to counteract the torque he was exerting on her.
The hierophant dangled just above the deck long enough to remove what looked like silk slippers.
Without looking away from the man, Francesca cleared her throat and said, “My lady, may I say something frank to you?”
“You may.”
“You are one God-of-gods damned intimidating leader. I think I’d wrestle a lycanthrope if you ordered me to.”
The marshal looked at her. “Magistra, haven’t you learned that any commander worth her weight can’t be charmed?”
“Good thing you’re not my commander then. You still have the luxury of being charmed.”
The other woman studied her face a moment then laughed. “Good thing,” she agreed and then looked away.
Now barefoot, the hierophant from the airship dropped to the deck, lowered his veil, and unwound his turban. He trotted to the pavilion and bowed. “Marshal Oria.” He was a short, lean man with chestnut-colored skin that was just beginning to go slack with age. His eyes were large and dark brown, his shaved head glossy. Given that he was a powerful spellwright, Francesca would guess he had seen eighty or ninety years.
The marshal’s expression relaxed. “Captain Izem, don’t ask for permission to dock the Queen’s Lance. There is distressing news from Avel, and I want you aloft until we know for certain what is happening.”
The captain bowed his shaved head. “So shall it be. We are happy to do anything your service requires.”
The marshal grunted. “Hopefully we will require nothing. But meantime, please explain the two black-robes skulking about in your hull.”
The captain laughed. “My lady, I was hoping you were going to explain them to me. We were docked at Lurrikara when orders came from Queensport to fly two black-robe dignitaries from Kara to Avel. For the whole flight, begging your pardon, Magistra”—this last to Francesca—“they’ve been the perfect model of academics: polite, quiet, and obnoxiously aloof. Neither I nor my crew can figure heads from tails why they get to fly in the Queen’s Lance.”
The marshal sighed. “I’m not fond of intrigue in my garden, Captain.”
Izem bowed. “Then I’ll pray to the sky and the holy canon that I’ll soon fly them away.”
Just then, Cyrus appeared by Francesca’s side. “Lady Marshal,” he said in a formal tone, “the tower warden reports that he’ll have both wings aloft momentarily.”
Captain Izem looked up and smiled broadly. “Oh dear, my lady, it seems one of the local idiots has dressed up like a hierophant and wandered into your tower. Look at the poor creature; he’s clearly too big and heavy to ever pilot.”
Suddenly Francesca became acutely aware that she was a head taller than everyone else. Rarely was she conscious of her body, even more rarely unhappy with it. But at that moment she felt like a giant.
Cyrus smiled but otherwise continued to stare straight ahead.
The marshal looked between the two men. “You two are acquainted?”
Izem laughed. “Forgive the familiarity on your deck, my lady. You are lucky to have a hierophant like Air Warden Alarcon. He was my first mate for a year of fine flying. Haven’t seen a better pilot of kite or airship since the Siege of Erram, which makes up for his being so damned tall and heavy.”
Oria exhaled in a way that indicated both annoyance and amusement. “Air Warden, you have permission to speak.”
Still smiling, Cyrus nodded and turned to his captain. “It is good to see you too, sir. Have you managed to keep the Queen’s Lance out of the ocean now that you don’t have me to correct your tacking subspells?”
The captain waved away the comment. “Saltwater gets the stains out of the silk.”
Just then two dozen hierophants emerged onto the jumpdeck. All had their headdresses tightly wound, and all held folds of brightly colored lofting kites. Short steel blades glinted from among their green robes. Without hesitation, the newcomers ran off the deck and cast up their kites. With the pop of unfolding cloth, each one took flight and shot away on the powerful wind. In a heartbeat, they were away, rising into the sky and dividing themselves into two neat formations.
The marshal watched them with keen attention. The rest of the group had fallen silent. When one of the formations disappeared over a mountain, she looked back at them. “Magistra, excuse the captain and me.” She looked at Cyrus. “Air Warden, attend to our guest. You are dismissed.”
Cyrus bowed and then gestured for Francesca to go ahead of him. Francesca bowed to both the marshal and the captain before heading for the doorway that led into the tower. As she walked, she noticed the sea was now obscured by a dark cloudscape—another storm, an hour away.
As soon as she stepped into the hallway, Cyrus took her arm. “Something is happening,” he whispered. “Something dire.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t understand completely. There are terrible forces at play.”
“So do you believe me now? Can we investigate Avel without telling the world about it?”
“This involves more than Avel. Something’s happening in the whole kingdom. Seems Deirdre wasn’t lying about being Avel’s Regent of Spies.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked past her, looking for anyone nearby on the jumpdeck. “A split is coming. Wind marshals are appointed by the Celestial Court to supply the entire order with text. Wardens are appointed by the local canonist. Their duty is to the city.”
Francesca pursed her lips. “And, naturally, there are tensions between a city and its kingdom.”
“This is more than tension. You saw how the marshal and the warden argued in front of us. It got worse when he got me alone. He thinks the aphasia was an attack from Celeste on Cala. Apparently there are two wizards in the Queen’s Lance. Years ago, a faction of wizards fought in our civil war. I can’t remember what their name was. But—”
“The counter-prophecy faction,” she supplied. “They supported Celeste’s monotheism. They wanted a unified Spires to check the power of Lorn and Verdant. But they acted without the whole academy’s approval, went rogue essentially.”
Cyrus sniffed. “As if that matters to hierophants. Don’t you see what today’s events look like? The aphasia, your jumping blindly from Avel, the Kestrel with two wizards.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “The marshal had the same suspicions. She thinks it’s some test. Something Celeste cooked up to see if she’s loyal. She tried to assure me that she’s—”
“But that’s just it!” Cyrus interrupted. “The tower warden made the same interpretation, but he kept talking about how Avel produces more enchanted cloth than any other wind garden. He thinks they should shut down the garden, miss the next few shipments, see how Queensport and Erram do without it.”
He touched her elbow. “He thinks that Cala is the most powerful demigod in the canon, that if she hadn’t graciously surrendered to Celeste in the Siege of Avel, the realm would still be polytheistic. This place is within inches of tipping into hostility between warden and marshal, city and kingdom, canonist and high goddess. Do you see, Fran? Do you see what would rage across the whole realm if that spilled out into violence?”
Francesca nervously looked out toward the sky. The Queen’s Lance had fallen back in the wind and now hovered just above the jumpdeck. It looked like nothing so much as a giant, perfectly poised blade.
“God-of-gods defend us,” she said. “I do.”
Chapter Seventeen
The secluded Hall of Ambassadors stood three stories