Stars ― Kaz Brekker

09. made of fragments

IN THE PRISON WAGON, Kaz wakes to a sharp jab against his thigh. He's ice cold and in darkness. There are bodies all around him, pressing against his back, his sides. 

He is drowning in corpses, and it isn't the first time. 

"Kaz." A whisper. 

He shudders. 

Another jab to his thigh.

"Kaz." Estera's voice. He manages a deep breath through his nose. He feels her pull away from him. Somehow, in the cramped confines of the wagon, she manages to give him space. His heart is pounding. 

"Keep talking," he rasps. 

"What?" 

"Just keep talking." 

"We're passing through the prison gate. We made it past the first two checkpoints." 

That brings him fully to his senses. They've gone through two checkpoints. That means they've been counted. Someone had opened the door—not once but twice—maybe even laid hands on him, and he hadn't woken. He could have been robbed, killed. He's imagined his death a thousand ways, but never sleeping through it.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, despite the smell of bodies. He's kept his gloves on, something the guards might have easily taken notice of, and a frustrating concession to his weakness, but if he hadn't, he feels fairly sure he'd have gone completely mad.

Behind him, he can hear the other prisoners murmuring to one another in different languages. Despite the fears the darkness wakes in him, he gives thanks for it. He can only hope the rest of his crew, hooded and burdened by their own anxiety, haven't noticed anything strange about his behavior. He'd been sluggish, slow to react when they'd ambushed the wagon, but that is all, and he can make up some excuse to account for it.

He hates that Estera has seen him this way, that anyone has, but on the heels of that thought comes another: Better it should be her. In his bones, he knows she will never speak of it to anyone, that she will never use this knowledge against him. She's a free Grisha in Ketterdam—his reputation is what keeps her safe. She can't afford for him to be seen as weak.

But he knows that isn't it. Estera would never betray him. He knows it, and it makes him feel ill. She knows so much about him already—things he's long since killed, long since erased. She knows the Kaz Rietvold before the Kaz Brekker, and though such knowledge could be perfect leverage, she's never wielded it as such. She's too soft, too sentimental to even think to do so.

She knows him so well already, but it feels dangerous for her to know this, too. 

The wagon comes to a halt. The bolt slides back, and the doors fly open. 

He hears Fjerdan being spoken, then scraping noises and a thunk. His collar is unlocked, and he's led from the wagon down some kind of ramp with the other prisoners. He hears what sounds like a gate creaking open, and they are herded forward, shuffling along in their shackles. 

He squints as his hood is suddenly yanked free. They are standing in a large courtyard, the massive gate already being lowered closed. It strikes the stones with a foreboding series of clanks and groans. When Kaz looks up, he sees guards stationed all along the roof of the courtyard, rifles aimed down at the prisoners. The guards below are moving along the rows of shackled captives, trying to match them to the driver's paperwork by name or description. 

Matthias described the layout of the Ice Court in detail, but he's said little about the way it actually looks. Kaz expected something old and damp—grim gray stone, battle-hard. Instead, he's surrounded by marble so white it almost glows blue. He feels as if he's wandered into some dream-like version of the harsh lands they'd traveled in the north. It's impossible to tell what might be glass or ice or stone.