Tides of Fortune (Storm Weaver #2)

Chapter 1

Blaze

The day of the funeral dawns blood-red.

Flint and I sit side by side on a jutting stone ledge, our legs dangling, watching the stream of mourners trickle into the base of the volcano.

The land surrounding Fire Mountain is barren, the terrain consisting of nothing but dark rock and hot springs, which occasionally erupt in billows of steam.

I flinch each time. I’m restless, skittish.

Even the air seems oppressive. Too hot. Heavy with anticipation.

The figures below – beetle-sized from our high vantage point – converge from all directions, unified in their grief for their fallen queen.

My brother lets out a low whistle as he leans back on his elbows. ‘Impressive turnout. I do hope there’s enough finger food.’

I remain silent, knowing how much he’s hurting deep down.

He loved Aunt Yvainne, and she doted on him.

Flint was her ward, her darling, her protégé.

She’d hoped that he would be the one to replace her on her throne after the old Crowned Council relinquished their power.

Only Flint didn’t win the crown of golden flames, and Aunt Yvainne is dead, her body cold and stiff and wrapped in silks, waiting on the pyre.

It’s been several weeks since the Binding Ceremony, yet every time I close my eyes I’m back in that chamber, watching the Earth Cleaver plunge my dagger into the emperor’s heart.

Though it wasn’t his father Fox had intended to kill.

It was his uncle, King Balen, who vanished into thin air before the knife could meet its mark, who murdered his niece on the word of a mysterious prophecy, and who has in his possession one of the three enchanted Eyes.

With the Eye of the Past, King Balen is dangerous. He has history at his fingertips, just as his father, Caius Castellion, has the future. But were he to get his hands on the Eye of the Soul, he would be invincible. Which means that someone has to find it before he does.

Flint glances at me. ‘We don’t have to do this, you know. We can call the whole thing off. Just say the word.’

‘We might not get this chance again.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Getting cold feet, are we?’

‘As if. I’m only looking out for my sister. With my one good eye, that is.’

I force a tight smile. While Flint seems perfectly at ease making jokes about his injury, I can still barely look at him without wincing.

Thanks to the magic in his blood, his burns are healing well, already giving way to shiny new skin, but the leather patch obscuring the upper-left side of his face serves as a constant reminder of just what Flint lost during the third Ignitia trial, of what our cousin, Ember, took from him, and of all the ways I’m going to make her pay for it.

Flint stands up and holds out a hand. ‘Come on. We’d better start getting ready.’

I take one last look at the mourners below then let him pull me to my feet.

A unit of Harglade guards, their crimson uniforms emblazoned with golden cobras, escorts us back to our rooms. Since we arrived several days ago, Fire Mountain has taken some getting used to.

For starters – it’s a volcano. A colossal, sky-scraping, dormant volcano where the Fire Goddess Vesta, the first Ignitia Etheri, built her Court of Flames.

The stone walls, intersected with glowing veins of magma, are hot to the touch, and each level is connected by steep, sweeping staircases.

It’s a good thing Grandmother is indisposed, as I imagine navigating the place, even with her ruby-encrusted stick, would prove an ordeal.

She’s waiting for me in my chambers, her brown-gold eyes dull, her movements weary and slow.

When King Balen blasted her across the Choosing Chamber, I was sure she was dead.

And the Aquatori trainer, River, too. They looked so frail, lying there next to the Supreme Mother of the Valla Jakartis with her swollen, broken neck.

River pulled through with only minor injuries, and Grandmother managed to hold on long enough for the physicians to attend to her.

Only she hit her head, and her recollection of events seems hazy at best. She hasn’t mentioned the Eyes to me in all these weeks since, to my utter relief.

Because if Grandmother knew I had reason to go, she’d be doing everything in her power to make sure I stay.

I wouldn’t put it past her to have me fitted with a cattle bell.

I glance over to where a pretty azure dress fringed with tiny sapphires is laid out on the bed. At that moment there’s a knock on the door and a timid-looking attendant enters, a red gown draped over her arm. She curtsies deeply, but not to Grandmother – to me.

It’s easy to forget sometimes, what with everything going on, that I am – or at least very soon will be – a queen. The Queen of the Waterlands. Ruler of the Aquatori.

I’m still far from used to the idea. Especially since Queen Hydra is no longer here to advise me. My chest aches remembering our lessons, remembering the way her blood mingled with the water as the Eye of the Soul disappeared through that portal.

I clench my jaw, resolved. I must prove myself a worthy successor. I will not wear the crown until I have found the Eye.

Grandmother is looking the attendant up and down. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs absently. ‘Right height, right build. She’ll do nicely.’

The girl swallows.

I take a step towards her. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Of course she’s sure,’ snaps Grandmother. ‘She’s getting five gold pieces and enough food to feed her family for a year. Now, get dressed, both of you.’

I let the attendant button me into the red dress, then she slips into the blue one. I watch her run her hands over the fabric in wonder before she glances at the mirror, eyes wide as she takes in her reflection.

Grandmother sniffs. ‘There will be time for admiring yourself later.’

The girl blushes and stares down at her silk slippers.

Today, I am not the Storm Weaver – she is.

Posing as me, she will stand on the stone dais with the rest of my family, leaving the real me, dressed as I am in Ignitia colours, to watch the funeral with the unsuspecting crowd of mourners below.

This way, if anything were to go wrong, if there were an attempt on my life, I would be safe.

Though I can’t say the same for the girl at my side.

I jog my knee impatiently as Grandmother braids our hair, hands us each a pair of gloves, then produces two veils – one cerulean, one scarlet.

She sighs reluctantly, then nods. ‘It works. No one would know unless they knew to look. My guards will be positioned around the throne room, Blaze. As for the crowd, you must blend in. Whatever happens, do not reveal yourself.’

‘I won’t.’

She lets me go and snaps her fingers at the attendant as she moves towards the door, the skirts of her thick red gown whispering across the stone floor.

‘Grandmother?’

She turns back, hands resting atop the hilt of her stick.

‘I love you,’ I tell her.

She looks at me for a long time, eyes glassy in the flickering candlelight, before limping from the room, her decoy granddaughter hurrying along in her wake.

I hold back a moment before crossing to the dressing table and picking up a tiny wooden figurine of a knight holding a sabre. It was a gift from my younger brother, Renly, who, after a series of tantrums, has been grudgingly left at Harglade Hall with the kittens.

For luck, he said.

Slipping the knight into my pocket, I take a long, deep breath then head out into the corridor, merging seamlessly with the tide of Ignitia courtiers.

Flint falls into step beside me. ‘Everything’s ready,’ he mutters, without looking in my direction. ‘After the service, find a way to get to the kitchens. I’ll meet you there.’

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

The throne room is so cavernous that the first time I saw it I was instantly reminded of the training room in the Golden Keep.

Given that we are standing directly below the mouth of the volcano, there is no ceiling, only a glimmer of blue sky far above.

At one end of the room sits a towering stone throne atop a dais, and in front of it, built high with wood and kindling, a gigantic pyre, upon which lies the silk-wrapped corpse of the Fire Queen.

I keep my head down, careful not to draw attention to myself as I take my place among the crimson sea of mourners, all of them having travelled from every corner of the Firelands to offer their condolences, to express their sorrow, to say goodbye.

It’s some time before House Harglade emerge.

Grandmother, who cannot bring herself to look at the pyre.

Aunt Hester, who appears unable to look away.

Flint, with his arm round Aunt Yvainne’s wife, Seraphine.

And me – or rather, my decoy, who’s seemingly so wracked with nerves that she stumbles slightly while taking her place on the dais.

Someone nearby snorts quietly. ‘Never thought I’d see the day I pitied the Fish.’

I grit my teeth just as a second voice hisses, ‘Another word and I’ll torch you.’

I bite down on a gasp, because I know that voice. It belongs to my friend Elaith. And she’s standing right behind me.

I force myself to remain still, keeping my eyes trained on the dais as the final member of the congregation decides to grace us with her presence.

Fury slithers through me like cold water as Ember flounces into view, her rust-orange dress trailing behind her.

It takes every scrap of willpower I possess to bow my head along with everyone else.

Flint’s expression doesn’t change, but I can almost feel the tension wedged between his shoulder blades.

He’s seen our cousin only once since the third trial – a meeting that was monitored by Grandmother, and which consisted of a sugared, insincere apology.

What happened was an accident, Ember had claimed. An accident.