Free A Torch Against the Night by Sabaa Tahir Page A

back, wary now of whatever is in that room with the Commandant.
    “Ah, Keris. Busy in your spare time, I see? Learning about her? Who she is … who her parents were …”
    “It was easy enough to find out once I knew what to look for.”
    “The girl is not your concern. I tire of your questioning. Small victories have made you daring, Commandant. Do not let them make you stupid. You have your orders. Carry them out.”
    I step out of sight just as the Commandant leaves the room. She stalks down the hallway, and I wait until her footsteps fade before coming out from around the corner—and finding myself face to face with the other speaker.
    “You were listening.”
    My skin feels clammy, and I find I’m clutching the hilt of my scim. The figure before me appears to be a normal man in simple garb, his hands gloved, his hood low to shadow his face. I look away from him immediately. Some lizard instinct screams at me to walk on. But I find, to my alarm, that I can’t move.
    “I am Blood Shrike.” I take no strength from my rank but square my shoulders anyway. “I can listen where I wish.”
    The figure tilts its head and sniffs, as if scenting the air around me.
    “You’ve been gifted.” The man sounds mildly surprised. I shudder at the raw darkness of his voice. “A healing power. The efrits woke it. I smell it. The blue and white of winter, the green of first spring.”
    Bleeding skies.
I want to forget about the strange, life-draining power I used on Elias and Laia.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Mask within takes over.
    “It will destroy you if you’re not careful.”
    “And how would you know?” Who
is
this man—if he’s even a man?
    The figure lifts a gloved hand to my shoulder and sings one note, high, like birdsong. So unexpected, considering the gravelly depths of his voice. Fire lances through my body, and I grit my teeth together to keep from screaming.
    But when the pain fades, my body aches less, and the man gestures at the mirror on a far wall. The bruises on my face are not gone, but they are considerably lighter.
    “I would know.” The creature ignores my slack-jawed shock. “You should find a teacher.”
    “Are you volunteering?” I must be insane to say it, but the thing makes a queer sound that might be a laugh.
    “I am not.” He sniffs again, as if considering. “Perhaps … one day.”
    “What—who are you?”
    “I’m the Reaper, girl. And I go to collect what is mine.”
    At this, I dare to look into the man’s face. A mistake, for in place of eyes he has stars blazing out like the fires of the hells. As he meets my gaze, a bolt of loneliness rolls through me. And yet to call it loneliness is not enough. I feel bereft. Destroyed. As if everyone and everything I care about has been ripped from my arms and cast into the ether.
    The creature’s gaze is a writhing abyss, and as my sight goes red and I stagger back into the wall, I realize I am not staring into his eyes. I am staring into my future.
    I see it for a moment. Pain. Suffering. Horror. All that I love, all that matters to me, awash in blood.

CHAPTER NINE
Laia
    R aider’s Roost juts into the air like a colossal fist. It blots out the horizon, its shadow deepening the gloom of the mist-cloaked desert. From here, it looks still and abandoned. But the sun has long since set, and I cannot trust my eyes. Deep in the labyrinthine cracks of that great rock, the Roost teems with the dregs of the Empire.
    I glance at Elias to see his hood has slipped back. When I pull it up, he does not stir, and worry twists in my belly. He has been in and out for the past three days, but his last seizure was especially violent. The bout of unconsciousness that followed lasted for more than a day—the longest stretch yet. I do not understand as much as Pop about healing, but even I know that this is bad.
    Before, Elias at least muttered, as if he was fighting the poison. But he hasn’t spoken a word for hours.