A Torch Against the Night (An Ember in the Ashes, #2)

by Sabaa Tahir

She sees me now, down to the wretched truth at my core. Murderer! Death himself!

“There’s hope in life,” he says. “A brave girl once told me that. If something happens to me, don’t fear. You’ll find a way.”

I didn’t betray Elias. I survived the interrogation.

I am Blood Shrike of the Martial Empire. I will leave this dungeon on my own two feet.

Besides which, she murdered my parents and sister. She took Izzi’s eye. Tortured Cook. Tortured me. She led a generation of the most lethal, ignoble monsters while they pummeled my people into servile ghosts of themselves. She deserves to die.

It feels as if winter itself has taken hold of me.

The words liberate me. Perhaps I have become so accustomed to the burden of secrets that I do not notice its weight until I am free of it.

“Your mother’s crimes are not yours,”

His lashes are dark crescents against the gold skin of his face. He looks younger in sleep. Like the boy I danced with on the night of the Moon Festival.

It pours from him, this vitality—when he fights, when he rides.

“But you are dead,” she says. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I’d give so much to be this close to her and not be poisoned or hunted, injured or haunted.

You, in turn, are a poison. You will poison Laia’s joy, her hope, her life, like you have poisoned all the rest. If you care for her, then do not let her care for you. Like the poison that rages within you, you have no antidote.”

I cannot show her the wounded parts of me. I cannot show anyone those parts. Not when my strength is the only thing that will serve me now.

You kept me alive. You kept yourself alive. You’re as brave as your mother. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.

Her life has been nothing but secrets. She deserves the truth.

Elias pulls me into a hug, and as I lean into his shoulder, the sound lurking within emerges, something between a scream and a sob. Something animal and strange. Frustration and fear at what is to come. Rage at how I always feel as if I’m thwarted. Terror that I will never see my brother again.

I’m truly, truly sorry. It’s not enough. But it’s all I have.

“You are my temple,” I murmur as I kneel beside her. “You are my priest. You are my prayer. You are my release.”

I had him. Damn it all. I had him. And then I let him go. Because I don’t want him to die. Because he’s my friend and I love him.

Is this what the Empire has become? Or is this what it always was? a quiet voice within asks.

He’s the things that I can’t be. He’s good. He never would have let the Commandant kill those prisoners. Especially not the children.”

This is, perhaps, more terrifying than anything I’ve seen from Marcus yet. Because it makes him human.

“Most people,” Cain says, “are nothing but glimmers in the great darkness of time. But you, Helene Aquilla, are no swift-burning spark. You are a torch against the night—if you dare to let yourself burn.”

Killing Elias will destroy me. I sense that truth in my bones. Killing Elias is my unmaking.

Love. I love him. Don’t I?

A week ago, I’d have said the words out loud. But since Keenan took the yoke of leadership from me, I’ve felt weaker. Diminished. As if I grow smaller by the day.

I miss that girl. That Laia. That version of myself that burned brightest when Elias Veturius was near.

“Laia of Serra,” Helene Aquilla says. If the storm outside had a voice, it would be hers, gelid, deathly, and utterly unfeeling.

Keenan is the Nightbringer. A jinn. A demon.

Perhaps grief is like battle: After experiencing enough of it, your body’s instincts take over.

This is not the tiredness of interrogation or a long journey. It is the exhaustion of a body that’s nearly done fighting.

“Rise, Elias Veturius.” Tas smacks my face, and I blink at him in surprise. His eyes are fierce. “You gave me a name,” he says. “I want to live to hear it on the lips of others. Rise.”

You bring pain and suffering to those you love. But you do not wish to. It is as if your very fate is to leave a trail of destruction. You are like me. Or rather, like I was.”

“You slew a demon, Tas of the north.” I kneel beside him. “I am proud to fight by your side.

For a moment, I see Helene Aquilla. The girl who hoped. The girl who thought the world was fair. But Helene Aquilla is broken. Unmade. Helene Aquilla is dead. The woman in the mirror is not Helene Aquilla. She is the Blood Shrike.

The Blood Shrike is not lonely, for the Empire is her mother and her father, her lover and her best friend. She needs nothing else. She needs no one else.

“So a jinn is in love with me. I far prefer the ten-year-old.”

“Look at you, little sister,” Darin finally whispers. His smile is the sun rising after the longest, darkest night. “Look at you.”