She scrambles down the slope back into the canyon, then around the edge of the mountain. I follow more carefully, then run to catch up when I get on level ground.

The plains to the northeast of our canyon are uneven and spotted with scrub. Narrow gullies dot the landscape, and anyone flying overhead would be hard-pressed to find a proper landing spot within a hundred miles.

The illusion, Bellara explained to me once, was easy to set and maintain. She used her sorcery to mimic a patch of land to our west. Throw in a bit of variance, and no one would ever suspect a runway out here in the middle of nowhere.

Even though I know it is there, I’m not able to spot the runway until I am actually on it. Scrubland turns to old, broken concrete beneath my feet, and forty paces later I see a shimmer of the light. Benny emerges from the morning haze. She is an old red and gray fighter, rusted and worn. Her engine smokes and whirrs, her propeller looking choppy. There are a few new bullet holes in her wings.

Rodrigo is a small man, not much bigger than his sister. He has olive skin and a frail-looking body, but he is all sinew and muscle like a piece of old leather. He wears a big grin as he climbs down and embraces his sister, and then grabs me and kisses me on both cheeks in greeting.

I look upon Rodrigo’s love of flying and his passion for life and realize that my conversation with Bellara was anything but surprising. The urge to perform, it seems, is in their blood.

“Teado!” he says. “I have news. We’ll take it to the commander.”

“Did you bring back any food?” I try to ask, but I’m cut off by Bellara, who points at the bullet holes in his wings.

“What happened?” she demands.

Rodrigo dismisses her concern with a gesture. “Close call. Some asshole shooting in the air. Nothing to be worried about. Your illusions held well, my sister. I got in and out of Bava.” He makes a kissing gesture to his fingers, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I was only held up because the garrison captain was waiting for intelligence. Which I have!”

“We could hear you coming in,” I tell him.

They both look at me, and comprehension slowly dawns on their faces. Bellara’s illusions did not hold. The enemy couldn’t see him, but they could hear him. They hadn’t been shooting randomly.

Bellara’s face turns ashen. “Rod . . .”

“Shh!” Rodrigo says, putting a finger to her lips. “It’s fine. I survived, didn’t I? What’s war without a little risk? Besides, I’m back and I have news!”

“What kind of news?” I ask.

“Intelligence!”

“What kind of intelligence?”