The Shadows

Reaching forward, she picked up the long, thin, heavy drawer. It was the only weapon she had—

For some reason—and later she would wonder exactly why—as Trez’s chart rolled up on itself, resuming the shape it had been trained to prefer, she looked down at the thing.

The floor had been perfectly clean as she had entered, no dust marring its surface, no scuffs, no scratches.

But now there were chips of . . . paint . . . and little flakes . . . around where the chart had rolled itself up.

Frowning, she put the drawer aside and flattened the parchment back out.

As the sounds of fighting commenced in the gazing room, folds of robes flapping, grunts and groans sounding so very loud and close, she leaned over the sacred writing.

In the center of the chart, a portion of the paint had chipped off.

Revealing . . .

The exhale that left her mouth was the result of her ribs seizing up.

And to make sure she was not imagining things, she reread what she thought she was seeing.

Then she took her fingernail and flicked it under the cover-up that had been executed.

“Oh . . . Fates . . .” she breathed.

Scrambling to her feet, she raced over to the boxes where the charts of the subjects of the s’Hisbe were kept. Her eyes bounced around, searching for the right birth number, and when she found that drawer, she slid it out, put it on the floor, and lifted the lid.

The civilian records were tied with strings that had little tags on them, and they were in no particular order, some twenty different scrolls shoved in together. With her breath panting out of her mouth, and her hands shaking, she rifled through them as quickly as she could.

When she found the one she was looking for, she rushed back to the doctored document.

Putting them side by side, with the drawer at the very top, she stretched them out.

Sure enough, there was a patch in the center of the second one, the area of cover up painted in with such care that the doctoring wouldn’t have been noticed at the time. It had, however, aged badly over the course of the years.

Chipping it free, she found . . . that in fact . . . the Anointed One was not Trez.

Of the pair of twins, he had been born second, not first.

It was iAm who was the sacred male.

In spite of the mortal danger outside, she slumped over the records, putting her hands to her face.

Why had they switched them? Why—

“Princess,” s’Ex barked. “We need to get out of here—”

“She switched the records.”

“What?”

Catra looked at him over her shoulder, and recoiled at the amount of blood on his sleeves, his robes, his face and hands. But there was no time to get rattled. “The Queen switched the records of the infants, of Trez and iAm. I don’t know why, though.” She pointed to the doctored parts of the charts. “It’s right here. The Chief Astrologer is the one who prepares the most sacred charts for royalty, not the Tretary. So he must have done this, and AnsLai had to have known. But what’s the benefit—

“Behind you!” she screamed.

Just as the guard who had appeared at s’Ex’s back raised a knife over his head, the executioner wheeled around—with his own blade at throat height. Within the blink of an eye, s’Ex overpowered the guard by slitting the male’s jugular open, red blood splashing out.

Horrified by the sight of the death, Catra could feel her mind departing, sure as a spectator might retreat at a fighting contest that had turned too violent.

But, as with what s’Ex said about regrets, she didn’t have that kind of luxury.

Rolling up the charts, she put Trez’s and iAm’s in with hers and her mother’s in the box. s’Ex’s infant daughter’s was still on the floor—and she nearly left it behind.

At the last minute, however, she reached over and began to roll it up—and that was when she felt an odd cool spot. In the center.

Why would parchment be cool?

She flattened the chart out again . . . and ran her fingertips over the surface. When she got to the middle, there was a subtle change of temperature.

Because a thickened area of paint was still drying.

That was the source of the sweet smell.

They had doctored the infant’s as well.

“Time’s up, Princess,” s’Ex said with urgency. “We—”

“Give me your knife.”

“What?”

“Clean it off and give me your knife,” she commanded, putting out her hand.

SEVENTY-NINE

The last thing Trez did before dematerializing away from the Brotherhood mansion was take out his phone. He texted his brother just four words.

I am at peace.

And then he walked back over to the front steps and placed the cell down on the cold stone.

A moment later, he was gone. He didn’t look back at the house . . . didn’t hesitate . . . didn’t have any misgiving.

The fight was over. The long stretch of struggle that had defined his life had reached its conclusion.

When he re-formed, it was before the great gates of the s’Hisbe.