“They’re not fairy tales,” Aiz snapped. “Your mockery is—”

  “Not our biggest problem right now.” Cero turned yet again, this time past a grate crusted with ice and rime and into a narrow passage. With every moment that passed, Aiz’s mind grew clearer. These tunnels didn’t go on forever. Eventually Tiral would find them. Corner them. When he did, he couldn’t find Cero with her. Tiral might need pilots, but he’d never forgive Cero for helping the assassin who tried to kill him.

  The sounds of pursuit grew louder and Aiz’s palms, slick with sweat, slipped against the rock as she crawled through a space slightly wider than Cero’s shoulders. Water thundered close by. Finally, they emerged onto a ledge. A river surged below, its rapids a milky white. Aiz stopped short.

  “I can’t swim.”

  “I’m going with you,” Cero said. “Take off your shoes and cloak so they don’t pull you under. The river will spit us out near the docks—”

  “Come out, come out, little Snipe!” Tiral’s voice echoed down the tunnel and Aiz jumped in surprise, nearly tumbling into the river.

  “If he finds you with me,” Aiz said, “he’ll kill you. If I jump in and he finds you alone, he’ll know you helped me and kill you.”

  “Get your shoes off, Aiz!”

  But Aiz shook her head. She didn’t know life without Cero. They’d been born within weeks of each other. They’d both had only one parent. When Cero’s father and Aiz’s mother were conscripted, their children turned to each other for comfort. He’d listened to Aiz telling the Sacred Tales, even if he’d never believed. And she’d always found his inventions brilliant, even when she hardly understood them.

  Angry as Aiz had been these past few months, it hadn’t been at Cero. It had been at herself and at the knowledge that her dreams—of being a pilot, of saving the cloister—they were dead.

  Aiz pulled the oilcloth-wrapped book from her clothes and shoved it into Cero’s shirt. “Keep the book. Hide it well. It’s the only leverage I have.”

  “Stop talking nonsense. The current will be strong, but—”

  Aiz twisted away and drop-kicked him right in the chest, hard enough to send him tumbling into the water. His arms arced, elegant even in the face of a surprise shove from his best friend, and he disappeared beneath the rapids. A few seconds and twenty feet later, his head broke the surface. He tried to find purchase along the sides of the tunnel, but there was nothing, and Aiz watched until he disappeared into the gloom.

  Then she turned, rose to her knees, and bowed her head, arms at her sides. Which was exactly how Tiral found her when he stepped out of the tunnel a minute later.

  He put his sword point to her heart.

  “Where is my book?”

  Aiz meant to treat with him. If she bargained, she could save the cloister from his punishment. But some stubborn part of her refused, a voice within telling her not to speak of the book. She’d never kill Tiral now. But at least she’d taken something he valued.

  “What book?” She let dull confusion fill her expression. He thought so little of her that he believed it.

  His soldiers beat, blindfolded, gagged, and dragged her out of the cloister and through the city. Her clothes were in tatters, her shoes gone. When her blindfold was removed, she found herself in the Aerie’s long gathering hall. The building was simple and stark, with high, foggy windows and a vast wood-beamed ceiling.

  The stone was cold beneath her feet, and she shivered. Three thrones sat before her, one for each of the Triarchs, embedded in the base of a staircase.

  Aiz had just enough time to realize that two of the thrones were occupied when Tiral shoved her face to the floor.

  “Bow to your betters, Snipe,” he hissed.

  As the stone dug into Aiz’s nose, it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be in front of the Triarchs of the Realm. She was naught but gutter trash. Punishment should have been death if Tiral wanted to make it quick, torture in a dungeon if he didn’t.

  “Commander Tiral, you’re meant to be hauling back enough food stores to get us through the month,” a woman’s cold voice spoke. The raven-haired Triarch of Clan Oona—the bloodsmithers. They used to work as healers, but they’d lost the skill generations ago. “What is this?”

  Tiral offered Triarch Oona a short bow. “This Snipe tried to assassinate me. She is a threat to us all.”

  “Your clan should deal with this directly,” Triarch Ghaz said with a frown. He was a young man in practical flight leathers, his curly hair a brown halo around his head. “You pulled us from a meeting with the Ankanese ambassador.”

  “And the fine Ankanese wine he brought,” Triarch Oona murmured.

  Triarch Ghaz looked Aiz up and down. “You expect us to consider this girl a danger to the Triarchy?”

  Clan Ghaz were once custodians of mindsmithing, but, like the bloodsmithers, they’d lost the ability. Still, Triarch Ghaz had taken his throne by outmaneuvering every member of his clan. Aiz looked down, worried that he would peer into her mind and read how much she hated the Triarchs—including him.

  “She’s a threat.” Tiral paced behind Aiz like a hunting dog. “Because I don’t believe she acted alone.”

  Tiral nodded to his guards, and a moment later, they dragged cleric after cleric into the gathering hall. All thirty were from Dafra cloister—the entire clergy. All were bound and gagged, Sister Noa among them, her eye bloodied. Aiz winced. The old woman had put up a fight.

  Behind her limped Sister Olnas, her gray hair falling from its usually neat bun. Clerics did not marry, but Olnas and Noa were as good as. Olnas would be frantic at Noa’s injury.

  “No!” Aiz cried. “They had nothing to—”

  Tiral slapped her, and blood from her already cut lip spattered the floor. “Silence, rat.”

  The Triarchs didn’t so much as look at Aiz, their gazes fixed on a woman following the clerics in, escorted but not bound.

  Her skin and hair gleamed as white as the Loha used to power the Sails. She wore a simple cream robe, embroidered with the half-sun symbol of Mother Div. Despite the soldiers on either side of her, she appeared serene. She bowed her head to the Triarchs.

  “Light of the Spires, Triarchs.”

  “Long may it guide us,” the Triarchs intoned. Aiz stared, mouth agape. The High Cleric was the holiest living person in Kegar. Aiz had only ever seen her from afar, leading the Summer Rites to bless the raids.

  “Holy Triarchs,” Tiral said. “I submit that the clerics of Dafra cloister planned the assassination to seize power. The girl was merely a tool. Tell me, High Cleric: Why did your clergy plot so cunningly against a son of Kegar?”

  “My people did no such thing,” High Cleric Dovan said. “Triarchs, I beg you to hear reason. Commander Tiral sees shadows and threats where there are none.”

  “My son commands the flight squadrons of Kegar,” a voice growled from the door. It was Triarch Hiwa—Tiral’s father—who’d entered the hall silently. “Seeing shadows and threats is his job—one that has kept our people fed.”

  Triarch Hiwa, blond like his son, offered Tiral a bare nod before striding to his throne, guards trailing. He had a heavy brow and a curled lip, as if forever displeased.

  Aiz’s heart thumped rapidly. Strange how in a moment, the nightmare images from years ago came rushing back. Triarch Hiwa’s visit to the cloister. Let us see what these children can do. The clerics trotting out the orphans. One sang. Another showed off her weaving. Ros displayed his skill with a bow.

  You’d make a fine soldier, Triarch Hiwa had said to Ros. Then he sneered at his own son. Tiral was a few years older than Ros at the time. The Snipe is a better shot than you, boy, Triarch Hiwa had said, cuffing Tiral across the cheek.

  That night, Tiral crept into the cloister and burned the orphans’ wing down. Only Aiz and Cero survived.

  Within a year, Tiral’s father had named him heir.

  Triarch Hiwa sat upon his throne now. His name meant wind, and his clan was known for the one skill remaining to the Kegari: windsmithing. His gaze settled on Aiz with the weight of a fist. She kept her face down, her anger leashed. She’d done enough to harm the clerics.

  “So, this is your assassin,” Triarch Hiwa said. “She doesn’t look like much. That said, an assassination attempt makes the Triarchy look weak. Do you not agree, High Cleric?”

  As Aiz glanced between the highborns, she realized that she was witnessing some power struggle far above her station. One that had been going on for longer than she knew. It did not matter what she’d done. There was a greater storm here, and she and the clerics were caught in its currents.

  Aiz followed Tiral’s gaze to the ornately carved throne atop the staircase behind the Triarchs. It was the largest throne, for it belonged to Mother Div, who commanded three elements: blood, mind, and air.

  In our hour of greatest need, the clerics told the children, Mother Div will return in the body of the Tel Ilessi, the Holy Vessel. And the Tel Ilessi shall deliver us back to the homeland from whence we fled, so long ago.

  The throne had sat empty for a thousand years, since Mother Div left Kegar to her three children—the progenitors of Clan Oona, Clan Ghaz, and Clan Hiwa.

  Now Tiral stared at that throne like a Snipe gazed at fresh bread.

  “Aiz bet-Dafra was under the clerics’ care when she undertook this assassination,” Triarch Oona noted, red robes rustling as she steepled her fingers. “They must have known something.”

  High Cleric Dovan now looked alarmed. She turned her full attention to Triarch Ghaz, who had not yet spoken against her.

  “Triarch Ghaz, you and I have prayed to Mother Div together. You have seen the benefits of the cloisters and how we educate the orphans. You know us.”

  Hiwa spoke before Ghaz could. “Commander Tiral. As the attempt was made against you, what punishment would you have the assassin and her accomplices bear?”

  “They should be sent to the Tohr for questioning,” Tiral said without hesitation. “We will learn how deep the plot runs. If the clerics have nothing to hide, then they need not fear. As for the girl—” Tiral circled Aiz. “Death would be an easy path for her. If she survives her questioning, she can live out her days in the Tohr to think on her crimes.”

  Aiz began to tremble. Not for herself—she couldn’t give two figs if she was alive or dead—but for what she knew the clerics would endure at the hands of the Tohr’s Questioners.

  “There is no need for this.” The High Cleric’s voice shook. “Lord Tiral, we can discuss—”

  “Perhaps,” Tiral said. “But not right now.”

  “What—what will happen to the children?” Sister Noa spoke up. “If we are to be imprisoned?”

  “Better for the orphans to serve in the army than learn sedition at the knees of the clerics,” Tiral said. “Don’t look so shocked. I was younger than most of them the first time I fought at my father’s side. Many nations train their children even earlier. The Jaduna begin battle magic lessons at age four. The Empress of the Martials went to a military academy at age six.”

  “The girl and the clerics will be questioned,” Hiwa said. “The orphans will be conscripted. Witnessed and agreed?” He turned to his fellow Triarchs.

  Triarch Oona nodded. “Witnessed and agreed.”

  Triarch Ghaz regarded the clerics, a wealth of protest behind his eyes. None of it reached his lips. “Witnessed and agreed,” he said.

  Triarch Hiwa nodded to the guards. “Take them to the Tohr.”

  5

  Quil

  Later in the evening, Quil bought Sufiyan a sketchbook and pencils for his yearfall—small enough that the gift wouldn’t feel like a burden. Suf said nothing of what happened in the market. He thanked Quil for the gift and disappeared into the arched hallways of Navium’s royal palace. To draw, Quil hoped. Or more likely to forget his sadness with whoever happened to be around.

  For his part, Quil knew he should find his aunt and ask her about the deaths she’d kept from him. But he couldn’t come right out and say it because she’d dodge his questions. He’d have to be clever.

  He walked through the imperial gardens, breathing in the cool sea air. Quil spent so many nights under the stars that most Martial palaces felt like prisons to him. But Navium’s was different.

  Aunt Helene had insisted on extensive grounds with mosaic-tiled pools, flowers tumbling down high archways, and neat hedges that bloomed a fiery red in the autumn. She groused about the groundkeepers eating up the treasury. But when she passed through these manicured spaces, she always lingered—as Quil did now.

  The prince slowed in the sculpture garden, where human warriors battled jinn—magical creatures carved to look like smokeless fire. In one corner, a Scholar man offered a Martial child a carved horse. In another, a falcon screamed in triumph, wings outstretched.

  Someone had lit the lamps along a black stone path, and Quil followed it to three figures carved of pale gray marble. They stood with heads bowed and hands clasped, as if in supplication. His long dead maternal grandparents, and his Aunt Hannah. All had died at the hands of his father, Emperor Marcus Farrar.

  The most hated man in Martial history.

  His father had been cruel and murderous, as well as an inept ruler. He’d nearly lost the Empire when Karkaun barbarians invaded twenty years ago. Sometimes, Quil was certain that Marcus was the reason his aunt had sent him to the Tribal Lands, instead of allowing him to remain at her side. She didn’t want to look at anything that reminded her of the monster who’d slaughtered her family.

  Most of what Quil had learned about his father had been stolen, overheard in conversation, or gleaned from history books before his aunt whisked them away.

  The only person who had spoken openly to Quil about Marcus was his paternal grandmother. He’d sat in her kitchen as a boy eating almond cookies. He’d seen himself in her long lashes and gold skin, her dark waves and high cheekbones and the measured way she spoke.

  Your father loved those too, she’d told him as he enjoyed the cookies. He and your Uncle Zak—they were beautiful boys. Good boys. Until Blackcliff, anyway.

  So, this was what he knew of his father. The man’s disastrous, short reign, and the fact that he’d loved almond cookies. No paintings of Marcus existed. No busts or sculptures. Certainly not here in Navium.

  There was, however, a statue of Quil’s mother, Livia Aquilla. He stopped before her, seeking a reminder, perhaps, that he wasn’t just his father’s son. Assurance, for he was sick to death of dreading his future.

  “Is this my fate, then, Mother?” He took in the high forehead he’d inherited, the full upper lip. “To take the throne? To never be free of it?” His skin crawled at the thought. Not just because of the unending constraints of the crown—his aunt hardly had a minute to herself. But because he’d read enough history to know that power corrupted. His father, who ruled before Aunt Helene, was evidence of that.

  “What if I end up exactly like him?”

  Power doesn’t have to corrupt. Not if you’re wise about it, instead of thoughtless.

  Tas’s words. Quil wished for his friend now, for Tas helped Quil untangle his thoughts. Tas, an orphan like Quil, was father and brother and blood in a way that few others were.

  Years ago, after Elias and Laia married, Tribe Saif adopted Tas and he grew up with Quil. The prince’s first memory was lying on a woven mat next to Tas as the elder child pointed out constellations above.

  That big bird-looking thing? That’s the falcon. Aquillus. That’s your family’s symbol. When Tas realized how much Quil hated his given name, he’d started calling him Aquillus—Quil—and refused to stop no matter what Aunt Hel said. Eventually, everyone else followed.

  But Tas was gone, off on another mission for Aunt Helene. Going through half the treasury, his aunt had grumbled. Tas did have expensive taste. Charming, quick with a blade, and wickedly clever, he was the consummate spy, appearing not quite Scholar nor Martial, but a bit of both. Quil missed his irreverent humor, the stories of his adventures. He hadn’t heard from Tas in months.

  In truth, Tas’s presence wouldn’t make a difference. Quil wouldn’t abdicate, no matter how much he wished to. Not after everything Aunt Helene had endured to secure the throne. Not after all she’d lost because of him.

  “Cousin! I’ve been looking for you.”

  Quil stepped away from the statue, though the speaker would not judge him for talking to it.

  Throughout Quil’s life, Aunt Helene had tried to engender a closeness with Marcus’s many family members. One of them was the girl approaching with a mallet tucked under one arm and a miniature catapult in the other.

  “Cousin Arelia.” He reached out a hand in greeting, but she rolled her eyes and gathered him in a hug, promptly dropping the mallet on his foot.

  She wore dark blue engineers’ coveralls, the pockets filled with all manner of rattling objects; her loose, brown-blond curls were pulled back into a bun. Quil was taller and broader than his cousin, and her skin was warmer—closer to Sufiyan’s coloring. Quil tended toward contemplation and control, whereas Reli was forever muttering to herself and experimenting with dangerous ideas, chaos trailing. But they both had the hallmark strong jaw and pale hazel eyes of Gens Farrar.

  “Glad I caught you.” Arelia released him. “I saw the oddest blueprint on your aunt’s desk when I was giving her an update on the bridge restorations. Here, hold my trebuchet—” Reli shoved it at him and patted her coveralls, pulling out a silver hammer, a leather hair thong, and a foreign coin before shaking her head.

  “Had a sketch. Gone now. It could be a weapon, but I hope it’s a form of transport because skies know livestock and barges are too slow. In the south, the Kegari travel by air. Air!”

  “What good are aircraft if they’re only used to raid and pillage?” Quil said. His aunt had expressed worry about Kegar, a nation so troublesome that even though they were thousands of miles to the south, their warmongering was affecting Empire allies.