Chapter 44
Blaze
For a long time I find myself unable to speak.
Fox tells me that the Rain Singers didn’t die out all those years ago.
Etherian soldiers were sent to slaughter them – a massacre orchestrated by none other than Caius Castellion.
His grandfather kept it quiet, of course, just as he disguised the true purpose behind the War of the Empires, and spread rumours about the Singers’ extinction.
‘He even ordered all books detailing their lives to be burned,’ Fox says.
‘I used to wonder whether it was an attempt to erase them from history,’ I murmur. ‘So that all memory of them would eventually die, too.’
‘Except while many of the Singers were killed in the attack, many survived. For decades they’ve existed in secret – depleted yet undefeated.’
‘And Scout … she’s really seen them?’ I ask hoarsely.
‘It’s a lot to take in, I know.’ Fox scratches the spot between Scout’s pointed little ears, and she licks his knee.
I exhale shakily. ‘Any more bombshells you want to drop? Can you read my mind as well as your pet fox’s? Do Flint and I have some secret Magi triplet we don’t know about?’
Fox snorts. ‘What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.’ He nudges the satchel towards me with his foot. ‘Have some food.’
I shake my head as I grip the sides of the boat in an attempt to hold it steady, increasingly aware of the churning in my stomach.
Fox lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Don’t tell me the Queen of the Waterlands suffers from seasickness.’
‘I’ve never been on a boat before,’ I grit out, glowering at him. ‘I’m … adjusting.’
‘Well, as you can see, travelling on horseback wasn’t an option.’
I manage a tiny sip from the waterskin. ‘What did you do with Cedar?’
‘I sold him,’ says Fox.
‘You what?’
‘I sold him,’ he repeats. ‘How else d’you think I managed to pay for this boat?’ He holds my horrified gaze, then lets his face dissolve into an amused smile. ‘Don’t fret. Cedar bolted the moment we were out of sight. He knows where to find me again.’
The corners of my mouth twitch. ‘I imagine his new owners weren’t very happy.’
‘I imagine you’re right,’ he tells me. ‘Especially since I also swiped their papers to get us through the checkpoints. As of now, our names are –’ he pulls two identity cards from his pocket – ‘Balthasar and Hortensia Whistlethorpe.’
I stare at him. Then, to our mutual surprise, I start to laugh. I decide I must be having some kind of nervous breakdown, yet the longer I laugh, the lighter I feel.
Fox raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re laughing. Does this mean I’m forgiven?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I splutter.
‘You wish for me to grovel, then,’ he says. ‘So be it. I throw myself upon your mercy, Your Majesty. I am yours to do with as you please.’
I clamp my mouth shut, shoulders still shaking. ‘Just shut up and row.’
The further we travel into Brava, the harder it is to imagine anyone living here. The terrain is jagged and inhospitable, hewn into deep ravines and endless rocky gorges. According to Scout, the Singers dwell by a sacred lake in the very heart of the province.
Gradually the Creek widens, and soon enough a colossal waterfall comes into view.
‘This is it,’ Fox announces.
I swallow, my anticipation coiling into a spring. ‘You’d better be right about this.’
As we approach the waterfall, I raise my hands and make a parting motion, as though drawing a pair of heavy curtains.
Moments later a narrow opening appears. Fox rows hard against the pull of the current, and the frothing surf engulfs us in a cloud of spray as we sail right through the waterfall and out the other side.
My eyes widen as I take in the scene beyond.
Not a single ripple shatters the glassy surface of the lake, which sits in the shadow of a rocky valley.
The cliff face is pockmarked with caves, yet there is no sign of those who dwell in them.
There is no sign of life at all. Everything is perfectly still and eerily quiet, as if this whole place really were a giant tomb.
When the water grows shallow, Fox jumps from the boat and heaves it up the pebbled shore, the sound echoing through the valley. Ignoring his proffered hand, I leap out beside him and glance around uncertainly.
Suddenly an arrow whizzes out of nowhere, skimming close to Fox’s neck. I gasp, and he shoves me roughly behind a boulder, shielding my body with his own.
‘Believe me now?’
My heart hammers against my chest. ‘They’re alive,’ I whisper.
Another arrow ricochets off the rock and lands in the water.
‘We have to show them we come in peace,’ says Fox. ‘We have to yield.’
Before I can utter another word he ducks into the open.
A third arrow is fired in warning. Fox unsheathes my dagger from his belt and tosses it to the ground. ‘We mean you no harm.’
Judging by the twin arrows that whistle past his head, each missing by mere inches, the Singers seem unwilling to take his word for it.
Fox’s voice fills the valley. ‘We came here to find you, not to fight you.’
‘And why is that?’
A woman steps out from a nearby cave. With her pale, lined face, long white hair and authoritative tone, I’m guessing she’s an Elder.
‘Because I have someone with me I believe you’ll want to meet.’
A boy about my age appears next, perched on a jutting rock, his bow loaded. ‘The girl cowering behind that boulder, you mean?’
Cowering?
I bristle, then step out into view before anyone else can take a shot at my pride.
More Singers emerge from the surrounding caves. They wear simple, modest garments that blend with the environment – washed-out fabric wrapped several times round their bodies and secured with a length of rope, the kind used to make fishing nets.
I let out a shrill squeak of surprise as two giant dragonflies land on either side of me, cobalt-blue and breathtaking.
Weak rays of sunlight glint in their large spherical eyes and off their membranous wings, which gleam like shards of stained glass, a mosaic of every colour I’ve ever seen and more.
I may have glimpsed such creatures once before, but that was in a vision.
This is very, very real. Their riders slide from the saddles and regard us warily.
I back away, awestruck, until I collide with Fox. He holds out an arm to steady me.
‘Perhaps they’re spies,’ calls a young woman brandishing a driftwood spear.
‘Spies for whom, exactly?’ Fox asks calmly. ‘Everyone thinks you’re dead.’
‘As you shall be soon.’
‘Trust me,’ Fox says. ‘You don’t want to kill us.’
‘Give us one good reason,’ snarls the boy with the bow.
I draw a deep breath, clench my jaw and clamp my trembling hands into fists. Then I stick out my chin and say, ‘Because … because I’m a Rain Singer.’
Murmurs reverberate through the caves.
‘Lies,’ the boy scoffs.
The Elder silences him, then peers down at me through ancient, hooded eyes, her expression unreadable. ‘If you speak true – if you really are one of us – then prove it.’
I swallow and glance sidelong at Fox before planting my feet. For a long moment nothing happens.
Then – rain.
It’s light at first – a smattering of hazy droplets wrinkling the mirror-smooth surface of the lake. The shower soon intensifies, drizzle turning to raindrops in the blink of an eye. The sky darkens ominously, clouds hanging low and pendulous.
Dozens of Singers have emerged into the open, their frosty disbelief melting away.
Rain spatters across the pebbled shore, whipping the lake into frenzied peaks. Even over the rumble of thunder I hear the stunned gasps.
I raise my arms, my every movement fluid and precise, as though I am stitching threads, weaving my storm like a tapestry.
I hear it then – music like no other, a sound of such devastating beauty that I feel an ache in my chest. It’s pure, exquisite, ethereal in a way that seems to transcend realms: a symphony of souls that slips seamlessly between life and death and what comes after.
Rain song.
The Singers all climb down the gorge or take to the skies on dragonfly-back, swooping in and out of sight among the swollen clouds before landing smoothly on the rocky shore, their riders leaping off on to rain-slicked pebbles.
The downpour becomes a torrent. Yet I am shielded from it all.
The eye of the storm.
Lightning strikes the lake in a blinding flash of silver just as I cut the final thread and reel my power in.
The storm ebbs, then ceases entirely.
Hundreds of faces are gazing at me with such deep-rooted wonder that I can almost feel it thrumming amid the heavy silence.
Then, one by one, the Singers drop to their knees.
I’m panting, staring uncomprehendingly at the scene unfolding before me.
The Elder walks forward and kisses my hand. ‘I never thought I’d live to see this day.’
‘Why are they kneeling?’ I hiss at Fox. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You shall know when she has come, for the sky will weep tears of rain upon the earth and all the faithful will hear its song,’ murmurs the Elder, as if reciting scripture.
I blink at her, bewildered. ‘When who has come?’
It’s the boy with the bow who answers me, his voice hushed, reverent. ‘Om Shikara.’
I turn rigid. I know that name. I know what it means to these people. The Rain Singers do not recognize Etherian customs. They bow before no king or queen, nor do they worship the Water Goddess, Morwenna. There is only one figure they venerate:
Om Shikara.
A myth, a deity, the one true God.
I gaze out at the sea of Singers, my chest rising and falling, half bemused, half horrified. ‘Er … no. No, I’m not … I think there’s been some mistake,’ I garble, turning to Fox. ‘Why are they calling me that?’
He rakes a hand through his damp hair. ‘It appears they think you’re a God.’
‘But I’m not a God,’ I almost wail. ‘I’m just –’
‘You’re not just anything,’ he corrects.
My voice is pleading. ‘Tell them, Fox. Tell them I’m not who they think I am.’
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ he says with a grin. ‘I’ve never been particularly devout, but if anyone could convert me – it’s you.’
Then he, too, bends the knee.
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then my eyes latch on to a figure behind him, walking slowly through the crowd – a man with dark-blue eyes and frost-white hair. He comes to a stop several paces away, one hand resting on the hilt of his silver trident.
‘Hello, Blaze,’ he says.