Chapter 3
Blaze
Ihurtle downwards, each breath-stealing second carrying me further away from Grandmother, and from the expression on her face that nearly tore me in two.
Forgive me, I think.
Then I bury the guilt deep, refusing to let even the slightest crack show in my untarnished resolve. I know what I have to do.
The chute is slimy and smells bad, but it’s a mercy compared with the acrid smoke of the throne room. King Balen’s voice still echoes in my ears, a threat wrapped in silk.
The angle of the chute grows steadily steeper until I’m almost vertical, shooting towards the pinprick of light far below, pressure building and popping in my ears.
I tuck in my limbs and pray to every God I can think of – and more – that they haven’t brought forward the daily incineration of the debris waiting at the bottom.
Because that could pose a problem, Flint had said. And by problem, I mean imminent and agonizing death.
There’s a brief sensation of weightlessness as I emerge from the other end, suspended momentarily in mid-air before landing face-first in a mountainous pile of rotting food.
I’ve barely had time to gag before Flint comes crashing down on top of me, letting out a high-pitched yelp, followed by a whoop.
‘We did it,’ he says, a browning banana peel stuck to his cheek.
‘We did,’ I agree, managing a shaky grin.
Together we scramble down the mound of kitchen waste, our clothes smeared with pulp and gravy and entrails.
A boy is waiting for us in the stables, Flint’s bow and two sets of reins in his hands.
The horses he’s selected are not the large, snow-white, red-maned creatures belonging to the Court of Flames, but two brown mares, who nicker softly as we approach.
Our supplies are stowed in a pair of leather satchels fastened to the gleaming saddles.
The stable hand frowns as he takes in the sight of us. ‘Food fight?’
Panting, Flint shakes his head, slinging his bow and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. ‘We came down the scrap chute. There was an attack by the Ventalla King. Everyone else is still inside. They’ll need help – water, bandages.’
He holds out a hand to help me mount the smaller of the two horses, but I bat him away impatiently before sticking my foot in the stirrup and heaving myself up.
‘Thank you, Caleb,’ Flint says, swinging himself on to the other horse. ‘I’m in your debt.’
Caleb hands him the reins. ‘Anything for you.’
‘Anything?’ I hear the smirk in his voice.
‘Flint,’ I hiss, incredulous.
‘Fair point, sister. Time and place.’
Caleb stands aside and cocks his head towards the stable doors. ‘You know, if you two die out there, they’ll burn me alive.’
‘Not planning on it,’ I tell him, digging my heels into my horse’s flank.
The clopping of hooves echoes loudly on the cobblestones as Flint and I turn our backs on Fire Mountain and set off across the barren plains.
I gaze out at the endless rocky wasteland and breathe it in – the scent of hot stone, fresh air and freedom. For this is the first time I’ve ever been anywhere not trapped behind walls, stuck inside a carriage, or surrounded by guards.
This is the first time I’ve ever been free.
The horse is fast and sure-footed, and I grip on tightly with my knees, half exhilarated, half expecting to lose my balance and go tumbling to the ground.
My hair has come loose from its braids, dark curls streaming behind me, and when the ghost of a smile tugs at my lips, I let it bloom there.
Riding feels like flying, and I like it.
We travel at lightning speed, Flint occasionally shouting instructions about my posture or my grasp on the reins, and constantly craning to look over his shoulder as we skirt bustling towns and villages.
Eventually, when he’s confident that we’re not being followed, we slow the horses to a gentle walk.
Flint reaches into one of the leather satchels and pulls out a waterskin, which he tosses to me.
I catch it clumsily with both hands, letting go of the reins in the process.
‘We’ll make an equestrian of you yet,’ my brother says as I lean down and grab them again.
I flip open the stopper of the waterskin and take a long drink. The back of my throat still burns from the smoke.
‘How’s your eye?’ I ask Flint.
‘Lonely,’ he replies.
We soon reach a cluster of rocks a short distance from a gurgling hot spring. Flint slides nimbly from his horse and walks round to help me.
‘Stop fussing,’ I say, ignoring his outstretched arms as I swing myself down.
Only my legs feel as though they’ve turned to liquid, and give way as soon as my feet hit the ground. Flint sniggers. This time, I accept his hand.
‘Ouch,’ I say, registering the dull ache in my limbs, the stiffness of my hips.
‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Speaking of riding,’ I begin as we lead the horses into the cool shadow of the rocks, ‘what’s with you and the stable boy?’
Flint stares at me. ‘Really? That’s what’s going on in there?’ He raps his knuckles against my head. ‘We’re currently fugitives after narrowly escaping an attack by King Balen, and you’re thinking about me and the stable boy?’
I shrug. ‘Just wondering.’
Flint drains his waterskin. ‘He’s a friend.’
‘Just a friend?’
‘I have lots of friends, sister. I’m a friendly boy, well known for my friendliness.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Though it is true that Caleb and I enjoy a particularly close friendship,’ he continues. ‘You could say we know each other rather well. Intimately, in fact.’
‘What about Spinner?’ I ask, feeling somewhat defensive of my friend and former chaperone, who fell head over heels for my brother during our time at the Golden Palace.
‘What about her? I adore her, of course I do, but we’re not married.’
As if in response, my horse lets out a disapproving snort. Smiling, I reach up to stroke her silky muzzle. A memory jolts through me, almost knocking me off balance.
This is Cedar.
He’s beautiful.
He is, but he’s not why I brought you here.
I drop my hand, the Earth Cleaver’s voice still echoing in my ears.
Though it was a celebration for many, news of his exile filled me with nothing but dread. For he may be callous and arrogant and sometimes cruel, but he also understands what I have to do, better than anyone. And he seems to understand me – more than I care to admit.
I can’t help but wonder where he is. Drinking his days away at the card tables of Katteran?
Sailing the Second Sea? He may have been banished from Ostacre, but try as I might, I cannot banish him from my mind.
He lives there now, taking root among my thoughts, colouring them green.
Does he dream of me, just as I dream of him?
Oblivious to my musings, Flint opens the satchels and begins laying out our supplies – another waterskin, enough food to last several days if we’re careful, blankets, oats for the horses, chalk, a coin purse, a map, a bar of soap, bandages, burn salve, painkillers, my nightlight from Hal, a bundle of clothes and two pairs of leather riding boots.
‘Was that really necessary?’ I ask as Flint produces a bottle of wildfire wine from the bottom of the second satchel.
‘Yes,’ he says, wiggling an arrowhead into the cork and twisting it round.
It loosens with a muffled thunk, and Flint throws it at me. I manage to catch it, then glance down at my grimy palm, suddenly conscious of how filthy we are.
‘Stand up,’ I instruct.
Flint takes a gulp of wine. ‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
He sets down the bottle and gets to his feet.
‘Move a few paces over there.’
My brother exchanges a look with the horses but does as I say. ‘Well? What is it?’ He folds his arms expectantly, then yelps as he’s drenched by a shower of rain.
I toss him the bar of soap. ‘You’re welcome.’
Grumbling, Flint shucks off his doublet and trousers until he’s standing in his undershorts, and scrubs himself clean. ‘You couldn’t make it a bit warmer, could you?’
I shake my head. ‘Still haven’t figured out how to simmer, I’m afraid.’
He hands me the soap when he’s done, and I follow suit, placing Renly’s little figurine carefully atop a shelf of rock before moving to stand under the cool shower. Flint feeds and waters the horses, and we sit in the sun to dry off.
‘So,’ he says through a mouthful of bread and cheese. ‘Let’s go over the plan.’
I spread the map out between us, pinning the corners down with stones.
The Windlands are at the very top of the empire, as far north as you can go. The Firelands sit just below, bordering the Wildlands, which in turn border the Waterlands, occupying the south of Ostacre. Beyond the Aquatori kingdom lies nothing but the treacherous, azure waters of the Second Sea.
When I threw the Eye into Queen Hydra’s portal, I wasn’t thinking about where I was sending it, only that I needed to get it as far away from King Balen as possible.
Yet I realized that if its location was determined by my subconscious, then it must be somewhere of significance.
I spent weeks poring over the possibilities, until eventually it came to me.
The Lagoon.
The Aquatori court at the foot of the Waterlands. Where better to send the Eye than my future home, a place Queen Hydra called her haven? And what better way to earn my crown than by finding the talisman she died protecting?
The plan itself is fairly simple. It’s pulling it off that’s going to be the tricky part.
‘Are you sure you want to go through the Ridge?’ Flint asks, handing me his empty waterskin. ‘Because I still think the Creek is our best bet for, you know, surviving.’
I sigh. ‘We’ve been over this. If we go by boat, we’ll be expected to present our identification papers at each checkpoint. We’re hardly going to slip by unnoticed.’
‘Ah, yes,’ says Flint, reaching out to catch his full waterskin as I throw it back to him. ‘The new Queen of the Aquatori and her dashing, half-blind brother. You’re right, sister mine. Blending in never has been our strong suit.’
I roll my eyes as I help myself to a plum.
Our plan is to travel to the province of Isolla, which sits in the shadow of the Ridge – the red sandstone mountain range that stretches along the border between Queen Yvainne’s lands and Queen Aspen’s.
Though now, I suppose, Ember’s lands and …
well, not Fox’s. Perhaps Hal, as the new emperor, will award the Terrathian crown to Amaryllis instead. She was the runner-up, after all.
I think of the way Fox had toyed with her before his vines found purchase, dragging her through a field of nettles and stringing her up like a puppet, pulling tighter and tighter until I heard the sharp pop of her shoulder dislocating.
I gasp in pain as I bite right through the fruit and into my tongue. Clearing my throat before Flint can ask me what’s wrong, I offer a weak ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Funny, I thought Caius Castellion had the Eye of the Future,’ Flint says dryly.
‘How can you possibly know that we won’t lose our way and wander through the Ridge tunnels until we meet a very claustrophobic, very underwhelming end?
Or get eaten alive by whatever terrifying creatures are said to live there.
Snakes? Fire ants? Five-foot flesh-eating spiders?
I’d rather not lose another body part, if it’s all the same to you. ’
‘Not going to happen,’ I say with far more confidence than I feel.
Once dry, we dress in the Fidra clothes Caleb managed to source for us.
Fidra – those without magic – are easily distinguishable from Etheri, as they do not wear an elemental court colour.
This way, we’ll be able to slip under the radar.
The shirts are scratchy but clean, the trousers ill-fitting, the riding boots scuffed and well worn.
Flint wrinkles his nose. ‘I suspect someone may have died in this,’ he says, fastening the buttons on his leather jerkin.
‘You’re as bad as Spinner.’
‘If by that you mean I have excellent taste in clothes, then I agree with you.’
I roll up a cloak and stuff it into my satchel before tossing him the other. He catches it reluctantly, then bends down to retrieve his soiled red doublet, stroking the gold embroidery wistfully.
‘Your sacrifice is noted,’ I tell him, prising it from his hands and tossing it on top of my gown. ‘Now, I think you should burn them.’
Flint turns away, fiddling with the arrows in his sheaf.
I frown. ‘Hello? Flint? We don’t want to leave a trace.’
‘We also don’t want to draw attention,’ he says a little stiffly, swiping the clothes back and concealing them behind a large boulder.
I shrug. ‘Have it your way.’
Together we pack up our supplies and set off again, riding until the sun dips low.
Flint finds us a cave, and I wrap my arms round myself, my stillness making me suddenly aware of the chill in the air.
That’s the thing about the Firelands – scorching-hot days, icy-cold nights – both extremes having been intensified by the slaughter of the Council, which angered the elements in ways never seen before.
‘Aren’t you going to light a fire?’ I ask my brother. ‘It’s freezing.’ I huff out a breath for emphasis and point at the misty cloud.
But Flint shakes his head.
‘Flint, we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s nobody around.’
‘You don’t know that,’ he says. ‘Now, stop yacking. I need my beauty sleep.’
I lie down, huddled beneath my cloak, listening to the sound of crickets, the nickering of the horses, the occasional eruption of steam from a distant hot spring.
For some reason, I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed.
I gaze out at the sliver of night sky visible through the narrow mouth of the cave.
Night.
I think of night, and I think of my former serf, Elva. Her homeland, Obsidia. The darkness that filled my chambers, lit only by an orb of light cast by the boy cradling her in his arms. The dull gut-punch of betrayal as realization dawned on me.
I wonder if Elva has told Hal the truth – that ever since I unknowingly returned the powers of her ancestors to her using the Eye of the Soul, she is no longer Fidra.
She is a Mage. A Shadow Mage.
My breath curls upward in silver clouds. I nestle closer to Flint.
How will Hal and Elva navigate this, I wonder?
There’s a cruel irony to it – an aching, hopeless sort of beauty that reminds me of the tales my mother told me as a child.
But how can this one possibly have a happy ending when it is a story about what happens when light falls in love with darkness?
How can they ever coexist, when one consumes the other?
I don’t pretend to know much about love, but to me, that sounds an awful lot like doom.