* * *

  By the time Aiz arrived, the airfield and its runways bustled with pilots, flightmasters, engineers, and signalers. Aiz’s fellow drudges scurried amid the chaos, lowborn Snipes like her hauling buckets and poles and ice-encrusted flight leathers.

  Beyond the airfield, the Sail-building yard was equally busy, crowded with scaffolds and skeins of twine, reams of canvas, and stacks of cured reeds. The Aerie stood beside it, casting a long, blue shadow. Like many of Kegar’s buildings, it was slope-roofed, made of wood and stone and shaped like the slash of a quill. It housed hundreds of pilots and drudges.

  “Snipe!” A flightmaster grabbed Aiz’s elbow and dragged her to the stables. He was a Hawk, a highborn, like most of the Aerie’s bosses. “Muck out the stalls. Then report to hangar one. A dozen Sails need waterproofing.”

  Aiz sighed and grabbed a pitchfork. Stable work was stenchsome, but at least the building was well constructed, with stone walls that kept away the wind and wide doorways that offered a clear view of the airfield.

  Out on the launching pads, dozens of Sails awaited pilots. From here, the craft looked like piles of sticks and canvas, rustling in the wind. But Aiz knew better.

  Every Kegari child, regardless of birth, was tested for windsmithing skill at age fourteen. When Aiz had shown a talent for it, the flightmasters put her in a Sail, and she was sent to the Aerie for training.

  She’d never forget how it felt in the single-seater cockpit: The cool bowl of Loha, the metal that flowed into liquid at her touch, fusing with her hands before shooting out through the Sail’s hollow frame; the sight of the curved, triangular wings lifting like the pinions of a coastal gull. The way her blood fizzed at the caress of the wind—before she inevitably spiraled to the earth, unable to control her magic.

  She’d spent years trying to control it. She’d failed.

  Now, face hot with envy, Aiz watched Sail after Sail spring to life, canvas stretching tight as the reed scaffolding filled with living metal. The Sail pilots would wing north across the mountains to drop bombs on distant foreign villages. The waiting Kegari army would pillage grain and goods to send home. And thus, Kegar would survive another season.

  Aiz’s people had long ago stopped producing enough food to feed their own. For the last century, the raids were ever present, ever essential. So were the pilots who led them.

  Which meant that whether you were born a low Snipe, a middle-class Sparrow, or a highborn Hawk, becoming a pilot guaranteed food, shelter, clothing, training. It meant a life. A future.

  Reins jangled and Aiz whirled to see Cero leading his mount, Tregan, into the stable. His dark hair was scraped back into a high bun. Purple smudges beneath his eyes made his green irises look black. In blue-scaled flight leathers, he managed beauty and gravity, even as he leveled a stare at Aiz.

  “I waited for you.”

  Aiz shrugged and pitched a particularly large scoop of filthy hay over her shoulder—barely missing Cero. “Your problem, not mine.”

  “Spires, Aiz, but you’re difficult.” Cero, usually as emotionless as the mountains, sounded almost annoyed.

  “And you’re cranky.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Don’t see why.”

  “Right, because I’m a pilot.” Cero walked Tregan to her stall and she snapped at him. Aiz smirked. The mare had always liked Aiz better than Cero.

  “Having my basic needs met only costs subservience to the Triarchy,” Cero went on, “and offering my life to a Spires-forsaken megalomaniac who shouldn’t oversee a dog kennel, let alone an army.”

  “Shut your gob!” Aiz looked around frantically. The stables were empty, but that didn’t mean no one had heard. Lord Tiral bet-Hiwa led the flight squadrons. He was also heir to one of the three Triarchs who ruled Kegar. His family had spies everywhere.

  “What’s he going to do if he hears me?” Cero said, leaning against the thick wall of the stables. “Throw me in the Tohr? The Sail squadron leaves tomorrow. Tiral needs me dropping bombs on innocent villagers, not moldering in prison.”

  Cero sounded bitter, not proud. His ability to windsmith—to bend the air currents to his will—was prodigious. That’s why he’d been chosen to pilot a Sail.

  He hadn’t expected that Aiz would be left behind. But while Cero could tame the wind, Aiz enraged it. While Cero lifted a Sail into a precise spiral, Aiz tore the canvas wings to shreds. She could shift a scent and call a breeze, but any more than that and the wind defied her.

  No point in grieving what could have been. Aiz had found another purpose.

  “He deserves our respect.” Aiz spat out the lie. What Tiral deserved was a knife to the jugular—which was exactly what Aiz planned on giving him in a few hours. But if Cero guessed Aiz’s plot, he’d try to stop her. Tell her it was too dangerous.

  “Tiral’s our fleet commander.” Aiz thought of the knife in her skirt, sharpened in the darkness of the cloister’s forgotten tunnels. “Without him, we’d all starve.”

  “He doesn’t care about us.” Cero fixed his eyes on Aiz and she found it difficult to look away. “Be wary of him.”

  Aiz went still. Cero never spoke idly. He must have seen her entering Tiral’s quarters. Or leaving. She thought of what Tiral had said months ago, when Aiz first allowed him to think he was seducing her. Keep our secrets to yourself, little Snipe. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.

  Cero’s expression was severe enough that Aiz wondered if there was something between her friend and Tiral. She’d often been clueless about Cero’s entanglements. He’d kept an affair with a seamstress so quiet that Aiz didn’t learn of it until the woman showed up at the cloister, demanding to see him.

  “I don’t care who you dally with, Aiz.” Cero’s detachment stung. “But don’t make assumptions about Tiral. The only person he cares about is himself.”

  As he spoke, he spun a ring on his finger. Aiz used to have one like it. An aaj. One of Cero’s many creations. It let them communicate without speaking. She’d returned it to Cero after he’d become a pilot.

  “Done lecturing?” She let her voice ice over and scooped more hay. “I have work to do.”

  A shutter went down behind Cero’s eyes. He left the stable. Aiz knew she’d hurt him, which both upset and satisfied her. But she couldn’t dwell on Cero. She only had time for one man today.

  Waiting was torturous, the hours crawling by in a blur of mucking hay, waterproofing Sails, and dodging the flightmasters’ blows. Eventually, the rose-gilded snow clouds bumped along south and the wind’s screams quieted to whispers. Night fell. Aiz was helping to light the airfield’s lamps when one of the signalers called out.

  “Incoming!”

  He pointed to the snow-drenched spires that encircled the capital, jutting into the sky like triumphant fists. The moon highlighted the approaching Sails, and Aiz’s pulse quickened.

  “Get those lamps lit, you Spires-forsaken rats!” the closest flightmaster roared, whip flashing. Within moments, dozens of signalers flooded the field, blue fire held high.

  The Sails landed with well-practiced precision. All but Lord Tiral’s, which was the largest; it turned on a wingtip not once but twice as he surveyed the squadron. He didn’t spiral down until the rest of the fleet had landed.

  Aiz hurried from pad to pad, collecting goggles and caps and empty bowls of Loha. All the while, she watched Tiral for a weakness. Tiredness or an injury. Something that would make it easier to stick a knife in him.

  The only oddity she saw was familiar: his hand strayed to the thin book always tucked into his belt. When she’d first spotted it months ago, Aiz thought it was the Nine Sacred Tales, the parables Mother Div told to guide her people. Or if not that, a journal or a record book. But as best she could tell, it was a volume of children’s stories, useless to her unless she wanted to beat him to death with it.

  Unfortunately, it was a bit small for that.

  As Tiral strode around his Sail, pointing out the damage it had taken to the flightmasters, Aiz paced in the shadows, consumed with hate.

  She’d never understand why Mother Div gave Tiral windsmithing skill when he spat on everything she stood for. When he orphaned children by conscripting their parents and sneered at the clerics who carried out good works in Mother Div’s name.

  Tiral looked up, as if sensing Aiz’s ire. He was twenty, broad-shouldered, of medium height, with pale hair and a crooked nose that made him memorable instead of ugly. His saurian gaze fixed on her. It took all Aiz’s effort to keep her face placid. He nodded once.

  She knew what he wanted. For once, she was happy to give it to him.

  Aiz made her way to the Aerie, past the forges where metallurgists alloyed the Loha used for the Sails, wrinkling her nose at the stench. Rumor was that their supply of Loha—husbanded for a thousand years—was running out.

  Without Loha there would be no Sails. Without Sails, the raids would fail. Then they’d all starve, Hawk and Snipe alike.

  Aiz entered the Aerie from a side door and made for the bathing chambers. In the past six months, she’d learned to navigate the labyrinth of servants’ passages with ease. On her way to Tiral’s room, she saw others like her. Dead-eyed Snipes in revealing robes, doing what they needed to survive. They didn’t acknowledge each other.

  She wound through the innards of the keep to the secret door that led into Tiral’s room. The stones of the tunnels were ancient, and she shifted one aside and hid her knife behind it. Then she knocked on the door thrice.

  He made her wait. Unsurprising. He enjoyed the idea of Aiz shivering in the tunnel, not knowing if he’d allow her in or not. Aiz had worked hard to cultivate the image of a besotted Snipe. On the nights he left her outside, she sniveled and pleaded.

  Pig. He thought he had so much power. Tonight, he’d learn different.

  Soon, she heard movement. The door opened, and dim blue light spilled into the passage. Tiral’s pale skin gleamed, like he was part specter.

  “Aiz,” he purred, and took her by the arm.

  “My lord,” she whispered. Say it. Say it one last time. “Thank you for allowing me in.”

  “I’m nothing if not generous, Snipe.”

  Lord Tiral drew her through his living quarters, the fur settees strewn with boots and fresh flight leathers. She caught a glimpse of herself in his mirror—small-boned and light-skinned, her dark hair spilling to her lower back, her blue irises seeming to glow. He nudged her onto his bed. Aiz’s head sank into the goose-feather pillow that could fetch a week’s worth of grain.

  At least he was quick. Like many of Aiz’s bed partners, he fell into an untroubled sleep after their coupling. Aiz observed him, her lip curling.

  To their people, Tiral was a brave fleet commander. But to Aiz, he was the murderous child who, years ago, snuck into the cloister in the dead of night to set fire to the orphans’ quarters. He’d listened to them scream as they burned, all because they’d made him look a fool in front of his father during an official visit.

  The clerics, Sister Noa included, had gone before the Triarchy. Begged those three crooked monsters for justice. Even Dovan, the High Cleric of Kegar and leader of its many cloisters, made an impassioned plea.

  The Triarchy did nothing. In time everyone forgot about the dead orphans—even Cero, who’d nearly died himself that night.

  Aiz hadn’t forgotten.

  She rose from the bed, donned her shirt and skirt, and moved to the passageway for the knife. She was nearly there when Tiral stirred. Aiz swung toward his desk, feigning interest in his things. If he awoke, he’d only see her snooping. Amid the scrolls and quills and military orders, her gaze snagged on a book. The book.

  She ran her fingers across the cover. The leather was slick, like the skin of a long-submerged sea creature. The imprint on the cover was triangular and reminded her of the tangled forests of the Spires. The hair on Aiz’s neck rose, though she didn’t know why. She opened the book.

  The Falcon and the Thief

  In the abiding evenfall of the northern climes, a lone falcon winged his way home after a long and—

  Bah. Just a story. Aiz closed the book, listening for Tiral’s snores before opening the passageway and retrieving her blade.

  The bed dipped as she returned to it, and Tiral muttered in his sleep.

  Aiz wrapped her fist tight around the knife. Get what you need. Forget the rest. The faster the better. Right in the throat. Cero had long ago taught her where to strike to kill a man. No one can keep us safe all the time, he’d said. Not even the clerics.

  “In the name of Mother Div,” she whispered, “I take my vengeance.”

  Aiz brought the blade down.

  And gasped when Tiral’s hand shot out, catching her wrist with breathtaking swiftness. His eyes opened, and he smiled.

  “Oh, Aiz,” he said. “You poor, stupid fool.”

  2

  Quil

  The Martial Empire, the Northern Continent

  Zacharias Marcus Livius Aquillus Farrar, heir to the Martial throne and a prince of Gens Aquilla, did not need four fully armed Masks following him everywhere he went.

  Quil—as he preferred to be called—had fought for his aunt, Empress Helene Aquilla, in the southern borderlands at the age of thirteen. Since he was fifteen, he’d bested at least two assassins a year with relative ease. He’d crisscrossed the dunes of the Tribal Desert and the forests of Marinn a hundred times with only his best friend, Sufiyan, for company. Here in the busy markets of the Empire’s biggest port city, it was no different.

  Especially since he’d long since realized he was being followed, and the Masks hadn’t. Named for their silver face coverings, the Masks were the most elite soldiers in the Empire—and the most feared. But they still made mistakes.

  “Stop glaring at the poor guards, Quil,” Sufiyan said at the prince’s scowl. “You’ll scare them.”

  “They’re Masks,” Quil said. “They’re not allowed to be scared.”

  Though perhaps they should be, Quil thought, considering how many had died ugly, unnatural deaths in the past few months. Usually, Masks were the ones holding the blades. But yesterday, two more had been found split open, according to the report Quil received from a western guard captain.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about it. But he also couldn’t share any details with Sufiyan because Aunt Helene had told him to keep the Masks’ deaths quiet.

  The prince felt like a sailor fresh to land after a season at sea. Off-kilter. Uneasy. And now some cloaked miscreant was shadowing him.

  Still, none of this was Sufiyan’s problem, so Quil kept his brooding to a minimum as he walked with his friend through Navium’s bustling evening market.

  Quil didn’t much like cities, but Navium’s merry populace, azure coastline, and mouthwatering food made it hard to find fault. With dinnertime approaching, Quil’s stomach rumbled at the smell of lime and chili shrimp, grilled minced chicken on mountains of snowy rice, and a specialty of Navium: triangle pastries filled with smoked winter vegetables.

  In one corner of the square, multicolored Tribal lanterns glowed; a Kehanni—a Tribal storyteller—performed a tale. It was one of Quil’s favorites: about heroes named Laia of Serra and Elias Veturius who, with Empress Helene, saved the world from a jinn driven mad by grief and betrayal. The audience cheered as the three proved victorious.

  Beside him, Sufiyan smiled. Quil, meanwhile, scanned the crowd, the stalls that packed the square, the wagons behind the Kehanni.

  There—a flash of movement from above. His shadow had taken to the rooftops.

  The guards hadn’t noticed; unlike Quil, their attention was fixed on the market, which was full to bursting with travelers from all over the Empire and beyond its borders: Tribespeople from the east in embroidered road leathers, selling weaponry and silks; Scholars, who’d ruled this land before the Martials, arguing about philosophy and politics. The Martial classes were here: Mercators hawking goods; wealthy Illustrians haggling with them; and Plebeians, many of whom wore colors that identified the Illustrian families they worked for.

  In some way or another, all were Quil’s people, though it didn’t always feel like it. His father had been a Plebeian, but Quil hadn’t experienced their struggles. His mother had been an Illustrian, but the upper-class families looked down on his Plebeian blood. He was raised by the Tribes for his safety, fostered with Sufiyan’s family, Tribe Saif. But in the end, he was a Martial, a reminder of the Empire that had once ruled over the Tribes.

  I belong nowhere, Quil had told Aunt Hel as a boy, back when he still shared his woes without fear of her judgment.

  You belong to your people, she’d said. The people of the Empire.

  Sufiyan stopped to buy a cone of pastries, flattering the pale-eyed chef with praise. A banner over her stall displayed a loaf of bread crossed with a stalk of wheat. She must have been from a bigger Mercator family—Gens Scriba perhaps, or Gens Vesta. Her gaze flicked over Quil once, then took in his guards. Her eyes widened and she curtsied.

  “Your Highness,” she said, cheeks pink. Quil cursed internally, because now heads were turning. “Glory to the Empress. My thanks for your custom.”

  Sufiyan rolled his eyes—he’d been the one who’d stopped, after all. But Quil smiled and moved on quickly, pulling up his hood and trying to shake off his disquiet. He missed anonymity.

  “Drop back,” he told his guard captain without explaining, using the flat affect his aunt insisted on. When he was a boy, he said please, but that made the Masks uncomfortable.

  The guard captain hesitated, as if weighing the possible wrath of the Empress later against the guaranteed anger of the crown prince now. After a moment, he and his men disappeared into the crowds. Quil’s entire body unclenched.