فصل 16

Chapter 16

CALL’S CELL IN the Panopticon had three white walls and one that was entirely clear, so that he could be seen at all times by the people in the guard tower at the very center of the prison. None of the walls seemed to be affected by magic, so no matter how many times he tried to burn them or devour them, crack them or freeze them, nothing worked. Twice a day, a white box was pushed through a plate of the clear window. Inside was nearly tasteless food and water.

Other than that, nothing changed.

They hadn’t given him any books or paper or pens or anything else to do, so Call spent his days sitting on his cot, hating everyone and especially himself.

He’d been there a week. A week of playing through that final battle in the clearing, imagining how it could have gone differently, imagining Aaron alive — and sometimes, in the throes of self-pity, even imagining himself dead. Sometimes he woke up from dreams where Aaron was talking to him, joking around about going to the Gallery or offering to walk Havoc. Sometimes he woke from dreams where Aaron was shouting at him, telling him that he was the one who was supposed to die.

Call wants to live.

Call thought again and again about his own personal addition to the Cinquain. His defining characteristic: a will to survive. That’s what he’d thought, anyway. But Call didn’t want to be the person who was alive because his best friend was dead. He didn’t know if he wanted to live in a world without Aaron in it.

He wanted Aaron back. It was like a roaring in his soul, the sadness of terrible loss. The realization of what Constantine must have felt when he lost Jericho.

Call didn’t want to understand how Constantine had felt.

Maybe it was better he was in prison, where he couldn’t hurt anyone else, where at least he was being punished for some of his crimes. Maybe it was better that no one came to see him, not even his own dad. Certainly not Tamara, who probably couldn’t live with the guilt of making the totally wrong choice. And not Master Rufus, who probably wished Call had never even gone to the Iron Trial.

How could someone have been unlucky enough to have chosen the Enemy of Death as his apprentice, not once but twice?

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Call was lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, when steps at an unfamiliar time made him turn his head. Standing outside his cell, dressed in a long white coat, her hair tucked up under a white hat, was Anastasia Tarquin.

She looked at him and raised both her brows in a gesture that reminded him of Master Rufus. It said, You are amusing me right now, but you won’t be amusing me for long.

Call didn’t care. He stayed on the floor. A guard — a woman who banged down Call’s food tray with unnecessary vigor — brought the Assemblywoman a chair. Anastasia sat and the guard walked off. Call had guessed that a member of the Assembly would eventually come to take some kind of statement or interrogate him. He should probably be glad it was Anastasia, but he wasn’t glad. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but someone he knew was even worse than a stranger.

“Come closer,” Anastasia told him, folding her hands in her lap.

With a sigh, Call scrambled over to the window and into a sitting position. “Fine, but you have to answer two questions for me.” “Very well,” she said. “What are they?”

Call hesitated, because even though he obsessed over these two things in the longest hours of the night, he didn’t know what he would do with real answers.

“Is Tamara okay?” he managed, his voice coming out choked. “Is she in a lot of trouble?” Anastasia gave him a small smile. “Tamara is safe. How much trouble she is in remains to be seen. Are you satisfied?” “No,” Call said. “Havoc? Is he okay? Have they hurt him?”

Anastasia’s smile didn’t falter. “Your wolf is with the Rajavis and perfectly safe. Enough?” “I guess,” Call said. Knowing that Tamara was all right and that Havoc was alive was the first relief he’d felt in forever.

“Good,” Anastasia said. “We don’t have a lot of time. There is something I have to tell you. My name is not Anastasia Tarquin.” Call blinked. “What?”

“Long ago I had two sons who went to the Magisterium,” she said. “We were not a legacy family. I admit I was uncomfortable with my own magic and took little interest in their schooling. I met none of their teachers, attended no meetings, let my husband take care of it all. It proved a fatal mistake.” She took a deep breath. “When I spoke of knowing Constantine and Jericho Madden and owing them a debt, I was telling you only some of the truth. You see, I was their mother — which means that I am your mother, in every way that matters.” Whatever Call had been suspecting, it wasn’t that. He gaped at her. “But — but how? The Magisterium — they would know —” “There was no way for them to know,” said Anastasia. “It was long ago, and as I said, I barely knew the mages. But when both my sons were … dead … Master Joseph contacted me. My husband, your father, had killed himself by then.” Her voice was emotionless. “Joseph told me what Constantine had done. How he had transferred his soul. I was determined to be there for my son in his new body as I had not been before. I left the country and went back to my homeland. There, I stole the identity of a woman about my age: Anastasia Tarquin. I altered my appearance. I practiced my craft with a newfound devotion. Then, returning as a powerful mage from abroad, I married Augustus Strike to obtain a seat on the council. No one guessed who I was or my true purpose.” “Your true purpose?” Call’s mind was spinning.

“You,” she said. “That’s why I came to the school. That’s why I joined the Assembly. It was all for you. And that has not changed.” Anastasia rose, standing and putting her hand against the clear not-glass of the window, as if she wished nothing more than to reach through it and be able to touch Call’s hand with her own. Her eyes were sad but determined. “This time I am going to save you, my son. This time I am going to set you free.”