Chapter 18
Blaze
The forest at dawn looks like something out of the fairytales I read to Renly.
Curling tendrils of silver mist snake through the undergrowth as I walk among the trees, the leaves glittering with early-morning dew.
All around, wildflowers compete for space on this canvas of green, blooming in varying shades of deep blue, bright yellow and heartbreak-red, their petals sprawling and feathered – nothing like the perfectly uniform bunches of golden roses Hal used to leave in my chambers.
I lean down to pluck a thick stem from another patch of flowers. It’s pretty, if a little peculiar, heavy with a dozen thimble-shaped purplish blooms.
‘I like these better anyway,’ I mutter, as if Hal could hear me.
It’s not long before sunlight begins to filter through the branches, and I come to a stop in a small clearing.
After ascertaining that I’m not about to be set upon by a pack of hungry beasts, I take a long, deep breath, then close my eyes.
Injured or not, I resent the exhaustion seeping through my body.
Without my gifts I’m vulnerable, and I’d rather not keep it that way, particularly since the idea of aiming a jet of icy water at Fox’s arrogant face is becoming increasingly appealing.
I tug moodily at the collar of his shirt, which digs uncomfortably into the underside of my throat.
It would be far more practical to just wear it the right way round, but I meant what I said about the neckline gaping open to a frankly indecent degree.
All of a sudden, I’m seized by an unwelcome memory of a cold blade on hot skin, a dagger sliding down my chest punishingly slowly, cutting the buttons off my shirt one by one as a pair of green eyes bored into mine, piercing and hungry and …
I give my head a little shake, attempting to expel the Earth Cleaver from my mind.
I hate that I’m wearing his clothes, and I hate how much he likes it.
Clearing my throat, I force myself to concentrate on my anchors, deciding to start with rain. When I’m ready, I reach inwards for that familiar sadness – grief that became a gift, pain that became power. But all I manage to produce is a weak flurry of drizzle.
Exasperated, I roll my neck and try again.
I picture my mother telling me a story, kissing a scraped knee, teaching me to swim in the cove below Bartell Manor, holding me tightly after I’d had a bad dream.
Tears spring into my eyes and I feel the drizzle intensify, turning to raindrops. Yet it isn’t long before they subside.
How long will it take before my magic returns to its full capacity? A day? A week? The idea is torture. Letting out a hiss of frustration, I aim a kick at a nearby tree stump.
That’s when a voice overhead drawls, ‘What a nasty temper you have, Storm Weaver. Have you ever tried counting to ten?’
Startled, I look up. Fox is draped ceremoniously across a branch several feet above me, rolling a ripened blackberry between his thumb and forefinger.
His dark hair gleams as though he’s recently bathed, and his unkempt shirt gapes open, exposing the smooth golden planes of his chest. He looks perfectly at home up there in the trees, idly regal, an outlaw king as dazzling and dangerous as the Wildlands themselves.
‘What d’you want?’ I ask waspishly.
Fox smiles. ‘And good morning to you too.’
I scowl. ‘Do you enjoy sneaking up on me?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he says. ‘Have you ever considered the possibility that perhaps it’s you who sneaks up on me? For all you know, I was just out here engaging in a spot of light birdwatching.’
‘Somehow I find that hard to believe.’
Fox tosses the blackberry into the air and catches it again. ‘How shrewd you are. All right, perhaps I may have been checking in on you, but that’s only because you ventured beyond the bounds of screaming distance.’
‘Screaming distance?’ I repeat.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Say I was back at the camp and you were all the way out here, and say you happened to run into trouble, I’d be too far away to hear you scream for help. And while I admit the notion of your screaming my name appeals to me –’
I glare at him.
‘– I’d really rather not spend my morning searching for your mangled corpse, or parcelling up various limbs to send back to your grandmother.’
In one lightning-quick motion, Fox drops from the branch and lands directly in front of me, his face tilted downward, mere inches from mine. My stomach lurches and I take a stumbling step back.
He smirks. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’
I watch as he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a handful of dark berries. I eye them distrustfully.
‘Ah, yes,’ Fox drawls. ‘Because I saved your life, tended to your wound, gave you my clothes, shared my food, and even offered you safe passage through the Wildlands all just so I could poison you with a berry.’ He holds his arms up in surrender. ‘You got me.’
My cheeks flush and I instantly feel foolish.
But then again, can he really blame me for hesitating?
He’s still the Earth Cleaver. It’s not as if he hasn’t killed anyone before.
Besides, he’s entirely unpredictable. For all I know, he could have changed his mind about the missing Eye and decided that he does in fact want it for himself.
And how easy it would be to dispose of me here in the woods, weak and feeble as I am.
‘Trust me,’ says Fox, in a voice that doesn’t inspire me to trust him at all. ‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be six feet under. And I assure you that if I were ever to kill you, my methods would prove a vast deal more interesting than this.’ He holds up the berries.
‘Of course,’ I respond dryly, determined not to let him win. ‘How could I ever overlook your twisted desire for spectacle?’
‘Twisted desire?’ Fox echoes, a vicious glint in his eyes. ‘And what do you know of my twisted desire, Storm Weaver?’
I refuse to blush, jutting my chin. ‘I know that you take pleasure in others’ pain. That you enjoy hurting people.’
Fox mulls this over, then says softly, ‘Only people who deserve it.’
A small shiver skitters along my spine. ‘That doesn’t make it right.’
He looks unmoved. ‘I admit there are times when I do find enjoyment in watching my enemies suffer. Though I’m not the only one, it seems.’
I feel my skin grow cold. In my mind I see Ember’s hands dripping blood, Marina suspended inside a frozen wave, the gargled, choking sounds Cole made as he tried desperately to prise his frozen tongue from the roof of his mouth.
I remember how I felt during those moments.
Not horrified, not regretful, but powerful. Triumphant.
I think about the way Fox looked at me then, and I think about the way he’s looking at me now, and suddenly I no longer find him merely insufferable. I find him infuriating.
In the time it takes to blink, the handful of berries crystallize in Fox’s palm.
I’m breathing heavily – whether from rage or exertion, I can’t be sure. To my surprise, Fox just grins and pops a berry into his mouth. There’s a crunching sound as he bites down on the frozen fruit, chews slowly and then swallows, his eyes never leaving my face.
Emboldened by my small surge of power, I do the same, taking a berry and cracking the thin layer of ice with my teeth.
‘Impressive,’ Fox says, as sweetness explodes on my tongue. ‘Only, if you’re going to produce some real ice, you’ll have to channel a lot more anger than that.’
The sweetness turns sour the second his words land and their implication slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs. ‘I … You …’ I spit out the berry. ‘How do you know that?’
‘What?’ Fox asks innocently. ‘About your ice making specifically or the fact that your water gifts are anchored to your emotions?’
I stare at him, utterly aghast. How can he possibly know about Melding?
It’s a secret the Rain Singers protected for thousands of years, one they took to their graves.
Only a handful of people know the truth, and I doubt that either River or Queen Hydra would ever have entrusted it to Fox.
I consider briefly whether his grandfather may have told him, but what would Caius Castellion have to gain from offering up that information?
There’s nothing about Melding in any of the stories about the Singers, nor is it mentioned in any of the history books – save for the mysterious volume that appeared to me in the Golden Library, River’s handwriting scrawled in the margin.
But I’m having a hard time believing my trainer would have just left it lying around.
At last, I find my voice. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then you’re forgetting something, Storm Weaver,’ Fox says, casting his eyes down. I follow his gaze to the talisman round his neck.
Of course.
Nobody told Fox about Melding. He didn’t hear about it in a story or read about it in a history book. Why would he? He has history at his fingertips. History belongs to him.
‘So, you used the Eye of the Past not only to unearth the secret of the Rain Singers but to discover my anchors?’
Fox considers this for a moment. ‘If I said no, would you believe me?’
I take a step closer to him, incensed. ‘Do you know how personal … how much of an invasion that is? I haven’t even told Flint about Melding.’
‘Well, perhaps you should,’ Fox muses. ‘Provided you manage to find him.’
A jet of cold water hits him square in the chest. I blink, momentarily stunned, as I watch rivulets streak down his torso, soaking his shirt. I feel it then – power. Magic stirs, as though waking up, growing stronger, just like my fury.
‘Don’t talk about my brother,’ I snap.
‘You’re the one who brought him up. And speaking of brothers, would you rather we discussed mine instead?’
Another stream of water barrels into Fox’s legs.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ he says, smiling deviously. ‘Only it seems you felt differently last night. You said his name in your sleep, you know.’
Heat blooms across my cheeks. ‘Liar.’
‘You say lots of things in your sleep, Storm Weaver.’