An Ember in the Ashes. Sabaa Tahir
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flares in his eyes. ‘Jahan gave it to her when they got married. I never saw her without it. Why didn’t you come to us before? Why didn’t your grandparents contact us? We’d have trained you up the way Mirra would have wanted.’
The answer dawns on his face before I can say it.
‘The traitor,’ he says.
‘My grandparents didn’t know who to trust. They decided not to trust anyone.’
‘And now they’re dead, your brother is in jail, and you want our help.’ Mazen brings his pipe back to his mouth.
‘We must give her aid.’ Sana is beside me, her hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s our duty. She’s, as you say, one of our own.’
Tariq stands behind her, and I notice that the fighters have divided into two groups. The ones backing Mazen are closer to Keenan’s age. The rebels clustered behind Sana are older. She’s the head of our faction,
Many of the older fighters stare at me, perhaps searching my face for evidence of Mother and Father. I don’t blame them. My parents were the greatest leaders in the Resistance’s five-hundred-year history.
Then they’d been betrayed by one of their own. Caught. Tortured. Executed along with my sister, Lis. The Resistance collapsed and never recovered.
‘If the Lioness’s son is in trouble, we owe it to her to help,’ Sana says to those gathered behind her. ‘How many times did she save your life, Mazen? How many times did she save all of us?’
Suddenly, everyone is talking.
‘Mirra and I set fire to an Empire garrison—’
‘She could cut right to your soul with her eyes, the Lioness—’
‘Saw her fend off a dozen auxes once – not a bit of fear in her—’
I have stories of my own. She wanted to leave us. She wanted to abandon her children for the Resistance, but Father wouldn’t let her. When they fought, Lis took me and Darin into the forest and sang so we wouldn’t hear them. That’s my first memory – Lis singing me a song while the Lioness raged a few yards away.
After my parents left us with Nan and Pop, it took weeks for me to stop feeling jumpy, to get used to living with two people who actually seemed to love each other.
I say none of this, instead knotting my fingers together as the fighters tell their stories. I know they want me to be brave and charming, like Mother. They want me to listen, really listen, like Father.
If they learn what I truly am, they’ll throw me out of here without a thought. The Resistance doesn’t tolerate weaklings.
‘Laia.’ Mazen speaks over them, and they quiet down. ‘We don’t have the manpower to break into a Martial prison. We’d risk too much.’
I don’t get the chance to protest because Sana’s speaking for me.
‘The Lioness would have done it for you without a second thought.’
‘We have to bring down the Empire,’ a blond man behind Mazen says. ‘Not waste our time saving some boy.’
‘We don’t abandon our own!’
‘We’ll be the ones doing all the fighting,’ another of Mazen’s men calls from the back of the crowd, ‘while you old-timers sit around taking all the credit.’
Tariq shoves past Sana, his face dark. ‘You mean while we plan and prepare to make sure you young fools don’t get ambushed—’
‘Enough. Enough!’ Mazen raises his hands. Sana pulls Tariq back, and the other fighters fall silent. ‘We won’t solve this by shouting at each other. Keenan, find Haider and bring him to my chambers. Sana, get Eran and join us. We’ll decide this privately.’
Sana hurries away but Keenan doesn’t move. I flush beneath his stare, not sure what to say. His eyes are almost black in the cavern’s dim light.
‘I see it now,’ he murmurs, as if to himself. ‘I can’t believe I almost missed it.’
He can’t have known my parents. He doesn’t look much older than me. I wonder how long he’s been in the Resistance, but before I can ask, he disappears into the tunnels, leaving me to stare after him.
Hours later, after I’ve forced food down my throat and pretended to sleep on a rock-hard bunk, after the stars have faded and the sun has risen, one of the cavern doors swings open.
Mazen enters, followed by Keenan, Sana, and two younger men. The Resistance leader limps to a table where Tariq is sitting and gestures me over. I try to read Sana’s face as I join them, but her expression is carefully neutral. The other fighters gather around, as interested as I am to see what my fate will be.
‘Laia,’ Mazen says. ‘Keenan here thinks we should keep you in camp. Safe.’ Mazen infuses the word with scorn. Beside me, Tariq looks askance at Keenan.
‘She’ll cause less trouble here.’ The red-haired fighter’s eyes flash. ‘Breaking her brother out will cost men – good men—’ He stops at a look from Mazen and clamps his mouth shut. And though I hardly know Keenan, I’m stung at how violently he’s opposing me. What have I ever done to him?
‘It will cost good men,’ Mazen says. ‘Which is why I’ve decided that if Laia wants our help, she has to be willing to give us something in return.’ Fighters from both factions eye their leader warily. Mazen turns to me. ‘We’ll help you, if you help us.’
‘What could I possibly do for the Resistance?’
‘You can cook, yes?’ Mazen asks. ‘And clean? Dress hair, press clothing—’
‘Make soap, wash dishes, barter – yes. You’ve just described every freewoman in the Scholars’ Quarter.’
‘You can read too,’ Mazen says. When I begin to deny the charge, he shakes his head. ‘Empire rules be damned. You forget I knew your parents.’
‘What does any of that have to do with helping the Resistance?’
‘We’ll break your brother out of prison if you spy for us.’
For a moment, I don’t speak, though I feel a tug of curiosity. This is the last thing I expected. ‘Who do you want me to spy on?’
‘The Commandant of Blackcliff Military Academy.’
The morning after the Augur’s visit, I stumble to the mess hall like a Cadet suffering his first hangover, cursing the overly bright sun. What little sleep I got was sabotaged by a familiar nightmare, one in which I wander through a stinking, body-strewn battlefield. In the dream, screams rend the air and somehow I know that the pain and suffering are my fault, that the dead have fallen by my hand.
Not the best way to start a day. Especially graduation day.
I run into Helene as she, Dex, Faris, and Tristas leave mess. She stuffs a rock-hard biscuit into my hand, ignoring my protests, and pulls me away from the hall.
‘We’re late.’ I barely hear her over the ceaseless beating of the drums, which are ordering all graduates to the armoury to pick up our ceremonials – the armour of a full Mask. ‘Demetrius and Leander already left.’
Helene chatters about how thrilling it will be to put on our ceremonials. Dimly, I listen to her and the others, nodding at appropriate times, exclaiming when