the only girl here, but there’s a reason she’s ranked third in our class. It’s the same reason that bullies learned early on to leave her alone. She’s clever, swift, and ruthless.
Now, in her black uniform, with her shining braid encircling her head like a crown, she’s as beautiful as winter’s first snow. I watch her long fingers at her nape, watch her lick her lips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to push her to the window and press my body against hers, to pull out the pins in her hair, to feel its softness between my fingers.
“Uh . . . Elias?”
“Hmm . . .” I realize I’ve been staring and snap out of it. Fantasizing about your best friend, Elias. Pathetic. “Sorry. Just . . . tired. Let’s go.”
Hel gives me a strange look and nods at my mask, still sitting on the bed.
“You might need that.”
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seen any Skull maskless since we were fourteen. Other than Hel, none of them have seen my face, either.
I put the mask on, trying not to shudder at the eagerness with which it attaches to me. One day left. Then I’ll take it off forever.
The sunset drums thunder as we emerge from the barracks. The blue sky deepens to violet, and the searing desert air cools. Evening’s shadows blend with the dark stones of Blackcliff, making the blockish buildings appear unnaturally large. My eyes rove the shadows, seeking out threats, a habit from my years as a Fiver. I feel, for an instant, as if the shadows are looking back at me. But then the sensation fades.
“Do you think the Augurs will attend graduation?” Hel asks.
No, I want to say. Our holy men have better things to do, like locking themselves up in caves and reading sheep entrails.
“Doubt it,” is all I say.
“I guess it would get tedious after five hundred years.” Helene says this without a trace of irony, and I wince at the sheer idiocy of the idea. How can someone as intelligent as Helene actually think the Augurs are immortal?
But then, she’s not the only one. Martials believe that the Augurs’ “power” comes from being possessed by the spirits of the dead. Masks, in particular, revere the Augurs, for it is the Augurs who decide which Martial children will attend Blackcliff. It is the Augurs who give us our masks. And we’re taught that it was the Augurs who raised Blackcliff in a single day, five centuries ago.
There are only fourteen of the red-eyed bastards, but on the rare occasions that they appear, everyone defers to them. Many of the Empire’s AnEmberintheAshes_INT.indd 46