I try to picture him as a boy of four or five, scampering through echoing hallways filled with golden-clad courtiers. ‘I can’t imagine being a child in this place,’ I say. ‘Being surrounded by so many people, all the time.’
‘And yet what I remember most about my childhood is feeling lonely,’ says Hal. ‘You know, when I was younger, my friends were actually selected for me. Seriously, they were hand-picked by my parents. Young Eyes in training, reporting back on my every move. There was very little that wasn’t chosen for me, and look what’s changed.’ He glances down at his brandmark. ‘It’s strange. To have everything you could ever want, and yet not the freedom to decide your own future.’
I think of the future I had planned for myself, all that time spent daydreaming about salt air, the steady slap of waves, the strange, mythical beauty of the Otherlands. I can’t seem to let it go, because it’s all I had to hold on to.
‘I thought I could decide, once,’ I admit. ‘When I turnedof age. Before the eclipse. But then again, I’m not the Crown Prince of Ostacre.’
‘No,’ says Hal wryly. ‘You’re the Storm Weaver.’
‘Glad we’ve straightened that out.’
He grins, then shakes his head. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? They call it the Choosing Rite, only we have no choice in the matter.’
‘Don’t you want it? All that power?’ The words are out before I fully understand the weight of them. They sit heavily in the air between us. Hal’s expression darkens, and I curse myself. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.’
‘Not at all,’ he says, pretending to adjust his cufflinks, which are engraved with the Imperial sun and eye, matching his brandmark. ‘I prefer it when you speak your mind. So few people do.’
I rub my scar self-consciously. Stupid. I was stupid to ask such a thing. Even now, sitting straight-backed and elegant, hands resting lightly on the armrests of a blue armchair that may as well be a throne, Hal is every bit the future emperor.
‘It’s … my birthright,’ he says eventually. ‘My one true purpose.’
I say nothing, sensing there’s more. I may regret the question, but I find I still want the answer.
‘But it can also be a burden,’ Hal continues. ‘My position is more fragile than you might think.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I suppose I’ve always felt … I don’t know, like a performer. Like I’m forever on stage, playing the same role over and over. Only if I were to drop the act, even for a moment, I’d jeopardize everything.’
I’m reminded of standing with him in front of that tapestry depicting the Gods, when he told me to start acting the part.
Is that what you would do?I’d asked him.
To which he’d replied,It’s what I do all the time.
I meet his gaze and hold it. There it is again, that shadow of vulnerability amid the brightness of his disposition. I’ve seen it pass across his face on more than one occasion. His father escorting Lady Kestrel into the ballroom. Fox appearing in that arena. And every time, it takes me by surprise. Because Hal is so warm, so steady, so full of light. When I’m with him, I feel lit up by it. And I’m not the only one. Everybody always wants to be near him. I suppose he’s a bit like the sun in that way. People tend to bask in his presence.
Hal gets to his feet and crosses to the window. Outside, the night sky is speckled with stars. They’re especially bright tonight, shining silver and infinite against the inky blackness.
‘Do you ever wish you were someone else?’ I whisper.
I’m not sure what makes me say it. I’m not sure I’d have had the courage to, had the question been directed at Hal’s face and not to his back.
There’s a long pause.
‘Sometimes,’ he says, without turning round. ‘Do you?’
‘Sometimes.’
I rise from my chair and join him by the window. Silence descends, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels sacred, somehow. Like some unspoken oath.
Then Hal says, ‘Though if that were the case, then we wouldn’t have our gifts. Which reminds me …’ He slips a hand into his pocket. ‘I have something for you.’
In his palm sits what appears to be a small glass box.
Heart pounding, I reach out and pick it up. ‘What is it?’
Hal’s fingers wrap round mine as he raises the box gently to my lips. ‘It’s a nightlight. Enchanted to respond to your voice alone. Go on, say something.’
‘Like what?’ I ask, then gasp in surprise as the box lights up, illuminating our faces.
‘Think of it as your very own sunbeam,’ he says softly. ‘As though I’m giving you a little piece of my gift.’
