All eyes followed the sultan’s Little Birds as they marched towards the palace in twelve ranks of four abreast, indigo robes embroidered with the silver crescent moon and headscarves patterned with silver wings.
Aiyla led the column through the gates, leaning on her staff to steady herself. For fourteen years, more than half her life, she had donned the indigo, and now she was the oldest. The youngest were scarcely beyond the first bloom of womanhood, following her guidance.
The life of a Little Bird was not a long one. There was no shame in returning a wounded warrior. Those who survived battle after battle and returned to the skies were respected, even revered. For each successful flight, they received a silver star. Aiyla’s uniform was a constellation.
The chief eunuch greeted them inside the private palace courtyard. He was a plump man with a warm smile.
“The valide welcomes you,” he said in his high, fluting voice. “Please follow me.”
They had been summoned by the sultan’s mother before, and they would be again. Not men, but not quite women, they were the only members of the sultan’s military who could pass into the harem unquestioned. They were novelties to the ladies of the harem. Oddities to be appreciated and enjoyed.
At the foot of a staircase, Nuray reached out to Aiyla. They supported one another, the Little Birds, and offered a hand when one’s feet were unsteady. Nuray winced in sympathy at Aiyla’s labored steps, then drew back as soon as they were on even ground. The cohort paused there, unpinning their veils and shaking dust from their skirts.
The eunuch stared at Aiyla’s face. “You were badly injured in battle?”
Aiyla half-wished she had remained at the barracks. “Only mildly.” Silk stitches marred her cheeks, and an aching furrow carved across her calf. The physicians believed these would heal, but it would take time.
“Then we are doubly honored!”
She managed a thin smile, then raised a hand. The flurry of skirts sounded like the wings of pigeons as they fell in.
They didn’t proceed to the valide’s chambers, instead passing into a garden courtyard deeper in the palace, sun-washed kiosks spread around them. The valide was seated—accompanied by her own flock of ladies—in an open pavilion, her elegant hands resting in her lap.
Aiyla’s gaze flicked along their faces and, to the far left, standing upright, she found the one she sought. Her heart leapt.
The valide smiled and Aiyla could not help recalling that a dancing monkey had received that very same smile. Behind her, the Birds fluttered.
“My son spoke of your bravery in the recent battle.” With her fine clothing, soft voice, and refined manners, she made the Birds look coarse and common. Perhaps, Aiyla thought uncomfortably, there was a reason she considered them equal to dancing monkeys. “We wished to honor your courage and skill.” The valide turned and nodded.
The woman at the far left bowed and withdrew. She returned a moment later, followed by more of the sultan’s cariyes, each bearing a folded bundle of indigo. They approached the Little Birds, some staring, some flushing.
The leader came to Aiyla, as tall and slender as a willow, eyes as green as new leaves, hair the color of ripe wheat, skin as pale as milk. Why the sultan overlooked Zerren, Aiyla never understood. She had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life.
“Your face,” Zerren murmured.
“It will heal,” Aiyla breathed, lips barely moving to hide the extent of their conversation. She glanced down at the bundle in Zerren’s hands and a smile escaped, straining her stitches. Aiyla reached out and, beneath the bundle, her fingers brushed Zerren’s, the woman’s skin as soft as feathers. “Thank you,” she said. “They look very warm.”
For each cariye carried a new uniform with quilted, layered fabric instead of thin silk. Only one person had heard her complain of the bitterness of the air when she flew and could have suggested new, warmer uniforms to the valide.
Zerren’s cheeks flushed rose-pink and her eyes shone. She bobbed and retreated with her fellows.
Aiyla glanced along her flock, then barked the command. As one, they bowed to the valide, thanking her for her generous gift.
The valide seemed pleased and called for cushions and sherbet. Musicians emerged and the Little Birds broke ranks at Aiyla’s nod, though most huddled together, careful and self-conscious. They had been here before. They remembered the stares and titters as they ate and drank like soldiers.
Aiyla sat—her leg ached too much not to—and set her new uniform in her lap, running her fingers along the collar. The texture caught her attention and she turned the fabric. Silver words shone, stitched into the lining. Aiyla’s heart stuttered and she hastily pressed the cloth back down.
A rustle of skirts made her look up as Zerren descended on her, like a falcon to its master’s glove. “Her Highness bid me bring you refreshments,” she murmured, going to one knee, a golden goblet cradled in her hands. “And the cup, for your valor.”
Aiyla curved her hands around Zerren’s. “I thank her for her generosity.” Her fingers drifted, tracing fine bones and smooth skin and she drank in those eyes, leaves in sunlight. “It pleases me to receive it.” She held that green gaze as she put the cup—still warm from Zerren’s touch—to her lips.
Zerren flushed, rising to join the other cariyes, and there were no further chances to exchange words. Too many eyes... and too many young Birds to watch over who knew nothing of palace etiquette. Every so often, a rap of her staff to the flagstones reminded them of their place.
Once the valide had been sufficiently entertained, they were escorted out by the chief eunuch. Cariyes lined the hallway as they departed, and Aiyla caught a glimpse of green and gold and a smile before they returned to the world outside.
Only once they reached their barracks did the Birds break out in titters.
“New uniforms!” Yildiz squealed, delighted. “Warm uniforms!”
“I wonder who gave them that idea.” Nuray looked knowingly at Aiyla.
Aiyla only smiled, holding the folded fabric close to her heart.
Despite her healing injuries, Aiyla was dispatched to the Polish border with nine other Birds only ten days after the visit. The army was marching in response to... Aiyla couldn’t be sure. Another insult, battle, or dispute.
Inside their tent, Aiyla knelt by her bedroll. Each Little Bird respected the others’ personal, pre-battle traditions. Now, they left her alone to pray.
Instead, she spread out her uniform. By flickering lamplight, silver embroidery shone. She traced the letters with her fingertips, following the shape of the words, each one crafted by a most beloved hand.
It was a nonsense poem, playing on her name. Foolish and enough to make her blush. Stay, the wheat whispered when the dawn came. Give me the silver of the moon, not the gold of the sun.
Aiyla curled her fingers into the cloth. She should never have come to this, aching with longing.
The Birds could take no husband. From the moment they entered their barracks, their lives were the sultan’s. Their names were taken and new ones given, as much an identity as the indigo. They were taught to fly, and when orders came, they took wing.
She buried her face in the fabric. No, it should never have come to this.
Without her wings and her stars, she would never have known Zerren existed. She would never have been invited—commanded—to demonstrate her skills for the valide those many months ago. She would never have requested “the tall one” help prepare her wings.
To her surprise, Zerren had not stared or giggled when she approached. She towered head and shoulders over Aiyla and took instruction readily, tilting the wing-frame so Aiyla could make final adjustments.
“Hm.”
The doubtful sound caught Aiyla off-guard as she tightened her rods. “What?”
“It seems so fragile,” the golden-haired woman said. “Are you not afraid?”
Aiyla almost lied—as she usually did—but the woman looked at her with such grave interest in her green eyes. “Every time,” she admitted. She pulled one wing’s fabric taut. “And every time I return, I weep for hours.”
“Relief?” this golden angel asked quietly. “Or sorrow?”
Only another kind of bird in a different cage could understand.
When Aiyla bit down the treasonous reply, Zerren glanced at the pavilion wall and the ramp for Aiyla’s run. Beyond, the city spread towards the Golden Horn and—across the water—the spike of Galata tower pricked the sky. Decades ago, a man had made the first wings and flown from that tower. Now, no men dared.
“How far will your wings take you today?” She tilted the other wing down.
Aiyla ducked beneath her arm, half-hidden by her flaxen hair—it smelled of rosewater and cedar wood—and pulled on the wings. “If the winds are with me, I will land on a flat rooftop. If not...” She had shuddered. “The water.”
“I miss the water,” Zerren said, strange sadness in her voice. “I used to swim.”
Aiyla forgot all about the wings. “Swim?”
When Zerren smiled, it illuminated the world. “Like your flying,” she murmured, “but in the water.” Her brilliant green eyes sparkled with mirth. “I suppose I am a duck to your eagle.”
Aiyla stared at her then. Oh, how she stared. It was as if she had stepped into sunlight for the first time and her words failed her.
Zerren’s cheeks pinked. “Your wings.” She cleared her throat. “They are ready?”
“Yes. Yes!” Aiyla nodded quickly. “All ready.”
They stepped apart, both flushed and awkward. Aiyla donned her veil, and the demonstration went as planned, though she had to deal with the indignity of requesting passage from a family’s roof.
That should have been the end, but days later a palace kira visited the barracks. The Birds occasionally did business with the kiras—Jewish women who could visit the city, buying and collecting on behalf of those confined by their positions. She brought paper and ink supposedly at Aiyla’s request and—hidden among the unsolicited sheets—the first letter.
Zerren’s beautiful writing brimmed with warmth and humor. For months, Aiyla found herself laughing into her hand, finding quiet corners where she could hoard her mirth and scribble responses. Their masters disapproved of any outside ties. Some had been beaten for flouting that particular rule. All too soon, she had to burn the precious pages.
The uniform, though....
Aiyla fingered the lettering stitched into the cloth frequently. Each Bird tended her own uniform, which Zerren knew—Aiyla had complained often enough while struggling with repairs. She had given a secret message, a portable token, a gesture of affection.
Tent canvas slapped and rattled.
“Aiyla?”
Aiyla pulled on the quilted jacket. “Come.”
Nuray poked her head in. “The weather is turning. They want us on the hillside now.”
Aiyla snatched up her helmet, plain dark leather with a chin-strap, and followed Nuray out to meet the other Birds. It was a heavy, sticky day and the new uniform felt too warm, but that was on the ground. In the air, it would be a different matter.
The hill’s incline was shallow, but steep enough with help from the horses. Their enemies had grown wiser in the last two decades, seeking battlegrounds not edged by hillsides. No one wanted to be underneath the Turkish creatures who came from the mountains and rained fire from the sky.
Her groom nodded in greeting, and made a gesture she recognized as salutation. Despite her indigo veil, Tamraz always spotted her among her sisters and greeted her accordingly. He looked calm, which meant the ground was good, which in turn settled the nerves fluttering around her heart.
The squad master awaited them in a tent, a map spread out before him.
“Our spies report the enemy has gunpowder here, here, and here.” He tapped three points with his stick. “Your main targets. If you cannot strike them, your job is fear and chaos.”
Aiyla glanced around the table at her sisters, remembering the last battles. The rip of metal through her flesh, and the sound of her wings tearing. Pain.
“What of their weapons?” she asked. “Their guns—”
Five sharp raps on the map, pointing to colored flags. “Cannon. Muskets. Some new, upward-facing cannon. Catapults. Archers.”
All made to target people in the air. Aiyla swallowed the hot, sick feeling in her throat. The master continued. Placements, munitions, secondary targets to weaken the enemy.
“Make ready,” he snapped.
Nuray darted to Aiyla’s side as they hurried towards the wings. “Upward-facing cannon,” she murmured. When Aiyla shivered, Nuray caught her hand, squeezed. “We know where they are. We know how to avoid them.”
The master’s boys were readying the wings as they neared. They had a part in building the wings, yet not one of them was brave enough to fly, even before they grew too large.
“Fah,” Nuray muttered under her breath. “The alignment is crooked again. Are they blind? Do they want me to fly in circles?”
Aiyla’s veil hid her grin. “What do they know? All they see are sticks and cloth.” She brushed Nuray’s hand. “Go. Fix your wings. I’ll sing today.”
Mercifully, they were easy to divert. The sisters had a pact. If your wings were fine, you were the distraction, fretting loudy so the boys would fuss and speak over you and pay no heed to your sisters hastily fixing their own wings. Singing.
When she was still young enough to be foolish, Aiyla had raised her concerns directly and been told she didn’t understand the technicalities of constructing wings. So she’d broken off a faulty piece and thrown it at them. She had been sorely beaten for it and learned to hold her tongue.
For Nuray’s sake, she endured a long lecture about form and frame, as if she hadn’t been flying for longer than the boys had been walking. Her veil was a mercy, hiding her yawns, as they fussed and arranged the ropes that would get her airbound. The leather loop suspended beneath the frame pressed into Aiyla’s belly and she wrapped her hands around the grips above her head.
When the horn blew, they scattered.
Are you not afraid?
Every time.
Aiyla drew a shivering breath. A prayer should have been on her lips. Instead, she thought of green and gold. She glimpsed Tamraz’s face in the torchlight, the flicker of his hands making the sign, and exhaled.
Aloft, the world was hers, but this moment, when the world tilted and she was ripped from the ground, never became easier. A torch waved and hooves thundered across the ground. Canvas snapped in the wind and one by one, with each dip of the torch, dark wings were pulled aloft. Smoothly, she hoped. Cleanly. There had been too many accidents.
The rope wrenched taut. She was torn from the hillside and flung skyward, the world dropping away and her heart left behind.
Feet up. Hold steady. Find the air current.
Cool wind whipped her face, her eyes stung, and she fumbled her feet onto the rear crossbar. And there, the current caught her, lifting her. Relief swooped in as she unhooked the rope and let it fall away. Her heart settled into a steadier rhythm. Below, trimmed in silver, she could see the camps.
Silver.
The moon was breaking through the clouds. No! Blades of pale light widened across the sky, picking out wings, turning the Birds into shadows against the brightness.
“Turn back!” she bellowed, but the wind tore her words away.
Gunfire rattled up from the camp below.
The Birds spread as much as the buffeting winds would allow. Some weaved between shafts of moonlight, hiding in the dark. Flames blossomed where their bombs fell, but nowhere near the targets. Chaos and survival were the only choice now.
Aiyla tilted, sweeping a curve out of the spreading moonlight. A shriek caught on the air as a Bird fell, punctured wings tumbling her over and over.
Low enough to be hit, but too high to survive.
Aiyla’s hands shook and she swung in. She whistled a sharp, shrilling sound that cut through the air, then tilted and locked her grips in position. Her wings carried her in wide circles. Across the silvering sky, her sisters did the same.
With wind-chapped hands, she tore a bomb from her belt. The rasping wick sizzled to life and she aimed at the campfires’ glow. Let it rain. They scattered bombs like burning chaff, sowing carnage, even as they ululated to the sky for their loss.
Tents burst into flames and people ran. Gunfire crackled and snapped. Above her, someone cried out in pain. The Bird broke formation, retreating to the Ottoman camp.
Good. Aiyla spun back into the swiping shadows. Alive is better.
Spreading fire illuminated the camp below, its scouring heat granting them a little more lift. Enough. Aiyla whistled sharply, the signal to withdraw.
A musket ball whistled past, making Aiyla twist and search for the enemy. There. Aiyla’s heart leapt to her throat. Dozens of cannons, all aimed upward. Men scrambling over them, loading, filling, preparing....
So close, her Birds would be torn as easily as paper.
Aiyla took a shivering breath. She could not grant them speed, but where there were cannons, there would be gunpowder, and where there was gunpowder....
She angled her wings for increased velocity and smiled furiously behind her veil. No more sisters would fall tonight, not as long as she lived and breathed.
The enemy spotted her and she heard the shouts, the shrill of shots shredding the air. At least one hit her wings, taut fabric bursting open above her. Her every breath burned with the scorching updraft as she clung to the grips, trying to keep herself from spinning, falling, crashing.
Blinking the haze from her eyes, she snatched bombs from her belt, and as she descended, she dropped them towards powder barrels, delicate as Zerren scattering rose petals. Panic flooded the pale, upturned faces.
For a moment, there was nothing and then....
And then, the world was aflame.
Aiyla gazed at the ceiling, flickers of lamplight casting strange, blurred shadows along the beams. After the explosions on the battlefield, things were unclear. Pain, she remembered well, and hands on her. Darkness and shouts.
In the haze of lost days, she had been borne back to the city, with enough time passed for the burns on her hands and face to start healing. Her veil had been scoured away along with her lashes and eyebrows. The physicians said her eyes might never fully recover. Only the thickness of her uniform had protected her body, Zerren’s gift the very thing that kept her alive.
Little of it had survived. Secret words burned to ash.
The muezzin’s call from the mosque broke through the silence. Dawn, Aiyla thought, and struggled to sit.
Her chest tightened at once, a spasm of pain making her cough. Fresh blood spattered on her bandages. Ah. Yes. The worst of the damage. She’d drawn too many burning breaths, the physicians said. It might heal, it might not.
With trembling hands, she picked up a cup of cool, poppy-laced water. A sip seared enough to make her hazed eyes sting, but it took the taste of metal from her tongue and eased the pain a little. The cup felt unbearably heavy and all too soon, she had to lie down again.
What a ruin she was. A final star, no doubt. They could not—would not—let her fly again. No more wind against her face as she rose aloft. No more laughter with her sisters.
And in the secret, selfish part of her, she knew this meant no more green and gold smiles. No more letters slipped into the kira’s hands. Too damaged and useless, she would be turned out as her sisters had been before her.
She would no longer be a Bird.
What did that make her?
Aiyla pressed her eyes shut. To weep would only hurt more, eyes and tattered throat. It would help no one. And yet the salt seared its way down her cheeks, dropping like rain on the covers.
Dawn became day and still she lay.
The physicians came, though they asked her nothing. She could not speak and even if she could, what could she say? They spoke over her as if she wasn’t there, removing bandages and examining her hands. A slave was called in to dress her wounds. Rana, a one-time Bird hopeful. She was young, striking and dark, but had proved too frail to fly.
Rana gently smoothed salve on her cheeks. “Your sisters pray for your health,” Rana whispered. Aiyla’s eyes burned, but neither physician noticed Rana deftly dabbing tears. She took Aiyla’s hands again, gently, and a folded parchment slid between bandages and flesh.
Aiyla’s heart gave a strange leap.
“Enough,” one physician snapped. Rana scurried out, and the physicians followed with stern words to rest and drink the poppy-juice. As soon as the door closed, Aiyla fumbled with the hidden parchment.
Her breath stabbed in her lungs to see Zerren’s elegant hand. Unsteadily, she limped to the window, turning the page to the light.
My Eagle. They say you were wounded. Trust me and do not fear. You will not be cast out. I will make sure of it. I have the valide’s ear.
Aiyla’s face drew painfully tight as she fought the sob of relief. Zerren did not have much, but she had her influence and if she spoke truly....
With effort, she returned to her bed, clutching the parchment scrap to her breast. If. If she spoke truly. No, there was no place for doubt. Zerren would use her clever tongue and, like the impossible uniforms, she would see something done. Something that was not exile, cast out alone and stripped of position.
Anything was better than that.
Days crept by, one after another.
Aiyla’s vision cleared and the pain in her throat eased, but her speech did not return. The physicians—speaking as if she was deaf as well as mute—decided it was unlikely. She would be fortunate if she was of use to anyone, they said. She tried not to listen.
Beyond their care, the medical room was deserted. They kept her sisters from her, not one of them permitted near her now she was no longer a Bird.
Only Rana could whisper news as she dressed Aiyla’s wounds. Her final assault had detonated the enemy’s powder-store and shattered several battalions. The Polish army had scattered and the sultan’s troops had swept in, dealing with those who remained.
It was cold comfort when her hands shook and her breath tasted of iron.
When she woke in a cold sweat, fear still wrapped around her spine, she crept down to the courtyard and sat, watching the grooms with the horses. Their hands moved like dancers in silent communication, all of them forcibly muted for security’s sake. Deciphering the gestures was a distraction, keeping away darker thoughts and nightmares that haunted her sleep.
She watched and she learned, but only Tamraz would exchange words with her. To the servants, she was an anomaly. To the grooms, she was no longer relevant.
To Zerren....
If Zerren were here, in this medical room, she’d smile and brighten the narrow places with her nonsense tales and jokes.
When the master finally came, Aiyla only looked at him when he rapped his staff upon the floor, fear knitted about her heart. “You are to be retired from the Birds.” For once, his voice was gentle. Retired. Not dismissed. “Your deeds and sacrifices in the sultan’s name have pleased him greatly. In honor of your service, you are to be freed and rewarded with an estate worthy of your actions.”
Aiyla’s world swirled.
Freed.
Once, she had been a small child with a family. A long time ago. Many hundreds of miles away. They were gone now, and she was... she was a woman again. A free woman. What could a free woman do without a family? Without a friend? Without her sisters?
Unexpectedly, her eyes brimmed over, hot tears spilling down her face.
The master chose not to notice. “When you are recovered,” he continued, as if she wasn’t shaking with grief and confusion, “we will arrange for you to be transported to your new residence.”
Freed and granted a new home and funds, honored by the sultan! Yet the barracks were all she had known for half her life; beyond those walls, there was only one face she wanted to—and would never—see again.
This was all Zerren’s doing. She had vowed to protect Aiyla and had spoken softly and whispered a home and a new life into existence for her.
Aiyla tugged the master’s sleeve to get his departing attention, then made a sign of writing.
His bushy brows furrowed. “You wish to write? To whom?”
Helplessly, she waved in the direction of the palace.
The master’s broad face widened in a smile. “Ah. To thank the padishah for his generosity?”
She inclined her head, clutching both hands to her heart. He could have named anyone in the palace. She would not have cared as long as she was given paper and ink.
The next time a kira was called to the barracks, she left burdened with a tight curl of parchment. Aiyla’s letter for Zerren was brief. Gentlest of ducks. You have done much for me. Would that I could repay you. Would that I could fly to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope one day you will swim again.
It was not enough, not by far. If only she could have offered Zerren a way out of her cage, too, somewhere safe and free and provided for. If only... if only Zerren could come with her. But the sultan’s generosity only stretched so far. To be granted a home and freedom were rare enough. To demand one of his women? He would never allow it.
Three days passed before the kira returned. “I have the salve you asked for to soothe your burns.” She offered a small jar, and—as their hands met—parchment brushed Aiyla’s fingertips.
Aiyla bowed in gratitude. Courtesy dictated she offer the woman refreshment, and the kira feigned fascination with a plate of honey cakes while Aiyla turned her back and unknotted her precious message, heart drumming.
Would that this duck could fly from these heights and seek a new nest.
Aiyla’s throat ached. With a fingertip, she traced each letter. Would that this duck could fly. Ah, if they could both fly, far, far away, where none could follow them. But she would be free soon and Zerren closed behind the high walls of the palace, far above....
Far above the city. High enough for someone with wings to fly. To escape.
To fly if one had wings.
Aiyla smiled and scrambled to write her reply. Dangerous and reckless and full of possibilities.
“For the valide?” the kira asked mildly, a gentle reminder that a message required a cause.
It was an hour before she departed, carrying a grateful letter for the valide and something else entirely for Zerren. If that scrap of parchment fell into the wrong hands, the bostancıs would tighten silk cords around their throats and consign them to the bottom of the Bosphorus.
And yet, better to risk flying through the flames to come out the other side.
The choice lay with Zerren now.
No word came from the palace.
Until she knew Zerren’s decision, Aiyla could not allow the masters to send her away. So she coughed and wheezed and took to her bed and waited.
The burns to her hands were almost healed, but Rana still came to apply salve and change linens. She worked slowly to outlast the physicians each day.
“The masters had an unexpected visitor today,” she whispered, smoothing salve onto swollen fingers. “The valide intends to decorate the palace to celebrate the sultan’s victory.”
Aiyla’s heart fluttered.
The sultan’s victory. Aiyla’s victory.
“They requested the...” Rana flapped a hand. “The... drawings of a pair of wings. They wish to make a pretty model to display in the gardens so the padishah’s guests will remember how he defeated his enemies.”
Aiyla had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. Someone had planted the seed of an idea for a pair of wings inside the palace walls. A duck, she thought with a rush of joy, who longed to fly.
The plan was in motion.
If the palace built wings, they would be simple—decorative, above all else—but if they were based on the standard design, they should still be functional.
“They will remember your victory well,” Rana whispered. “Even if the sultan will not give it your name.” She tied fresh linens in place and very gently squeezed Aiyla’s hands. “The Birds will never be forgotten.”
Aiyla bowed over their clasped hands gratefully, then rose and hurried down the corridors to the sand-strewn yard. Mercifully, the grooms had long since stopped questioning her presence.
Wings were built for a small, light passenger, she thought. All Birds were of a similar height and build. Zerren was both taller and had a... a fuller shape. Not as tall as a man, though, and Hezârfen Ahmed Çelebi had built and flown the first wings across the Bosphorus. If he could do it....
Aiyla frowned, sketching in the sand with a stick. The original wings were larger. She etched her own wings and then Çelebi’s above them. Yes, larger, but not by much.
With only an estimate of Zerren’s weight, she tried to work out the distribution ratio to a fully armed Bird. The trouble was that while the palace nested high, the city spread beneath it. Zerren had to get as far across the waters of the Golden Horn as possible, close enough to reach the other side where Aiyla waited without being spotted. Guards could not be aware of what had happened until it was too late. That was key.
The sun was sinking by the time she hurried back into her room. She hastily sketched her calculations with ink and hidden parchment ribbons, then sent another note to the master, pleading for the kira’s medicinal balms.
Like finding and riding a current, the lift and dip, not certain when the next turn would come, parchment flew back and forth between the palace and the barracks. Little by little, an impossible plan took shape.
Finally, when Aiyla’s eyes no longer burned and the pain in her lungs was almost faded, a single line was delivered in a small box of throat-soothing sweets.
I will look on the moon’s face two days hence.
Two days. Aiyla’s chest tightened sharply. The full moon. Dangerous, for its bright silver, but generous that Zerren could see.
Two days.
She made farewells as best she could as each squad passed through, exchanging a last embrace with Nuray, who—she was proud to see—had been elevated as the new commander. They would still be a flock though her own wings had been clipped.
No. She would be a different kind of bird; that was all. New walls, her own walls. It was a wondrous and terrifying thought, to be beholden to no master.
The masters agreed at once that she could depart on the night of the full moon. A good choice, they said. The Birds always traveled at night to limit curious stares.
“We can spare a groom,” her master said. “He will see you safely delivered.”
She tapped on the master’s table, then traced a name on the wood with her fingertip.
“Tamraz?” The master arched an eyebrow.
She nodded firmly. He had been a steady hand when she took the wing and a good friend to her through her recovery. Now, it was only fair he was the one to see her on her way. And, if everything went to plan, she needed someone she could trust.
The following day and night were unbearable, like the moment before the rope pulled taut and she was flung aloft. A thousand and one fears assailed her, just as they did before she took to the air. Was everything prepared? Were the wings stable? Would they have enough lift? Would Zerren be able to balance them?
Sleep was a forgotten friend as she paced and fretted, spending hours gazing out over the sprawl of the city towards the palace.
More than once, she penned a note to Zerren, insisting it was too dangerous. And as many times, she watched the words burn to cinders.
Zerren wanted to escape her cage and would risk the unknown to do so. It would dishonor her to shy back out of fear.
When the second night came, Aiyla was sick with dread as she gathered her meager belongings and descended the stairs for the last time. The few Birds present flocked to embrace her and press small tokens into her hands. Some wept, but Aiyla’s eyes were as dry as her mouth.
Tamraz waited in the courtyard beside the wagon. Its lamps glowed purple in the growing darkness, the only sign it would contain someone remarkable. He grinned, crooked-toothed, as he opened the shuttered door for her, then closed it on the world she knew.
Aiyla curled up on the seat amidst blankets and cushions. The carriage rattled out of the yard, and she tugged her dagger from her belt and wedged it into the shutters, cracking one open enough to see the city as it whisked by.
She had implored the masters to allow her to see the palace one more time, even from across the water. It would be a final farewell to the padishah. So instead of turning north, the carriage went south, winding its way behind Galata tower and down to the bristling docks that clung to the Golden Horn.
The city made a shadowy shape of silver-tipped minarets, domes, and towers. Lights flickered and glowed against the darkness, speckled like starlight. Vessels bobbed in the waterway, a rolling labyrinth she hadn’t even considered.
When they drew parallel to the palace, Aiyla pounded her shaking hand against the wagon’s ceiling. The carriage rocked, and Tamraz clambered down to open the door for her. He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the palace, feigning awe. Behind her veil, Aiyla almost smiled.
The breeze off the water whipped at her skirts. If nothing else, they had a good wind.
She walked forward, gazing up, watching, waiting, a prayer catching in her throat. The lanterns spread mottled pools of purple light across the cobbles, and she heard the laughter and chatter of men smoking down by the water’s edge.
The moon hung high and pale, brilliantly white in an otherwise empty sky. Had she read Zerren’s message incorrectly? Was it the right night?
A startled yell from the men on the dockside made her jump. Their voices rose in a cacophony and she caught a word, turned, and there, hanging in the heavens, broad and dark, were wings. Aiyla ran forward.
Not enough speed, she could see at once. Not enough lift. The front tipped down sharply and—like a gull trying to ride out a gale—the wings tilted wildly from side to side. Her heart jumped to her throat.
Aiyla raised her hands to shield her eyes from the moonlight, trying to pick out Zerren in the shadows stretching beneath the wings. Yes, yes, there was someone beneath it, struggling, clearly fighting against the tossing wind. A long body dangled below the broad span of the wings, clinging to the hand grips, the harness flapping uselessly—broken.
Her legs weren’t up, Aiyla thought wildly. She hadn’t swung her legs up. Her weight was pulling the front down and she was dropping far too fast. There were boats below, too many for her to avoid, and someone screamed when the wings gave way. The figure fell, plummeting towards the moon-lapped water.
A strangled cry caught in Aiyla’s throat as Zerren hit the waves, sending up a surge of spray. The wings spiraled down above her, crashing and catching on the current, whirling away. Zerren’s arms flailed out of the water in the moonlight, then she went under, lost between the boats.
The men on the docks launched small skiffs, but the wings were already out of sight. If the current was powerful enough to sweep such a structure away, then a body would be— was— could have been—
Grief welled, sharp and sudden, almost enough to knock her to her knees. The men’s shouts, the splash of their oars faded to nothing. She searched the water for any sign of movement, of a golden head, bobbing up, but only saw a trail of cloth—a veil? Something else?—swirling away.
Her fault, her doing. She had suggested this, she had designed it, and now, Zerren had ended —as so many who betrayed the sultan did—lost to the Bosphorus.
A touch on her shoulder made her turn, dagger drawn. Tamraz held up a hand defensively and she blinked at him. Of course. They had stopped. They had seen the palace. Now, they should be on their way to a strange place with no familiar faces.
Then she saw what he held in his other hand. A blanket from the carriage.
She stared at it, then at him, confused. She didn’t need one, not on such a balmy night.
He grinned and tapped the corner of his eye, then tilted his finger just a little. Upstream.
Aiyla turned to follow his direction, away from the men rushing down the bank. The docks’ far end had been abandoned in the haste to see what had happened, and there, peeping out between the hulls of two boats, still neck-deep in the water, was a pale, round face.
Tamraz offered the blanket again, and she grabbed it before running along the bank. Zerren clung to a dock post, trembling and grey, but she was there, alive, and Aiyla’s world rolled, finding a new current, a new course.
Dropping to her knees, she reached down, but the other woman was shaking so hard that her hand slipped through Aiyla’s and she almost went under again.
No! Aiyla lunged, grabbing a single wrist. They had come so far; they would not fail now. A Bird had many skills, including strength in their steering arms. She braced her heels against the dock and pulled with all she had.
Her muscles burned and ached, but she lifted Zerren high enough to get her chest onto the planks. Working together in the shadow of the boats, they dragged Zerren out of the water to collapse against Aiyla. She took ragged, gulping breaths, then rolled away and vomited over the side.
Aiyla quickly bundled the blanket over Zerren’s shaking body, hiding her waterlogged hair and clothes, hoping no one had noticed them. With effort, Zerren got to her feet. Tamraz beckoned urgently; he pointed to the palace, to torches along the walls.
Half-carrying, half-dragging, Aiyla tipped them both into the carriage. At once, Tamraz slammed the door and cracked his whip. The wagon rumbled away, light slicing through the broken shutters.
No one would stop them. No one would question a carriage of the Little Birds.
Zerren still shivered, and Aiyla quickly stripped off the soaked clothes, wrapping her in another blanket, rubbing hands along Zerren’s arms and back. “Safe,” Aiyla rasped, though it felt like swallowing ground glass. “Safe now.”
Zerren gave a frail laugh that turned into a sob. Her arms closed around Aiyla, fingers digging into her back. Aiyla crawled into her lap, bringing them as close as they could be, holding her as tightly, her own eyes burning hotly.
“My brave duck,” she whispered.
That turned the sob back into a laugh. Pale fingers of moonlight crept over her, turning green and gold to silver and blue. Even pale and terrified, she was still the most beautiful person Aiyla had ever seen. She touched Zerren’s cheek with gentle scarred fingers, and her eyes welled over when Zerren reached up and tugged away her veil.
The last battle had left its mark. Never a great beauty, her brown skin was waxen in places, as if held too close to a flame. She averted her gaze.
“No,” Zerren said, her voice roughened and exhausted. “No, look at me. Please.”
Aiyla swallowed hard, and her chest pulled tight for another reason altogether. “Zerren...”
“No.” Zerren pressed her palm to Aiyla’s cheek, staring at her as if she was beautiful. “Not Zerren. My name is Liliana.”
No longer the golden bird in her golden cage.
Aiyla held Liliana’s hand against her cheek, remembering a life and a place before she had wings and masters. “Rania,” she whispered. “My name.”
“Rania,” Liliana breathed it like a prayer. She swayed close, tears like diamonds on her cheek, and pressed their brows together. “Rania.”
And under the moonlight’s gentle touch, they curled together as they left their old world behind them.