Page 3 of Heir

“He deserves our respect.” Aiz spat out the lie. What Tiral deservedwas a knife to the jugular—which was exactly what Aiz planned on giving him in a few hours. But if Cero guessed Aiz’s plot, he’d try to stop her. Tell her it was too dangerous.

“Tiral’s our fleet commander.” Aiz thought of the knife in her skirt, sharpened in the darkness of the cloister’s forgotten tunnels. “Without him, we’d all starve.”

“He doesn’t care about us.” Cero fixed his eyes on Aiz and she found it difficult to look away. “Be wary of him.”

Aiz went still. Cero never spoke idly. He must have seen her entering Tiral’s quarters. Or leaving. She thought of what Tiral had said months ago, when Aiz first allowed him to think he was seducing her.Keep our secrets to yourself, little Snipe. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.

Cero’s expression was severe enough that Aiz wondered if there was something between her friend and Tiral. She’d often been clueless about Cero’s entanglements. He’d kept an affair with a seamstress so quiet that Aiz didn’t learn of it until the woman showed up at the cloister, demanding to see him.

“I don’t care who you dally with, Aiz.” Cero’s detachment stung. “But don’t make assumptions about Tiral. The only person he cares about is himself.”

As he spoke, he spun a ring on his finger. Aiz used to have one like it. An aaj.One of Cero’s many creations. It let them communicate without speaking. She’d returned it to Cero after he’d become a pilot.

“Done lecturing?” She let her voice ice over and scooped more hay. “I have work to do.”

A shutter went down behind Cero’s eyes. He left the stable. Aiz knew she’d hurt him, which both upset and satisfied her. But she couldn’t dwell on Cero. She only had time for one man today.

Waiting was torturous, the hours crawling by in a blur of mucking hay, waterproofing Sails, and dodging the flightmasters’ blows. Eventually, the rose-gilded snow clouds bumped along south and the wind’sscreams quieted to whispers. Night fell. Aiz was helping to light the airfield’s lamps when one of the signalers called out.

“Incoming!”

He pointed to the snow-drenched spires that encircled the capital, jutting into the sky like triumphant fists. The moon highlighted the approaching Sails, and Aiz’s pulse quickened.

“Get those lamps lit, you Spires-forsaken rats!” the closest flightmaster roared, whip flashing. Within moments, dozens of signalers flooded the field, blue fire held high.

The Sails landed with well-practiced precision. All but Lord Tiral’s, which was the largest; it turned on a wingtip not once but twice as he surveyed the squadron. He didn’t spiral down until the rest of the fleet had landed.

Aiz hurried from pad to pad, collecting goggles and caps and empty bowls of Loha. All the while, she watched Tiral for a weakness. Tiredness or an injury. Something that would make it easier to stick a knife in him.

The only oddity she saw was familiar: his hand strayed to the thin book always tucked into his belt. When she’d first spotted it months ago, Aiz thought it was the Nine Sacred Tales, the parables Mother Div told to guide her people. Or if not that, a journal or a record book. But as best she could tell, it was a volume of children’s stories, useless to her unless she wanted to beat him to death with it.

Unfortunately, it was a bit small for that.

As Tiral strode around his Sail, pointing out the damage it had taken to the flightmasters, Aiz paced in the shadows, consumed with hate.

She’d never understand why Mother Div gave Tiral windsmithing skill when he spat on everything she stood for. When he orphaned children by conscripting their parents and sneered at the clerics who carried out good works in Mother Div’s name.

Tiral looked up, as if sensing Aiz’s ire. He was twenty, broad-shouldered, of medium height, with pale hair and a crooked nose that made himmemorable instead of ugly. His saurian gaze fixed on her. It took all Aiz’s effort to keep her face placid. He nodded once.

She knew what he wanted. For once, she was happy to give it to him.

Aiz made her way to the Aerie, past the forges where metallurgists alloyed the Loha used for the Sails, wrinkling her nose at the stench. Rumor was that their supply of Loha—husbanded for a thousand years—was running out.

Without Loha there would be no Sails. Without Sails, the raids would fail. Then they’d all starve, Hawk and Snipe alike.

Aiz entered the Aerie from a side door and made for the bathing chambers. In the past six months, she’d learned to navigate the labyrinth of servants’ passages with ease. On her way to Tiral’s room, she saw others like her. Dead-eyed Snipes in revealing robes, doing what they needed to survive. They didn’t acknowledge each other.

She wound through the innards of the keep to the secret door that led into Tiral’s room. The stones of the tunnels were ancient, and she shifted one aside and hid her knife behind it. Then she knocked on the door thrice.

He made her wait. Unsurprising. He enjoyed the idea of Aiz shivering in the tunnel, not knowing if he’d allow her in or not. Aiz had worked hard to cultivate the image of a besotted Snipe. On the nights he left her outside, she sniveled and pleaded.

Pig. He thought he had so much power. Tonight, he’d learn different.

Soon, she heard movement. The door opened, and dim blue light spilled into the passage. Tiral’s pale skin gleamed, like he was part specter.

“Aiz,” he purred, and took her by the arm.

“My lord,” she whispered.Say it. Say it one last time.“Thank you for allowing me in.”

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