The Final Strife

And the library?

“I need to steal journals for the Sandstorm. If I do the task, they’ll induct me back into the rebellion.”

And you want that?

“Yes.” Sylah’s response was fierce.

I don’t think this is a good idea. I’ve heard things from the elders…about this Sandstorm, not good things—

“I don’t care, it’s where I belong.” Sylah said the words to reassure herself more than anything.

Anoor, she knows nothing?

Sylah shook her head. “But the map I found, the land on it…that’s all true. Please, Hassa, will you help me?”

Hassa’s eyes seemed to burrow into Sylah’s, searching, probing. Then with a sharp nod she gave her assent.

What do you need?

“How do Ghostings clean the warden library?”

—

Hassa said goodbye to them at the Keep’s gates, agreeing to meet them later. Being the warden’s daughter meant Anoor could enter through the side gate assigned to the wardens and their families—forgoing the blood scour. Hassa wasn’t even allowed to use the front gate. She had to use the Ghosting entrance down a dirt track to the left.

Hassa hated the Keep. The tall walls scared her more than anything else she had seen in the empire. Their menacing presence represented everything about the wardens’ rule. Segregated and oppressive.

She watched Sylah and Anoor disappear within. They were crawling closer to the truth. The map, though. Hassa wanted—needed—to see that map.

“The Ghosting entrance is that way,” an officer interrupted her thoughts.

She turned to look at him, to capture his essence. When the world thinks you can’t talk, people reveal things in the depths of their irises they would ordinarily keep hidden.

He met her gaze then dropped it away. Behind him someone had scrawled the words she had heard more than once.

If your blood runs red, go straight ahead.

If your blood runs blue, you’re not coming through.

Translucent hue, who are you, who are you, who are you?

We’d tell you exactly who we are, if only we could,Hassa thought. The words, starting in the throats of the officers, had crawled across the river into the mouths of countless children. A nursery rhyme, they thought. Isn’t that how propaganda starts?

She stepped away from the front gate with a triumphant smile. It turned a few heads.

The servants’ entrance was manned by a surly chief of chambers who had missed her calling as an officer, so had taken up the next best thing.

“Eeyah, eeyah,” she screeched as Hassa made her way through the gate. “What do you think you’re doing? You need to sign in first.”

Hassa stopped and ground her teeth. She kept her eyes down and her shoulders slumped.

“Here, you need to stamp your elbow against your name.” She was chewing on a radish leaf. Hassa knew that smell: it reminded her of home.

The sign-in book was a smattering of names against blobs of ink. All names were inanimate objects, animals or plants. Nice and easy to remember for the Embers.

The chief of chambers began to read them out, assuming Hassa couldn’t understand the writing. Ghostings were officially never taught how, but the elders taught those who wanted to learn.

Hassa flapped her wrist when the woman got to “Honey.” Hassa stamped her elbow in the ink pad, the sound hiding the growl of disgust in her throat and pressed it to the page.