Page 4 of Heir

“I’m nothing if not generous, Snipe.”

Lord Tiral drew her through his living quarters, the fur settees strewn with boots and fresh flight leathers. She caught a glimpse of herself inhis mirror—small-boned and light-skinned, her dark hair spilling to her lower back, her blue irises seeming to glow. He nudged her onto his bed. Aiz’s head sank into the goose-feather pillow that could fetch a week’s worth of grain.

At least he was quick. Like many of Aiz’s bed partners, he fell into an untroubled sleep after their coupling. Aiz observed him, her lip curling.

To their people, Tiral was a brave fleet commander. But to Aiz, he was the murderous child who, years ago, snuck into the cloister in the dead of night to set fire to the orphans’ quarters. He’d listened to them scream as they burned, all because they’d made him look a fool in front of his father during an official visit.

The clerics, Sister Noa included, had gone before the Triarchy. Begged those three crooked monsters for justice. Even Dovan, the High Cleric of Kegar and leader of its many cloisters, made an impassioned plea.

The Triarchy did nothing. In time everyone forgot about the dead orphans—even Cero, who’d nearly died himself that night.

Aiz hadn’t forgotten.

She rose from the bed, donned her shirt and skirt, and moved to the passageway for the knife. She was nearly there when Tiral stirred. Aiz swung toward his desk, feigning interest in his things. If he awoke, he’d only see her snooping. Amid the scrolls and quills and military orders, her gaze snagged on a book.Thebook.

She ran her fingers across the cover. The leather was slick, like the skin of a long-submerged sea creature. The imprint on the cover was triangular and reminded her of the tangled forests of the Spires. The hair on Aiz’s neck rose, though she didn’t know why. She opened the book.

The Falcon and the Thief

In the abiding evenfall of the northern climes, a lone falcon winged his way home after a long and—

Bah. Just a story.Aiz closed the book, listening for Tiral’s snores before opening the passageway and retrieving her blade.

The bed dipped as she returned to it, and Tiral muttered in his sleep.

Aiz wrapped her fist tight around the knife.Get what you need. Forget the rest.The faster the better. Right in the throat. Cero had long ago taught her where to strike to kill a man.No one can keep us safe all the time, he’d said.Not even the clerics.

“In the name of Mother Div,” she whispered, “I take my vengeance.”

Aiz brought the blade down.

And gasped when Tiral’s hand shot out, catching her wrist with breathtaking swiftness. His eyes opened, and he smiled.

“Oh, Aiz,” he said. “You poor, stupid fool.”

2

Quil

The Martial Empire, the Northern Continent

Zacharias Marcus Livius Aquillus Farrar, heir to the Martial throne and a prince of Gens Aquilla, did not need four fully armed Masks following him everywhere he went.

Quil—as he preferred to be called—had fought for his aunt, Empress Helene Aquilla, in the southern borderlands at the age of thirteen. Since he was fifteen, he’d bested at least two assassins a year with relative ease. He’d crisscrossed the dunes of the Tribal Desert and the forests of Marinn a hundred times with only his best friend, Sufiyan, for company. Here in the busy markets of the Empire’s biggest port city, it was no different.

Especially since he’d long since realized he was being followed, and the Masks hadn’t. Named for their silver face coverings, the Masks were the most elite soldiers in the Empire—and the most feared. But they still made mistakes.

“Stop glaring at the poor guards, Quil,” Sufiyan said at the prince’s scowl. “You’ll scare them.”

“They’re Masks,” Quil said. “They’re not allowed to be scared.”

Though perhaps they should be, Quil thought, considering how many had died ugly, unnatural deaths in the past few months. Usually, Masks were the ones holding the blades. But yesterday, two more had been found split open, according to the report Quil received from a western guard captain.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. But he also couldn’t share any details with Sufiyan because Aunt Helene had told him to keep the Masks’ deaths quiet.

The prince felt like a sailor fresh to land after a season at sea. Off-kilter. Uneasy. And now some cloaked miscreant was shadowing him.

Still, none of this was Sufiyan’s problem, so Quil kept his brooding to a minimum as he walked with his friend through Navium’s bustling evening market.

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