Chapter 32
Blaze
This can’t be happening.
My whole body turns rigid, fear spiking as the Ventalla soldier gets to his feet. He looks only a couple of years older than me, his boyish face peppered with stubble. I watch his eyes rake over me, his expression alight with … what? Victory? Disbelief?
Several onlookers are watching the proceedings with interest.
I swallow hard. My cover is blown. The game is up.
And now that they’ve found me, what do they intend to do?
Capture me? Bind me with chains and drag me to the Windlands?
I could fight them. I could win, too. I know I could.
But that would only reveal my identity, and word of my whereabouts would spread like wildfire.
The soldier strides towards me, one hand resting on the hilt of his longsword.
There’s nothing else for it. Taking a shaky breath, I jut my chin to meet his gaze just as ice begins to coat my palms.
But to my surprise, the soldier merely grins. ‘Where d’you think you’re going, sweetheart? Fancy a drink?’
I’m too stunned to do much more than blink at him.
Slowly, realization dawns. He doesn’t know who I am.
Of course he doesn’t. As far as anyone knows, the Storm Weaver is hidden away at a safe house in the Firelands.
This man doesn’t recognize me because he isn’t looking for me.
Then there’s the fact I’m dressed like a lowborn Fidra girl as opposed to the future Queen of the Waterlands.
I sag with relief just as someone slips an arm round my waist.
Fox smiles pleasantly as he appears at my shoulder, tucking me possessively into his side. ‘Ready, love? Our room’s upstairs.’
I glance sidelong at him, my heart tripping. Did he just call me love?
The soldier’s face falls and he clears his throat uncomfortably. ‘Ah, I see that you have – Right. Well. Sorry to trouble you.’
Fox waves his apology away as his thumb traces lazy circles along the curve of my hip. ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he says casually. ‘What brings you to the Wildlands?’
The soldier’s response sounds scripted. ‘His Majesty King Balen, Ruler of the Windlands and rightful Emperor Regent, wishes the people of Ostacre to feel safe and protected during these uncertain times. In his wisdom, he has sent a number of his most loyal soldiers to every province across the empire in order to –’
Intimidate the commonfolk? Spy on the Etheri? Ensure his influence extends far and wide beyond his kingdom in order to seize the Imperial throne under false pretences?
‘– keep the peace,’ the soldier finishes.
It takes everything I have not to scoff.
‘It’s true, then?’ Fox says. ‘There’s to be a war?’
The soldier’s eyes are a little clouded from drink. They keep coming to rest on me, and perhaps I’m imagining it, but every time they do, I feel Fox’s arm tighten.
‘Not as long as the Castellion boy does his duty to the realm and names his uncle regent.’ The soldier raises his voice, slurring as he chants, ‘Long live King Balen!’
His comrades echo him. Several of the onlookers join in, raising their glasses.
Fox’s voice is as tense as his grip as he grits out, ‘Long live King Balen.’ Then he takes my hand and pulls me up the staircase.
I glance back to see the Ventalla soldiers calling for more ale before proceeding to entertain themselves by sending little jets of wind up the innkeeper’s skirts.
I don’t dare breathe until the door to our room is locked behind us. The space is cramped, the furniture modest: nothing but a rickety table, a small chest of drawers and, over by the far wall, its headboard carved from the bough of a tree – the bed.
My stomach swoops nervously.
Fox places his satchel carefully on the floor and Scout tumbles out, along with a few bones. He curses, rakes a hand through his hair, then crosses to the window. ‘I’m not sleeping until my uncle’s lapdogs have gone.’
I exhale slowly as I recall the soldier’s words. ‘So that’s King Balen’s plan. He’s not usurping Hal’s throne – he’s campaigning for regency.’
Fox nods. ‘A temporary position he no doubt intends to make permanent. My uncle understands that politics is a performance, and one’s success depends on how well they play their part.
He knows he could never succeed in tarnishing Golden Boy with the same brush as you and me, so his attempts to discredit Haldyn are of an entirely different nature.
He’s not turning him into the villain, but something far worse. ’
I frown. ‘What?’
‘The idiot,’ says Fox. ‘Weak, foolish, easily led, the hapless young emperor, brother to the Earth Cleaver, and by all accounts, still infatuated with the Storm Weaver.’
I grimace.
‘All in all, the three of us are hardly endearing ourselves to the people,’ Fox continues. ‘It’s little wonder support for Balen grows by the day.’
Nausea churns in my stomach.
For a while, neither of us speaks. Fox keeps watch while I roll rabbit bones across the floor for Scout to chase.
After about an hour, just as my eyes are beginning to droop, Fox jerks his head down towards the courtyard. ‘They’re leaving.’
I push myself to my feet and watch the four Ventalla soldiers mount their horses and ride away down the winding road.
‘We should get some sleep,’ says Fox.
I glance behind him at the bed. The swooping feeling returns, and I resent the heat that floods into my cheeks.
It’s stupid, really. I’ve spent weeks sleeping next to Fox.
Well, not next to, exactly. There was always a few feet of space between us, or a fire, or even branches if he’d fashioned himself a hammock from vines. But this is different.
‘We’re not sharing the bed,’ I say, a little too loudly.
Fox shrugs. ‘Fine by me.’
I blink in surprise. That was easy.
I watch as he swipes a pillow and blanket and tosses them on to the floor.
He kicks off his boots, and I slip out of the door, heading along the narrow corridor to the bathing room at the end of the hall.
After weeks in the forest, even these slightly grubby facilities feel luxurious.
Yet as I scrub myself clean, I’m surprised to find I miss the cool waters of the Creek, the scent of Fox’s pinewood soap, the trill of birdsong overhead.
I take a deep breath and glance briefly at my reflection in the cracked mirror before returning to the room, ready to collapse into bed. Only when I push open the door, I discover that it’s already occupied.
Fox is sprawled on his back, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head. Scout is curled up at his feet, fast asleep.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ I demand. ‘We agreed we weren’t going to share.’
‘And we aren’t,’ says Fox, nodding to the corner of the room where he flung the spare pillow and blanket.
I narrow my eyes. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What?’ Fox smirks. ‘It’s not me who has a problem with sharing. Did you really expect me to volunteer to sleep on the floor?’
‘Honestly? Yes,’ I snap.
‘Why? Because you’re a girl? Or because you’re the queen?’
I glare at him.
‘Goodnight, Storm Weaver,’ he says smugly, closing his eyes.
Bastard.
For a moment I just stand there, seething. Then, with as much dignity as I can muster, I turn and stomp away, resolved not to let him win.
The floor is hard and a little dusty. There’s no fireplace, and the blanket is thin and slightly moth-eaten. It’s not long before the oil lamp burns itself out. I listen out for slow, rhythmic breathing but hear nothing. Fox must be lying awake too.
The low rumble of voices drifts up from a couple of floors below.
I wonder what the innkeeper would say if she knew exactly who she’d welcomed into her establishment.
Yet in spite of the risk, and the not-so-comfortable sleeping arrangements, I find myself revelling in the anonymity of it all, in the freedom of pretending to be someone other than myself, just like I did at the masquerade ball after the second trial.
I swallow, digging my nails into my palms. I can’t think about that night without thinking about what happened in the maze.
About that kiss. What it had felt like. What he had felt like.
The heat of his skin. The muscles in his shoulders.
The pressure of his mouth on mine. He was a headrush.
He was risk and danger and honey wine. He was a bad decision, one I cannot – will not – make again.
And yet, the memories linger.
My legs round his waist. His hands in my hair.
Growling with irritation, I roll over to face the wall, the chill in the air now exacerbated by my flushed cheeks.
I wrap my arms round myself as another cool draught blows in from under the door, my whole body wracked with shivers.
All of a sudden, there’s a long-suffering sigh, followed by the twang of mattress springs. I let out a feeble squeak of protest as I’m lifted effortlessly off the floor and dumped unceremoniously on to the bed.
‘What’re you doing?’ I hiss.
‘How am I supposed to sleep with all that teeth-chattering going on?’ Fox retorts, climbing in the other side.
The bed is by no means large. He lies mere inches away from me in the darkness. I can just make out the steady rise and fall of his chest.
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. I have every intention of returning to my spot on the floor. But perhaps … perhaps I should stay and warm up, just for a minute or two.
The moon emerges from behind a cloud, briefly illuminating the room.
Fox stares up at the ceiling, turning the Eye of the Past over and over in his palm.
Moonlight glances off his cheekbones, the bow of his lips, the cobbled muscles of his chest, turning his sun-kissed skin silver. And I just lie there, looking at him.
Fox Calloway Castellion. The Earth Cleaver, whose broken heart ripped the realm in two.
The sadistic killer with Healer’s hands.
The hunter who has never slain an animal.
The Prince of Slavers who liberates the enslaved.
He truly is the perfect conundrum. Every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he obliterates the blueprint and I have to start again.
His eyelashes are so long they cast their own shadows. For a moment all I can think about is the way they brushed against my neck as he trailed soft kisses down my throat.
Fox’s eyes meet mine, and I forget how to breathe.
‘You’re thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘What are you thinking about?’
And maybe it’s because it’s easier to be honest in the dark, or maybe it’s because I’m not convinced I’ll have the courage to, but I hold his gaze like a grudge, then tell him, ‘You.’
Fox grows very still, as if that one word had the ability to turn him to stone.
‘Why do you let everyone believe all those terrible things about you?’ I whisper.
He shifts on to his side, facing me. ‘It serves a purpose,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘People see what you want them to see. Act the part and you become the part.’
‘We all have our roles to play,’ I murmur, recalling his words.
Fox smiles, and I can feel my heart beating. ‘This way, I was untouchable. Free. I could do as I pleased, go anywhere I wanted.’
‘I always envied you that,’ I admit. ‘I used to think it so desperately unfair that you were off sailing the world while I was locked up in Harglade Hall.’
He’s silent for a moment, mulling this over. Then he says, ‘I’ll show you, if you like.’
‘Show me what?’
His hand finds mine in the darkness, callused and warm. ‘The world.’
And suddenly I’m no longer lying in a rickety bed in the Wildlands, but standing at the crest of a sand dune in Veridia, gazing out at miles upon miles of endless desert.
The visions melt into one another, each more breathtaking than the last. We scale the canyons of Havar, wade across the saltmarshes of Nepta, walk through the vibrant rainforests of Serolia.
I watch a phoenix burst into flames. I see kelpies and sirens and sea dragons, moon panthers and starpools, flowers as tall as trees, and trees as tall as mountains.
It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more.
The stories of my childhood come to life, words on a page given form.
Mythic and treacherous and utterly beautiful.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake, sunlight is streaming into the room, and Fox is still holding my hand.