Beside me, Jeran moves without a sound, his steps sure and steady tonight as if he were out on a sweep. Light and shadow band across his face in a silent rhythm.
“They still aren’t feeding him?” he asks me as we go, his eyes flickering to my hands for my response.
I shake my head and raise my hands so he can see me sign in the near-darkness. “They are. He won’t eat. No one can make him.”
“I guess he’s determined to die, isn’t he?”
“Maybe this was all part of the Firstblade’s plan to get rid of me.”
“Aramin thinks you’re a valuable Striker, Talin.”
“Oh, is that what he told you?”
“It’s just the truth. You did defy him in front of the entire arena.”
“You’re always defending him, Jeran.”
Jeran looks embarrassed. “Not always,” he mutters under his breath.
“If this prisoner dies of hunger,” I sign gloomily, “at least my punishment will be brief.”
“Is that why you brought him a bag of bread and fish from the mess hall?”
“Stop wringing decency out of me.”
“It’s an honest question.”
“I need something as bait if I’m going to try coaxing answers out of him, don’t I?”
“Well,” he says, “don’t tell Adena that you’re trying to feed the prisoner.”
“Is she still upset with me?”
Jeran hesitates long enough for me to wonder if he couldn’t see my signs in the dark. “She’ll get over it,” he finally replies. “But you have to understand how hard it was for her to watch you defend the life of a Federation soldier.”
“We don’t know if he was a soldier.”
“She doesn’t care about that.”
I don’t respond for a while. A part of me rears up in my own defense—I had tried to save a life and a friend I’ve known since childhood is holding it against me. But then I think of Adena’s meat pie deliveries, the way she’d looped her arm into mine as we walked to the arena. I think of years ago, how she had screamed when Federation troops shot her brother dead as he tried to run across the warfront to us. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her break the Striker oath of silence out in the field. Aramin had refused her plea to send Strikers into enemy territory to retrieve his body, but even he hadn’t had the heart to punish her for the outburst.
I picture the memories coming back into her life, crowding her head. She must be in her workshop now, furiously sharpening her tools.
“I’ll visit her tomorrow,” I tell Jeran. “I’ll apologize in person.”
We finally reach the lowest floor. There are only a handful of cells down here, all arranged in a circle around the central spiral of steps. So little light reaches this floor that the walls around us seem to extend into blackness beyond the glow of torches. Guards stand at attention before each steel door.
Prisoners from the Federation are kept down here. One of the cells holds a Ghost that had been captured alive months ago. I used to hear its shrieks echoing beyond the gratings five floors above, the rhythmic clang of it throwing its body against the steel doors. Now it is quiet, stirring into a rage only when people enter its cell. I’ve never seen its face, although I know the Speaker has authorized us to experiment on it to understand how the Federation could possibly have mutilated a human into such a creature.
There are Federation soldiers down here too—or, at least, there used to be. Their screams would fill the air for weeks as they were tortured for information, for any desperate lead we could get in order to help us fend off the Federation for another month.
But now, as we make our way to the last cell, I hear nothing. Guards nod at us in silence, wary of disturbing the captive Ghost. We give them our silent salute as we stride by.
There are four guards standing at attention before the prisoner’s—my Shield’s—cell. Jeran approaches one of them so quietly that he jumps, drawing his blade before he sees the cut of our coats.
“Striker Jeran,” he mutters in greeting. “Hells, you blue coats sneak up like a rogue wind.”
“Hello,” Jeran says politely, blinking. “I’m sorry for startling you.”
The second guard snorts at the sight of me. “A nice display you put on in the arena yesterday. I’m surprised the Firstblade didn’t cut your throat right then and there.”
Common soldiers are also trained to sign, so I could respond if I