Page 13 of Heir

“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 itinto 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 usuallyneat 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.

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