‘Lady Harglade,’ says the emperor. ‘Can you give us your word that there is indeed nothing to fear?’
Grandmother’s eyes bore into me as she clears her throat. ‘I assure you, sire, I assure you all, that my granddaughter is no longer a threat. If she were, she would not be standing among you. The days of storms are behind us.’
I look at the floor, my stomach curling in on itself.
Prince Haldyn said that those with devastating power take pleasure in it, that they want it to be known. Perhaps if I had any left, I would too.
But Grandmother is right. The days of storms are behind us. All that’s left is me.
The emperor nods. ‘Very well.’
A fresh wave of panic surges through me and I stare helplessly at my brother. Flint smiles encouragingly, but his eyes betray him.
King Balen takes a step towards me. ‘Go ahead, little dove.’
I want to scream at him that I can’t. That I can’t do it. That I am empty. And that if he doesn’t let this go, everyone here will know it too.
My hands begin to shake. Flint reaches out to take my glass.
‘Come now,’ King Balen’s voice purrs in my ear. ‘What would you show us? If Analiese were here, what would you show her?’
My chest aches at the sound of my mother’s name. I have deflected it all night long, letting it bounce off me like a skimming stone. But here, now, at my most vulnerable, I don’t want to hear another person say it. I don’t want to hear it fall from the Ventalla King’s lips. I want to take her name and keep it for myself, so that it is mine.
There is so little left of her, after all. She never cared much for jewels or trinkets, and her scent has long since faded from her clothes. My father has her wedding ring, Grandmother a lock of her hair. I have nothing. Nothing except my memories, each one carefully stowed away inside a box in my mind I seldom allow myself to open.
Only sometimes, she spills out. And sometimes, when I let myself think about her, it drizzles. Even when I’m indoors. Even when the sun shines.
Everyone is watching me, the silence brimming with expectation. I can’t hide, so I close my eyes to escape the stares, and the moment I do, I see her.
And suddenly I’m nine years old again. I’m back in Nemeth, standing on the rocky beach below Bartell Manor. This is where my mother taught me to swim, smuggling me down to the cove whenever my father was away on a posting. It was our secret. My small taste of freedom, which only made me hunger for more.
One day, my girl, she would tell me, drawing a map in the sand.One day, you’ll sail across the Second Sea. You’ll have a hundred adventures. And then, if I’m lucky, you’ll come back and tell me all about them.
Pain prickles behind closed eyelids. It crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me.
I watch as my mother walks out into the waves, beckoning for me to follow. All around her, the water sparkles.
Then I feel it – soft, hazy droplets falling from the stone ceiling. I open my eyes, my mother’s face still glimmering faintly at the edge of my vision.
Grandmother is watching me intently. I can see her knuckles protruding from where she is gripping the hilt of her stick. Prince Haldyn gazes up at the cloud of mist, his expression slightly perplexed. Many of the guests nearest me begin to emerge from behind their arms, which were held over their heads as though to shield themselves from a torrent. Except this – this isn’t a torrent. It isn’t even rain. It’s drizzle. Feeble, futile, insignificant drizzle.
Shame floods through me as whispers flit among the crowd. Some of the Etheri hold their hands out to catchthe drizzle, or watch bemusedly as it falls into their glasses, mingling with the wine. What are they thinking? Have they figured out the truth?
Or … is it possible they think I did this on purpose? As a precaution, just to be safe? That the drizzle drifting down around them is a mere drop of the power I possess?
I mull this over. It seems plausible. Besides, why would they assume that I could no longer call the rain? It wouldn’t make sense for them to come to this conclusion. Perhaps I should plaster on another smile, try to own it? Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
The corners of my mouth are just curving upward when somebody starts clapping. Slowly. Painfully, tauntingly slowly.
‘Isthatit?’ Ember sneers, appearing at my side. ‘Seriously?’
A few sniggers join the whispers. Grandmother checks Ember with a stern glance, and my cousin falls silent, smirking. I grit my teeth, hating her.
‘Well,’ says the emperor, exchanging a look with King Balen, ‘it seems Lady Harglade was right. The Storm Weaver no longer poses a threat.’
Should I say something? Something to make it sound as though it was intentional?
It turns out I don’t have to, for Grandmother must have been thinking the same thing.
