Chapter 9
Elva
Of all the rooms in the Golden Palace, the Council Chamber is surprisingly modest, consisting of a round table, five thrones and nothing much else – apart from the portraits.
Lining the walls are hundreds of faces, all belonging to generations of Crowned Councils, looking down upon their successors.
I spot Queen Yvainne’s portrait nestled between Queen Hydra and Queen Aspen.
They must’ve had them painted near the beginning of their rule, as all three of them are young and fresh-faced, barely older than me.
King Balen is there too, lip curled amusedly.
Hanging beside him is Emperor Alvar. Hal’s father is almost unrecognizable in youth, so different from the man I remember.
I often wondered what caused him to look so haggard all the time.
He was the most powerful Etheri in the realm.
He lived in a palace hewn from solid gold, and yet somehow he managed to look almost as weary and malnourished as the serfs arriving in chains into his ports each year.
A pair of eyes seems to follow me around the room as I set out a selection of wine glasses and several rolls of parchment. Raven black, beady and cunning.
Caius Castellion.
It’s because of Hal’s grandfather that the Otherlands fell, my people were defeated, and I am a serf, forced to serve the sons and daughters of those who tore my world apart.
A cold shiver runs through me, while a thin tendril of shadow curls from my fingertip.
I’m grateful that he’s no longer in the palace, having disappeared without a word after the Binding Ceremony.
For what would Caius Castellion do to me if he discovered my secret?
Bind me in crystal chains? Burn me alive?
Cut me up into little pieces and cast me into the Rift?
And what could I do to defend myself? In all these weeks, I have been so desperately focused on suppressing my shadows that I don’t know how to control them, let alone use them.
It would be like trying to tame a wild animal with my bare hands.
At that moment the doors to the Council Chamber burst open and I’m almost mown down by a gaggle of Imperial advisers.
Hal stands framed in the doorway, his expression tight with worry, his fine gold doublet missing a button from where he’s picked incessantly at the thread.
His eyes find mine and soften. I could swear that the tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction.
My heart leaps, and I make myself look away, bowing my head as he passes.
Hal hesitates only for a moment before seating himself in the largest of the five golden thrones, perched like a guest, hands folded.
His advisers cluster round, clucking like a brood of angry hens.
They’re not talking to Hal, but rather at him, their voices loud enough to rattle the portraits on the walls.
I edge round them and lean over to pour Hal a glass of wine – a large one.
Only when I hand it to him does he seem to forget where he is, because he looks directly into my face and says, ‘Thank you.’
I freeze, my fingers still wrapped round the glass. The chatter peters out.
Hal blinks, coughs slightly, then recovers himself. ‘Thank you, all of you, for your reports. But perhaps it might be best if we discussed matters one at a time?’
The room relaxes and I scuttle back to my corner.
Alator, the court official, clears his throat. He’s secured himself a spot standing at Hal’s right shoulder, his chest puffed out self-importantly. I remember Blaze mentioning something about his teeth. Sure enough, when he opens his mouth, I see them – two rows of gleaming gold.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he says. ‘Several of the Eyes have informed me of the support gathering for King Balen, and not just in the Windlands as we had anticipated, but across Ostacre, and even beyond to our neighbouring kingdoms.’
Hal slowly places his hands on the arms of his throne.
‘I believe,’ Alator continues, ‘that it would be in our best interests to arrange a parley with your uncle. Perhaps then we might come to some agreement.’
Hal scrubs his palm across his face. ‘This again? How many times must I tell you? My uncle will not consent to a parley. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
’ I watch as Hal reaches into his doublet and produces a long, sleek feather, which he slams on to the table in front of him.
‘He sent me this. It was waiting in my rooms.’
My stomach jolts uncomfortably. This is news to me.
Hal once told me of an old Ignitia king who, on the eve of battle, gave a candle to his enemy that didn’t stop burning until the war was over.
And of the Terrathian queen who sent flowers to those she planned to kill.
That’s the whole point of symbols – they have meaning.
King Balen hasn’t just sent a feather. He is sending a message.
Alator looks stricken. ‘There must be another explanation –’
‘What other explanation? How could he possibly make his position any clearer?’ Hal stabs a finger at the feather. ‘This right here is a promise. A challenge. He’s taunting me.’
‘The problem, sire,’ Alator continues carefully, ‘is that so far the king’s actions have all been … open to interpretation.’
‘Open to interpretation?’ Hal’s voice is ice. ‘My uncle saw his fellow Council members lying dead around him and showed not a shred of remorse.’
A second adviser says, ‘Everyone in that chamber was in shock, sire, including you. You had just watched your father –’
Hal ignores her. ‘He attacked Blaze Harglade. He –’
A new voice cuts in, cold and rasping. ‘You would take the word of the Storm Weaver over that of your own uncle?’
Hal turns to the man standing on his left. He’s ancient-looking, with a long beard and stiff, twisted fingers.
‘I served as adviser to your grandfather, sire, and your father after that. I’ve known King Balen since he was a boy.’
Hal grits his teeth. ‘You’ve known me since I was a boy too, Kalf. Forgive me for thinking you might trust my judgement.’
‘Not,’ says Kalf, ‘when your judgement is compromised. We are all aware of your … relationship with the Harglade girl.’
For a moment I think Hal might hit him. ‘Blaze has nothing to do with –’
‘Many believe she was involved in your half-brother’s plot to kill the Council,’ says Alator, his gold teeth flashing.
I purse my lips in protest. Of course they’ve selected Blaze as their scapegoat. It’s hardly surprising. To many, she’s been a villain since the day she was born.
Hal shakes his head. ‘Impossible.’
‘Sire.’ Kalf places a gnarled hand on Hal’s shoulder. ‘Rumours about the Storm Weaver have been circulating. She is already feared by the people, fears that have only intensified since it was announced that she has been Chosen for your Council.’
‘Because she won,’ Hal almost shouts. ‘She won the Aquatori crown fair and square. What was I supposed to do? Not let her compete? The actions of my half-brother, I can’t excuse. Him I am not defending. But Blaze? She’s done nothing wrong. I trust her. Implicitly.’
Kalf sighs. ‘The problem is, sire, the people don’t.
And I can’t say I blame them. Who would put their faith in the Storm Weaver, a girl who has brought pain and suffering to so many, rather than King Balen – the late emperor’s brother, a son of the Imperial House of Castellion, and an exemplary monarch beloved by his people? ’
Hal shrugs off Kalf’s hand from where it still rests on his shoulder. ‘Then explain to me why my exemplary, beloved uncle tried to kill Blaze at the funeral of her aunt, Queen Yvainne? It was nothing other than an act of war.’
‘Or an act of vengeance,’ counters Kalf. ‘Many view the attack on Fire Mountain as King Balen seeking justice for the deaths of your father and the three queens. That it was his wish to apprehend the Storm Weaver and force her to stand trial for her crimes.’
Hal opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow the objections that gather on my tongue.
Alator leans forward once more. ‘You understand, sire, how delicate this situation is. If you continue to throw your support behind Blaze Harglade, many of your subjects will turn their allegiance to your uncle. Yet if you condemn her now, after publicly vouching for her innocence, you will appear naive and indecisive.’
‘Precisely,’ says Kalf. ‘Which is why it is imperative we call a parley. You must listen to what your uncle has to say. You must hear what he wants.’
‘I know what he wants, Kalf,’ Hal growls. ‘He wants to be emperor.’
‘Ridiculous,’ another adviser mutters impertinently from the back of the group. ‘King Balen is a second son. He is Ventalla. He doesn’t have the gift of light. The emperors of Ostacre are Light Wielders, descended from the Maker himself.’
‘Which is why I know he doesn’t intend to kill me in order to take the throne. He’ll complete the Ceremony, binding himself not only to my Council but to me. To my magic.’
The silence that follows stretches taut.
Kalf breaks it, and the words that leave his mouth are unforgivable. ‘Perhaps that is not such a bad idea.’
Hal’s eyes burn black. ‘What did you say?’
‘I meant, sire, that perhaps you should consider allowing your uncle to become regent until you are ready to take the throne yourself. I am not alone in having observed the toll your new position is taking on you, and all without even being crowned yet.’
My hands shake with anger. To my horror, a single wisp of shadow begins to twine itself round my finger. I stuff my hand behind my back, heart racing.
Eventually Hal finds his voice. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Yours, sire,’ Alator assures him. ‘We all of us are on your side.’