An Ember in the Ashes
Page 122

“So what you’re saying is that you cheated and you still barely managed to win.” I applaud slowly, my chains clanking. “Well done.”
Marcus seizes my collar and slams my head into the wall. I groan before I can help myself, feeling as if a great chunk of stone has been driven into my skull. The guards unleash a volley of punches to my stomach, and I drop to my knees. But when they back away, satisfied that I’ve been cowed, I dive forward and take Marcus out at the waist. He’s still sputtering when I snatch a dagger from his belt and hold it to his throat.
Four scims whip out of their scabbards, eight bows notch, and all are pointed at me.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say, nestling the blade into his neck. “Just wanted you to know I could. Now take me to my execution, Emperor.”
I drop the knife. If I’m going to die, it will be because I refused to murder a girl. Not because I slit the Emperor’s throat.
Marcus shoves me away, grinding his teeth in rage.
“Get him up, you idiots,” he roars at the guards. I can’t help but laugh, and he strides out of my cell, seething. The Masks lower their scims and haul me to my feet. Free, Elias. You’re almost free.
Outside, the stones of Blackcliff are gentled by the dawn, and the cool air warms quickly, promising a scorching day. A wild wind races through the dunes and breaks upon the granite of the school. I might not miss these walls as a dead man, but I will miss the wind and the scents it carries, of faraway places where freedom can be found in life instead of death.
Minutes later, we arrive at the belltower courtyard, where a platform has been erected for my beheading.
Blackcliff’s students dominate the yard, but there are other faces here too.
I see Cain beside the Commandant and Governor Tanalius. Behind them, the heads of Serra’s Illustrian houses stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the city’s top military brass. Grandfather isn’t here, and I wonder if the Commandant’s moved against him yet. She will at some point. She’s spent years coveting rulership of Gens Veturia.
I straighten my shoulders and hold my head high. When the ax comes down, I will die the way Grandfather would want me to: proudly, like a Veturius. Always victorious.
I turn my attention to the platform, where death awaits me in the form of a polished ax held by my best friend. She glows in her ceremonials, looking more like an empress than a Blood Shrike.
Marcus breaks off, and the crowd shifts back as he moves to stand beside the Commandant. The four Masks march me up the platform stairs. I think I catch a flash of movement beneath the gallows, but before I can look again, I’m on the platform beside Helene. The few people who had been speaking fall silent as Hel turns me to face the crowd.
“Look at me,” I whisper, needing, suddenly, to see her eyes. The Augurs made her swear fealty to Marcus. I understand that. It’s a consequence of my failure. But now, preparing me for death, she is cold-eyed and hardhanded.
Not a single tear. Did we never laugh together as Yearlings? Did we never fight our way out of a Barbarian camp, or fall into joyful hysterics after successfully robbing our first farmhouse, or carry each other when one of us was too weak to go on alone? Did we never love each other?
She ignores me, and I make myself look away from her and into the crowd.
Marcus leans toward the governor, listening to something he says. It’s strange not to see Zak at his back. I wonder if the new Emperor misses his twin. I wonder if he will think rulership is worth the death of the only human who ever understood him.
On the other side of the courtyard, Faris stands taller and wider than everyone else, his eyes bewildered as a lost child’s. Dex is beside him, and I’m surprised at the streak of wetness that runs down his rigid jaw.
My mother, meanwhile, looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. And why not? She’s won.
Beside her, Cain watches me, his cowl thrown back. Lost, he said, just a few weeks ago, like a leaf in the wind. And so I am. I won’t forgive him for the Third Trial. But I can thank him for helping me understand what true freedom is. He nods in acknowledgement, reading my thoughts one last time.
Helene removes the metal collar. “Kneel,” she says.
My mind snaps back to the platform, and I submit to her order.
“Is this how it ends, Helene?” I’m surprised at how civil I sound, as if I’m asking her about a book she’s read but that I have yet to finish.
Her eyes flicker, so I know she hears me. She says nothing, just checks the chains on my legs and arms and then nods to the Commandant. My mother reads the charges against me, which I don’t pay much attention to, and pronounces the punishment, which I also ignore. Dead is dead, no matter how it happens.
Helene steps forward and lifts her ax. It will be one clean sweep, left to right. Air. Neck. Air. Elias dead.
Now it hits me. This is it. This is the end. Martial tradition says a soldier who dies well dances among the stars, battling foes for all eternity. Is that what awaits me? Or will I slip into endless darkness, unbroken and quiet?
Uneasiness latches onto me, like it’s been waiting around a corner all this time and only now has the gall to emerge. Where do I fix my eyes? On the crowd? The sky? I want comfort. I know I won’t find any.
I look at Helene again. Who else is there? She’s only two feet away, her hands loose around the ax handle.
Look at me. Don’t make me face this alone.
As if she’s heard my thoughts, her eyes meet mine, that familiar pale blue offering me solace, even as she lifts the ax. I think of the first time I looked into those eyes, as a freezing six-year-old getting pummeled in the culling pen. I’ll watch your back, she’d said, with all the gravitas of a Cadet. If you watch mine. We can make it if we stick together.