Page 67 of Heir

“I have a question about a story,” Aiz said. “One only a great Kehanni like Laia of Serra would know. The subject matter is of particular interest to me and my people, who are besieged and abused.” She looked out at the faces of Tribe Saif. “I mean her no harm.”

There was a long, tense moment, during which Aiz was sure the boy holding the blade to her side would run her through.

But then that same liquid voice spoke from the dark. “Step back, Quil. I will attend to her.”

The blade dropped, its wielder nothing but a flash of yellow eyes in the darkness. Aiz released a slow breath as a woman emerged into the firelight, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun at her nape. She wore a simple green and silver dress, cinched tight around a narrow waist, and her wrists were intricately tattooed with geometric designs. Aiz had no skill with prescience, as the seers of Ankana did. But as the woman’s dark gold stare bored into Aiz, she had a sudden desire to flee. To vault onto Tregan and ride away.

Aiz took a step back, and almost at the same moment, she heard the unmistakableshingof two dozen blades leaving their sheaths all at once.

“I wouldn’t run,” the woman said calmly. “You won’t get far.”

“You’re her,” Aiz said. “You’re Laia of Serra.”

The woman nodded in assent. “I don’t know your name.”

Aiz had chosen the name with care. Something that would never be linked back to that gutter Snipe freezing in the cloister. The ancient name of a star.

“Ilar,” she said. “Ilar of Ankana.”

“Welcome, Ilar,” Laia of Serra said. “Take salt with us.” She gestured to the fire, and Aiz joined her, taking a pinch of salt from a bowl that Laia offered. Moments later, the boy called Quil appeared with flatbread and bowls of lentils and greens. Aiz took hers warily.

“It’s not poisoned.” Quil’s voice was quiet but sonorous. Even with the fire popping and conversation humming, Aiz heard him. He spoke Ankanese with hardly an accent—he must be one of the Tribe’s linguists. With so much trade between these lands and Ankana, every Tribe had one.

He tore off a bite of flatbread, dipped it in Aiz’s bowl, and ate it. “See?”

Beside Aiz, Laia tucked in with gusto as the other members of the Tribe settled nearby to eat. With Quil still watching, Aiz took a bite.

And nearly melted into the earth with bliss. She looked up at Quil to thank him, but he’d faded back into the dark. The Tribe trusted him—it was he who would have killed her if they’d deemed Aiz a threat. Yet he delivered food like a lowly servant. And he looked nothing like them. Nor did Laia.

Though everyone smiled and laughed around her, Aiz was under no illusion that they trusted her.Breathe.She dropped her shoulders and smiled. They’d let her in. Now she must win their trust and get answers about Mother Div’s story.

“Forgive me, I do not speak Ankanese as well as Quil or my children,” Laia of Serra said. “Tell me of—of you.” As Laia spoke, tiny mirrors sewn into the borders of her clothing caught the firelight, making it seem as if her dress were aflame.

“Do you have…” Aiz could tell Laia was struggling to think of the word. “People?” she finally said.

“Family? No,” Aiz said. “My mother died when I was young. I didn’t know my father. I don’t have siblings.”

Laia’s face softened. “Ah.” She looked into Aiz’s eyes, and touchedher wrist, pulling back when Aiz flinched. “I am sorry. Where are you from in Ankana?”

The Kehanni’s questions were gentle, but this was still an interrogation.

“The capital.” Aiz had practiced this answer on the road. “A neighborhood called Bisker.”

Laia of Serra shook her head. “I do not know it. My husband travels there regularly. Elias, love—” A big man with black hair appeared from one of the wagons. Two sword hilts poked up from behind his neck.

Elias dropped a kiss onto his wife’s head before sitting down beside her. The little boy she’d seen telling a story before—a veritable twin of the man, down to the silver eyes—raced out of the dark and threw himself at his father, chattering in Sadhese until Laia said something to him. The boy glanced curiously at Aiz.

“Aba, listen.” He switched to Ankanese so Aiz could follow the conversation—which matched what she’d learned of the Tribes during her brief time in this land. Hospitality was paramount—and that meant making sure your guests could understand you.

“Sufiyan says he didn’t like the story I told about the Durani and the dust wall. Now he won’t let me ride his horse. But yesterday he wouldn’t let me ride because he said I’m half wolf and I’ll spook her, but I’mnotand he won’tlisten—”

“Ruhyan, love,” Elias rumbled with a smile, lifting the child atop his shoulders as easily as one would a sack of feathers. “Your mother was speaking. Take in the view from up there, and after she’s done, you and I can figure out how to outwit your brother, hmm?”

“Yes, Aba.” The child patted his father’s dark hair. “Sorry, Ama.”

Laia gave the boy an indulgent smile before turning to her husband. “Bisker, in Ankana. Do you know it? That’s where Ilar is from.”

“I do.” The man’s smile faded, and he fixed his pale eyes on Aiz as if she were made of snakes. “You’ve a fine horse,” he said softly.

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