Chapter 2

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.

Quil didn't much like cities, but Navium's merry populace, azure coastline, and mouthwatering food made it hard to find fault. With dinnertime approaching, Quil's stomach rumbled at the smell of lime and chili shrimp, grilled minced chicken on mountains of snowy rice, and a specialty of Navium: triangle pastries filled with smoked winter vegetables.

In one corner of the square, multicolored Tribal lanterns glowed; a Kehanni—a Tribal storyteller—performed a tale. It was one of Quil's favorites: about heroes named Laia of Serra and Elias Veturius who, with Empress Helene, saved the world from a jinn driven mad by grief and betrayal. The audience cheered as the three proved victorious.

Beside him, Sufiyan smiled. Quil, meanwhile, scanned the crowd, the stalls that packed the square, the wagons behind the Kehanni.

There—a flash of movement from above. His shadow had taken to the rooftops.

The guards hadn't noticed; unlike Quil, their attention was fixed on the market, which was full to bursting with travelers from all over the Empire and beyond its borders: Tribespeople from the east in embroidered road leathers, selling weaponry and silks; Scholars, who'd ruled this land before the Martials, arguing about philosophy and politics. The Martial classes were here: Mercators hawking goods; wealthy Illustrians haggling with them; and Plebeians, many of whom wore colors that identified the Illustrian families they worked for.

In some way or another, all were Quil's people, though it didn't always feel like it. His father had been a Plebeian, but Quil hadn't experienced their struggles. His mother had been an Illustrian, but the upper-class families looked down on his Plebeian blood. He was raised by the Tribes for his safety, fostered with Sufiyan's family, Tribe Saif. But in the end, he was a Martial, a reminder of the Empire that had once ruled over the Tribes.

I belong nowhere , Quil had told Aunt Hel as a boy, back when he still shared his woes without fear of her judgment.

You belong to your people , she'd said. The people of the Empire.

Sufiyan stopped to buy a cone of pastries, flattering the pale-eyed chef with praise. A banner over her stall displayed a loaf of bread crossed with a stalk of wheat. She must have been from a bigger Mercator family—Gens Scriba perhaps, or Gens Vesta. Her gaze flicked over Quil once, then took in his guards. Her eyes widened and she curtsied.

"Your Highness," she said, cheeks pink. Quil cursed internally, because now heads were turning. "Glory to the Empress. My thanks for your custom."

Sufiyan rolled his eyes—he'd been the one who'd stopped, after all. But Quil smiled and moved on quickly, pulling up his hood and trying to shake off his disquiet. He missed anonymity.

"Drop back," he told his guard captain without explaining, using the flat affect his aunt insisted on. When he was a boy, he said please , but that made the Masks uncomfortable.

The guard captain hesitated, as if weighing the possible wrath of the Empress later against the guaranteed anger of the crown prince now. After a moment, he and his men disappeared into the crowds. Quil's entire body unclenched.

Sufiyan offered Quil a pastry. "Your leash is loose, and you're fed," he said. "Let's focus on why we're here."

"To satisfy the unending greed of a ne'er-do-well acquaintance I've been saddled with for eighteen years," Quil said, even as the shadow disappeared again, dropping from a rooftop into an alley.

Sufiyan shook his head. "You're here to generously purchase a token of appreciation for the closest thing to a brother you have, to mark the auspicious occasion of his eighteenth yearfall. You unthankful boor."

"You're forgetting Tas. I've known him since birth."

"I meant the literal closest. Since I am standing three feet from you, and Tas is skies-know-where."

Zacharias.

His name was a whisper carried on the wind. Quil looked up, surprised. No one used his given name except Aunt Helene, or Suf when he wanted to be irritating. The prince turned to Suf, but he was busy fondling a ruby-studded dagger that probably cost a month's pay for the entire Fifth Legion.

"A fine yearfall gift." Sufiyan flipped the dagger deftly between his fingers. His weapon of choice was a bow, but like Quil, Suf was trained to use anything to defend himself. Once, when some Illustrian twit had mocked Sufiyan's parentage, he knocked the man unconscious with biting nonchalance and a clay flute.

"My prince." The dagger merchant nodded to Quil. "I thank you. My family is Plebeian—" His weathered face filled with pride as he looked over his goods. "I received a Prince's Gift to start my business."

At this, Quil perked up. He'd established the grant last year, after seeing so few Plebeian traders in the markets.

The merchant offered the dagger. "Take it, with my compliments."

But Quil shook his head and dropped his voice. "There's a woman behind me—Mater Candela. Richer than the Empress. She collects shiny things. I expect you to charge her double and get away with it."

The merchant grinned and slapped Quil on the shoulder. "You're a canny Plebe at heart, my prince. Always knew I liked you."

Quil's chest warmed at the compliment. He wondered sometimes how his people saw him. As the quiet son of a monstrous man, perhaps. Or a shadow beside an incandescent empress. Canny Plebe. Quil preferred that to either of the others.

A silver mirror gleamed the next table over, and Quil glanced in it long enough to make sure he still had tabs on the shadow trailing him before offering it to Sufiyan. "More fitting, no? Since you're obsessed with your face."

"I got the looks; you got the royal title. It's only fair." Sufiyan examined his reflection. "Speaking of royalty. Have you talked to your aunt yet?"

The prince shook his head. Once, he'd told the Empress everything. Now he didn't know how to begin a conversation with her. They disagreed on too much—especially his future.

"The last time I said the word abdicate "—Quil moved on from the jewel merchant, Sufiyan following—"she didn't speak to me for a month."

"You're twenty, Quil," Sufiyan said. "Keep dillydallying and you'll have a crown on your brow, an empress who bores the hair off your head, a brood of bawling babies, and no desire to hear the word abdicate yourself."

An empress… A face flashed unbidden in Quil's mind. Short dark hair, wary eyes, and a rare smile. Ilar's quiet self-assurance had fascinated him from the moment he met her. She was never boring. She'd have been a great empress.

But she was dead. Had been for more than a year. Grief reared its unwelcome head, but Quil was no stranger to it. He pushed it down deep, where his other secrets lived.

From one of the many drum towers that speckled the city, a series of booms thundered out. Quil translated easily. Fourth Legion, Second Infantry Patrol, report to South Cothon Barracks. The prince frowned.

"Isn't the Fourth Legion supposed to be in Antium?"

"Maybe they're bored of freezing their backsides off and came here for some sun."

Zacharias. Get out of the square.

The prince jumped at the voice—as sharp as if someone had shouted in his ear. Sufiyan chattered on, oblivious.

"Skies know I wouldn't want to run patrols in that freezing hellscape—"

Quil clenched his scim, the long, narrow blade as much a part of him as his own arms. He'd long ago been taught that if he heard voices in his head, he should pay attention.

And there was something familiar about the voice. It sounded impatient—almost peevish.

"Suf…" Quil edged toward the square's exit. "Let's—"

A scream from the edge of the crowd. Then another.

Zacharias, you fool child. Get out of there!

"Stay here," Quil ordered Sufiyan, before shoving through the crowd toward the screams. He was past the edge of the market before he finally saw what everyone was clustered around.

A boy. Around thirteen, in too-big clothing and tattered boots. He was unremarkable but for the hole in his chest, and the smoking ruin of his heart within it.

Quil reared back, his memory flashing to two other bodies he'd seen a year ago. Then to the report from this morning about the Masks.

Both soldiers were murdered in the same manner, their hearts burned as if with a hot poker.

The killer was here too. In this crowd.

If you won't get yourself out of there, get Sufiyan out!

The voice snapped Quil from his shock. He found Sufiyan behind him and guided him toward his guards, who were shoving the crowd aside to get to their prince.

"What the hells is going on?" Suf tried to look over Quil's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Someone's injured!" a marketgoer cried out. "A boy. He was just a boy."

Sufiyan's brown skin went sickeningly pale. "A—a boy? How old? Quil, what—"

There was a time when Sufiyan would have been steady as an oak, observing the situation himself with a caustic remark at the ready. But like Quil, Sufiyan had changed in the last year. He hid his sorrow with jokes and smiles. Tried to forget his shattered nerves in the arms of lovers, in the sweat of scim training. Quil, however, had known Sufiyan Veturius since his birth. Something broke inside Sufiyan a year ago. Quil hated that he couldn't fix it.

But he could make sure it didn't get worse.

"My prince." The guard captain reached Quil. "It's not safe here for you."

"Take Suf to the palace." Quil lowered his voice and locked eyes with the guard, cutting off his protests. "Not a request."

The guard captain sighed and signaled to the other Masks. In seconds they were gone.

Quil made his way back to the body, to a Plebeian woman wiping away tears as she looked at the dead boy.

"Pardon me," Quil called gently to get her attention. "Did you know him?"

She shook her head. "He lived on the streets. Took care of some of the younger children."

The woman glanced over, mouth twisting as she recognized Quil. "You Illustrian bastards," she whispered. "You don't give two figs about us. He's not the first to die like this."

Quil brushed off the insult, focusing on the last thing she said. The Masks had also died with their hearts burned to cinders, though that knowledge was carefully guarded. "How—"

But the woman disappeared into the crowd. Before Quil could follow, the voice cracked through his mind.

Enough! I need to speak with you. There's an apothecary on the southeast corner of the square. Meet me inside. Hurry. I haven't got all bleeding day.

Quil weighed the risk of answering this voice against his own curiosity. The latter won. When he stepped into the darkened building moments later, scim drawn, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows behind the apothecary's dusty counter.

"Put that big knife away, boy."

Quil recognized the woman instantly.

"Bani al-Mauth." The prince sheathed his scim and bowed. Chosen of Death. She'd been a runaway, a revolutionary, a slave, and a murderess.

Now she was a holy figure who guided restless spirits from this life to the next. She took the pain that anchored them to the human plane and cast it into another dimension—the Sea of Suffering—so the ghosts could move on in peace. It was a task that confined her mostly to a haunted wood on the edge of the Martial Empire. The Waiting Place, it was called, for the ghosts unwilling to move on from it.

Quil had met the Bani al-Mauth many times. Often when she visited Empress Helene. But mostly when she came to the Tribal Lands to see her family—including Sufiyan, her grandson, and his parents, Laia of Serra and Elias Veturius.

Of course, he'd seen her more recently, too. But almost as soon as he thought about it, the woman growled at him.

"Dash that thought from your head, boy." She must have read his expression. "You know better. You know the cost."

He knew. But sensations still crowded his mind—things he didn't want to remember from that night months ago. The mountains. A cavern. The iron tang of blood. So sharp, as if he'd walked into a slaughterhouse.

Which, he supposed, he had.

"You." He forced the thoughts away—he'd gotten better at it since he'd last seen her. "You were following me."

"Thought you'd catch on quicker. Been shadowing you since the palace."

Well, that was embarrassing. "Should I get Sufiyan?" Quil's face heated. "He'd want—"

"My grandson and his family want nothing to do with me," the Bani al-Mauth said. "I came to get your help."

"My help?" Quil shook his head. "You're the one who knew about the dead boy, not me. How?"

"Felt it coming," she said. "Tell me what you know about the others who died like him."

Quil met that dark blue stare. The Empress had told Quil to speak to no one of the Masks' deaths. Especially not Sufiyan or his family. She didn't have to tell Quil twice. Sufiyan's little sisters were only fifteen and thirteen. And Laia and Elias had been through enough.

But the Bani al-Mauth was different. When Quil was a child, she arrived in Antium and demanded to speak to the Empress. Quil was visiting from the Tribal Lands and expected his aunt to reject such an abrupt summons. Instead, she'd cleared her evening.

"Maybe we should go to Aunt Hel together," Quil offered, but the Bani al-Mauth waved away the suggestion.

"Your aunt's acting like everything is fine. She's doing nothing about the murders."

Quil's hackles rose. He might resent Aunt Hel, but he'd be damned before he would let anyone else say a word against her. "Those dead Masks were young and Illustrian and they were murdered in the Tribal Lands. She kept it quiet because she knew it would look like the Tribes had killed them. She didn't want Illustrian families out for blood."

"I'm not talking about the Masks," the Bani al-Mauth said. "I'm talking about the children. Ruh was the first—" Her voice caught, but she cleared her throat. "Then your girl—Ilar."

Quil's chest twisted at the sound of their names, which conjured their faces, their scents, their voices. Stop. Don't think of them. Bury it.

The Bani al-Mauth went on. "Two more children were found the next day in Nur. Street urchins with no families. A dozen more, after that, all over the Tribal Lands and the southern Empire. And then for months, nothing. Until now."

Fourteen children dead. Quil hadn't known about a single one. The store, already dusty and dim, felt much colder.

"Three died in Serra a few weeks ago," she said. "Two in Navium. Four as far north as Silas. All under age twenty, all with the same gaping wound, their hearts shriveled to gray ash. Those are the deaths I've heard about."

"There were six Masks, too." Quil's stomach churned as he remembered the report from the morning. "Two found yesterday in the borderlands. You speak to ghosts. Don't you know about them?"

The Bani al-Mauth considered him. "Not every ghost comes through the Waiting Place."

"That wasn't an answer."

"You remind me of your aunt. Pain in the arse, that girl. Sharp as a scim, though. Heard more than she let on. You do too, I'd bet."

"I didn't hear about these kids," Quil said. "She never said a word."

"You do something for me," the Bani al-Mauth said. "You ask her why, the next time you see her. And one more thing." Her tone lost its edge. "How are you, boy?"

A simple question. One that elicited a waterfall of thoughts.

Quil didn't often let himself think about Ruh and Ilar. But he did now: Ruh's hands when he told stories about shadowy ghuls and evil tale-spinners. Ilar's laugh, shy like she was out of practice. The way she saw past his reserve and drew him out with her questions, as if nothing he said could bore her. Tell me about the palace in Antium. Tell me about getting lost in Navium's harbor. Are there truly whole streets of kite makers in Serra?

"I've done as you asked," Quil said. "I try not to think about it."

"What of your magic? Will you get training from the Jaduna?"

Quil tensed at the mention of the Jaduna. "You told me to forget what I saw that night," Quil said. "In return, I don't want to talk about the magic. Ever."

The Bani al-Mauth shrugged and shook the dust from her cloak. "As you wish. I must return to the Waiting Place. Speak of this to no one. And, boy…"

She cocked her head. The shadows of the apothecary appeared to nibble at her edges.

"Watch your back. The air is wrong. The ghosts are restless. Something's coming."

No , Quil thought as she faded into the dark. Something's already here.