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Could this be the Ninth Sacred Tale?
Aiz flipped to the front of the book. There were numbers and letters inscribed there.1006PF.Only nineteen years ago. A thousand and six years after the cataclysm that drove Aiz’s people from their homeland. Below, the author’s name.
If itwasthe Ninth Sacred Tale, it had been recorded by a foreigner:Laia of Serra.
Excitement flared in Aiz’s chest. This was the sign she’d been searching for. The book wasn’t old, so Laia of Serra might still live. If so, Aiz would find her, learn how she’d come across the tale. She would find the prison, set Mother Div free, and prove herself worthy.
And then she would become something more than a gutter Snipe, fated to die cold and hungry and worth less than nothing.
The girl hurried to the deck, the book wrapped in oilcloth and bound to her body.
As she emerged, dawn broke, a sudden, brilliant explosion in the eastern sky, made more beautiful after the rain that had followed them out of Kegar. Far ahead, plumes of spray shot into the air as the ocean slammed itself against the high white cliffs of Cape Timdra.
Dolbra was on deck, singing her dawn orisons. Her voice was low, rising and falling like the mournful call of seabirds, the tide a sustainedchord beneath. Aiz waited until she was done before speaking.
“Serra,” Aiz said to the seer. “I wish to go to Serra.”
Dolbra raised her eyebrows in surprise. “The Martial Empire? Why?”
In truth, Aiz knew little of the Martials. According to the clerics, Ankana considered the Empire to be a backward society, as the Martials had only recently freed their slaves, and still thought of the dona’i—those who were neither male nor female but ascended—as oddities.
Aiz straightened her spine. She would learn what she needed to. “I am on a holy mission,” she said. “Of the utmost importance. I must meet someone in Serra.” She pulled out Tiral’s book, skin tingling at the slickness of the cover. “This book has a tale in it that could be significant to my people. The author is someone named Laia of Serra. She’s the one person who could tell me more about the tale, if she’s still alive.”
At this, the seer observed Aiz thoughtfully. “Laia of Serra does not live in Serra,” she said. “She is a Kehanni, a storyteller and history-keeper for Tribe Saif, of the Tribal Lands, a vast desert east of the Martial Empire. If you wish to see her, you must disembark in Sadh. Someone there could give you more information about her whereabouts.”
“Then that is where I wish to go,” Aiz said. “Sadh.”
“I will tell the captain.” The seer stared at the book, fists clenched. “Beware, daughter of Kegar.” Her voice was soft again, as if she feared being overheard. But her eyes were bright. “What you carry”—she put her hand to her heart—“it is powerful. But it casts a shadow too.”
Aiz looked down at the book. She’d felt a certain unease when reading it, as if some of its words were lodged in her brain like tiny splinters.
Itispowerful, child, Mother Div whispered, and there was a tremor in her tone, something like impatience.Only the weak fear power.
“Not all shadows are bad, seer.” Aiz remembered the darkness of the Tohr. “Without them, there can be no light.”
Four weeks after the Ankanese vessel rounded Cape Timdra, Aiz woke to the smell of earth instead of sea. The dhow bumped lazily against a dock.
With her meager belongings on her back, Aiz arrived on deck and was immediately hit by a blast of hot air and a blazing sun. They had arrived in Sadh.
Aiz, first confused by the heat, realized the seasons were switched—in Kegar, it was early spring by now. In Sadh, autumn. That was the beginning of the differences between the two.
If Kegar existed in shades of obsidian and salt, Sadh was soothing umbers and browns, rendering the blue of the sky and the white walls of the houses more vivid. The entire city seemed to be moving at once: Purple and red curtains billowed from open windows. Clouds of creosote-scented dust rose from brightly painted caravans snaking into the desert. The harbor teemed with humans and animals. Wooden pulleys creaked beneath the weight of enormous crates.
Aiz wished she could show Cero. Noa. She wished they could hear the air, cacophonous with conversation and laughter and ebullience.Until Aiz heard it here, she didn’t realize—there were as many shades of joy in Sadh as there were suffering in the slums of Kegar. A spike of bitterness curdled her awe. Hani and Jak and Finh did not have this kind of joy. No, her people were cursed to misery.
But not forever. Not if Aiz found Laia of Serra and through her, set Mother Div’s spirit free.
“Aiz bet-Dafra.” Dolbra spoke from behind the girl, gesturing to the gangplank. “Our oath is upheld. Your mount awaits. I’ve given you my own saddle.” She nodded to a lower ramp, where one of the Ankanese crewmen coaxed Tregan onto the dock.
“Thank you for all you taught me,” Aiz offered, for Dolbra had told her much of the Tribes that would be useful. “Perhaps I will see you again one day.”
“If you have need of me, find one of my fellow seers, and ask for Dolbra. They will know the name. Emifal Firdaant.” The seer offered the traditional Ankanese words of parting.May death claim me first.
Aiz reunited with Tregan, who appeared as happy as Aiz to finally be off the ship. They lurched together down the long dock and into the harbor crowds, Aiz feeling as if the ground still swelled beneath her.
The throng parted, with more than a few people giving Aiz a second glance. Likely because her tangled brown hair was styled in the Kegari way, the long strands pulled into braided knots. The clothing the Ankanese had given her looked ragged against even the simplest Tribal garb.
A lithe Tribal woman swathed in scarlet approached. Aiz gaped at her mirrored pants and the jeweled scarf wrapped around her hair. She must be wealthy to wear such beautiful clothing.
