Aiz buzzed with anticipation—and resolve. Today, her people would be free from the false Tel Ilessi and the lies of the Triarchy. Today, they wouldn’t just receive the blessing of Mother Div. They would behold Mother Div’s power through Aiz herself.

  She had chosen her clothing carefully—casting aside the embroidered linens and leathers of the Tribes for the ragged gray dress of a Snipe. She wanted the people to know she was one of them. That she had not forgotten them.

  Aiz heard the crowd before she saw them, the hum of tens of thousands of voices coming from the sprawling fields around the Aerie. A wide, high dais draped in blue silk rose a dozen feet above the people. The Triarchs—pale-faced Oona, curly-haired Ghaz, and gimlet-eyed Hiwa—listened from their thrones, faces impassive as High Cleric Dovan completed the Eighth Sacred Tale.

  On a throne positioned above them, Tiral watched, the sun shining on his blond hair. His blue-clad pilots stood in neat rows to one side of the dais. Aiz tried and failed to spot Cero among them.

  Tiral rose from the Tel Ilessi’s throne to the speaker’s lectern.

  Aiz could kill him now. Knock him off the dais and use the wind to dash his brains against the earth below. Her body yearned to do it, so much that she’d half lifted her hands before remembering she must first accuse him of his crimes. She could not have him become a martyr.

  “Are you with me, Mother Div?”

  The cleric seemed to swell beside her. “Always, Aiz.”

  Aiz took careful aim and blasted the lectern to pieces. Tiral screamed and scrambled back, cowering, and Aiz landed on the dais, bringing a vicious wind with her, pinning him to the throne he’d stolen.

  In the crowds, some cried out, some gasped. Clerics cloaked in gray knelt, praying to Mother Div. She was at Aiz’s side, looking at the Triarchs with interest that bordered on hunger.

  “They are powerful,” Div breathed. “Such magic! But their minds are too cruel. They would not make good sacrifices.”

  “No,” Aiz murmured, looking from Triarch to Triarch, remembering the last time she was here. Remembering how they treated her like offal.

  Aiz raised her voice and called on the wind to carry it to her people.

  “I am Aiz bet-Dafra, of Dafra slum,” she said. “I am a child of Kegar and daughter of the evening star. You, Tiral bet-Hiwa, are a traitor to your people and your faith.”

  Tiral bared his teeth like a feral dog and tried to rise from the throne where he was so ungracefully pinned. But Aiz held him down, Div’s power pouring into her.

  “You have sacrificed countless children and clerics and Snipes to further your warmongering.” Aiz’s voice boomed across the silent crowd. “You have imprisoned innocents in the Tohr and killed them with your own hands. Most foully, you have claimed the mantle of the Holy Tel Ilessi. You have blasphemed against Mother Div and thus do I declare you apostate and transgressor. For this, you deserve death.”

  The Triarchs appeared stunned into silence. But Tiral?

  Tiral laughed.

  “Haven’t you eaten enough dirt, Snipe?” He called up his own wind now and shoved against Aiz, grinning when she held firm. “Are you hungry for more?”

  Aiz siphoned more power from Div, pushing against Tiral. But she’d forgotten his strength, and he anticipated her force, spinning to the side so Aiz staggered forward on the dais. He struck her from the back, knocking her to her knees, wrapping a tight noose of wind around her neck.

  Aiz gritted her teeth and sent a missile of air straight into his forehead. Tiral’s hold loosened and she lurched to her feet.

  “Fight harder, Aiz!” Div’s sweetness had soured to impatience so swiftly that she sounded like someone else entirely. “You cannot die, else I will be left with no anchor to this world, a lost spirit.”

  “More power!” Aiz screamed, for Tiral had compressed the air around Aiz into hot needles, and Aiz struggled to hold them back. Div complied, and Aiz repelled the attack with a shield like the one she’d used to save Quil weeks ago.

  She struck out at Tiral with knives of air, hoping to end him quickly. He threw his own shield up, and Aiz fell back, her will flagging, her windsmithing sputtering. How was he able to resist Aiz, even with Div’s power?

  “I told you we needed more!” Div said, her implication clear. More children. Kegari children.

  “The Triarchs!” Aiz gasped as Tiral flung his own throne at her. “Take them!”

  “Their impurity will weaken me! Let me feed and I shall funnel such power into you that you can shred the skin from Tiral’s bones.”

  “Not Kegari!” Aiz whimpered. “Not our children.”

  “We have no time, girl! Would you rather that they suffer under this tyrant?”

  Aiz screamed her defiance and used the last of her strength to roll away from Tiral’s attack, a blast of wind that nearly spun her off the dais. Her nails scraped against the wood as she scrabbled desperately to hold on.

  “You cannot withstand another strike,” Div said. “If you wish to win, Aiz, you must let me help you!”

  Death was inches away. Seconds. If Aiz offered up the children of Kegar to Holy Div, she would be sacrificing her own people. And if she didn’t, Tiral would remain Tel Ilessi, and Spires only knew what hells he would wreak upon them.

  “He’s coming, Aiz,” Mother Div said. “Decide!”

  37

  Quil

  Quil promised himself he wouldn’t brood about Sirsha. She could take care of herself. She had for years.

  The moment you kill the Tel Ilessi, get out. Quil’s worry was that he wouldn’t be able to kill the man. That the Tel Ilessi would use his magic to best Quil in battle.

  He’d have to strike quickly, mercilessly. Before the bastard could call up his sorcery. First, though, Quil needed to find some sign of him—a glut of guards, a cluster of flags, a pile of skulls…

  The war camp was sprawled across the base of a hidden coastal valley, and Quil circled it twice. He noted the smaller Sails landing and taking off from the airfield, as well as transport Sails massive enough to move large numbers of troops and weapons.

  It was only on the airfields that the Kegari appeared organized. As Quil entered the camp, slinking from shadow to shadow, his low opinion of the enemy sank further. The place appeared to be divided into smaller camps based on class and internal division, as opposed to the needs of a large army.

  The northern quadrant had waterproofed tents, cleared lanes, and soldiers in fine armor. The sprawling southern quadrants had threadbare tents with goats and dogs running between them. The soldiers wore clothes Martials wouldn’t use for rags.

  Quil’s skin crawled from the sheer disorganization. He’d spent ages learning about army encampment protocol. Where to corral horses and livestock, where to dig latrines, where to put the infantry versus the cavalry. At one point Quil had rolled his eyes at Elias.

  Won’t I have generals to handle this?

  Elias had chuckled and then made Quil and the other students spend two weeks putting up a “test” encampment—complete with latrine trenches they had to dig and use themselves. Quil cursed his teacher at the time—even as the rest of Elias’s students cursed Quil.

  But now Quil understood why Elias insisted on those lessons. The Martial army could destroy this entire camp with a dozen Masks and a few hundred legionnaires.

  Quil moved deeper into the camp, filching a tattered Kegari cloak and blue armband. Up close, he’d fool no one. But from afar, he was just another tired soldier.

  He scoured his surroundings for some sign of the Tel Ilessi and had nearly completed a third circuit of the camp when he spotted a flash of color in the finer sector nearest the airfield. A square pavilion with a flag flying outside it: a sun with four beams and a woman in the center. Well hidden. Well guarded. It backed to a low cliff face with heavy wagons on either side, as if to block anyone trying to sneak in.

  The tent was well lit and within, a familiar, broad-shouldered shadow moved. A haughty voice drifted out.

  The Tel Ilessi.

  Quil’s body went taut with anticipation. Finally. Now to get in. His best shot was the side backing to the cliff. Big tents always had a bit of give when up against uneven surfaces. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and the torches at the front of the tent left the back in shadow. No one would see him if he timed it right.

  Quil watched the patrols and just after one passed, he slipped from his hiding spot and past the large wagon.

  The moment he reached the cliff, he realized that in the darkness, the tent only looked as if it backed to the boulder. In fact, the boulder formed one entire wall—the tent had been cut and secured to it. It was impossible to sneak in from the back.

  Quil stifled a string of curses, frozen as the clouds cleared and the moon illuminated the camp—including the intruder loitering near the most well-guarded tent in the place.

  “Ih! Va tu fi arda!”

  For a second, Quil and the Kegari guard twenty feet away simply stared at each other, incredulous.

  The prince recovered faster. Suicide mission it is. He drew his scim and ripped through the canvas.

  Behind him, a warning cry went up. As he shoved into the tent, Quil sheathed his scim with one hand and drew his bow with the other. In the blink of an eye, three arrows hurtled toward the only person in the room, who sat at a desk facing away from him.

  The arrows did not hit their mark.

  They stopped midair, inches from the figure’s back. Then they fell to the floor, and Quil felt that strange pressure in the air he’d experienced back in Jibaut. He tried to move but found he could barely breathe.

  The Kegari leader stood. He had no blade. No weapons that Quil could see. It was clear he did not need them. When three soldiers rushed into the tent, the Tel Ilessi jerked up his hand.

  “Ivashk.”

  The soldiers backed away without so much as a glance at each other, bowing their heads.

  The Tel Ilessi stepped into the light, even as Quil fought against the invisible bonds holding him in place. The man’s pale skin and sharp features were familiar to Quil from their encounter in Jibaut. As then, the Tel Ilessi was cold-eyed, but instead of disdain, his expression was amused.

  “I’d heard you were determined,” he said in perfect Ankanese. “Not witless. I’ll release the wind. I trust you’ll not draw your weapon. Sit down. We have much to discuss.”

  Quil didn’t sit. He pretended to sit—and then he hurled a throwing knife from his sleeve straight into the Tel Ilessi’s shoulder.

  The man gasped as the blade sank into his skin, and he staggered back.

  Quil closed the distance between them in an instant, short daggers in hand. He took advantage of the Tel Ilessi’s surprise to sweep his legs out from under him. The bastard would have died then. Died with his throat slit open and his blood soaking the rugs in this accursed tent.

  But the wind came for Quil, and this time it threw him against the hard boulder at the back of the tent. Pain tore through his spine, his vision doubled, and his knees nearly gave out. He caught himself on a table, trying to keep upright.

  “Enough, Cero. Do not toy with him.”

  Quil froze, not because of the wind, but because of the voice. He looked up at the armored figure stepping through the front of the tent. Small-boned. Short brown hair. Pale skin and light eyes.

  “Hello, Idaka.”

  “No—” His mind couldn’t comprehend this, because the last time he’d seen her alive, she’d been speaking to Elias in the middle of a sandstorm. The last time he’d seen her at all, she’d been in pieces, scattered across a cavern in one of the most haunted places in the Empire. He’d found a book he’d seen her looking at sometimes—completely blank. The ring she was never without. Her pack.

  And Ruh.

  But now he understood what this thing standing in front of him was. Not the girl he’d threatened with a scim the first time he saw her, only to find he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not the girl he’d kissed beneath the desert stars. Not the first girl he’d ever loved, her eyes full of secrets he relished discovering. Not Ilo.

  “You monster,” Quil hissed. “Where’s Sirsha?”

  The creature stepped forward. Skies, she looked just like the real Ilar. The killer had done this to Sirsha when she took the form of her mother.

  I knew it was the monster from the eyes. She didn’t have my mother’s eyes.

  Quil stared, expecting to see a glimmer of malice. But the false Ilar’s eyes were only tired and sad and achingly familiar. Quil’s magic stirred. Use me. Look inside her.

  “Where is Sirsha?” he demanded again, ignoring the pull of his power.

  The false Ilar looked away. “The Jaduna you’ve been traveling with?”

  Quil strained against the wind holding him, veins popping from his neck and arms as he pushed against it. “Damn you, where is she?”

  “I don’t have her, Idaka,” false Ilar said. “She’s probably with Mother Div. If she’s as clever as Div thinks she is, she might even survive.”

  “Who the hells is Div?”

  “Sit down, Idaka—”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Please. Quil. I have wanted to speak to you for so long. To—to explain.” She turned to the tall man. “Why didn’t you call me when he appeared?”

  The man—Cero—shrugged and then winced as he pressed a cloth to his bloody wound. “I wanted to see what kind of man captured your heart.”

  The creature sighed and called out, “Tvho Ina!”

  Two guards appeared at the entrance to the gate, but unlike with Cero, they bowed their heads in deference, and thumped their hearts thrice with their fists.

  “Rue la ba Tel Ilessi!”

  Quil stared at them—they were treating this simulacrum of Ilar as if she were the Tel Ilessi. When she gave them orders, they complied immediately, escorting Cero away.

  Quil pushed experimentally against the wind; it held him as tightly as before.

  “You knew me as Ilar,” the creature said. “The only name I ever chose for myself. The name I was born with was Aiz bet-Dafra. And the name my people have given me is Tel Ilessi. I beg you, if you loved the girl I was, if you cared about me at all, listen to what I have to say.”

  Whatever this creature was, she believed herself, at least. The prince nodded once. Quil could pretend to listen—and strike when she least expected it.

  “Weapons on the ground, please.”

  She eased the wind enough that he was able to unsheathe his scim and the dagger at his waist.

  “The sleeves, too, Idaka.” She said his name like the real Ilar, the slight accent on the first a, the half smile so familiar that Quil felt sick.

  He dropped the blades in his sleeves. But not the one in his boot. She said nothing more and sat in a three-legged chair, gesturing for Quil to take the seat across from her.

  Then monster Ilar began to tell a tale, her voice as resonant as when she traveled with the Tribes. She spoke of a failed attempt to assassinate a vicious commander. Wasting away in the prison her people called the Tohr; an escape, a ship, a seer. Arriving in the Tribal Lands. Asking Laia for help, saying she was Ankanese, when all the while she was something else. Learning of the First Durani, a storyteller full of lies, who had locked away the spirit of a Kegari cleric.

  Quil would never have believed her, perhaps. Would have conjured a hundred excuses for why she couldn’t be Ilar.

  But then she described Ruh.

  “I knew he was special from the first moment I met him,” she said. “The way he told stories, the way the desert itself held its breath to listen. Oh, Quil, how I mourn him. But no—I’m jumping ahead of myself…”

  The night deepened as she spoke, the smell of food and sweat and beast dissipated by a coastal wind. The camp sounds faded to a low hum. Quil’s magic reared again.

  Read her. Then you will know the truth. Get inside her mind. If she’s not human, you will discern it.

  Quil tried to resist. He feared what he would find. Yet he knew it was the only way to know if she really was Ilar, or if the monster had created an elaborate illusion. So, as the creature droned on, Quil spoke to his magic.

  Show me, he said. Show me what she is.

  His power flared and expanded, a flower opening to the sun. Then he was inside the false Ilar’s memory as if he was her, his own consciousness in stasis as his magic carried him fully into her thoughts.

  * * *

  Tiral died quicker than Aiz wanted him to.

  After Aiz released Div to feed—after the first flood of power rushed through her body, she wrapped the wind around Tiral’s throat and squeezed. Tiral gasped and dropped to his knees as the entire airfield watched, silent. So many Snipes among them, starving and ragged and broken. Not for much longer, Aiz vowed in her mind. Not while I breathe.

  Tiral grinned. “You used—the book—” he gasped. “Knew you would. It’s why I didn’t hunt you. Didn’t need to.”

  Aiz’s hold on the wind loosened.

  “I was chosen,” Aiz said. Tiral looked small this close to death. Aiz only ever feared him because she’d been a powerless child. Now she was a force even the mighty Tiral bet-Hiwa couldn’t defeat. “Mother Div chose me instead of you. You dared to claim the mantle of the Tel Ilessi and Div knew.”

  Tiral wheezed, tears leaking down his face, and she thought it was a death rattle until he grinned. “Spires, but you’re a fool,” he said. “I wish I could live, just to watch it eat you alive.”

  “Watch from the hells, apostate.” Aiz remembered choking on the smoke of Tiral’s fire long ago, wailing as the orphans’ wing burned, listening to the cries of her friends—her family—fade. For years, she’d wanted this. To watch him hurt. Suffer.