It feels a bit like being thrown to the wolves. Only the wolves in question are under the false impression that I am the predator.
I glance at Ren, who nods eagerly.
‘All right.’ I wiggle my fingers so that he takes my hand. ‘Come on, then.’
By the time we clamber out the trapdoor of the attic and on to the roof, the clouds are tinged pink and the sun is beginning its slow descent. Harglade Hall is a large stone fortress which sits upon a mound that was once a volcano. Up here, we can see for miles. Valburn stretches out beneath us, a city of slate and iron. The streets are cobbled and the buildings are tall, built high rather than wide. Twisting through the middle of it all is the Creek, the inland waterway which runs like a vein through every province. It glistens, as still as glass.
Flint stabs his finger into the air. ‘There!’
Snaking along the western road is a long, trailing procession. I try to make out the colour on the banners. Grey, I think. Grey for the Ventalla. It seems the Court of Wind will be the first to arrive, led by King Balen, King of the Air, the emperor’s younger brother. They say he rides a Threskan stallion, the fastest horse in the world. They say he can hear a whisper from a mile off. They say the wind listens for him, like a spy without eyes.
Far below us, the sentries are opening the gates. I dig my nails into my palms as guests begin to spill into the courtyard.
Beside me, Renly positively quivers with excitement. ‘Look!’
I follow his gaze to where a sea of green is making its way down a rocky mountain pass. The Court of Leaves are rarely seen out of the Wildlands, preferring to remain in the Grove – the towering forest they call home. I’ve heard that Queen Aspen of the Terrathian refuses to travel on horseback, but rather walks barefoot upon the earth she protects.
Flint jerks his head. ‘Right on cue.’
Crimson banners stream through the city. The Court of Flames travel in a cavalcade of solid-gold carriages pulled by red-maned, red-reined horses. Queen Yvainne of the Ignitia likes to make an entrance. Or rather, I should say,AuntYvainne. My mother’s eldest sister elevated our family beyond measure when she was Chosen for the emperor’s Crowned Council almost twenty-five years ago.
If I am a story, the Crowned Council are legend. For in Ostacre, kings and queens are not born to rule. Here, crowns are not inherited – they arewon.
Around every quarter of a century there takes place a Choosing Rite, a deadly competition in which the most gifted young Etheri battle for each of the four thrones. This recurring transfer of power is designed to preserve one thing – youth. Unlike the frail, decrepit monarchs of some of our neighbouring kingdoms, Ostacre’s rulers are forever sound of mind and able of body, for they are replaced by the next generation before they have the chance to grow old. Andwhat with most of the current Crowned Council beginning to reach middle age, there are already murmurs about how soon the next eclipse will occur, signalling the Gods’ call for new leadership. When the time comes, I know that it is my family’s wish that Flint be branded an Heir to the Ignitia throne. Aunt Yvainne has been training him since he was younger than Renly. That’s the one silver lining in all this. My lack of power, alongside the fact that my birth almost wiped out the empire, means that I will never be an Heir.
‘We’d better get going,’ Flint says, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.
I nod, but something stops me from rising to my feet.
I sense them before I see them, before Renly tugs at my dress and points. A fleet of boats with swirling blue banners is weaving its way along the Creek. With neither wind, nor sails, nor oarsmen, the vessels sail swiftly towards us on the shimmering water.
The Court of Waves.
And leading them is the largest boat of all, a gigantic beast carved from pale driftwood and curved at one end like a horn. Even from here I can make out the emblem engraved on its prow – a silver swordfish. My breath catches.
Queen Hydra of the Aquatori.
I wasn’t sure she’d come. It must have taken weeks to travel to Valburn from the Lagoon, her court at the southernmost tip of the realm. But here she is. Here they are. All of them come to see me.
Unease pools in my throat. For while I will forever be the odd one out among my flame-wielding family as a Rain Singer, I don’t belong entirely to the Aquatori either.
The Rain Singers were a group of Aquatori who possessed the power not only to manipulate water but also to summon the rain. Though they lived side by side with their Aquatori brothers and sisters for many years, their abilities could be unpredictable and often dangerous, and eventually led to a divide, with many of the Rain Singers breaking away, forming a colony of their own in the depths of the Waterlands. It’s said they grew savage, cut off from civilization, driven mad by the rain’s song.
The last known sighting of a Rain Singer was over half a century ago. They were believed to have died out, a species deemed extinct.
That is, until I was born.
The last Rain Singer – an aberration, a mystery, an ill-timed punchline to a joke that isn’t funny.
Flint claps his hands impatiently, startling me. ‘Time to go.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, gathering myself. ‘Grandmother will be looking for us.’
And so she is. She’s tapping her stick impatiently at the top of the grand staircase, barking at passing attendants.
‘Atlast!’ she exclaims. ‘Andwhat, exactly, have you been doing?’
‘Oh, just making myself look pretty, Grandmother,’ Flint tells her.
