Chapter 39
Blaze
Isit by the fire, watching Fox sleep.
He’s lying on his back, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his arm outstretched towards Scout, who stands guard over him like a sentinel.
His chest is still streaked with blood, which has dried a dark rust-red.
But his wound – those awful ragged gashes – has been reduced to nothing more than a few thin scars to add to his collection.
If it weren’t for the lachrymortis, he could well be dead.
It terrified me, seeing him like that – golden skin pale, movements slow and staggering.
When he screamed, the sound of it ripped a hole in my own chest, and I just kept thinking, He’s going to die.
But then he didn’t, and all that terror was replaced by a wave of relief so strong it threatened to sweep me away.
I was drowning, and I needed something to cling to, and he –
He kissed me.
He kissed me, and I kissed him back.
It was as if the whole world crumbled into nothing. All I knew was heat, and him. His lips, his touch, his body moulding itself to mine.
Our skin and clothing are still covered with telltale smears of blood that reveal exactly where our hands have been.
I swallow hard then snatch up a wad of bandages, douse myself with water and scrub myself clean, washing away all trace of the kiss.
It’s not that I regret it. It’s that he knows now. He knows that despite all my protestations, I feel something for him.
I never meant for it to happen. I tried to keep my distance. But the more I learned about Fox, the fewer reasons I found to stay away. He’s not who I thought he was. He’s not cruel, or heartless, or wicked. He’s not exactly good, either, but then neither am I.
I wrap my arms round my knees as a tremor runs through me.
I killed someone tonight. I took a life.
I suppose I should be used to this feeling.
After all, I have thousands of deaths on my conscience.
Yet unlike the storm, this was intentional.
I knew exactly what I was doing as I plunged my dagger into the Bear’s back.
He was a brute, already half-dead, yet he was still a person – a person who, because of me, is now a corpse.
But if I’m being entirely honest, I know I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant saving Fox.
I find myself wondering whether he feels the same about me as I do about him, whether all that shameless flirting and evident protectiveness point to a deeper, more sincere attachment.
I think about the way he said my name, his rich, velvety voice laced with the same inexplicable intimacy as his gaze.
From the moment I met him, he has looked at me like he knows me.
Like I am some riddle only he has the answer to.
And perhaps … perhaps that’s true.
I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the Eye of the Past.
I still haven’t entirely forgiven Fox for scouring my memories, whether inadvertently or not.
I was furious that he eavesdropped on a private moment between his brother and me, even more so to discover that he knew of my anchors.
Melding is a secret the Rain Singers protected for centuries – one that, if not for River, could’ve died along with them.
River told me once that he had travelled to Brava to see them for himself, and amid my astonishment I recall feeling a pang of envy, followed by wistfulness.
Because the Singers are gone. I am all that is left of their legacy.
The last Rain Singer.
The words have always weighed so heavily. It is the weight of solitude, bone-deep and unquantifiable. It is the knowledge that I am an endling. An anomaly. And there is nobody left to offer any kind of explanation to the question that has plagued me all my life:
Why?
Why am I a Rain Singer? How is it possible that I, a Harglade, a daughter of two pureblood Ignitia Houses, was born with the ability to call the rain? And not only the rain but a storm – one so devastating it almost drowned the empire.
I wind the gold chain round my index finger, my mind awash with unanswered questions.
When I asked Fox why he had sought the Eye of the Past, he told me, in his infuriatingly cryptic fashion, that he was searching for answers.
Yet what of the answers I seek? I have a right to know who I am.
And if Fox knows something I don’t, I refuse to be left in the dark any longer.
I’ve spent nearly eighteen years believing myself an aberration, and maybe I am.
Maybe there is no explanation for my existence beyond some cruel twist of fate.
But then again, what if there is? What if I am a mystery I’m yet to unravel?
I look down at the Eye. That night in Fox’s chambers, I remember thinking of all the things I would use it to discover if it were mine.
And now it is – at least, until the sun comes up.
At this moment I have history at my fingertips.
The past spreads out before me like a map of memory.
This is my chance to trace my path back to the very beginning.
To find the truth, if there is truth to find.
To understand who I am, once and for all.
My skin tingles nervously.
I cast a glance at Fox, who’s still fast asleep.
I’m struck briefly by a twinge of guilt for going behind his back.
Then I shake it off. If there are no answers to be uncovered, he doesn’t have to know I went looking for them.
And if there are, I’d bet the Aquatori crown that he knew and hasn’t told me.
Because whatever I may feel for him, I still don’t trust him entirely. Not yet. So, let this be the test.
I close my hand into a fist round the Eye, then hesitate, unsure how to proceed. I think back to all the times I’ve seen Fox use it. There seems to be no clear method to replicate, no incantation to speak. Perhaps I should just … ask it?
I gnaw on my lip, feeling slightly foolish, the same as I did when asking the Golden Keep to grant me entry. But I’ll never know unless I try.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes.
I wish to know the truth about myself.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then I almost cry out as the Eye begins to pulsate in my palm, as though I were clutching a beating heart. The darkness behind my eyelids becomes light, refracting over and over until, quite suddenly, I’m looking out across a vast expanse of ocean.
A winged shadow glides over the water, and a creature lands smoothly on the beach beside me. My mouth tips open – I am staring into the bulbous eyes of a giant dragonfly. It’s roughly the size of a small horse, deep blue and breathtaking.
They say the Rain Singers used to fly upon dragonfly-back, and that they were sometimes spotted swooping through the clouds above Brava.
Sure enough, a boy with pale-white hair slides gracefully from the saddle and begins to make his way up the beach towards the forest.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a girl hiding in the treeline.
She’s beautiful, with eyes the colour of twilit sea.
Only when the boy glances in her direction, she disappears.
I wonder briefly whether she’s Ventalla, and using her gifts to flit.
But no, I can still hear her footsteps, twigs snapping as she keeps pace behind him, vanishing and reappearing every few yards.
It’s as if she’s still there, but I can’t see her – as if she’s invisible.
All of a sudden the boy whirls round, snatching at thin air. The girl lets out a squeak and materializes with his hands clamped on her shoulders.
‘Hello, Mage,’ he says, grinning.
‘Hello, Singer,’ she responds, rising up on her tiptoes to kiss him.
I stare at them. How can this be? And what has any of it got to do with me?
The visions come thick and fast, and I watch as a story unfolds. A love story. Years pass, and two become three when a child is born – a little boy who inherits his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes as well as both their gifts: Demari.
The scene shifts and the happiness fades.
The boy, now around nine or ten, sobs over his parents’ pox-ridden bodies.
He sits by their bedside night and day, yet they never wake up.
Tears drip from his face, forming a small pool on the floorboards.
I gasp as the pool transforms into a shimmering portal, and the boy falls through it with a scream.
He emerges on the outskirts of a large province. The day is blisteringly hot, the sun beating down mercilessly upon the barren stone plains stretching out for miles before us. We’re no longer in the Otherlands – we’re in Ostacre. Specifically, the Firelands.
A few yards away, a girl is perched on the edge of a steaming hot spring, moodily tossing stones into the water.
She looks about the same age as the boy, her thick hair unbound, dark eyes narrowed with irritation.
She doesn’t notice him standing there, tear-stained and bedraggled, until his foot makes a scuffing noise on the rocky ground.
She whips round, flames igniting in her palm as she demands, ‘What do you want?’
The boy shrinks back, raising his arms in surrender. ‘N-nothing.’
The girl angles her head as she considers him. Then she extinguishes the flames and folds her arms crossly. ‘You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people. It’s bad manners.’
His lower lip trembles.
Her gaze softens along with her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘My … my parents are dead,’ he whispers. ‘And I … I don’t know where I am.’
Rain begins to fall above their heads – fat droplets sizzling on hot stone.
The girl stares, wide-eyed. ‘Rain Singer,’ she breathes.
The boy looks frightened. He stumbles backwards, as though about to run away.
‘No, wait! Don’t go. I’ve never met a Singer before.’
He hesitates. I can’t be sure whether it’s rain or tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the girl adds gently.
The boy wipes his eyes, then sits down next to her.