Don’t do it, I want to tell him. Flee.
My mother’s hands blur as she breaks his neck. I wonder if he even felt it.
“Let’s keep it that way,” she says to his slumped body, “shall we?”
I blink, and I am back in the jinn grove. No vines drag me down to the Forest floor, and dawn paints the grove red and orange. Hours have passed.
The jinn still scuttle through my mind. I fight back, shoving them out, pushing into their consciousness. Their surprise is palpable, and their guard drops for a moment. I feel their rage, their shock, a shared, deep pain—and a swiftly suppressed panic. A furtiveness.
Then I am cast out.
“You’re hiding something,” I gasp. “You—”
Look to your borders, Elias Veturius, the jinn snarl. See what we have wrought.
An attack. I feel it as clearly as I’d feel an attack on my own body. But this assault doesn’t come from outside the Forest. It comes from within.
Go and see the horror of ghosts who break free of the Waiting Place. See your people ravaged. You cannot change it. You cannot stop it.
I curse, hearing the Augur’s words from so long ago thrown back in my face. I windwalk to the southern border with a speed that would rival Shaeva’s. When I arrive, thousands of ghosts cluster in one spot, pushing against the border with single-minded violence, almost feral with the desire to escape.
I reach for Mauth, for the magic, but I might as well be grasping at air. The ghosts part as I make my way through them, their shrieking disappointment reverberating in my bones.
The border appears whole, but spirits might still have escaped. I run my hands over the glowing gold wall, trying to find any weaknesses.
Far in the distance, the red and blue of Tribe Nasur’s wagons gleam in the morning light, the smoke of cook fires fading into a stormy sky. To my surprise, the encampment has grown—and moved closer to the Forest. I recognize the green-and-gold-draped wagons curved in a circle not far from the shore of the Duskan Sea. Tribe Nur—Afya’s tribe—has joined Aubarit’s.
Why is Afya here? With the Martials so belligerent, the Tribes shouldn’t congregate in one place. Afya’s savvy enough to know that.
“Banu al-Mauth?”
Aubarit appears from a dip in the land just ahead.
“Fakira.” I step out of the Forest, my pulse still thundering in warning, though I sense nothing out of the ordinary. “Now isn’t really a good—”
“Elias bleeding Veturius!” I know the small woman who shoves past Aubarit by the fire in her eyes, for in every other way, she is unrecognizable. Her face is lined, and the kerchief that hides her usually impeccable braids cannot mask their disarray. Purple shadows nest beneath her eyes and I smell the sharp tang of sweat. “What the hells is going on?”
“Zaldara!” Aubarit looks scandalized. “You will address him as the Banu—”
“Do not call him that! His name is Elias Veturius. He is a foolish man, just like any other foolish man, and I suspect he is the reason Tribe Nur’s ghosts are stuck—”
“Afya, slow down,” I say. “What in ten hells—” My voice chokes off as Mauth tugs violently at me, almost pulling me off my feet. I sense the urgency behind the summons and whip around. Floating on the breeze just a few yards away, a face materializes.
It’s contorted, angry, and moving swiftly toward the Tribal encampments. Another follows it, called to the distant caravan like vultures drawn to carrion.
Some of the ghosts escaped. Before I arrived, they got out.
Perhaps they will only drift about, wailing and pining for life. They have no bodies. They can’t actually do anything.
I’ve barely even formed the thought when, with chilling suddenness, a flock of birds lifts from the trees near the caravans, cawing in alarm.
“Elias—” Afya speaks, but I jerk my hand up. For a moment, all is quiet.
And then, the screaming begins.
XIX: The Blood Shrike
Blood Shrike,
Summer is in full bloom in Antium, and it grows difficult to hide from the heat. The Emperor rejoices in the change of seasons, though he is much troubled by the concerns of the crown.
The seasonal storms are as bad as the heat and no one at court is unaffected. I offer aid where I can, but it is challenging.
I am thankful every day for the Plebeians. Their support of both the Emperor and myself is a comfort during this trying time.
Loyal to the end,
Empress Livia Aquilla Farrar
Someone opened Livia’s letter long before it got to me. My sister’s attempts to code her thoughts, while clever, are useless. By now, the Commandant will know that she is well into her pregnancy. The Nightbringer will have told her.
As for the rest of the letter, Keris will have deciphered that as well: that Livia can’t hide the pregnancy for much longer; that the Emperor grows more unstable; that my sister keeps the wolves at bay; that Plebeian support is all that allows Marcus to remain on the throne.
That I must defeat the Commandant soon, if I want Livia and her child to survive.
I read the letter while wandering Navium’s southern beach, which is littered with the wreckage of the fleet. Tattered sails, moss-covered masts, weathered scraps of wood. All are proof of my failure to protect the city.
As I kneel to run my hands over a piece of ocean-smoothed hull, Dex appears behind me.
“Pater Tatius will not see you, Shrike.”
“What’s the excuse this time?”
“He’s visiting a sick aunt.” Dex sighs. He looks as exhausted as I feel. “He’s been talking to Pater Equitius.”
Indeed. The Pater of Gens Equitia just gave us the same excuse two days ago. And though I suspected Tatius might, like all the other Paters, try to avoid me, I’d hoped for better.
“There aren’t any Paters left to approach,” Dex says as we turn away from the beach and up to the Black Guard barracks. “Argus and Vissellius are dead, and their heirs blame you. The rest are too angry about the fleet. Tatius lost a quarter of his Gens in the storm.”
“This isn’t just about the fleet,” I say. “If it were, they would lecture me, demand that I grovel and apologize.” These are, after all, Martial Paters. They love talking down to women as much as they love their money. “Either they’re afraid of the Commandant or she’s offering them something that I cannot—something they cannot refuse.”
“Money?” Dex says. “More ships?”
“She doesn’t have ships,” I say. “Even if we miraculously took over Grímarr’s fleet, we would only just have enough ships to replace the navy. And she’s wealthy, but not wealthy enough to pay off all of those Paters.”
There’s more to this. But how the hells do I find out what it is if none of the Paters will talk to me?
As we wind up toward the city, the scarred, still-burning Southwest Quarter comes into view. Grímarr has attacked twice more in the two weeks since I arrived. Without a fleet, we’ve had no choice but to hunker down and hope that the fires from their missiles do not spread.
During both attacks, the Paters and Keris froze me out of the decision-making, with Keris smoothly and quietly ignoring my orders for the greater good. Only Janus Atrius backs me, and his lone voice is nothing against the unity of Keris’s allies.
I want to start lopping off heads. But Keris is looking for an excuse to take me down—either by jailing me or killing me. If I start killing Paters, she’ll have it.
No, I have to be more cunning. I click my horse forward. I can do nothing about Grímarr’s attacks. But I can weaken Keris—if I can get information on her.
“We’ll have a day or two of quiet while Grímarr figures out the Karkauns’ next move,” I tell Dex. “There are a few files on the Paters in my desk. All their dirty little secrets. Start cornering them discreetly. See if you can get them to talk.”
Dex leaves me, and when I return to the barracks, I find Avitas waiting, shoulders stiff with disapproval.
“You should not be traveling the city alone, Shrike,” Avitas says. “Regulation states—”
“I can’t waste you or Dex on escorting me everywhere,” I say. “Did you find it?”