Skyfire (10 page)

Lukas trails off, but my mind fills in the rest of his sentence.
Just in case we need to flee
.

‘Didn't find what I was looking for,' he says. ‘But I found something you have to see.'

We reach an outcrop of rocky clay. A dark hole gapes at its base: a tunnel winding down into the darkness. I hesitate, suddenly nervous. My memory leaps back to the last tunnel I entered, down into the catacombs. I think of broken stone and wild water, tunnels flooding in the dark …

But this is different, isn't it? We're not descending deep underground. It's just a flat stroll along a tunnel, and Lukas seems to know what lies at the other end. So I take a deep breath, fight down my nerves, and follow him into the dark.

The tunnel is cold, its walls spiked by frost. The lantern light bobs up and down, glinting on the walls. I pull my Víndurnic cloak tighter, my fingers a little numb, and warmth bursts like bubbles on my skin.

‘Watch your head,' Lukas says.

The path curves to the right, arching up and around as though to re-emerge at a higher point of the mountainside.

Finally, moonlight. Our tunnel opens to stars and clouds, swirled like paint upon the black. Lukas leads me forward, his step a little more eager now. Ahead, the landscape slopes gently, and I realise
we're approaching the edge of a vast cliff. It stretches before us, wide and long and stark. Beyond, all is darkness.

We move towards the centre of the clifftop, into open air and the tingle of a breeze. Lukas steers me into position, a strange smile on his lips. ‘Just wait,' he says. ‘It happens every few minutes.'

‘What does?'

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

Lights.

They wink on slowly, one at a time. Like fireflies in a cage at the market, or lanterns on a string. But these lights don't fly or float. They shine up from the earth around us, their tops protruding slightly above the dirt. It's as though someone has planted a field of alchemy lanterns – not corn, or apples, but
lanterns
– for a harvest in the dark.

Lukas slips his hand into mine. His fingers are soft and warm, knotted between my own. I feel every knuckle. Every clench. I want to clutch his hand so tightly that the darkness grows around me, flowing into the ripple of my own magic.

‘They're firestones,' Lukas says. ‘Second-hand firestones, after Lord Farran's done using them for … whatever he uses them for. Once he's done with them, he gives them back to the villagers to bury on the mountainside.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I asked Bastian about it. He caught me sneaking back through the tunnel – he wasn't joking about the village watchmen being on alert.' Lukas gives a rueful smile. ‘Anyway, I asked him about this place and he said it was part of Lord Farran's experimentation.'

I frown, bewildered. ‘What for?'

Lukas shakes his head. ‘I don't think people here question Farran's orders. Not openly, at least.' He pauses. ‘But I did learn one thing.'

‘What?'

‘Once a year,' Lukas says, ‘every adult with a low proclivity has to gather on the plains. Bastian called it a “practice drill” – in case they're ever called to fight in Víndurn's defence. And they bring all the firestones buried near their villages.'

I stare across the field of mysterious lights. Hundreds of firestones, buried in the earth. Gathered only once a year, when the nation practises gathering for war … and then, presumably, the stones are reburied on the mountainside.

I remember what Maisy said when she first told us the legend of the firestones. The stones draw power from the earth itself, and must be stored in the earth to keep their power fresh.

‘So, the Víndurnics have army drills,' I say. ‘Ready to be called into battle. And back home, King Morrigan's obsessed with destroying this land.'
I release a weary breath. ‘Both sides have armies. Both sides are ready to fight. Did we
ever
have a hope of stopping this war?'

For a long while, there is silence. A breeze gusts across the cliff top. I part my lips to taste it, letting the Night roll across my tongue.

I could just step out into the dark, through the lights, and start walking. Not to anywhere in particular. Not to run to a distant land. Not to find a bin to scavenge for food, or a Valley to lead me far from home. Just … walk. No purpose. No fear.

Just the lights.

Just Lukas.

I sense his movement beside me and I turn to face him. My body curves slowly towards his: the flicker of a candle in the dark. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and suddenly we're sharing a breath.

Our lips brush into a kiss. Our noses touch. I feel the heat of his face beside mine: his cheek pressed softly against my own. Eyes closed, I breathe in the scent of his neck, his hair. There's a faint sweetness around his mouth: the scent of roseberries from dinner.

‘Danika,' he whispers. ‘I …'

He presses his face closer to my own. We stand there for a moment, our cheeks pressed together. Sharing each other's warmth.

I open my eyes and I see the lights wink out. They
flicker and dim, a slow fade into black. I suddenly think of what Lukas told me when I first discovered my proclivity was Night. ‘
You can't have light without the dark. And you can't have stars without the night.
'

Then I remember where those words came from. I break away, my stomach cold and nauseous with guilt. I can see his face now, hurt and confused, but I feel so sick with myself that I can barely stand to look at him.

‘Danika, what's wrong?' Lukas says.

‘Nothing.'

The word comes out as a whisper. My brain stings with thoughts of Silver, Lukas's grandmother. Silver, whose proclivity was Night – just like me. Silver, who said those words to Lukas when he was a child. Silver, whose death I'm still keeping a secret.

How can I even
think
of kissing Lukas when I'm withholding such a secret? I know the truth of his grandmother's death, and I'm too cowardly to admit it. What am I going to do – kiss him, run away with him, marry him? Spend my entire life with a guilty secret trapped behind my teeth?

‘What's wrong?' Lukas repeats.

I look at him. I don't just glance his way, or check his expression. I really
look
at him. There is so much of Silver in him: not just the eyes, but the shape of his nose, the arch of his forehead.

I have to tell him the truth.

‘Your grandmother,' I say. ‘The one who said that line about the stars. She died when you were little, right?'

Lukas nods slowly. ‘She was a good person. She was more than just a Morrigan.'

If anything, this makes the sickness in my stomach deepen. I have a sudden flash of Annalísa in our cabin, her face twisted in rage.
‘You let her die!'
Is that how Lukas will see me – the girl who let his grandmother die?

‘She didn't die, Lukas,' I say. ‘Not when you think she did. She faked her own death and ran away to join the smugglers.'

Lukas stares at me.

‘We met her in the borderlands,' I say. ‘She looked after us for a while. She … she was the one who gave her proclivity to this charm.'

I hold up my mother's bracelet for him to see. The star charm glints in the light of our lantern. This charm saved our lives, conjuring light and heat in the depths of the catacombs. Alchemy charms are enchanted with a spark of a dying soul – a twist of the magic that forms their proclivity. And this one …

‘I couldn't save her,' I say. ‘She died right in front of me.'

Lukas just stands there. Silent. He stares straight
into the breeze, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide open. Any moment now, he'll turn on me. Tell me that he hates me, he never wants to see me again, or –

‘Thank you,' he says.

I stare at him. Has he heard me correctly?

Lukas takes a slow breath. ‘For trying to save her. I'm glad you were with her, Danika. I'm glad she didn't die alone.' Then he laughs. ‘Faked her own death? I should've known. She was too smart to let my father have his way.' He hesitates. ‘Do you think she had a good life? With the smugglers?'

I nod slowly. I'm not sure if I'm capable of forming words. Lukas's forgiveness is too much to take in, let alone his being
glad
at the news. Glad to hear that his grandmother lied to him, let him think she was dead.

But on the other hand, she outwitted King Morrigan. She escaped him forever. She paved the course that Lukas is now treading: a course away from their family's brutality.

‘She was happy.' My voice is hoarse, so I wet my lips and try again. ‘She was happy, Lukas. She had her own boat, and she made a good living. She was free.'

Lukas's fingers tighten around my own. ‘I'm glad.'

As we watch, the lights flicker on again. They
light up one by one: stars awakening from their slumber.
You can't have stars without the night
.

I rest my head on Lukas's shoulder. Oddly, I feel even closer to him than I did when we were kissing. It's a different sort of energy between us now – not that urgent, physical energy, but something else. Something deeper.

Trust.

It's been a long time since I felt it so deeply. Maybe not since my family burned. At this moment, I feel I could tell Lukas anything and he wouldn't reject me. He wouldn't howl or scream or spit blame like Annalísa. He'd just listen, and nod, and accept.

And in a land where trust is as precious as firestones, perhaps that's enough to see us through.

Bastian wakes us when the sun is still rising.

‘If you want to come,' he says, ‘we'd best get started. It's a damn long walk to the spires.'

I'm still a little groggy as we clamber down to the forest floor. Teddy mutters something hopeful about breakfast, but Bastian refuses to waste time in the kitchen. I scan the trees, left and right. No sign of movement.

No sign of the hunter.

Despite myself, I begin to relax. It's been over a day since we saw the hunter. If he were lurking nearby, surely he would have made a move by now? Either he's scampered back to Taladia, or he died at midnight. The most dangerous thing on this mountain is probably Teddy's rumbling stomach.

Even so, I'm relieved when Bastian leads us to a well-worn path up the mountainside. It's nothing like the Central Mountains in Taladia, where we stumbled blindly through bracken and snow.

‘The market will be busy, I'd say,' Bastian says. ‘The Ball of No Faces is tomorrow night, so folks'll be in a hurry to buy their masks.'

‘The Ball of No Faces?' I say. The name sounds familiar.

Bastian nods. ‘Biggest party in Víndurn, lass. Once a year, Lord Farran holds a great masked ball; all the folks with high proclivities are invited. They wear masks to hide their eyes, and veils to mask their proclivities.' He shakes his head. ‘Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me, but it's a big night for politics.'

‘Why?' Teddy says. ‘Just cause a bunch of richies are prancing about and scoffing cucumber sandwiches?'

‘Because Lord Farran himself attends,' Bastian says. ‘It's his only guaranteed public appearance each year, see? He makes a grand speech an hour before midnight, setting out his agenda for the year ahead.'

‘How do you know?' I say.

Bastian hesitates. ‘A few folks in our clan were born to parents with ethereal powers, see, so they attended the ball themselves each year. Until their own proclivities developed, at least.'

I stare at him, taken aback. Until now, my only
concern about Víndurn's segregation was its effect on my crew. But how must it feel for a Víndurnic teenager to be banished from home and family? After a childhood of luxury in the spires, to be sent down into the cold of a village, to scavenge for firestones and peel potatoes …

‘But surely people must protest?' Clementine says. ‘I mean, if families are forced to separate because of –'

Bastian cuts her off. ‘We respect Lord Farran, and the wisdom and justice of his laws.'

‘But –'

‘If a family's desperate enough, they can choose to live together in the lower villages. To make the same choice you made, lass,' he says, looking at me. ‘Lord Farran's a hero, see? Not a tyrant. Not like your Morrigans.'

His expression tightens. ‘But such a choice is almost unheard of. It would be considered blasphemy, an insult to the wisdom of Lord Farran. If someone made that choice, all right-thinking Víndurnics would shun them. No patriot could betray his nation's values in such a way.'

Bastian hesitates, as though he's fighting the urge to say something else. I eye the others, frowning. Most Víndurnics seem to genuinely adore their ruler, and to view him as the saviour of their nation. But I don't think Bastian is one of them. I think he
has doubts – and that those doubts fuel the fervour of his outward loyalty. There's a fine line between respect and fear.

‘Come on,' he says. ‘The sooner we sell this firestone, the sooner we'll return to the village.'

The air is crisp and biting this morning, so I pinch my nose shut to keep out the sting. Even so, my eyes start to water.

I glance at Maisy, who never copes well in the cold. Sure enough, she's wrapped her fingers deep inside her sleeves. I almost suggest she should go back to the cabins, but the resolve in her eyes makes me bite my tongue. She might look like a flighty little bird, but Maisy Pembroke knows all about determination. If she wants to see this city, she'll damn well make it there.

‘How long till we get there?' Teddy says.

Bastian shrugs. ‘An hour, I'd say.'

‘Great.' Teddy gives a satisfied smile and pats his stomach, as though he's about to enjoy a long-awaited meal. ‘Way too long since I've seen a decent city. I mean, the countryside's nice and scenic and all that, but there's not enough gambling or coin purses for my liking.'

Bastian stops walking. When he speaks, his voice is lower than ever. ‘Don't even think about it. You won't be an equal in the city, son. Your proclivity is low. Don't ever forget it.'

‘Oh, come off it,' Teddy says. ‘There's gotta be some poor people there, some criminals …'

Bastian shakes his head. ‘We respect the laws of the Eternal Lord.'

Teddy's features settle into a scowl, but he doesn't argue. He's probably plotting to sneak off anyway and find an illicit gambling match. Knowing Teddy Nort, he'd manage it too – and fleece half the locals while he's at it.

‘You call him the Eternal Lord,' I say, trying to change the subject. ‘Lord Farran, I mean. And Hinrik called him “eternal” too. What do you mean?'

Bastian pauses. ‘Lord Farran's … different.'

‘Different how?'

‘His powers go beyond those of mere mortals. He has strong magic. Wondrous magic. Magic the rest of us can't hope to grasp.'

‘Hang on,' Teddy says. ‘Beyond mortals? You mean he's
not
mortal? He can't be killed?'

‘Of course he can be killed, son,' Bastian says. ‘He'll die from a blade in the throat as quick as any other man. But he doesn't age, see? He is eternal.'

I stop walking. ‘Wait,
what
?'

‘He doesn't age,' Bastian says again. ‘He's ruled us for three hundred years.'

‘Um …'

‘The bloke's gotta be tricking you,' Teddy says,
waving his hand. ‘I mean, it's a con. I bet it's father and son, passing down this ruse over the generations or something.'

Bastian shakes his head. ‘It's the same man. There can be no doubt. His proclivity's the rarest of them all, and he's kept that proclivity for three centuries.' He looks at us, his eyes hard. ‘Never speak doubt of Lord Farran's word in front of others. That's blasphemy.'

‘Is he like the Timekeeper, then?' I say. ‘You know, stealing time from other people and –'

‘No!' Bastian snaps. ‘The Timekeeper was evil, corrupted. She used her proclivity to destroy this land. Lord Farran is a hero, see? His proclivity is
not
temporal. He uses alchemy to extend his life, and his great experiments will save us all.'

Teddy lets out an impressed whistle. ‘This has gotta be the longest con ever. I mean, I reckoned I was pretty good when I pretended to be that richie socialite's butler for a week to nick her rubies. Three centuries is a serious effort.'

Bastian grabs Teddy's arms, his expression furious. ‘Do not doubt!'

Teddy's eyes widen a little, as though the older man's grip is painfully tight. ‘All right, all right! No doubting. Got it.'

‘The magic of Lord Farran is beyond imagining,' Bastian says. ‘He was the first to divide our society into low and high proclivities. He protects our
people from our enemies. He rules Víndurn with hundreds of years of experience, and our people will not tolerate words of treason. Got it?'

‘Yeah, all right! The bloke's three centuries old. Whatever you say.'

Bastian releases Teddy's arm. Teddy stumbles back, swearing a little under his breath, and massages his wrist. I wince at the fingermarks upon his skin; he'll have a serious bruise tomorrow.

We wait for Bastian to head off again, taking the lead up the mountainside. As soon as he's out of earshot, Teddy turns to the rest of us with a scowl. ‘Blimey,' he says. ‘I thought we left Taladia to get away from crazy tyrants.'

No one responds.

The spires rise from the peak of the mountain: high and arching, glimmering like glass.

I've never seen buildings like these before. Compared to the grime of Rourton – with its dark streets and stink of rubbish – this city seems something from a song. As the sun shines off their skins, the spires look almost like lanterns planted upright in a bed of frost.

‘Wow,' Teddy says. For once, he doesn't add a punchline.

The path melts from scrub onto cobblestone streets. This city is reserved for the highest echelons of Víndurnic society: those with ethereal proclivities. It has to be perfect. No mud and bracken for those Lord Farran deems worthy.

From a distance, the spires looked like frosted glass. Up close, though, I realise they're built from strangely glinting stone. To complete their grandeur, each tower rests upon a circlet of tall stone columns. I suppose even city-dwellers fear the earth at midnight.

‘The spires were built a thousand years ago,' Bastian says. ‘From the stone of Skyfire Peak.'

‘That's the second mountain, right?' I say. ‘The one reserved for Lord Farran's experiments?'

Bastian nods. ‘A geyser runs up through its core. It erupts every midnight – not with water and steam, but with alchemical juices. Folks say that mountain is imbued with magic.'

I think of the fire that erupts from the peak of the mountain and lights up the sky at night. The idea that it begins in the depths of the earth, in a whorl of alchemy …

‘And the stone of the mountain is flecked with silver too, see?' Bastian says. ‘That's what they used to build this city. It gives the spires their shine.'

We pass a group of locals and I drop my face respectfully to avoid their gaze. I don't even notice I'm doing it until it's too late: this symbol of
inferiority, of obedience. Perhaps it's their ethereal cloaks – grey, light blue and rippling black. The haughtiness in their upturned noses, or the jewels that dangle from the women's earlobes.

Or perhaps it's the way they look at us. Like we're scum, or dirt, or fleas beneath their shoes. The same look richies would give me if I ever dared trespass in the wealthy parts of Rourton.

‘Don't like us much, huh?' says Teddy. He winks at a pretty girl in a pale blue cloak. She gives a little huff of disgust and hurries away, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure he isn't following her. ‘Haven't got a response that bad since the grocer's niece chucked a cabbage at my head.'

‘She thinks you're dirty, son,' says Bastian.

‘Fair enough,' Teddy says. ‘All that clambering up a mountainside – really gets some grime under your fingernails.'

‘I meant your proclivity,' Bastian says. ‘To connect with beasts is filthy and low.'

Teddy shrugs. ‘Her loss.'

Bastian frowns. ‘If you hope to stay here, you'd better start observing our ways. You must show respect to those with ethereal proclivities.'

Teddy opens his mouth to retort, so I cut in before he can get himself into any more trouble. ‘You said something about silver in the spires?'

Bastian pauses, taken aback by the change in topic.
Then his expression clears and he nods, looking as relieved as I am to steer the conversation away from Teddy's grimy fingernails.

‘That's right,' he says. ‘Flecks of silver, all through the stone. Imbued with alchemy when the towers were built, see?'

‘But …' Maisy hesitates, looking nervous, when we all turn to stare at her. Even now, after all we've been through, she doesn't cope well with the limelight.

‘But what?' Clementine prompts.

‘But that would have been during the Dark Ages!' Maisy says. ‘People had lost all knowledge of alchemy – it only started developing again a few centuries ago, during the Alchemical Renaissance …'

Bastian shakes his head. ‘Perhaps that's true in Taladia, lass, but here in Víndurn, we never lost our knowledge. Dying souls have been casting their powers into silver since our records began.'

I peer back up at the towers. They look so unlikely, like something from a children's story. If someone imbued their stones with flecks of silver, like a thousand tiny alchemy charms …

‘The silver holds the power of the Wind, see?' Bastian says. ‘And the Air, and the Dark. That alchemy lets the towers survive up here. It lets them bend with the wind and the earthquakes, instead of shattering under their force.'

Lukas nods slowly. ‘That's why you worship people with ethereal proclivities. That's why they live in the towers.'

We pass beneath the shadow of another spire. Shining above us, it resembles a blade of pale green grass. As we pass, I risk brushing my finger across a stone column at the tower's base. I can't feel anything special, but it's not my proclivity that's imbued into the stone. If these towers held Night, instead of Air or Shadow, perhaps I'd feel a spark of alchemy on my fingertips.

‘That's right, son,' Bastian says. ‘But here's the thing. No spell can last forever – not without something to renew it. We're just lucky Lord Farran taught us how to keep the city standing.'