Page 32 of Heir

In Dafra slum, Aiz had sharpened her wrath on the ever-spinning grindstone of misery. But here, in the deepest bowels of the Tohr, her anger faded into hopelessness. She didn’t know what would happen to Sister Noa or Olnas. The children or the other clerics.

She tried to tell herself the Sacred Tales, tried to take inspiration from Mother Div’s strength during her flight from Old Kegar, when she hadn’t known if she would find a new home or crash into a merciless sea. But Aiz heard Cero’s voice in her head, caustic.Mother Div won’t be reborn as the Tel Ilessi, Aiz. She won’t save us.

Perhaps Tiral had figured out that Cero had the book. If so, Cero would die. It would be Aiz’s fault. Her impetuousness would have deprived the world of his creativity, his dark humor, his dreams, closely held but beautiful.What if we harnessed the sun to grow plants in the winter? What if we transported goods with our Sails for other countries and got food in return?

I’m sorry, Cero, Aiz thought.I wish you were here. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.

Kithka brought food at uneven intervals, and when Aiz stopped eating, she yanked the girl out of the hole, beat her, and shoved the food in her mouth.

“The Triarchs don’t want you dead, girl,” she said. “They want you to suffer. You’ll eat. If you don’t, I’ll shove it down your gullet again.”

After the beating, Aiz lay on the dirt floor, body shaking and vision blurry. How naive she’d been to believe in Mother Div!Death is honorable in the service of belief.That was from the Eighth Sacred Tale, and it was rubbish.

This ugly, stinking, humiliating fade into nothingness—thiswas death. Not noble. Not in service of anything. But forsaken and forgotten in the depths of a jail where Kegar’s most hated criminals disappeared.You were right, Cero. It was all lies.

Aiz.

The voice was distant, a whisper on the wind. Aiz tried to sit up, but her body felt weighed down with stones. Around her, the dim light of the cell shifted. It faded and transformed into the night sky, dancing with bands of purple, red, and green light. The silence in the Hollows was no longer the menacing quiet of death but the soft hush of a gentle snowfall.

Aiz’s mind was a Sail, flying far away. She thought of her mother. How tired she always looked. Strange—it had been years since she remembered her mother’s face, thin and sharp like Aiz’s, but still soft somehow. She’d died during a raid after being forcibly enlisted. Aiz had tried tohold on to her as soldiers dragged her away. But she was too small.

Aiz, hear me.

“Who—who are you?” She batted at the air.

Aiz, my daughter, finally I come to you, in your hour of great need.

“Ma? Who is there?” Aiz called, bewildered, for she saw no one.

Do you not know me, daughter of Kegar?

A figure appeared above her, tall and hooded, face veiled, a crown atop her head. Aiz couldn’t make out her features, but that silhouette was familiar from statues, friezes, and coins. Aiz knew her as sure as she knew her own face.

“Mother Div?”

Have you lost your faith so swiftly, Aiz bet-Dafra?

She knew people had visions before death. When the orphans in the cloister burned, Aiz heard many calling out to their mothers as they died. Not in pain or terror, but in greeting.

“There’s no faith here,” Aiz whispered. “Only death. Only darkness.”

Darkness perhaps, for there is beauty in the dark, and strength. But not death, daughter of Kegar. Not yet. Listen well. Corruption eats at the heart of our land. It grows most virulently among those who rule our people. A traitor to my blood seeks to fulfill my prophecy of a Tel Ilessi. A vile pretender to whom Kegari lives mean less than a mote of dirt.

“Tiral,” Aiz whispered.

The figure came in and out of focus. Aiz tried to shake away the torpor that weighed down her bones. She needed sharpness now. For this could not be real.

It is real, child. If it wasn’t, how would I read your thoughts? My blood alone held the power of mindsmithing. If I was not real, how would I know that Tiral bet-Hiwa plans to claim the mantle of the Tel Ilessi before the next full moon?

Aiz’s disgust penetrated the haze in her mind, her hunger for vengeance rekindling. Heartless, faithless Tiral as Tel Ilessi? The killer oforphans—who were most precious to Mother Div—playacting as the vessel of her spirit? It was repugnant. A desecration of Div’s kindness, her love. But before Aiz could protest, the figure spoke again.

Heed me. The Triarchy is corrupted and cannot help our people. Only you can.

“How?” Aiz asked.

The highborn call the wretched poor Snipes, but we are Starlings who move together as one. The low, the broken, the forgotten, the hungry—they will be your shield, your sword, your army, the heart that beats within you. Look to them for strength. Do not let Tiral’s blasphemy stand. For as long as it does, we cannot return home. We cannot leave this accursed spit of land for the golden shores of our forefathers.

Aiz gasped. Mother Div spoke of the Return. The tantalizing promise at the end of every Sacred Tale.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.

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