Chapter 1 #2
‘My dear friends, my fellow mourners, I thank you for being here to celebrate the life of my beloved aunt, Queen Yvainne.’ Ember’s voice is girlish, sickly-sweet, honey stirred into milk that’s gone bad.
‘Because that is why we have come together today. To celebrate. To remember her glorious reign, and not the unspeakable circumstances that led to her death.’
It appears like a mirage before my eyes – the dagger, the golden tendrils of power, the three queens lying crumpled in pools of blood. I taste bile and swallow it down, trying to block out the murmurs spreading through the crowd. Murmurs of a name. His name.
The Earth Cleaver.
Queenslayer.
The last time I saw him, he was being dragged from the Choosing Chamber, hands stained red, eyes hollow.
I remember the way he held my gaze, clung to it like a certainty, until the doors slammed shut between us.
For I am the only one who knows what truly happened that day.
That Fox is, if not entirely innocent, then not entirely guilty either.
Ever since, he has haunted me. Almost as if his absence has become a kind of presence.
‘I want you to know that I share your pain, just as I shared your love,’ says Ember, her gold-flecked eyes sweeping over the room.
‘These past few weeks have been filled with darkness. We have been wounded. But we will heal. I promise each and every one of you that when I am crowned your queen, we will walk together into a new era, a new dawn.’
All around me, the crowd are nodding. I scowl. How does she know what to say? To make them listen to her, to make them feel safe?
‘We must stand united,’ Ember continues. ‘We cannot tremble in the face of fear. To do so would be an insult to her memory.’
A perfect tear rolls down her cheek as she glances towards the pyre. Behind me, Elaith scoffs quietly.
Ember draws herself up to full height. ‘And now, the time has come for the Burning.’
I suppress a shudder. The Burning is the death ritual of the Firelands.
The head of the deceased’s House is first to light the pyre, followed by the rest of their loved ones.
When the pyre is at last reduced to a smouldering heap, the family each take a handful of ashes to deposit inside an urn.
The Ignitia believe that the dead person’s soul is carried skyward on the smoke and returned to Vesta.
Like funerals, executions also take place upon a pyre.
Only in these cases, the soul is thought to be damned, and the prisoner is burned alive.
The tapping of Grandmother’s stick reverberates around the stone hall as she moves forward, her tread as heavy as her heart.
My mind floods with images of my mother’s funeral.
My father, too grief-stricken to speak. Renly, squawking in the arms of the wet nurse.
Flint clutching my hand tightly as it loomed before me – a dark, empty pit of pain. My own personal Rift.
There’s a sudden intake of breath from the crowd as a flame springs to life in Ember’s palm. I narrow my eyes. What is she doing? The head of the family is first to light the pyre. Grandmother is the head of the family, not Ember.
‘Seeing as I am the one who will take my aunt’s place on the throne, I think it only fitting that I cast the first flame. Wouldn’t you agree, Grandmother?’
Ice courses through me, numbing every other feeling but cold, sharp fury. How dare she disrespect Grandmother like this, in front of the entire court? I know Grandmother will never undermine Ember’s authority in public. No one can think our House divided.
So, Grandmother steps back.
Triumphant, Ember raises her voice and speaks the words of House Harglade: ‘Flicker, flare, flame.’
The crowd echoes her, and I watch my brother flinch as Ember sends her ball of fire shooting into the centre of the pyre.
Immediately, Aunt Yvainne’s body is set alight, flames arcing and crackling.
Then it’s Grandmother’s turn, her face a careful mask.
She is followed by Aunt Hester. Flint swallows hard, extending his arm.
He’s shaking, overcome with grief. After about a minute, when it’s clear he’s not up to it, a weeping Seraphine squeezes his hand, steps forward, and sends two flames shooting into the pyre – one for each of them.
My heart gives a painful jolt as Flint stares down at the floor, blinking back tears.
Next to him, my decoy twists her gloved fingers together nervously.
Being Aquatori, she or, rather, I obviously do not participate in the ritual.
I am a Harglade, one of a long line of pureblood Ignitia, a descendant of Vesta herself.
I should have been Flameborn – like Flint, like Ember.
But I wasn’t. I was born a Rain Singer, and my birth almost drowned the empire.
I think back to the Choosing Rite, when I used Syla’s talisman to summon that storm and claim the gift that shaped my life – and ended so many others’. I think about the way the Eye called to me, chose me. I don’t know why. All I know is that I need to find it.
Flint and I have spent weeks planning our escape, and now the day is finally upon us. In just a few short hours, I will be far from here.
Burying my guilt deep, I try not to look at Grandmother. Instead, I focus on the smoke dancing atop the pyre. To the surrounding provinces, it must look as though Fire Mountain is about to erupt, what with the grey clouds billowing out of the top of the volcano.
Many of the mourners are weeping. I hear Elaith give a muffled sob. I can’t pretend to have had any strong attachment to Aunt Yvainne, but I always respected her, in my own way. As queen, as my mother’s favourite sister, as the most powerful Ignitia in the realm.
So, as I watch the plumes of smoke curling upward towards the patch of blue sky far above, I say a silent prayer for her soul and hope that Vesta can hear me.
Suddenly, without warning, the smoke is forced back down the mouth of the volcano, engulfing the throne room. The air is dense and acrid, and I choke on it. Everyone is screaming, courtiers reduced to blurred shapes.
Another gust, and I can no longer see my hand in front of my face. I’m buffeted from side to side, crying out as figures barrel into me in their desperation to escape.
Panic takes over. Screams fill my ears.
Then, slinking through the haze, comes a voice. Smooth as silk, soft as breath, chilling me to my core.
Hello, little dove.