“Mauth. Also known as Death,” Quil said. “Sufiyan’s grandmother is—”

  “The Bani al-Mauth. Chosen of Death,” Sirsha said. “All Jaduna know of her. She uses magic too, and like all of us, her magic has rules. We must exert our emotion on an element. We can do this through speech, song, poetry, movements of the body. Some use objects, like a staff.”

  “What do you use? And what’s your element?”

  Sirsha hadn’t spoken of magic to anyone since she was exiled. Even Kade didn’t know exactly what she did.

  “I talk to wind, earth, and water,” she said, wondering what it was about Quil that made her want to tell him what he asked. “My emotion is usually desire or curiosity. I request help. For the most part, the elements offer it—as long as I tell them what I’m looking for. Sometimes they show me a trail only I can see. Or a warning. Sometimes the image of a place.”

  “You must be mentally flexible. Open,” Quil said. “Maybe that’s why you’re good at tracking and your sister isn’t. The older and more set in her ways she gets, the worse she probably is at it.”

  Sirsha blinked in surprise. She hadn’t considered such a thing.

  “The killer also has magic.” Sirsha moved on, uncomfortable with how much she’d told him about herself. “She hid her trail. Not easy, but possible for those with particularly powerful mental control. If I knew more about her—”

  She stopped herself. She’d shared a great deal already. Too much, perhaps. Trust wasn’t wise in her business. If she’d gone it alone at Raider’s Roost instead of trusting an adulterous jewel trader, she’d still have her money. If she’d kept her relationship with Kade professional, R’zwana would never have manipulated him into betraying her.

  “Stop that,” Quil said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop convincing yourself you can’t tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’m not like Kade. Or your sister. I won’t betray you or judge you. You don’t want to talk about your own magic? Fine, I won’t ask again.”

  Quil had finished with her face and now took her wrists, his long lashes dark smudges against his cheeks as he examined her rope burn in the dim firelight. He worked slowly, methodically, his strong hands easing the paste into her raw skin, massaging the pain away.

  “Oh. That feels—” Her whole body relaxed and the sigh that came out of her was halfway to indecent. Quil’s pale eyes found hers. Heat bloomed across her skin, slow as a southern sunrise. She wanted to look away, but found she couldn’t. His hands stilled and she started to pull back, but he held on to her.

  “I’m not done,” he said with a note of command that sent a shiver up her spine. Then, after a pause, “You said you needed to know more about the killer?”

  “Yes,” Sirsha said. “If I knew her emotion and her element, she might be easier to track. Elias said she burns out her victims’ hearts with a poker. But that’s all I know. Does she torture them first? Is that how they all died?”

  “No,” Quil said. “It’s not.”

  Earlier that day, Sufiyan had told Sirsha that he and Quil had grown up together. Which meant Quil would know Elias’s other son, too. Ruh.

  “Could you—could you share anything more about the deaths?” Sirsha said. “How the victims were killed. Whether their bodies were…ah…arranged in a particular way.”

  Quil released her wrists, finished now, and was silent for so long that Sirsha felt flustered. “I’m sorry,” she said after a minute. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “The first person the murderer killed was also the first girl I fell in love with.” Quil laced his fingers tightly, as if cleaving to something precious. “Her name was Ilar. I’m the one who found what was left of her.”

  22

  Aiz

  The next day, with a brisk autumn wind at their backs, Tribe Saif left the well, and Aiz accompanied them. As the caravan rolled out, Ruhyan dragged Aiz to his mother’s wagon. He tied Tregan’s lead to the frame, shouting out introductions to those of the Tribe whom Aiz hadn’t met.

  “That’s my sister Zuriya.” He pointed at a girl a little older than him riding at the front of a pitch-black wagon. She waved to Aiz shyly. “She likes talking about death. There’s Karinna—”

  Laia’s second daughter led her mare over, looking Aiz up and down coolly. She was small—only a few inches taller than her youngest brother, but striking, with pale blue eyes and a raven-black crown braid.

  “You like to fight?” she asked Aiz, lifting her chin. “I’ll duel you when we stop tonight. Scims. Loser pays a mark.”

  Quil rode behind them. Aiz had spotted him currying Tregan that morning, speaking sweetly to the mare and sneaking her an apple.

  “Leave her be, Kari,” Quil said. “Even I don’t like to duel you.”

  “Because you know you’ll lose.”

  “Because I feel bad embarrassing you.”

  Karinna barked a laugh. “I’ll beat you one day, biyah.” Brother. “Race you to lessons.”

  Everyone in the Tribe was polite. But Aiz had spent a life welcoming orphans to Dafra cloister. The ones accepted as family were those who found a way to be useful. When the caravan stopped late in the afternoon, Aiz volunteered for dish duty with Ruhyan, and guard duty with Quil.

  Her first watch was that night, and she found Quil at the edge of the encampment, speaking to Elias. Aiz hesitated a few yards away, wary of Laia’s husband. His mien was assessing as always, but he nodded a greeting and offered her a small scim and scabbard—just her size.

  “Quil’s my best student by a mile,” Elias said. “He can show you the basics, if you like.”

  Aiz watched Quil out of the corner of her eye as they walked. He was young—almost nineteen, Ruh said. Though he was raised with Tribe Saif, he didn’t fit, exactly. It wasn’t just his appearance, for Laia’s family didn’t look like the rest of the Tribe either. No, it was the way the Tribe treated Quil. Respectfully but carefully, too.

  He’d been kind to her. Too kind. Aiz wondered what he wanted. And what she could get in return.

  “When we’re not riding, you’re reading,” Aiz said as they walked. I’ve been watching you. I’m interested. “Or writing. Will you be a Kehanni too?”

  Quil laughed, but it was rueful, not mocking. “That path isn’t for me. Tribe Saif is fostering me for my aunt, and there are many things she wishes for me to learn,” he said. “Most of it is interesting. History. Statecraft. Philosophy. Astronomy.”

  So, he was wealthy. Though he didn’t remind Aiz of any highborn Hawk she knew. “I will call you Idaka,” she said. “In Ankanese, it means—”

  “Philosopher.” Quil smiled. “Thinker. That’s appropriate.”

  “Your parents are…”

  “Gone.” In the moonlight, his face was expressionless, as if he was talking about the weather. “Like yours.”

  “I never knew my father,” Aiz ventured. “Mother died of an injury when I was four. She liked to bake, though we never had much to bake with. Her hair was long and pale. And she smelled like snow.”

  Aiz had never told anyone that. Not even Cero. But it took trust to build trust and she waited, hoping Quil would share a similar memory.

  “Does Ankana have the same stars?” His voice was cooler than before. “I never looked, when I visited.”

  Aiz found her curiosity piqued by his strange response. “Different, Idaka. But that one”—she pointed directly above—“is the same. Ilar. The evening star. I was named for it.” Aiz looked up and felt unmoored, as if she would drift into the darkness and disappear. She put a finger to her aaj, taking comfort from the fact that she could use it if she wished to.

  “Who gave you the ring?” Quil asked. “You play with it when you’re restless. Which is…often.”

  So, he’d been watching her too. Her skin buzzed from his closeness, yes, but also from a sense of victory.

  “A friend gave it to me,” she said. Let him wonder. “And if by restless you mean impatient, then yes, I suppose I do,” she said. “I need Laia’s help to aid my people, but it will take time. Which my people don’t have.”

  They hiked away from the rocky flats and up a ridge, until they reached a creosote-strewn cliff that was fifty feet higher than the land surrounding. The Saif camp was a dusting of sparkling lamps in the distance, swallowed by the great dark of the desert.

  Quil offered Aiz a hand as they navigated the rocky terrain to sit at the edge of the ridge. He gripped her lightly, but some strange spark danced between them. It was a chilly autumn night and their bodies were close enough that Quil’s heat sank into Aiz. He folded his big hands together and looked out at the land.

  “Time is different here,” Quil said. “Slow as a glacier and then suddenly galloping forward like Ruh racing his brother. Tribe Saif—they’re good people. And I’ve known Laia since birth. She delivered me. Whatever she promised, she’ll do.”

  Quil spoke with a calmness that both soothed Aiz and galled her. He could afford to be tranquil. It wasn’t his people starving and dying. It wasn’t those he loved suffering under Tiral.

  “You weren’t born to Tribe Saif,” she observed. “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong?”

  “I have few close blood relations.” He smiled wryly. “I take the family I can get.”

  “But your aunt. You’re close to her?”

  Quil shrugged. “Once. Not so much lately. She’s been through the hells, but she pushes everyone away because of it. Laia says to be patient. That I wasn’t there when—”

  His head jerked up, and he grasped his scim as he stood. He went from relaxed Tribesman to soldier so fast that it was as if Aiz was looking at a different human. He was not Idaka, a thinker, anymore. He was Shigaf—a warrior. Every muscle in his body was rigid as he listened. It took Aiz a moment to hear what he did. The thunder of distant hooves. Out in the flats, a dust cloud appeared.

  “Horses,” he said. “Coming fast.”

  Quil pulled a horn from his belt and blew it. An answer sounded from down in the camp, and by the time he and Aiz reached the Saif caravan, a group of a dozen mounted Tribespeople formed a perimeter around the wagons. Elias and his son Sufiyan were among them, their attention fixed on the approaching riders.

  The horses were close enough to count, and moonlight glinted off armor and weaponry. Aiz held tight to her sword, wishing she could wield the wind as a weapon.

  You can, Mother Div said. Lure it to you. Then tell it why you wish for its aid.

  Aiz hesitated but, feeling Mother Div’s impatience, beseeched the wind to her. After dancing back and forth a few times, it came. Help me, she said. Make me safe.

  Good, Div said. Now shape it into a spear in your mind. If one of them threatens you, release it.

  Aiz broke into a sweat at the effort of bending the wind to her, then trembled with excitement when it flowed as she wished. Such power! She’d always known she had it, even if she couldn’t control it. Now the wind felt as solid as any weapon, but biddable instead of chaotic.

  She had not even freed Mother Div, and already, Aiz understood her magic better.

  Imagine what it will be like when you do free me.

  The horsemen drew closer and Quil relaxed suddenly. One of the men, brown-haired and dark-eyed, called a greeting and Quil laughed as he retorted. Aiz released the wind and it whipped away, startling a few of the horses.

  The rest of the soldiers pulled in and—along with the dark-eyed man—dropped from their mounts and knelt to Quil. He waved them up almost before their knees hit the sand. Aiz couldn’t help but stare at them, for they all wore silver paint on the top halves of their faces.

  “They’re masks,” a voice beside her said. She looked down to see Ruhyan at her side. “Made of living metal. The soldiers get them at Blackcliff.”

  Aiz didn’t know what Blackcliff was. “Ruh,” she said. “Can you tell me what they are saying? I don’t speak Sadhese.”

  Ruh stood up taller, happy to feel important. “First of all,” he said. “That’s Serran they’re speaking. Tas—he’s hugging Quil right now—he says he thought he’d have to wake Quil up with a bucket of water. Quil says not likely. Tas says that’s good—because Quil’s auntie wants to see him, and they need to leave. Now Tas is asking who you are—”

  Aiz studied Tas—he’d picked her out of the shadows easily.

  “Quil told him not to scare you. And Tas says Quil is only scared you’ll like him better because he’s more charming—”

  “Why does Tas keep calling him Eppar?” Aiz asked.

  “Eppar means prince in Serran,” Ruh said. “I guess no one has told you, but it’s only because none of us really care too much.”

  Aiz was about to ask what kind of prince when one of the masked men stepped into the light of the caravan’s fires. His mask, Aiz realized, wasn’t painted onto his face.

  It was metal. Strange metal. Metal that moved. Shifted. Metal that lived. Ruh continued to translate, but Aiz could hardly hear him over the rapid thudding of her heart.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she walked toward the man, hand outstretched, and it was likely only her small stature and the fact that he thought her unarmed that saved her from the edge of his blade. She touched his face. Touched the metal. It felt—

  Like Loha.

  Loha before it was refined by a Kegari metalworker. Aiz had seen the process when she was assigned to the forges outside the Aerie. Metallurgists took a ball of liquid silver the size of a thimble and turned it into enough Loha to power a dozen Sails.

  And these soldiers had so much of it. Enough to power hundreds of Sails. Perhaps enough to carry the Kegari back to their homeland, back to the Fount.

  Did I not tell you to have faith? Mother Div’s voice curled into her ears like smoke. There is much to learn here, Aiz bet-Dafra. Much to take. All your hopes will come to fruition if you but heed me.

  23

  Quil

  When Quil was ten, Aunt Helene took him to the Black Guard barracks in Antium, the capital. He struggled to hide his excitement, for he’d been born in the barracks.

  Aunt Helene had never mentioned that fact to him, of course. It was Laia who told him the story of his birth. Or some of it, anyway.

  The Black Guard were mostly elite Masks, and their job was to root out dissidents. While Aunt Hel and the soldiers conferred, Quil slipped away, hoping to find the room where he was born.

  He remembered exactly why he wanted to find it. He thought he would remember his mother. He’d seen paintings of her. Sculptures. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to recall her smell, her hands, her love.

  The very center of the barracks, Laia had told him. Up a set of stairs. There was a linen closet two doors down…

  The instructions should have been simple, but there were three sets of stairs. Quil got lost immediately. Eventually, he found himself in a nondescript passageway identical to a dozen others. Only this one had the seal of Gens Farrar emblazoned upon the wall. Two crossed hammers painted in black and edged in gold, about a foot and a half off the ground, and off-center.

  Quil knelt by the symbol, perplexed. It would have looked better if it was bigger. Higher up. But then, maybe it was supposed to be overlooked. There were secret passages all over the royal palace in Antium. Could this be a passage too? Quil pressed his palm to the symbol, certain he’d hear the telltale grinding of rock that signified new adventures to be had.

  Instead, he heard voices behind him, and turned to see his aunt heading toward him.

  Quil opened his mouth to explain himself, which was when he noticed that Aunt Helene looked strange. Her face was silver—she wore a mask. Her braid, usually so neat, was askew. There was blood all over her.

  It was pooled over the floor. The air smelled of smoke and death. Screams echoed. Where had all these dead soldiers come from?

  “Shrike,” a voice called out softly.

  Aunt Helene ignored Quil entirely and made for the wall where the symbol was. Only there was no symbol there now. Instead, there was an armored man, bleeding from a dozen wounds and pinioned to the wall with a scim through his belly. Quil scrambled back, terrified.

  But his aunt was calm. She knelt beside the man, speaking rapidly. At first, Quil was too afraid to get closer. But after a few minutes, he quieted his quaking heart and crept forward.

  “Do it, Shrike,” the man whispered, so softly that Quil barely heard him. “He waits for me.”

  Aunt Helene’s hands shook—she was bleeding too. Quil opened his mouth to tell her but found he couldn’t speak.

  “Please, Shrike,” the man whispered, and now Quil could see him. He was big and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, and brown skin that was lighter than Laia’s. He had a square jaw, thin lips, and a sharp nose.

  And his eyes—his eyes were the pale yellow of fall leaves. Like Quil’s.

  But that was impossible. Aunt Helene, Elias, even Laia had all told him his father had died in the battle of Antium, ten years ago. He died fighting, they said.

  Not like this.

  “The Emperor is dead,” Aunt Helene whispered, and when she spoke again, her voice was strong. Cold. “Long live the Emperor.”

  Quil watched his aunt stab his father’s throat. Watched the blood drain from his father’s body. He closed his eyes to make the image go away, to forget, and when he opened them again, the world had shifted. The man was gone. The blood. The bodies. And Aunt Helene—maskless and immaculate—knelt beside him.

  “Are you all right, Zacharias?” He flinched at the name. It had never felt right. “What are you doing up here?”

  “What is that?” Quil backed away from the symbol, frightened that if he touched it again, he’d go back to that nightmare place.

  Aunt Helene pulled him up, her lips pursed—which meant that she was searching for the right answer to his question instead of telling the truth.