Chapter 5
Flint
‘Ispy with my little eye something beginning with …’ I pause, searching for inspiration, which is notably lacking given that we’re crossing a barren stone plain. ‘With … H.’
Blaze ignores me. After almost a week of nothing but, well, nothing, she is tired, bored and very, very irritable.
I, too, am tired, bored and irritable. I’m also in quite a bit of pain.
My burns aren’t faring well in this heat, and the searing ache in my left eye never lets up.
Yet despite all that, and how unappealing I suspect I look in these drab Fidra clothes, I’m trying to stay positive.
They say problems should be tackled head-on, but I find that my problems are best left alone.
Ignore them for long enough and you can pretend they don’t exist.
‘Come on, sister,’ I urge. ‘Play the game.’
When Blaze does speak it is through gritted teeth. ‘Flint.’
‘Doesn’t begin with H, I’m afraid. And to think you’re supposed to be the clever one.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Just one guess,’ I wheedle. ‘Go on, it’s easy.’
‘Fine.’ Blaze half closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘Fine. Horse.’
‘Incorrect.’
‘Hot spring.’
‘Nope.’
I almost cower beneath her glare. Sometimes, she really does remind me of Grandmother.
‘Oh, you want a word beginning with H?’ Her voice is ice. ‘How about hungry?’
Ah. I thought she might’ve moved on from our little spat this morning after I’d accidentally polished off the last of the food. It seems I was wrong.
Blaze isn’t finished. ‘Or how about horribly behind schedule?’
‘That’s three words,’ I point out.
A jet of cold water shoots straight into my chest.
‘How thoughtful you are, sister mine,’ I splutter, shaking my head like a dog. ‘I was melting in this heat.’
Blaze snarls.
‘All right.’ I hold my hands up in surrender. ‘All right, I’ll shut up.’
The next hour or so passes in silence.
‘How much further?’ Blaze asks eventually, flexing her wrists.
‘Not long now.’
‘Flint, are you sure we’re going the right way?’
I consult the map. We’re currently crossing Danath, which borders Isolla – the province sitting in the shadow of the Ridge.
‘Well,’ I say, squinting at the markings etched on to the parchment, ‘if my calculations are correct, I think we’ll arrive in Isolla by nightfall.’
‘And if they aren’t correct?’
I shrug. ‘Then we’re lost.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘How about you be the navigator, sister? I’m sure you could get us there no problem, what with your wealth of experience travelling the empire.’
Blaze holds up a finger.
I shake my head. ‘Shocking. Hardly the behaviour expected of a future queen.’
‘Flint,’ Blaze breathes suddenly.
‘I know, I know, you don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, folding up the map and tucking it back into my satchel. ‘I get it. I do. It’s a big change and –’
‘No, Flint –’
‘Really, it’s perfectly understandable that you –’
‘FLINT.’ Blaze’s voice is urgent, excited.
I glance up, frowning. ‘What?’
‘Look!’
I follow the direction of her finger. There, far in the distance, barely distinguishable against the clouds, is the hazy outline of mountains. Hundreds of them, dark red in colour and stretching across the horizon as far as the eye can see.
The Ridge – the border between the Firelands and the Wildlands.
I punch the air, triumphant. ‘See! What’d I tell you?’
Blaze smiles. ‘I take it all back.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m sorry for ever doubting you.’
I bow my head. ‘Apology accepted. Now, come on. I’m starving.’
‘You’re always starving,’ she says, nudging her horse onward.
By the time the sun starts painting the sky pink, the rumbling of my stomach can be heard above the clopping hooves.
Smoke curls from the chimneys of the little stone cottages fringing the outskirts of Isolla, which gradually increase in both size and number as we ride through the winding streets.
The noise in the centre is deafening – merchants and traders haggling at full volume, the hiss of molten metal as it meets water, children laughing and squealing as they dart through the throngs of people and pens filled with livestock.
Blaze’s eyes are wide as she slides from her horse, fascinated.
This rather mundane scene must seem like a whole new world to her.
I dismount too, gathering my reins and leading the way on foot.
We agreed to sell the horses once we got to Isolla.
There’s no way we’ll be able to take them with us through the Ridge tunnels.
‘You stay here,’ I say as we untether the satchels from our saddles. I pull the hood of Blaze’s cloak up over her head. ‘And be careful.’
She nods, her expression bright with excitement.
Leaving her to eagerly peruse the market stalls, I head off in search of someone to take the horses off our hands, taunted all the while by the glorious smells wafting from the various inns and alehouses lining the square.
My burns are smarting and my limbs are heavy.
Every part of me feels bruised. All I want in this moment is a hot meal and a proper bed.
Perhaps a bottle of wine. Anything to take my mind off the fact that tomorrow I will be walking straight into the depths of a snake-infested mountain in order to chase some enchanted relic that I’m still not entirely sure isn’t just a figment of my sister’s imagination.
The first trader I approach is a small, balding Fidra man who waves me off, uninterested. The second, a woman dressed in strange, expensive-looking robes, shakes her head and says something in a language I don’t understand. Vosti, I think. Blaze would know.
On my third attempt, the trader looks me up and down before walking round the horses, inspecting their teeth and hooves, then offers me six pieces of silver.
‘Six? They’re worth double that.’
The man snorts. ‘Not a chance. Call it seven and we have a deal.’
‘Nine.’
‘I said seven, boy. Take it or leave it.’
I cross my arms. ‘Eight.’
He considers. I try not to salivate as a girl walks past carrying a platter of roasted meat. Then the trader says, ‘Very well. Eight it is.’
Smiling triumphantly, I pocket the silver and head back towards the corner of the square where I left Blaze.
Only when I arrive, she’s nowhere to be seen.
I swallow my unease as I whip my head back and forth.
I suspect she’s just wandered into the centre of it all, caught up in the colourful chaos of Isolla.
I adjust my satchel and plunge into the throng of travellers, tourists and traders, my good eye scanning the square for her face.
Where is she? Why did I let her out of my sight, even for a few minutes? Panic rises, hot and clawing.
A cloaked figure stands a few yards to my right. My heart leaps.
‘Blaze?’ I curse myself as soon as her name leaves my mouth, but no one around me pays any attention. I try again, pushing my way through the crowd. ‘Blaze?’ I almost let out a sob of relief as I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. ‘There you are.’
‘Here I am.’ My sister looks extremely pleased with herself as she holds aloft what appears to be a small bronze ball on a stick. ‘It’s a toffee apple,’ she says, eyes shining.
I exhale slowly. ‘I can see that.’
Blaze is undeterred. ‘I bought it, just now, at one of those stalls over there.’
I raise an eyebrow, bemused. Blaze only beams. I’m about to ask her why she’s acting like a five-year-old, and then I get it. She feels like one.
I’ve often wondered how she didn’t go mad, shut up for all those years – first at Bartell Manor, then Harglade Hall.
She was robbed of any kind of childhood because of something she did when she was barely a day old.
I think of the cities I’ve seen, the courts I’ve visited.
I think of the countless times I’ve walked into Valburn to do something as ordinary as buy a toffee apple, and I’m overcome with the urge to hug my sister.
‘Come on,’ I say, slinging an arm round her shoulder. ‘Let’s find some supper.’
We push into the heaving alehouse, the air hot from the oven fires and thick with drunken voices.
Nobody gives us a second glance as we shove our way to an empty table.
I toss the barmaid a piece of silver and she returns minutes later with two heaped plates and a flagon of wildfire wine.
Ravenous, I fall on the food, pausing only to refill my glass.
Blaze drums her gloved fingers on the table, chewing thoughtfully.
‘What?’ I ask through a mouthful of guinea fowl.
‘I’m just trying to remember everything I’ve ever read about the Ridge tunnels.’
‘Well, make sure you do,’ I say, pointing a bone at her, ‘because, no pressure and all, but our lives depend on it.’
Blaze knocks the bone out of my hand with her fork. At that moment, a voice sounds close behind us.
‘… the Harglade twins, Flint and Blaze.’
We both freeze.
‘They survived, then?’
‘It would seem so.’
I allow myself an infinitesimal sigh of relief – we’re not being addressed, but rather discussed, and the group of Ignitia sharing a bowl of broth seem completely oblivious to the fact that the very people they’re talking about are sitting a mere five feet away.
‘I heard they’ve been moved to a safe house.’
Blaze makes to whisper something to me, but I tap a finger to my lips and lean back in my chair to listen to the rest of the conversation.
‘And what about the Crowned Council?’
‘They’re not crowned yet, though I imagine they’ll be summoned to the palace. Haldyn Castellion needs all the help he can get. By all accounts, the boy’s too soft. And then, of course, there’s his half-brother, who’s quite the opposite.’
‘Queenslayer,’ one man mutters venomously. ‘I heard he fled to Zafar.’
‘Well, I heard he was spotted in a whorehouse in Katteran.’