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  Her aunt’s expression softened. “No. I’m afraid we’re left to our own wisdom. But at least we have his light to see by.”

  Saara nodded, turning fully toward her aunt so she wouldn’t be tempted to look back into the stone.

  Aiyen’s voice lowered, even though they were alone in the enormous room, shut in by the thick wooden doors. “Why?” she asked. “Has he spoken to you?”

  Saara looked up into her aunt’s dark eyes. Wise-lines creased her wrinkled brown skin. Saara had seen her look at others the way she now looked at Saara—with suspicion. Just a fortnight ago one of the guard contingents had discovered a blood mage—a foreigner from the mainland—who had puppets in the priesthood, in the military, among the scribes. They hadn’t been able to root out them all, and Saara’s aunt said that blood mages were like roaches. Where one is found, there are always more.

  Saara’s heart beat in her throat, and she hastily shook her head. “No, Aunt. I’m sure if he spoke, it would be only to you.”

  Her aunt nodded. This was the correct answer. But the creases around her eyes didn’t relax.

  Saara looked back at Nerendal, trying to appear as if she hadn’t noticed. She was always careful with her blood, so she doubted a mage could have gotten it. If one had, they would be able to look through Saara’s eyes without her knowing it. They could even control her outright.

  She’d never heard of a puppet claiming to hear the voice of Nerendal. She wasn’t about to use that to exonerate herself, though. She couldn’t have her aunt knowing she was going mad, or she might be dismissed from her place.

  “Go, now,” Aiyen said. “Your cousins are waiting for you to begin the evening meal.”

  Saara nodded and hurried out of the throne room without meeting her aunt’s eyes. Each step on the tiled floor brought a wave of nausea, and as she moved farther and farther from the stone, the sickness grew stronger, but the voice didn’t speak again.

  Saara said a silent prayer to Nerendal that he never would.

  After dinner, Saara headed to the practice rooms, where she intended to stretch and find a sparring partner to work out some tension. If she only got her muscles moving, perhaps the voice would grow more faint. On the way down, Saara passed a priest of Nerendal, dressed in official gold and green robes. He walked beside a glass blower who was describing in detail a glass sculpture of Nerendal’s flame that might grace the palace entryway.

  “There’s also the matter of commissioning the light charm for the inside of the statue,” the craftsman said. “For a charm of this size, Hirsetti prices are considerable.”

  The craftsman noticed Saara coming and fell silent, and both he and the priest nodded to her—a show of deference, if not the deep bow they would have given to her aunt or cousin. “Light be with you,” Saara said to the priest, and he muttered the same blessing as she stepped into the practice room and closed the door behind her.

  Her cousin Talia had beaten her here, and was standing in the center of the room, a long, curved practice sword in her hand. Her cousin was lanky and several inches taller than Saara. Her limbs swirled smoothly through the chatha—a ritual dance used to practice the motions of combat.

  Saara chose a practice blade from the wall and joined Talia mid-move, drawing her arm back and then slicing downward in a great swoop. The pair of them swirled together, their loose cotton sleeves draping from their arms and then sailing over their heads like kites.

  When they reached the end of the chatha, Talia smiled at Saara and lowered her blade, breathing heavily. “You’re not even winded. Good thing I started before you arrived, or you would have picked a faster tempo and I wouldn’t have been able to keep up.”

  Saara shook her head, though what Talia said was true. She had always been faster than Talia, and more precise. “I can’t compare to your grace,” she said. “Or your strength.”

  Talia shrugged. “Grace is no good against assassins,” she said. “I’ll have to keep practicing until I pick up your speed.”

  Saara extended her arms, stretching out her warm muscles. Talia was right, and she had far more reason to worry about assassins than Saara did. Saara knew her aunt intended to place her as the captain of the palace guard when her training was complete—not a position generally targeted by assassins. Talia, on the other hand, would someday take her mother’s place as queen.

  “My mother spoke to me before dinner,” Talia said carefully.

  Saara sat down on the stone floor, extending her leg and wrapping her hands around the ball of her foot. “What did she say?”

  Talia bent into a stretch of her own, but looked at Saara from the corner of her eye. “She told me to keep an eye on you.”

  Saara held her stretch steady, refusing to allow Talia to see her react. She’d thought her aunt seemed suspicious, but she must be even more worried than Saara had thought if she was speaking of it to Talia.

  “She said you were behaving strangely,” Talia continued. “Do you know what she meant?”

  “No idea,” Saara said.

  Talia gave Saara an appraising look—no doubt also thinking about the blood mage and the possibility that Saara would make an excellent puppet, close as she was to the throne. The mainland emperor, Lord General Diamis, made a show of killing blood mages, but Saara had yet to meet a politician who wasn’t willing to use every tool at his disposal to maintain power.

  If Talia was anxious about it, she chose not to say. She turned her back, raised her sword, and executed a perfect downward slash.

  Saara wished she could know for certain what her cousin was thinking. Aunt Aiyen had always been more transparent than Talia—she spoke abruptly and betrayed her emotions on her face. Saara had always thought of Aunt Aiyen as one of the bright dancing flames of Nerendal himself, while Talia was more like the wind that fed him—strong and constant, even while its next move was invisible.

  “Well,” Talia said. “I’ll tell my mother I’ve discovered your chatha form has lost nothing.”

  “Thank you,” Saara said. Though she didn’t imagine her aunt would find comfort in the combat prowess of a blood puppet.

  Or a madwoman.

  Saara awoke in the middle of the night when her bedroom door flew open. She sat up in bed to see her handmaid entering, light globe in hand.

  “My lady,” she said. “Hurry. The guards are coming any minute. You can’t be here when they arrive.”

  Saara squinted at her. She still had a dull stomachache from walking away from Nerendal that evening, though she had hoped sleep would heal the pain. “What?”

  Her handmaid rushed into the room, letting the door close behind her. “I heard the guards talking,” she said. “They say you’re a blood puppet. Your aunt has sent them to kill you. My lady, get up. You have to go.”

  Saara jumped out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. Her handmaid was already throwing things into a bag—a change of clothes, a pair of shoes. Saara had little in her room that one would use to survive on the river, or up on the bluff where the wind blew down from the mountain and few plants grew.

  Gods, she should have told Queen Aiyen the truth—that she was going mad. Surely then her aunt would have sent a physician. Even if she suspected her of being under blood magic control, Aiyen might have confined Saara to her room rather than kill her.

  But there was a storm whirling toward shore, one that had already overcome three of the mainland nations. Her aunt would take no chances. Tirostaar was too precious to be risked on any one life.

  Saara threw aside the dressing gown, reaching instead for her loose pants and tunic. She drew her best dagger from its place in her bedside drawer, fixed it to her belt, and took the bag from her handmaid.

  “You’re sure they’re coming,” she said.

  “Yes, lady.”

  Saara steeled herself. “From which way?”

  Her handm
aid pulled the door open, peering out as if the guard might be standing outside it even now, which, Saara had to concede, they might. Apparently seeing no one, the handmaid pushed the door aside and pointed down the hall to the left. “I heard them talking near the armory,” she said. “Gathering what they needed. There were four of them there, but if the order comes from your aunt—”

  “Every guard might be in on it,” Saara said. She turned to her handmaid. “Go. Get back to bed and pretend you heard nothing. If what you say is true and my aunt finds out you’ve warned me, you’ll be killed in my place.”

  Her handmaid nodded, but showed no sign of remorse, even though what she’d done amounted to treason against her aunt, and possibly even against Nerendal. Saara didn’t know what she’d done to earn such loyalty.

  But she’d take it. “Light be with you,” Saara said to her, then turned and ran up the corridor in the opposite direction of the armory. As she ran, Saara cursed herself for not being more prepared. Living in the palace, her needs were taken care of. But that meant she didn’t have anything she would have wanted to flee—food, a waterskin. A disguise—something that covered her face. She hadn’t prepared. She didn’t have anything useful besides her weapon. At least she hadn’t been so stupid as to sleep in a room without that.

  Saara moved around a corner and through the stone corridors to the south, toward the cliff face. The palace stretched deep into the rock, which had always felt like a protection to her.

  But now she felt like a cornered burrow mouse. There were only so many exits, and there would be guards at them all. Saara was prepared to kill to live, but would she be able to best a group of guards with short swords—alone, with only her dagger? Her mouth went dry and not just from running.

  Saara reached a staircase. The hallway continued, and the polished stone stairs stretched both up and down. The colored light screens had been dimmed for the night but still provided enough light to see. Saara paused, listening. She hadn’t heard any gongs yet, the ringing alarms that would reverberate through the halls, alerting the palace to a state of emergency.

  But she wouldn’t, would she? If her aunt wanted her dead, she wouldn’t wake her cousins until after it was over, wouldn’t want to risk that some of them might fight to protect Saara. Aiyen would have chosen the night guards carefully, avoiding those who were close to Saara. The others would hear the story after the fact.

  Saara might be mad, but she wasn’t stupid. She waited, like the mouse, watching for any shifting shadows, listening carefully for any sign of her predators. Voices sounded from below her, as did the heavy steps of boots on stone.

  So Saara ran up. The higher she went, the closer she’d be to the guard stations at the top of the cliff, where sentries watching the city might already be aware to watch for her. But if the guards knew she had eluded them, they’d probably be expecting her to emerge close to the water, where she might try to swim to safety—as if there was any of that to be had while still in the canyon or up on the bluffs.

  No, Saara’s only hope was to make it to the sea. She climbed up only one level, which would put her somewhere in the middle of the cliff, then stole down one of the hallways that would bring her to the rock face, to a balcony overlooking the river.

  Saara slowed as she neared the entrance to the open air. The balconies were always guarded. Sure enough, she could hear voices ahead. She ducked into a doorway, realizing too late that she was standing in the gong room. This room had no exits, only round walls with a series of holes in the ceiling and the floor—tunnels as wide as a wine bottle that would carry any sound that reverberated from the curved ceiling all over the castle. The gong stood in the center, an enormous copper disc with a knocker hanging from its support beam.

  The voices grew closer. “I’ll watch the balconies from here,” a guard said. It wasn’t one of her cousins, several of whom served as officers of the guard.

  “See that you do,” another guard answered. “Search every room. We’ll flush her out.”

  Saara pressed against the wall by the door, and one guard hurried down the hall the way Saara had come. The other also moved in her direction, more slowly. Saara heard the creak of a door, then another, closer. Saara drew her dagger. She said a silent apology to the guard—who was, after all, only doing her job. Then Saara grabbed the knocker and hit it against the gong with all her might.

  The noise filled the room, bouncing in Saara’s ears, but she didn’t allow herself to be stunned. The guard came barreling into the room, and Saara swung the knocker again, backward this time, taking the guard right in the throat. The guard slumped to the floor, hands at her neck. Even as the reverberating sound of the gong died, the woman was unable to call out for help. Saara didn’t allow herself a moment to see if she’d crushed the woman’s windpipe. She said a silent prayer to Nerendal for the woman’s soul—if, indeed, he would answer Saara, wanting her dead as he did—and then ran down the hall toward the balcony this guard had been occupying.

  The gong might distract the guards as they contended with every denizen of the palace who would, at this moment, be crawling from their beds in a panic. But it wouldn’t delay them forever.

  Saara emerged onto the balcony, looking out over the city stretched across the opposite cliff face—hundreds of balconies lit by torches and lanterns of twisting colored glass. And there, hanging from the railing in front of her, she found exactly what she was looking for.

  A kite.

  Saara seized the thing, freeing it from its tethers. She swallowed, looking down at the river far below. When she had last flown on a kite, it was her uncle’s firm hands that had guided them safely to the balconies on the other side, instead of directly into the sheer cliff. Still, she understood the basics. She heard shouting behind her and a clatter of boots.

  There was no other way out.

  Saara held the kite over her head by the steering bar, slipped her arms through the harness, tucked the seat under the backs of her thighs, and stepped up onto the railing. She surveyed the canyon again. The only guard she saw was flying away from the palace, upriver.

  Saara jumped.

  The rush of catapulting toward the rocks and the river below made her stomach drop, but she pressed her lips shut to keep from shrieking. The sail above her caught in the wind, and the wind resistance pulled the leather seat tight against her. Saara leaned back, pulling on the bar that turned the frame and silks above, turning the sail so that the kite carried her east over the river, in the direction of the delta and the sea beyond.

  One of the city guard swooped from the top of the cliff and passed fifty feet above her, watching the river and the cliff face balconies from her own kite. The guard made no move toward her, though she almost certainly had a sword handy to cut Saara’s silks from above if she felt she needed to. She passed without circling down to see who occupied Saara’s kite, which Saara took as a sign that the city guard hadn’t been alerted.

  Yet.

  The palace guard would no doubt have tracked her up the corridor to the balcony. If they hadn’t seen her fly away in her stolen kite, they might have noticed it missing. She had little time before they came after her—those who were trained with kites would be much more adept at flying than she.

  Even now, her kite angled lower. Saara fumbled with the wind charm, which was affixed with a leather cover. When it was removed, air would blast upward into her sail, lifting her, and when it was replaced, she would be drawn back toward the earth again. Use it incorrectly, her uncle had told her, and she could lose control of the craft, or at the very least, bounce through the air like a leaping sailfish.

  Saara couldn’t afford to attract attention. She also saw little point in landing on one of the balconies on the opposite side. It would take a skilled guard mere minutes to reach the far side of the cliff and then she’d be cornered again, caught in another maze of tunnels—this time less familiar than the palace.<
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  If she had to be prey, she’d rather be a bird than a mouse.

  Saara steered the craft down the middle of the chasm and locked the bar in place with the holding strap. She reached up gingerly to the cover on the wind charm.

  And then, slowly, she slipped it aside.

  The gust of wind bit at her fingers as the air rushed upward to fill the sail. Afraid of the sudden burst, Saara slipped the cover half on, blowing some of the wind back in her face, but preventing the draft from lifting her too sharply into the air.

  Behind her, Saara heard shouting, but even when she leaned back, she couldn’t see who it was, or make out the words.

  Her heart raced. She needed to get out of the air, fast. But where could she go? The flat expanse of the bluff above the cliff face would leave her entirely exposed, and unless she wanted to climb the mountain or scale the cliff, she’d have nowhere to run. But locked between the walls of the canyon, she remained in yet another trap.

  And then she saw it.

  A ship, sailing down the south side of the river, pulled along by the quick current at the river’s bend. Just beyond it was a straighter stretch of water, where the current would be rough but swimmable, especially for a strong swimmer.

  Saara couldn’t fly the kite forever. The guard was bound to overtake her. But if she landed—even looked like she crashed—they’d have to waste time searching for her on the ground and might not figure out where she had gone until the boat was far down the river, lost among the many trade and passenger ships moving in and out of the capitol.

  Saara capped the wind charm and angled the bar toward the south side of the chasm, rotating it slightly so that the sail tipped forward, accelerating her descent. She fiddled with the bar, trying to adjust the speed of the kite, but when she got it aimed toward the bank, its speed only increased.

  Saara braced herself against the kite’s boning. As the kite careened toward the riverbank, she aimed the bones toward a cleft in the rock that was big enough for her body to pass through, but far too small for the stretch of wings above. As she neared the rock, she increased the angle of her descent, aiming to hit the rock only a few yards above the ground, so she wouldn’t have far to fall.