Chapter 22
Elva
Every evening this week Hal has called a meeting in the observatory, and much to my ongoing frustration, I’ve had very little to report. The Eyes certainly know how to be discreet.
Yet the revelation that my sister may be alive has only strengthened my resolve, and I’ve combed the palace from top to bottom trying to determine which members of the Imperial Court are loyal and which are treasonous.
The dark circles beneath my eyes could almost rival Hal’s, though not quite.
His health appears to have declined even further since his uncle announced his official bid for regency.
King Balen is playing a very clever game.
For if he were to usurp the throne, the people would rally to Hal’s cause.
But instead, by offering himself as regent, he is sending a clear message – that Hal is in need of one.
Rumours continue to spread across the empire, calling Hal hesitant, soft, weak-willed, and as yet unwed.
An alliance with Thaven is his best chance at victory, but King Merrick has made it plain that he will withhold his support and his daughter until Hal proves himself the stronger ally.
That’s part of the reason he decided to invite the Court of Flames to Cor Caval.
Hal doesn’t care much for Ember Harglade, but, flanked by two members of his Council, he is presenting a united front.
The Ignitia Court’s arrival yesterday morning threw the palace into disarray.
Matron was barking orders, arranging for chambers to be readied, food to be prepared, and bottles of wildfire wine to be fetched from the cellars.
Much to everyone’s amusement, Ingra managed to swipe a couple when Matron wasn’t looking.
Despite how occupied I’ve been lately, I haven’t failed to notice Ingra’s pattern of unexplained absences though whenever I ask her what she’s up to, she only asks me the same question, and of course, I can’t answer.
Tonight, Hal is throwing a banquet in Ember’s honour.
Elaith seems more subdued than usual as I help her dress.
Perhaps it’s all the time she’s been forced to spend with Marina.
The dislike between them is evident, though not as blatant as Marina’s contempt for me.
Zephyr, meanwhile, seems to have mellowed.
Several nights ago he winked playfully at me before flitting right in front of Elaith, causing her to jump about a foot in the air then burst into peals of tinkling laughter.
She’s not laughing now, though. Her expression is tense, and she keeps rubbing absent-mindedly at her wrists.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.
‘What?’ Her head snaps up. ‘Oh no. No, I’m fine.’ She peers at me in the mirror. ‘You look tired, Elva. Just because you’re now an Eye doesn’t mean you can’t shut yours.’
I manage a half-smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, my lady.’
She arches a flame-red eyebrow.
‘Elaith,’ I correct myself.
Her scarlet-silk dress trails behind her in a delicate train. I select a handful of ruby-studded hairpins and sweep her hair back over one shoulder, pausing as I catch sight of a series of marks adorning her fair skin. It looks as if someone’s gripped her by the throat.
She flushes, reaching up to tug her hair back into place. ‘It was a necklace. The clasp was too tight. Clumsy.’
Maybe I would’ve believed her if this brief action hadn’t exposed her wrists. They too are covered with marks – a bracelet of angry purple bruises.
‘It’s nothing, really,’ she says hastily, slipping on a pair of crimson gloves.
That’s exactly what Hal says whenever I ask what’s ailing him.
Nothing.
That word is a weapon. I’m defenceless against it. So I bite my tongue, brush a little golden powder over Elaith’s freckled cheeks, and follow her to the banquet hall.
It’s sweltering in here, the torches burning fiercely in their brackets, candles dripping wax on to the floor.
Hal is sitting in his father’s throne on top of the dais, Zephyr on his left, Ember on his right.
Blaze’s cousin is a tiny creature, almost as small as Elaith.
She’s not yet sixteen, her heavily lidded eyes, alight with malice, ill-suited to such a youthful face.
She’s wearing a gown studded with garnets, so many that they reflect the flames, making it look as if the whole dress is sparkling.
The cost of the hem alone would be enough to feed my village for a year.
Even after all this time, the wealth and splendour of Ostacre never fail to astonish me. Compared to my plain, bone-coloured tunic, Ember’s dress is outlandish. But next to the suffering and poverty of the Otherlands, it is utterly grotesque.
Snatching up a tray of glasses, I begin to make my way around the room.
The Aquatori, Terrathian and Ventalla tables are more or less empty, while almost every chair at both the Ignitia’s and Eyes’ tables is occupied.
Voices ricochet off the walls, and I screw up my face as the noise overwhelms my newfound bat-like hearing.
Gritting my teeth, I attempt to extract individual conversations from the din, tuning in to different frequencies.
Poor Flint Harglade, he lost the Choosing and his good looks in one fell swoop.
Pity the Storm Weaver didn’t choke on all that smoke at Fire Mountain.
Pass the salt, would you?
Marina appears in the doorframe, looking elegant in a silver fish-scale dress.
If it weren’t for the remarkable quality of my eyesight, I likely wouldn’t have noticed that several scales appear to be missing, or that the hoops round her wrist are tarnished with age.
I watch as she makes her way up on to the dais to embrace Ember.
Apparently, the Earth Cleaver was last seen in Alvora with the Prince of Thaven.
I heard he fled to the Eastern Isles.
I spot Elaith sitting with the Court of Flames.
A conversation is taking place around her, but she’s too absorbed in the boy at her side.
He’s roguishly handsome, stocky and muscular, with fair hair and hazel eyes.
I recognize him as one of the Ignitia Heirs – Cole, I think.
His arm is slung possessively across the back of Elaith’s chair, and he’s nursing a glass of dragon whisky.
My gaze lingers on his large hands before flickering to Elaith, to the curtain of fiery hair shielding her neck, to the pair of fine gloves concealing her wrists.
More conversations compete for space in my head.
He looks a little peaky perhaps, but then he has just lost his father.
The King of Vost has pledged allegiance. That’s something, at least.
Ventalla soldiers have been cropping up in every province, so I hear. Rallying support, handing out food to the commonfolk. King Balen’s influence is spreading by the day.
Abandoning my tray, I reach for a decanter of wine. Yet the second my skin grazes the surface, an awful sensation takes hold, so achingly cold it seems to numb my very bones. I jerk backwards, bewildered. It takes a few moments before I understand.
The decanter is made from crystal, and crystal weakens Magi.
Suddenly an unfamiliar voice cuts through my realization.
Tonight’s the night.
It belongs to an Eye sitting at the furthest end of the centre table, a tall, pasty-faced man whispering quietly in his companion’s ear. The urgency in his tone catches my attention. Grabbing a golden flagon of ale, I slowly make my way towards them.
The Pyros’ arrival is the perfect distraction.
I still don’t understand what he wants with a bunch of half-starved prisoners.
Keep your voice down.
My heart thuds violently, though I can’t make sense of what I’m hearing. Distraction from what? Which prisoners are they referring to? And who is he?
At that moment, Hal gets to his feet, and a hush falls over the room.
‘Thank you all for being here tonight,’ he begins. ‘It’s a great pleasure to have the Court of Flames back in our halls, particularly their future queen.’
The Ignitia cheer, banging their fists on the table, wine sloshing out of their glasses.
Ember smiles, her voice little-girlish. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, the pleasure is ours.’
Hal attempts to return her smile, but I watch in alarm as his face suddenly crumples in pain, his mouth twisting into a grimace, his jaw protruding sharply.
All around, courtiers are murmuring.
He blinks hard and straightens up. ‘A toast,’ he grits out through clenched teeth.
The Etheri raise their glasses.
‘To … to the future,’ says Hal. ‘Let it be –’ He breaks off again, wincing, two fingers pressed to his temple.
I swallow nervously. Several of the serfs exchange looks. Zephyr places a hand on Hal’s arm, but Hal shakes him off, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his doublet.
He looks like a ghost.
‘Let it be brighter … than the past,’ he finishes weakly, then collapses on to the table in front of him.
My piercing shriek is drowned by the uproar that ensues. I move forward instinctively, but Hal is already surrounded. Blood rushes in my ears, and I clench my fists tightly in case my shadows decide to descend, sensing my fear.
All night, I sit in the serf tunnels outside Hal’s chambers, listening as the physicians try and fail to determine what’s wrong with him.
Worry eats away at my insides. I feel colder than I did when I touched the crystal.
I must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because I’m awoken by Alator’s reedy voice on the other side of the door, informing the emperor that in the early hours of the morning, a large number of prisoners were freed from the palace dungeons.
All that was left in their place was a single black feather.