Page 37 of Heir

Sufiyan’s face was blank. It was Arelia who regarded Quil as if he’d suggested they chop their own heads off.

“The city guard will see to them.” She glanced at the cracked ceiling. “We need to move if we want to live.”

Another rumble shook the ballroom, and a chandelier above rocked wildly, its tapers flickering and falling to the floor twenty feet below. The earth groaned.

Rallius pulled Quil away from the flames now spreading across the ballroom, and they entered a long, pillared hallway.

“Wait, my prince!” Rallius eyed the high windows lining the hall, the glass spiderwebbed with ominous cracks. “I’ll go first.”

Rallius was ten steps ahead when a deep hum sounded from above them, like the sweep of a bird’s wings but a hundred times louder. Deeper. The ground shuddered so violently that the windows shattered.

Quil grabbed a pillar, but Arelia slammed into Sufiyan, knocking him to his back and tumbling over him.

“I’m sorry—”

Sufiyan silently pushed Arelia off and stood, unmoving, which was when Quil realized his friend was in shock.

“That blast was closer,” Quil said. “It’s not a munitions ship, Arelia. Suf, let’s move—” The cries outside intensified, a new wave of pain exploding with every attack.

The doors behind them burst open and a herd of guests rushed past, no doubt hoping to escape the palace and make it home.

Quil took two steps after them, wanting desperately to go into the streets of Navium and do whatever he could. The screams of his people swirled and echoed like a hellish wind. The prince’s hands shook in rage and sorrow.

“Move, you three!” Rallius staggered toward them. “We’re under attack and you’re making it easy for our enemies!”

Something’s coming, the Bani al-Mauth had said. Quil had felt the truth of that statement in his bones. But he’d never imagined this.

“It can’t be an attack.” Arelia limped beside Quil. “Our watchtowerswould have seen ships. Bombs this big wouldn’t fit on sea trebuchets. It’s not possib—”

“Quil!”

Sufiyan yanked him backward, his mouth open in a silent scream as another blast shook the palace and one side of the hall crumbled, stone tumbling into the space where Quil was just standing. Freezing air blew in from the black winter sky. The sculpture garden was below, its priceless carvings shattered to dust. The balcony where Quil had stood with his aunt was gone entirely.

Quil had a clear line of sight to the outer gate, thronged with guards and party guests all trying to escape. Beyond, the city burned and the sky glowed a lurid orange. Something flashed above.

The world turned to white fire as the glimmering object smashed into the palace gate and exploded, leveling everything for a hundred yards around it. Quil’s ears screamed and his vision went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t understand whether he was standing or on his back, whether he was staring up into a dark sky or down into one of the hells. His chest seized in terror. The last time he’d felt like this was a year ago, after walking into a blood-soaked chamber.

Don’t think about it. Don’t.

His ears made a strange, high-pitchedeeeeEEEEEeeee, then went silent, then shrieked again.

Sufiyan’s face appeared above him, bloodied and soot-stained. “Not again,” he muttered as he frantically shook Quil. “Not another brother. I—I can’t—”

Quil coughed and grasped his friend’s shoulder. “I’m all right, Suf,” he said. “Where’s Arelia?”

“Here.” Arelia staggered toward them, her dress ripped from waist to hem. Quil blanched at the blood trickling down her face. “It’s nothing,” she said, and lodged herself under one of Quil’s shoulders. Sufiyan took the other, and with Rallius leading, they lurched down the hall.

By the time they reached the safe room, Quil had shaken Arelia and Sufiyan off, limping but able to walk, astonished, in a way, that he could do so. That his body still functioned as if the world around him wasn’t falling to ruins.

A phalanx of Masks barred the door but, upon seeing Quil and Rallius, moved out of the way. The prince entered to find a crowd of generals bleating at each other about the defense of the city. Runners dropped missives with breathless panic, each one convinced that their message was the most urgent.

One look at his aunt told Quil that she was on the verge of lopping off heads.

“Nephew.” She nodded when he entered, but if she was relieved to see him, she didn’t show it. Instead, she looked over his shoulder, where Musa had followed him in, blood running down his cheek. Quil caught a flash of something iridescent moving near the man’s head. The wings of a wight—tiny humanoid creatures who were notoriously mistrusting and shy, except with Musa. They’d spied for him in the war on the Karkauns twenty years ago. He’d used them only in emergencies since. But their presence explained why he’d returned so quickly. They must have brought him news.

Musa glanced pointedly at the Paters.

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