Some of it made sense, but the rest was in code. Sirsha didn’t pay attention to Martial gossip or politics, but Elias Veturius—and his son—were heirs to a powerful Gens. They would have powerful friends. Quil might be the son of a high-ranking military official or ambassador.

  Or he might be a spy.

  She watched him. Spy seemed likely. It would explain how he’d gotten so good at controlling his emotions.

  Though he wasn’t doing so now. He looked oddly vulnerable with his back bowed, his fists hanging over the side of the shabka and the sea winds tousling his black hair. He looked as if he bore a yoke around his shoulders no one else could see.

  “Here.” Sirsha offered him a stick of what looked like cinnamon. “Lilangia,” she said. “Helps with nausea.”

  He took it, and looked moderately less green after a few moments of chewing. The wind tore at Sirsha’s hair, pulling it free from the knot atop her head. Her gaze fell upon his bracelet—a medallion strung tight on black leather, a gold sun against blue lapis. That and an etched band of silver on his middle finger were the only adornments he wore.

  Sirsha sniffed experimentally. Something about the bracelet spoke to her. It had an aura. She glanced up at Quil. It would be easy enough to nick it off him. Kade taught her the basics years ago. She made to touch Quil’s wrist as if offering him comfort—

  He snatched his arm away.

  “I hope you weren’t thinking of stealing that.” Quil’s tone was more musing than chiding, but Sirsha still felt like a schoolchild who’d been reprimanded. Her face heated in embarrassment.

  “I hope you aren’t accusing me of something untoward. Just because your bracelet is precious to you doesn’t mean I give a fig about it.”

  She waited for him to stalk off. To find something else to do, as he had whenever she said more than two words to him. Instead, he stared at her. Long enough to make the scowl fade from her face. Long enough that she wanted to look away, but found she could not, caught by the sudden storm of feeling in his eyes, which faded almost as swiftly as it had appeared.

  He stepped toward her, but there was no anger in his expression. Only curiosity.

  “Why do you do that?” He sounded strange—careful. Almost gentle. “Distract. Deflect.”

  She shoved her hands in her pockets, vexed at the way he could read her so easily. “Why do you keep your anger so bottled up when it will feel better to let it out?”

  “Because I have self-control.”

  “Or,” she said, “because you’re so afraid if you feel something, you’ll actually have to do something. And that if you do something, it will be the wrong thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Effie needs steering.”

  “Effie.” He looked confused. “Who—”

  “The ship.” Sirsha spoke to him like he was a child. “E-F two.”

  “That’s not—” Sadness flashed across his face. “That’s not what E-F stands for.”

  Well, what does it mean, then? She didn’t ask. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked away, knowing she’d frustrated him yet again.

  Strangely, she took no satisfaction from it.

  * * *

  The next morning, the verdant line of the Southern Continent appeared on the western horizon, growing thicker and greener, until the city of Jibaut was before them. The strange hodgepodge of wooden buildings drooped in the heavy drizzle that began when they were still out at sea.

  The rain was miserable, but it dampened the sewer stench that pervaded the port, at least. Jibaut was new, with the coltish sprawl of something unplanned. Only twenty years before, it had been a fur trading outpost for the Karkauns. But since those idiots had attacked the Empire and been routed by Empress Helene, they’d withdrawn from the port and no nation claimed it.

  Despite the stench, Sirsha loved Jibaut. She loved its ever-changing nature, usually reflecting whichever gang or family happened to be strongest. She loved the way the edges of the city disappeared into the misty, pine-drenched hills. She loved that by day, Jibaut was languid, but by night, the lamps flared and knives gleamed and the real business took place.

  But her favorite thing about this grubby little city was that, unlike the rest of the south, the Jaduna hated visiting it. Which was why it was the perfect place to learn more about the killer she hunted.

  If Kade was still in the city, that was. There was a crater in Jibaut’s outer wall, and one sector of the docks was destroyed, littered with the splintered masts of half-sunken ships. Jibaut had not escaped Kegari violence. Atop a tall wood-shingled building in the center of the city, a white flag of defeat fluttered. Night approached, and many of the buildings that should have been lit up remained dark. Either a fair number of Jibaut’s residents had fled, or they were lying low.

  Sirsha counted on the fact that Kade had fought too hard and sacrificed too much to leave his business. He’d be here. She just had to find him.

  The Jaduna girl bounced on her heels, anxious to get away from this little crew. It wasn’t that she disliked them. Rather the opposite. The three of them had an easy camaraderie that Sufiyan and Arelia, at least, had extended to Sirsha.

  But that same affection set her on edge. She looked forward to it. Craved it, even. But she was a tracker, and trackers needed to move swiftly and selfishly, with no thought of anything but the hunt.

  Now that Jibaut approached, the hunt was on again.

  As Sufiyan angled the boat into its slip, Quil appeared. He wore a set of dark fatigues and plain leather armor he’d found in the shabka’s stores. His hood was pulled low, but as he peered up to the skies, dotted with Kegari Sails, rain dripped down the hard line of his jaw.

  “Where is she?” Sirsha eyed the Sails. “They all look the bleeding same.”

  Quil nodded to a now-distant speck, heading north. “She wheeled off a half hour ago,” he said, hand tight on his scim. “Shame she didn’t say goodbye first.”

  Sirsha eased his hand off his scim with a light touch. “Don’t draw attention to that.” She nodded to the Kegari in their blue-scaled flight leathers, weaving through the few dockworkers loading cargo in the downpour. “Those sky-pigs will take no prisoners.”

  “You saved us. Outside Navium,” Quil said, and Sirsha looked at him in surprise. He was staring out at the city, taking in the Kegari damage. “Whatever your reasons, if we’d headed directly south, we’d probably be dead. Or imprisoned. Thank you.”

  About time you showed some appreciation. She nearly said it, suppressing it at the last instant. He was being sincere. It wouldn’t kill her to return the favor.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The boat lurched as it hit the dock, and Sirsha stumbled, catching herself on Quil’s arm. His peppery scent washed over her and she pulled away quickly. As she straightened her pack, she looked up. His hazel gaze was guarded but softer than it had been the past two weeks. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Or that he’d talked to her more. She wished—

  The gangplank landed with a thud onto the dock when Arelia unhooked it behind them.

  “This is good riddance, then.” Sirsha stepped away quickly. “Good luck in Ankana.”

  She didn’t wait for his response. In moments, she was down the gangplank and lost among the blue-inked Karkauns and fur-clad Mariners, the dour-faced Kegari, and the green-clad Devanese. She made herself push away any thought of the rich boy and his voice, his body, the way his skin felt under her hand.

  As she walked, she squared her shoulders, threw back her hair, and glared at any who dared look at her with disdain. The only way to survive Jibaut was to make sure everyone knew you were smarter, meaner, and better with a blade than them.

  Which was why it was a shame that at that exact moment, Sirsha felt a presence so oppressive it was like a great hand squashing her head. Her steps faltered, and she looked frantically for a place to disappear and collect herself. But the crowd tightened around her even as the earth screamed that a monster had walked these streets, left cracks in the bones of the earth.

  Someone scrabbled at her pack, and despite her disorientation, instinct had her smashing the thief away and snarling, knives free and spinning in her hands.

  The criminal retreated quickly, but there would be others. She needed shelter. Fast.

  Once she’d made her way past the main thoroughfare, Sirsha stumbled into a side street, catching her breath against a wall. She wasn’t sure how long she waited for her breathing to slow, for the awful feeling to recede. But it lingered at the back of her head, a sustained buzz that made her nauseated. She knew she should search for the presence of Jaduna, as unlikely as it was. But it was all she could do to remain upright.

  Sirsha glanced around, expecting, at least, to see a trail somewhere in the air, bold as if painted in blood. But there was nothing.

  She jumped when she felt something brush against her leg, but it was only a cat, brown and white, one eye shuttered from some old battle. Sirsha knelt and stroked the creature’s soft head. It nuzzled her hand, purring.

  Sirsha shook herself—she wouldn’t be safe on the street for long. Especially if anyone had trailed her from the docks. Kade’s quarters were halfway across the city.

  She hurried down the alley, surveying the flat brick of the buildings on either side, the empty windows above. The killer’s presence had hollowed her out so thoroughly that she struggled to muster enough will to draw on her own magic. But she didn’t need magic to know that something was deeply wrong with the city.

  When she was nearly to the end of the street, her neck prickled and she stopped. Turned.

  The cat still watched her, eye gleaming green in the shadows. But other than that, the street behind her appeared empty, so Sirsha walked on.

  16

  Aiz

  The Southern Ocean boiled and raged, and the Ankanese ship should have been nothing but broken boards at the bottom of the sea. Instead, it cut a steady path south, riding the frothing waves the way Sail pilots rode the winds of a blizzard.

  Aiz fixed her gaze on the southern horizon, welcoming the slap of wet on her face and the wind tearing at her hair. The ship’s captain had shown her to her quarters, given her soap and a bucket of water to wash, and fresh clothing. Kegar was behind her. She must now determine what lay ahead.

  “You have the rhythm of the sea.”

  The seer spoke from beside her, still in her deep green robes. Aiz stepped back, watchful.

  “I am Dolbra.” The seer inclined her head. “We promised Cero to take you wherever you wished to go after we round Cape Timdra tomorrow. Consider well, for once you decide, we will not change course.”

  Aiz had expected to fight Tiral, not escape Kegar. But Mother Div’s will had set her on another path, and it was not fully illuminated. Perhaps Aiz wasn’t ready to face Tiral. Mother Div would want a worthy opponent for her foe—and Aiz wasn’t that. Yet.

  “Why did you decide to help me?” Aiz stalled for time. If there was one thing she’d learned from the Nine Sacred Tales, it was that Mother Div communicated her will in a myriad of ways. Through visions, certainly, but also through signs. One simply had to know how to interpret them.

  Dolbra gripped the railing as the ship crested a large wave, and spray broke over the deck. The bones of her knuckles pressed tight against her skin. For a moment, within her hood, the seer appeared almost skeletal.

  Around the two of them, the odd silence of the ship deepened.

  “I saw you,” Dolbra whispered.

  “Saw me where?” Aiz said.

  “They mustn’t hear.” Dolbra’s gaze raked across her countrymen all over the boat. “They mustn’t know, for our people are to remain neutral in all things. But you appeared in my visions, Aiz bet-Dafra. You grasped an ancient wind in your hand and swallowed it. It bloomed through your chest and took form as a woman with her hands raised. Your cleric, Div.”

  “Your people,” Aiz said. “They know of Mother Div?”

  Dolbra nodded. “She visited centuries ago. Much of what she said was lost. But she told us her Nine Sacred Tales. She is not a holy figure for our people. But she is respected, for she knew the power of foresight. Look—”

  Dolbra gestured up to a star burning low on the horizon.

  “That is Malitha, which rises for rebirth and for destruction,” she said, before drawing an invisible line to another star. “And when Jiragh is in direct line, that is a return. A change.”

  A chill swept up Aiz’s arms. It was a star that led Mother Div to a new homeland long ago—the evening star.

  “But there are other stars I see,” Dolbra breathed. “In dreams, the seers delve beyond what the human eye can perceive and into the empyrean. There, constellations beyond our sky emerge.” The seer stepped closer to Aiz now. “The Reaper rose once before, more than one thousand years ago. It rises again. When I look at you now, I see—”

  “Holy Seer.”

  Aiz started, for she’d been so fixated on Dolbra’s words that she hadn’t noticed the ship’s captain approach. She was small and fair-haired, with a stony gaze.

  “Holy Seer, it is time for the sunset orison.” The captain settled her hand on the seer’s shoulder. “The crew awaits.”

  Dolbra seemed to come out of a daze at the woman’s touch. She joined the rest of the crew, and they tipped their heads to the sky while Dolbra hummed. For a moment when everyone else faced the stars, Dolbra seemed to look across the ship at Aiz.

  Her gaze pierced through the Kegari girl. Haunted.

  Aiz wondered what Dolbra saw.

  * * *

  That night, Aiz pulled out the book she’d stolen from Tiral.

  It was written in Ankanese and she’d read through it once already. The stories within appeared simple: “The Demon at the Wedding,” “The Storm and the Storyteller,” “The Wise Man and His Dutiful Daughter,” “The Dragon of Wit and Wile.” The types of tales you told children to ensure they didn’t wander alone into a dark forest.

  Certain words snagged in her head: Demon. Dusk. Wind. North. Song.

  Tiral wouldn’t have been so attached to it if it didn’t mean something. There was a message in these words, and Aiz was determined to find it.

  She finished one of the stories she’d enjoyed, about a monster who sneaks into a wedding. The setting alone beguiled her—the descriptions of lamps and food, of the bride’s wedding dress embroidered to reflect the vivid purples and blues of the desert sky.

  Aiz turned the page to see a new title:

  The Vessel of the Fount

  Aiz stared in astonishment. She’d read the book thrice now. She’d never seen this story. There, in the first paragraph, was Div’s name.

  Gather, gather and listen well, for Mother Div’s voice must not be forgotten. Hear her in the wind which stirs in your blood. Forget her not, for she has not forgotten you.

  No, this story was certainly not here before, else Aiz would already have it memorized. Almost without realizing it, she’d devoured half the story. Despite its unusual start, it otherwise mirrored the First Sacred Tale almost to the letter. The calamity across the sea. Div’s desperate search for a homeland. The stars leading her to the valley below the Spires, where she settled her people.

  But the First Sacred Tale ended at the cloister, with Div caring for animals and orphans and vowing that one day, the Kegari would return to their homeland. In this book, the story went on.

  In time, Div felt the call of the wind again. She left Kegar and the burden of rule to her three children, Oona, Ghaz, and Hiwa. Div walked weaponless into the wind and let it carry her aloft to lands unknown, far beyond the Spires of Kegar.

  She formed alliances with the Seers of Ankana and the Kins of Jaduna, the Ghost Men of Karkaus, and the Sun Lords of Firan. But the wind pulled at her still, until one day she met betrayal and imprisonment in the lee of a giant’s fangs. Div wept, for no creature of fur nor feather dared to tread near her prison. No rain penetrated its shriveled hollow, no wind blew in to freshen the stale air.

  There, in a place of unending death, Mother Div’s spirit abides, trapped as she awaits one of the Blood to set her free. Only then can she return in the body of the Tel Ilessi, the Holy Vessel. And the Tel Ilessi shall deliver her people back to the homeland from whence they fled, so long ago.

  The book fell from Aiz’s hands, landing with a leaden thump on the deck. She closed her eyes, not quite believing what she’d read.

  The clerics never spoke of Div’s death. Only of her passing rulership to the first three Triarchs—her children. Aiz heard the story of Div leaving Kegar once. More rumor than fact, Sister Noa had said. Div was devoted to her people.

  But that didn’t mean that this story was false. It had the rhythm of a Sacred Tale.

  Aizzzzz.

  The voice—Div’s voice. Aiz knew it instantly, and she spun, desperate to see the apparition of the Holy Cleric. To ask her if the story was true.

  But the voice was different than when she heard it in the prison. More distant.

  Help me, daughter. Find me. Release me and I will give you power beyond what you could dream. Power to do anything. Power to save your people.

  “Power,” Aiz whispered. “Windsmithing?”

  Yes. You have the skill. You need only to control it. Windsmithing is the beginning. I can give you more than that. Whatever power you have, I will multiply it one hundredfold.

  “Can you—can you help me destroy Tiral?”

  As if he never existed. But first you must free me. The road will be hard, Aiz. There will be great sacrifice.

  “What—kind of sacrifice?”

  You may have to trade the few for the many. You may wish to turn back. But if you hold to the course I set before you, the poor and wretched of Kegar will never suffer again.