A Reaper at the Gates Page 5

I have never seen him before. I have only heard him described. But I know him. Bleeding, burning hells, I know him.

  The Nightbringer.

  VII: The Blood Shrike

  A row of severed heads greets Dex, Avitas, and me as we pass beneath Antium’s iron-studded main gate. Scholars, mostly, but I spot Martials too. The streets are lined with dirty piles of slush, and a blanket of clouds lies thick over the city, depositing more snow.

  I ride past the grisly display, and Harper follows, but Dex stares at the heads, hands tight on his reins. His silence is unnerving. The interrogation of Tribe Saif still haunts him.

  “Get to the barracks, Dex,” I say. “I want reports on all active missions on my desk by midnight.” My attention falls on two women loitering outside a nearby guard post. Courtesans. “And go distract yourself after. Get your mind off the raid.”

  “I do not frequent brothels,” Dex says quietly as he follows my gaze to the women. “Even if I did, it’s not that easy for me, Shrike. And you know it.”

  I shoot Avitas Harper a glare. Go away. When he’s out of earshot I turn to Dex. “Madam Heera’s in Mandias Square. The House of Forgetting. Heera is discreet. She treats her women—and men—well.” At Dex’s hesitation, I lose my patience. “You’re letting your guilt eat at you, and it cost us in the village,” I say. That raid was meant to get us something to use against Keris. We failed. Marcus won’t be pleased. And it’s my sister who will suffer that displeasure.

  “When I am dispirited,” I go on, “I visit Heera’s. It helps. Go or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me. But stop being woeful and useless. I don’t have the patience for it.”

  Dex leaves, and Harper nudges his horse over. “You frequent Heera’s?” There’s something more than mere curiosity in his voice.

  “Reading lips again?”

  “Only yours, Shrike.” Harper’s green eyes drop to my mouth so quickly I almost miss it. “Forgive my question. I assumed you had volunteers to meet your . . . needs. The previous Shrike’s second-in-command did sometimes procure courtesans for him, if you need me to—”

  My cheeks grow warm at the image that conveys. “Stop talking, Harper,” I say. “While you’re behind.”

  We gallop ahead toward the palace, its pearlescent sheen a bare-faced lie that hides the oppressiveness within. The outer gates are bustling at this hour, Illustrian courtiers and Mercator hangers-on all jockeying to get into the throne room to obtain the Emperor’s favor.

  “An attack on Marinn would go a long way in—”

  “—fleet is already engaged—”

  “—Veturia will crush them—”

  I suppress a sigh at the never-ending machinations of the Paters. It drove my father to distraction, the way they schemed. When they see me, they fall silent. I take grim pleasure in their discomfort.

  Harper and I cut through the courtiers quickly. The men in their long, fur-edged cloaks back away from the slush kicked up by my mount. The women, sparkling in court finery, watch surreptitiously. No one meets my gaze.

  Swine. Not one of them offered a word of remembrance in honor of my family after Marcus executed them. Not even privately.

  My mother, father, and sister died as traitors, and nothing can change that. Marcus wanted me to feel shame, but I do not. My father gave his life trying to save the Empire, and one day that fact will be known. But now it is as if my family never existed. As if their lives were mere hallucinations.

  The only people who have dared to mention my parents to me are Livia, a Scholar hag I haven’t seen in weeks, and a Scholar girl whose head should be in a sack at my waist right now.

  I hear the buzz of voices in the throne room long before I see its double doors. As I enter, every soldier salutes. They’ve learned, by now, what happens to those who don’t.

  Marcus sits rigid on his throne, big hands fisted on the armrests, masked face emotionless. His blood-red cape pools onto the floor, reflecting luridly off his silver-and-copper armor. The weapons at his side are razor-sharp, to the chagrin of the older Illustrian Paters, who appear soft beside their emperor.

  The Commandant is not here. But Livia is, her face as impassive as a Mask’s as she perches on her own throne beside Marcus. I hate that she is forced to sit here, but still, relief rushes through me; at least she’s alive. She is resplendent in a lavender gown heavy with gold embroidery.

  My sister’s back is straight, her face powdered to hide the bruise on her cheek. Her ladies-in-waiting—yellow-eyed cousins of Marcus—cluster a few feet away. They are Plebeians, plucked from their village by my sister as a gesture of goodwill toward Marcus and his family. And I suspect that, like me, they find court insufferable.

  Marcus fixes his attention on me, despite the obviously distressed Mariner ambassador standing before him. As I approach, the Emperor’s shoulders twitch.

  “You don’t need to warn me, damn you,” he mutters. The ambassador furrows his brow, and I realize that Marcus isn’t responding to the man. He’s talking to himself. At the Mariner’s confusion, the Emperor beckons him near.

  “Tell your doddering king that he needn’t cower,” Marcus says. “The Empire is not interested in a war with Marinn. If he needs a token of our goodwill, have him provide me a list of his enemies. I’ll send him their heads as a gift.” The ambassador pales and backs away, and Marcus gestures me forward.

  I do not acknowledge Livia. Let the court think we are not close. She has enough to deal with without half of these vultures trying to take advantage of her relationship with me.

  “Emperor.” I kneel and bow my head. Though I’ve been doing so for months now, it hasn’t gotten any easier. Beside me, Harper does the same.

  “Clear the room,” Marcus growls. When the Illustrians do not move quickly enough, he flings a dagger at the nearest one.

  Guards usher the Illustrians away, and the lot of them are unable to get out fast enough. Marcus smiles at the sight, his harsh chuckle jarring against the fear that pervades the room.

  Livia rises and gathers the folds of her dress gracefully. Faster, sister, I think to myself. Get out of here. But before she steps down from her throne, Marcus grabs her wrist. “You stay.” He forces her into her seat. My sister’s gaze meets mine for an infinitesimal moment. I sense no fear, only warning. Avitas steps back, a silent witness.

  Marcus pulls a roll of parchment from his armor and flings it at me. The crest flashes in the air as it flies to my hand, and I recognize the K with crossed swords beneath it. The Commandant’s seal.

  “Go on,” he says. “Read it.” Beside him, Livia watches, wariness in her body, though she’s learned to train it from her face.

  My Lord Emperor,

  The Karkaun warlock Grímarr has intensified the raids on Navium. We need more men. The Paters of Navium are in agreement; their seals are below. A half legion should be sufficient.

  Duty first, unto death,

  General Keris Veturia

  “She has an entire legion down there,” I say. “She should be able to put down a paltry Barbarian rebellion with five thousand men.”

  “And yet”—Marcus yanks another parchment from within his armor, and another, flinging them all at me—“from Paters Equitius, Tatius, Argus, Modius, Vissellius—the list goes on,” he says. “All requesting aid. Their proxies here in Antium have been hounding me since Keris’s message came in. Three hundred civilians are dead, and those Barbarian dogs have a fleet approaching the port. Whoever this Grímarr is, he’s trying to take the damn city.”

  “But surely Keris can—”

  “She’s up to something, you dim bitch.” Marcus’s roar echoes through the room, and in two steps, his face is inches from mine. Harper tenses behind me, and Livia half rises from her throne. I give my head the slightest shake. I can handle him, little sister.

  Marcus stabs his fingers into my skull. “Get it throu
gh your thick head. If you’d taken care of her like I ordered, this wouldn’t be happening. Shut it, damn you.”

  He whirls, but Livia hasn’t spoken. His gaze is fixed on the middle distance between himself and my sister, and I recall, uneasily, Livia’s suspicion that Marcus sees the ghost of his twin, Zak, murdered months ago during the Trials.

  Before I can think on it, Marcus steps so close my mask ripples. His eyes look as though they might pop from his head.

  “You didn’t ask for assassination, my lord.” I ease away very slowly. “You asked for destruction, and destruction takes time.”

  “I asked”—he leashes his rage, his sudden calm more chilling than his anger—“for competence. You’ve had three months. She should have worms crawling out of her eye sockets by now. Instead, she’s stronger than ever, while the Empire grows weaker. So tell me, Blood Shrike: What are you going to do about her?”

  “I have information.” I put every bit of conviction I possess into my voice, my body. I am certain. I will bring her down. “Enough to destroy her.”

  “What information?”

  I can’t tell him what Elias revealed about Quin. It’s not useful enough, and even if it was, Marcus would question me further. If he learns I had Laia and Elias in my grasp and lost them, he’ll break my sister in half. “The walls have ears, my lord,” I say. “Not all are friendly.”

  Marcus considers me. Then he turns, drags my sister to her feet, and shoves her into the side of her own throne, wrenching her arm behind her back.

  Her stillness is that of a woman who has quickly grown used to violence and who will do what she must to survive it. I clench my hands around my weapons, and Livvy catches my eyes. Her terror—not for herself, but for me—checks my temper. Remember that the more anger you show, the more he’ll make her suffer.

  Even as I force myself to be logical, I hate that I am. I hate myself for not lopping off those hands that have hurt her, not cutting out that tongue that has called her foul names. I hate that I cannot hand her a blade so she can do it herself.

  Marcus tilts his head. “Your sister plays oud so well,” he says. “She’s entertained many of my guests, charmed them even, with the beauty of her musicianship. But I’m sure she can find other ways to entertain them.” He leans close to Livia’s ear, and her gaze drifts faraway, her mouth hard. “Do you sing, my love? I’m certain you have a beautiful voice.” Slowly, deliberately, he draws back one of her fingers. Further, further, further . . . This cannot be borne. I step forward and feel a viselike grip on my arm.

  “You’ll make it worse,” Avitas murmurs in my ear.

  Livia’s finger cracks. She gasps but makes no other sound.

  “That,” Marcus says, “is for your failure.” He grabs another of Livia’s fingers, bending it back so carefully that I know he is taking joy from each second of it. Sweat beads on her forehead, and her face is white as bone.

  When her finger finally breaks, she whimpers and bites her lip.

  “My brave bird.” Marcus smiles at her, and I want to rip his throat out. “You know I like it better when you scream.” When he turns back to me, his smile is gone. “And that is a reminder of what’s to come if you fail me again.”

  Marcus flings my sister onto her throne. Her head knocks against the rough stone. She shudders and cradles one hand, but her hatred blazes out at Marcus before she tamps it down, her face composed once more.

  “You will go to Navium, Shrike,” Marcus says. “You will learn what the Bitch of Blackcliff is planning. You will destroy her, piece by piece. And you will do it quickly. I want her head on a spear by the Grain Moon, and I want the Empire begging for it to happen. Five months. That’s enough time even for you, is it not? You will update me through the drums every three days. And”—he glances at Livia—“if I’m not satisfied with your progress, I’ll keep breaking your little sister’s bones until she’s nothing but jagged edges.”

  VIII: Laia

  For hours, I run, cloaking myself from a maddening number of Martial patrols, holding my invisibility until my head throbs and my legs tremble from cold and exhaustion. My mind spins with worry for Elias, for Darin, for Afya. Even if they are safe, what in the skies will we do now that the Empire has caught on to the raids? The Martials will flood the countryside with soldiers. We cannot continue. The risk is too great.

  Never mind. Just get to the camp. And hope to the skies that Darin got there too.

  At midnight a day after the raid, I finally spot the tall, naked oak that shelters our tent, its branches grousing in the wind. Horses nicker, and a familiar figure paces beneath the tree. Darin! I nearly sob in relief. My strength has left me, and I find I cannot call out. I simply drop into visibility.

  When I do, darkness flashes across my vision. I see a shadowy room, a hunched figure. A moment later, the vision is gone, and I stumble toward the camp. Darin spies me and runs, pulling me into a hug. Afya bursts from the round fur tent my brother and I use as shelter, anger and relief mingling on her face.

  “You’re a bleeding idiot, girl!”

  “Laia, what happened?”

  “Did you find Mamie? Are the prisoners safe? Did Elias—”

  Afya holds up a hand. “Mamie’s with a healer from Tribe Nur,” the Zaldara says. “My people will get the prisoners to the Tribal lands. I meant to join them, but . . .”

  She glances at Darin, and I understand. She did not wish to leave him alone. She did not know if I’d return. I tell them swiftly of the Blood Shrike’s ambush and Elias’s disappearance.

  “Did you see Elias?” Please let him be all right. “Did he come out of the Forest?”

  Afya shudders as she looks over her shoulder to the towering wall of trees that marks the western border of the Waiting Place. Darin only shakes his head.

  I glower at the trees, wishing I had the power to burn a path through to the jinn’s cabin. Why did you snatch him away, Shaeva? Why do you torment him so?

  “Come inside.” Darin tugs me into the tent and tucks a woolen blanket from his sleeping roll around my shoulders. “You’ll catch your death.”

  Afya pulls away the fur covering the hole at the top of the tent and stirs the ashes of our small cook fire until her brown face is lit bronze. Long minutes later, I’m shoveling down the potato-and-squash stew Darin has made. It’s overcooked, with so much red pepper in it that I nearly choke—Darin was always hopeless in the kitchen.

  “Our raiding days are over,” Afya says. “But if you wish to keep fighting the Empire, then come with me. Join Tribe Nur.” The Tribeswoman pauses, considering. “Permanently.”

  My brother and I exchange a glance. Tribespeople only accept new family members through marriage or the adoption of children. To be invited to join a Tribe is no small thing—and by the Zaldara, no less.

  I reach for Afya’s hand, stunned at her generosity, but she waves me off.

  “You’re practically family anyway,” Afya says. “And you know me, girl. I want something in return.” She turns to my brother. “Many died to save you, Darin of Serra. The time has come for you to begin forging Serric steel. I can procure you materials. Skies know the Tribes need as much help as we can get.”

  My brother flexes his hand as he always does when the phantom pains of his missing fingers plague him. His face goes pale, his lips thin. The demons within awaken.

  I want so desperately for Darin to speak, to accept Afya’s offer. It might be the only chance we have to continue fighting the Empire. But when I turn to him, he is leaving the tent, muttering about needing air.

  “What news from your spies?” I say quickly to Afya, hoping to shift her attention from my brother. “The Martials have not drawn down their forces?”

  “They sent another legion into the Tribal desert from Atella’s Gap,” Afya says. “They’ve arrested hundreds around Nur on false charges: graft and transporting con
traband and skies know what else. Rumor is that they’re planning to send the prisoners to Empire cities to be sold as slaves.”

  “The Tribes are protected,” I say. “The treaty with Emperor Taius has held for five centuries.”

  “Emperor Marcus doesn’t care a fig about that treaty.” Afya frowns. “That’s not the worst of it. In Sadh, a legionnaire killed the Kehanni of Tribe Alli.”

  I cannot hide my slack-jawed shock. Kehannis are the keepers of Tribal stories and history, second in rank only to the Zaldars. Killing one is a declaration of war.

  “Tribe Alli attacked the closest Martial garrison in retaliation,” Afya says. “It’s what the Empire wanted. The commanding Mask came down like a hammer out of the hells, and now all of Tribe Alli is either dead or in prison. Tribe Siyyad and Tribe Fozi have sworn vengeance on the Empire. Their Zaldars ordered attacks on Empire villages—nearly a hundred Martials dead at last count, and not just soldiers.”

  She gives me a significant look. If the Tribes turn on Martial innocents—children, civilians, the elderly—the Empire will hit back hard.

  “They’re provoking us.” Afya peers out at the sky to gauge the time. “Weakening us. We need that steel, Laia. Think on my offer.” She pulls on her cloak to leave, pausing at the flap of the tent. “But think quickly. A strangeness taints the air. I can feel it in my bones. It’s not just the Martials I fear.”

  Afya’s warning plagues me all night. Not long before dawn, I give up on sleep and slip outside the tent to where my brother sits watch.

  The ghosts of the Waiting Place are restive—angered, no doubt, by our presence. Their anguished cries join with the howling wind out of the north, an icy, hair-raising chorus. I pull my blanket close as I drop next to my brother.

  We sit in silence, watching the treetops of the Waiting Place brighten from black to blue as the eastern sky pales. After a time, Darin speaks.

  “You want to know why I won’t make the weapons.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.”