Laia and Elias’s children spoke at once to her, Ruh telling her of the puzzle box the Empress had sent, Karinna of a backflip she’d mastered, and Zuriya of her advancement in the Tribe’s holy Mysteries. Even Sufiyan, more aloof at sixteen, gave the woman a tight hug. “You have time to lose a shooting contest with your favorite grandchild, Nan?”

  His grandmother patted his cheek, gaze filled with affection. “Of course, my love,” she said. “Though I’m only going to embarrass you again.”

  The woman didn’t look at Aiz—she didn’t have to. Though she kissed her grandchildren and laughed at their jokes, Aiz could sense her regard. It reminded her, in a way, of Elias, but more subtle, as if she were a lioness circling Aiz at a distance, nothing but a pair of cold eyes in the dark.

  The girl felt something featherlight against her mind, like a whisper from across a room.

  “Bani al-Mauth.” Laia addressed the woman formally in Sadhese before embracing her. “Mother. Join our fire. Are you hungry?”

  “No food, daughter.”

  Aiz looked down to hide her surprise. This was the woman who was almost as holy to the Tribes as Mother Div was to the Kegari? Aiz had expected someone…taller.

  Ruh had told Aiz of his grandmother, the Bani al-Mauth: Chosen of Death. She lived in the Forest of Dusk, far to the east, and guided troubled ghosts to the afterlife. She took the pain and misery of the spirits and cast it into a place Ruh called the Sea of Suffering.

  Do you mean Kegar? Aiz had chuckled darkly to herself, but didn’t make the joke with Ruh. He was a child, after all.

  According to Ruh, the ghosts came from all over—even Ankana. The Kegari had simple death rituals. A shroud, a prayer. May Mother Div welcome you to the Fount. Aiz wondered if the Bani al-Mauth had met a Kegari ghost. She had a story prepared in case.

  The Bani al-Mauth said something in Serran, a language Aiz didn’t fully understand. Laia’s attention drifted to Ruh. She nodded once and disappeared into the outer edge of the caravan. The woman sent her other grandchildren off with promises to find them later, before prowling toward Aiz.

  “Ruh’s Ankanese friend,” she said.

  “A harder worker I’ve never met, Bani al-Mauth,” Tas spoke up. “And she has a good sense of humor.”

  The holy woman snorted, well aware of Tas’s idea of humor.

  “Don’t get many Ankanese spirits in the Forest of Dusk.” The Bani al-Mauth turned her scarred face to Aiz. Whatever softness she’d shown her grandchildren was gone. “Your seers have a tight grip over the death rituals.”

  “The seers guide us.” Aiz thought back to her time on Dolbra’s ship. “The orisons we sing light the way to our own after.”

  The Bani al-Mauth grunted in agreement or disapproval; Aiz couldn’t tell which.

  “My daughter says you’re seeking a story. Are you sure it’s one that wishes to be found?”

  “I don’t know.” Aiz’s only choice was honesty. This woman would pick out a lie from a mile away. Even shading the truth was dangerous.

  “Not all stories should be told, girl,” the woman said. “Sometimes they cause more damage than good. I’d hate it if you brought harm to my family. For your sake.”

  The old woman excused herself, disappearing amid the wagons. Aiz warmed her hands by the fire, a placid smile on her face, as if the holiest—and most powerful—woman in the Tribal Lands hadn’t just menaced her. Aiz’s rage, so well controlled for weeks, stirred fitfully. But she tamped it down as always, for it would not serve her.

  When it seemed as if everyone had moved on to their own tasks, she stood up, and followed the Bani al-Mauth.

  Aiz crept past the wagons and tents closest to her to the more distant ones, where Laia and Elias had made camp. She moved slowly, until she spotted three figures standing around a fire near Laia’s silver and green wagon. One of them was tall and broad-shouldered: Elias.

  Aiz knew by now that the big man moved fast. Faster than was normal. She suspected he had magic of some sort. She walked with care, flitting from wagon to wagon until she could make out their conversation.

  Which was in Serran.

  A voice spoke from beside her, and Aiz clapped her hand over her own mouth so she didn’t scream.

  “The next time you want to spy,” Ruh whispered, “bring me with you. I can translate.”

  “You scared me!”

  “Nan is saying that someone…or something is tied to the Forest of Dusk.” He translated line by line then, voice barely above a whisper.

  “You’re certain you’ve seen no sign of magic in him?”

  “Nothing beyond what you already know.” Elias’s deep voice was soft. “What do the jinn say of it?”

  “Very little.” The Bani al-Mauth sounded angry. “Those few who pass the ghosts speak to me of our work, but not of their people. Something is afoot. Some change. And he is at the heart of it, but I cannot glean more than that.”

  Ruh looked suddenly abashed. “Now, ah, now they’re talking about you.”

  “Me? Why would they talk about me?”

  “Nan wants to know why Laia gives shelter to every stray who comes her way—” Ruh squeezed Aiz’s hand. “You’re not a stray,” he whispered. “You’re my friend.”

  Aiz didn’t know why a lump rose in her throat. Maybe because she knew he was sincere. Maybe because Ruh was her friend, too, and she had grown to truly care for him these past few weeks.

  “Ruh, you left the bleeding dishes!” Sufiyan’s irritated voice called through the dark, growing closer with every word. “If you don’t get your skinny behind over here, I’m going to dump them in your bedroll!”

  The boy jumped up. “I have to go!”

  Aiz stared after him, mouth open in protest, then turned back to Laia, Elias, and the Bani al-Mauth.

  Only to find that there were two people at the fire now.

  Elias had disappeared.

  Aiz cursed, backing away from the wagon where she’d hidden. She hadn’t noticed him vanish. She ducked around a small group of tents, raking the dark for the Martial. He was here somewhere, and likely to find her. She’d need to hew close to the truth: The Bani al-Mauth told me I shouldn’t look for this story. I wanted to ask her why. Would he believe her? Bleeding hells, if he kicked her out of the Tribe now, when they were so close to Nur—

  “Ilo?”

  Aiz stumbled straight into Quil. He caught her, brows raised in alarm. At the same time, the hairs on her neck rose. Only a dozen yards away, she caught a flash of metal. Elias!

  Aiz made a snap judgement, knowing Elias would likely see through any excuses. She took Quil’s face in her hands and kissed him.

  She’d expected surprise, a moment for him to consider, maybe even to pull away. She didn’t expect the spark that had danced between them for weeks to roar into a flame. For him to kiss her back like he’d imagined it a thousand times in his head, for her own body to arch into his, hungry for more—

  Or for her breathless embarrassment, moments later, when Elias’s wry voice drifted out of the night.

  “Perhaps find a better spot,” he suggested before his footsteps faded.

  Quil chuckled and Aiz did too, more relieved than amused. His lips parted and she could practically see the questions tumbling to the tip of his tongue. What are you doing out here? Are you all right? But she didn’t want to answer those questions, because she didn’t want to lie to Quil.

  He is a means to an end. Div’s voice sounded in Aiz’s mind, but for the first time, Aiz didn’t respond, didn’t agree.

  Instead, she put a finger to Quil’s lips. She’d memorized the shape of them, and at her touch, Quil closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. Aiz felt power course through her, potent and delicious. He wanted her even more than she wanted him. It was written in every line of his body, and Aiz could use it to her advantage.

  “Come, Idaka,” she whispered, and led him away from their hiding spot and to the south side of the camp, where he always pitched his tent. His cheeks were flushed, his yellow eyes bright with desire as he gazed at her, as she pulled him into the tent and pushed him onto his cot. Then she kissed him again, reveling in the fact that whatever questions he might have had would soon be forgotten.

  29

  Cero

  As Cero landed his Sail at Kegar’s central airfield, the heady fragrance of Spire roses assaulted his senses. He grimaced, thinking of Aiz, for she dearly loved to chain them together and make crowns for the orphans. They smell of life, she’d say. Cero used to think so too.

  Now everything stank of death, even Spire roses. Especially on the days when Cero came back from bombing runs.

  Spires, he hated those runs. The cowardice of dropping explosives on a scrambling, screaming population made him feel as if he’d rolled around in excrement. Watching and listening as the Kegari ground forces swept in to steal food and goods, murdering any left alive, made it impossible to sleep.

  He’d long since altered the missile chutes on his Sail, allowing him more control over bomb drops. When the Sail squadrons launched raids, Cero’s payload landed on empty barns and evacuated town squares. The bloodlust of Tiral’s other pilots meant there was never a shortage of casualties, so for months, Cero’s questionable aim went unnoticed.

  No longer. As Cero dropped from his Sail, Tiral stalked across the airfield toward him. Sweat plastered Tiral’s pale hair to his head—spring was warmer than usual—and his cheeks were an ugly red. From the heat, perhaps, but more likely from anger. The so-called Tel Ilessi had a temper. Which was nothing new for Cero. He’d known Aiz since birth, after all.

  At that moment, his aaj burned. Cero! Aiz called through it as she had for days now, weeks. He refused to respond. He didn’t want her to come back.

  Cero-Cero-Cero-Cero. His name echoed with such constancy that it sounded as if he had a ball of snakes living in his brain.

  He wanted to speak to her. To know everything about this Tribe that had taken her in, the child Ruh whom she loved—even the damned prince she claimed not to care for. Give your heart to him, he wanted to say, because it’s precious and deserves to be cherished by someone kind. But Cero also wanted her to guard her heart. To wait.

  For him.

  Utter folly to think these things. No child of Dafra would allow themselves such weakness. For in weakness lay death. Then stop thinking about her, fool.

  “That is the fifth time you’ve missed the mark on your bombing runs.” Tiral paced before him, spittle flying as he stripped off his flight leathers. “You destroyed a half ton of foodstuffs. Explain!”

  “The channels on some of the Sails are faulty. I told you.” Cero refused to grovel to anyone, least of all a false Tel Ilessi. Still, he kept his voice neutral. Tiral had already destroyed Dafra cloister. He could still hunt down its clerics and those few orphans left—just to teach Cero a lesson.

  For the thousandth time, Cero cursed his own heart. Love was misery. Without it, he’d have deserted this hellhole years ago.

  “I reported this failure to the head engineer,” Cero said. “It’s not my fault she hasn’t fixed it.” The head engineer was a two-faced Hawk hag who mistreated Snipe pilots for sport. Cero had no qualms about throwing her into the flames of Tiral’s temper.

  Though perhaps, Cero thought as he surveyed Tiral’s expression, he should be more cautious. Tiral thought ruling was as simple as sitting on the high throne and calling himself Mother Div’s chosen. But now that shipments of raid loot had dwindled, discontent seethed. Some called Tiral a false Tel Ilessi. The people’s patience thinned and Tiral knew it. He’d massacred hundreds of Snipes who had protested against him in Dafra slum just weeks ago. He was more volatile than ever.

  “The head engineer assured me your Sail is in perfect working order,” Tiral said. “So tomorrow, Snipe, you will hit every target with precision. Or I’ll pay a visit to those clerics of yours.” Sensing Cero’s trepidation, Tiral smiled. “They can’t very well preach without their tongues, can they?”

  * * *

  No one greeted Cero as he left the airfield or while he made his way through the streets to Dafra slum. Aiz was the one who befriended every orphan and street sweep in the city. Cero preferred anonymity.

  He found Sister Noa in Dafra’s main market, passing out cups of grain to a long line of weary, hungry Snipes. He considered helping her and then dismissed the idea. He hated being thanked.

  Cero drifted to the shadows, watching his people. Most looked worse off than the last time he’d visited Dafra a week ago. Before, they were hungry. Now, they were starving.

  Sometimes, Cero thought that if he died in a raid, if some murderous villager split him open with a scythe, it wouldn’t be organs that spilled to the earth, but a scream of hopeless fury. One whose seed had been planted when Cero was a boy who realized his people were doomed by the idiocy of their leaders.

  It didn’t have to be this way. If the bleeding Triarchs had an iota of creativity, they would see what Kegar had to offer the world—and all they could receive in turn. So much possibility lost because those three rotters had the collective imagination of a tree stump.

  Sister Noa spotted Cero leaning against the crumbling wall of an old tavern called the Dead Man’s Ale. She handed the grain cup to Sister Olnas and hurried toward him.

  Cero! Aiz’s voice again. More insistent this time.

  “Thank Mother Div.” Noa threw her arms around him. “Every time you go, I worry—”

  “I’m fine,” Cero said. “But you might not be, if Tiral has his way.”

  The blood drained from Sister Noa’s face. “What now?”

  “I’ve erred, and he’s threatening the Dafra clerics and the orphans, again. We need to move everyone. I’ve got a place in mind. It’s better anyway, the building you’re in now has no back exit if—”

  “No,” Sister Noa said. “The children need stability. We can get the young ones out quickly, if Tiral comes. As for the clerics—he’s jailed us, tortured us. He’s destroyed—” Noa took a breath, chin quivering as she looked toward Dafra’s skyline, bereft of the cloister’s steeples. “Destroyed our home. Killed our fellow clerics. If he wants to kill the rest of us, too, so be it.”

  “So ready for death.” Cero stepped aside for a drunk stumbling out of the tavern. “Wasn’t it you who told me a few weeks ago that there was still so much to hope for?”

  “For you, certainly.” Noa patted his cheek. “You’re young. Have faith in Mother Div—”

  Cero sighed. Noa meant well. She was a kind woman, a hopeful one, with a backbone of iron. But she wasn’t a realist.

  Cero, talk to me. Aiz again.

  “Sister Noa, please consider moving,” Cero tried again. “If not for yourself, then—”

  “Have you heard from her?” Noa glanced at Cero’s aaj. Other than Aiz, only Noa knew what the aaj could do. When Cero first heard from Aiz weeks ago, he’d had a moment of weakness and told Noa about it, knowing how worried she’d been. The old woman had been so overjoyed she hadn’t even asked how Aiz got the aaj. Noa didn’t know of Cero’s role in Aiz’s escape. No one did, other than Aiz.

  And even she didn’t know the whole of it.

  “Haven’t heard from her,” Cero said. Apparently telling fibs as a child—I most certainly did not skip lessons, Sister Noa—made him an effective dissembler as an adult.

  “She will return.” Sister Noa’s face glowed with a familiar, beatific shine reserved for when she told the Nine Sacred Tales. “And she will be changed. Mother Div chose her—”

  Not this again. Cero groaned and Sister Noa gave him a long-suffering look.

  “How someone so faithless came out of the cloister is beyond me,” she said. “Yet I do not fear for you, child. The cloister put a love of Mother Div in your heart, whether you acknowledge it or not. One day, you will turn to her for comfort. As we all do.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and went back to Olnas and handing out grain. Cero watched for a moment longer before making his way through the rose-scented streets of Kegar and back to the Aerie.

  Cero, for Spires’ sake, talk to me.

  His Sail had been brought to a hangar, and Cero spent the rest of the evening tinkering with the missile chutes enough so that tomorrow, after he missed his bombing targets, Tiral could examine the chutes himself and see that they were defective. He’d never suspect Cero, because what would a Snipe know of the high art of Sail engineering?

  I know you can hear me, Aiz called. Why won’t you respond?

  It was a nice night out. The kind he and Aiz used to spend by the docks, dreaming up another life. The stars clear above, the air cool, not yet summer-warm. Cero bunched the canvas of his Sail into something resembling a bed and lay back, hands folded behind his head. A gray fox ran across the edge of the airfield and heavy-bodied insects droned through the skies. Distantly, voices carried from the Aerie, arguing, laughing.

  Cero. Cero. Cero.

  He could remove the aaj. Give himself silence. Instead, he listened to her, and to the world around him, and all the other voices, and despised himself for how many innocents would die tomorrow.

  30

  Quil

  Quil fled the jungle with Sirsha, Arelia, and Sufiyan, Loli Temba’s brutal death fresh in their minds, lending them frantic speed. They didn’t stop to eat or drink or rest their horses. Not after seeing what happened to Loli.

  Even when Musa’s wight arrived, Quil didn’t slow, reading the message as he rode.

  Much of Serra destroyed, but we resist. Fewer supplies, enough for five weeks. Sadh under attack. Tribes scattered. Nur rejected a truce. It is gone. Send word of progress. Everything he needs awaits him. —AH