“You’ll be doing far worse before this is over. ”
“Worse? How much worse can this get? What will I have to do in the Fourth Trial? Murder children?”
“I’m not talking about the Trials,” Cain says. “I’m talking about the war. ”
I stop walking. “What war?”
“The one that haunts our dreams. ” Cain keeps walking, gesturing for me to follow. “Shadows gather, Elias, and their gathering cannot be stopped. Darkness grows in the heart of the Empire, and it will grow more still, until it covers this land. War comes. And it must come. For a great wrong must be righted, a wrong that grows greater with every life destroyed. The war is the only way. And you must be ready. ”
Riddles, always riddles with the Augurs. “A wrong,” I say through gritted teeth. “What wrong? When? How can a war fix it?”
“One day, Elias Veturius, these mysteries will be made clear. But not this day. ”
He slows as we enter the barracks. Every door is closed. I hear no curses, no sobs, no snores, nothing. Where are my men?
“They sleep,” Cain says. “For this night, they will not dream. Their sleep will not be haunted by the dead. A reward for their valor. ”
A paltry gesture. They still have tomorrow night to wake up screaming.
And all the nights after.
“You have not asked about your prize,” Cain says, “for winning the Trial. ”
“I don’t want a prize. Not for this. ”
“Nonetheless,” the Augur says as we arrive at my room, “you will have it. Your door will be sealed until dawn. No one will disturb you. Not even the Commandant. ” He drifts out of the barracks doors, and I watch him go, wondering uneasily about his talk of war and shadows and darkness.
I’m too exhausted to think long on it. My whole body aches. I just want to sleep and forget this ever happened, even if it’s just for a few hours. I push the questions out of my head and enter my quarters.
XLI: Laia
When the door to my cell opens, I bolt toward the sound, determined to escape into the hallway beyond. But the chill in the room has penetrated my bones. My limbs are too heavy, and a hand catches me easily about the waist.
“Door’s sealed by an Augur. ” The hand releases me. “You’ll hurt yourself. ”
My blindfold is pulled off, and a Mask stands before me. I know him instantly. Veturius. His fingers brush my wrists and neck as he unbinds my hands and pulls off my gag. For a second, I’m bewildered. He saved my life all those times so he could interrogate me now? I realize that some naïve sliver of me hoped that he was better than this. Not good, necessarily. Just not evil.
You knew this, Laia, a voice chides me. You knew he was playing a sick game.
Veturius kneads his neck awkwardly, and that’s when I notice that his leather armor is covered in blood and muck. He has bruises and cuts all over, and his fatigues hang in dull, tattered strips. He looks down at me, and his eyes glint in brief, hot rage before cooling into something else—shock?
Sadness?
“I won’t tell you anything. ” My voice is high and thin, and I grit my teeth.
Be like Mother. Don’t show fear. I grab my armlet with one hand. “I didn’t do anything wrong. So you can torture me all you want, but it won’t do you any good. ”
Veturius clears his throat. “That’s not why you’re here. ” He is rooted to the stone floor, regarding me as if I am a puzzle.
I glare back at him. “Why did that—that red-eyed thing bring me to this cell, if I’m not to be interrogated?”
“Red-eyed thing. ” He nods. “Good description. ” He looks around the chamber as if seeing it for the first time. “This isn’t a cell. It’s my room. ”
I eye the narrow cot, the chair, the cold hearth, the ominous black bureau, the hooks on the wall—for torture, I assumed. It’s bigger than my quarters, though just as spare. “Why am I in your room?”
The Mask goes to the bureau and rifles through it. I tense—what’s in there?
“You’re a prize,” he says. “My victory prize for winning the Third Trial. ”
“A prize?” I say. “Why would I be—”
The knowledge sweeps through me suddenly, and I shake my head—as if that will make a difference. I’m keenly aware of the amount of skin showing through my ripped dress, and I try to draw the remnants of cloth together. I take a step back, straight into the chill, rough stone of the wall. It’s as far away as I can get, but it won’t be far enough. I’ve seen Veturius fight. He is too fast, too big, too strong.
“I’m not going to hurt you. ” He turns from the bureau, looking at me with an odd sympathy in his eyes. “That’s not how I am. ” He holds out a clean, black cloak. “Take this—it’s freezing. ”
I eye the cloak. I’m so cold. I’ve been cold since the Augur threw me in here hours ago. But I can’t take what Veturius offers. There’s a trick in this.
There must be. Why would I have been chosen as his prize if not for that?
After a moment, he sets the cloak on the cot. I can smell the rain on him, and something darker. Death.
Silently, he starts a fire in the hearth. His hands tremble.
“You’re shaking,” I observe.
“I’m cold. ”
The wood catches, and he feeds the fire patiently, absorbed in the task.
There are two scims strapped to his back, only a few feet away. I can grab one if I’m fast enough.
Do it! Now, while he’s distracted! I lean forward, but just as I’m about to lunge, he turns. I freeze, teetering ridiculously.
“Take this instead. ” Veturius takes a dagger from his boot and tosses it to me before turning back to the flames. “It’s clean, at least. ”
The dagger’s warm heft is comforting in my hand, and I test the edge on my thumb. Sharp. I sink back against the wall and eye him warily.
The fire eats away at the cold in the room. When it is burning brightly, Veturius unstraps his scims and leans them against the wall, well within my reach.
“I’ll be in there. ” He nods to a closed door in the corner of the room, one I’d assumed led to a torture chamber. “That cloak won’t bite, you know. You’re stuck here until dawn. Might as well make yourself comfortable. ”
He opens the door and disappears into the bathing chamber beyond. A moment later, I hear water pour into a tub.
The silk of my dress steams in the heat of the fire, and with one eye on the bath door, I let its warmth seep into me. Then I consider Veturius’s cloak. My skirt is ripped to my thigh, and a sleeve of my shirt hangs by a few threads. The laces of my bodice are torn, revealing far too much of me.
I look uneasily toward the bath. He’ll finish soon.
Eventually, I pick up the cloak and wrap it around myself. It is made of thick, finely woven cloth that is softer to the touch than I expect. I recognize the smell—his smell—spice and rain. I inhale deeply before jerking my nose away as the door rattles and Veturius emerges with his bloodied armor and weapons.
He’s scrubbed the mud from his skin and changed into clean fatigues.
“You’ll get tired standing all night,” he says. “You can sit on the bed. Or take the chair. ” When I don’t move, he sighs. “You don’t trust me—I get it. But if I wanted to hurt you, I’d already have done it. Please, sit down. ”