Blaze.
I hear my name, whispered like a caress.
Then the flowers begin to wilt and wither. There’s a splintering sound, followed by a thunderous, deafeningcrack.
When I open my eyes Elva is standing over me holding a breakfast tray, concern creasing her face. That’s when the pain hits me, in my wrist, my ribs, my tailbone, and I realize that I’m all tangled up in bedsheets. I must have been thrashing around in my sleep.
I become aware of a lingering sense of irritation that is undoubtedly linked to Fox, to our conversation last night, to his answering my questions with statements that were somehow both direct and evasive. Elaith was right. He was confusingly charming. Vexatiously pleasant. Maddeningly beautiful. I find him infuriating.
Elva helps me into a sitting position. We haven’t really spoken since that conversation on the balcony. I remember how tentative she was about accepting the food I offeredher, the way she held the bread up to her nose and inhaled it, as if hardly daring to believe it was real. It’s the memory of this that prompts me to invite her to join me for breakfast again.
She perches nervously on the end of my bed as though it might burst into flames. I spoon some oats into my mouth with my good arm then push the tray towards her.
‘How old were you when you were … when you came here?’ I can’t bring myself to saytakenor any other word that implies what we both know to be true.
When she speaks, her voice is little more than a whisper. ‘Ten.’
Ten.My heart clenches at the thought.
It’s been more than half a century since the War of the Empires, since Ostacre triumphed over the Otherlands and defeated the Magi. Grandmother doesn’t like to talk about it. She says some things are best left in the past. Only it’s not in the past, not really. For Elva, and those like her, it’s ongoing. Endless. I wonder just how many children have been enslaved over the years, made prisoners of a war they never started.
It was a brutal war, the kind that leaves a stain on the pages of a history book.
When the Maker and the First Etheri claimed Ostacre for their own, they lived in peace with the Magi, who were once nomadic and could be found scattered across the world. Yet over time, tensions began to grow, with the Magi’s powers being deemed unnatural, even wicked, and so the Magi, tired of not having a land of their own, retreated to a distant group of islands, which were henceforth known as the Otherlands.
Centuries later, the rulers of the Otherlands came together, and seven isles united to reclaim Ostacre from the Etheri. They sent their battleships across the Second Sea, and the War of the Empires began. It lasted a year and a day, but ultimately Ostacre triumphed, with the four High Generals leading their armies to victory.
Then the unexplainable happened. When the Magi lost the war, they lost their magic.
Some say their Gods abandoned them, that it was punishment for their defeat. Others believe that fighting the Etheri over such a long stretch of time weakened them until their powers were entirely depleted.
It’s a mystery. A question that has gone unanswered for over fifty years.
I’ve read about the Magi more times than I can count. About those who could get you to spill your darkest thoughts using their voice alone. Those who could plant visions in your head that ate away at your subconscious until you went mad. Those with the power to manipulate the body and the senses, who could blind and maim and curdle blood. Those who shared a deep, telepathic connection with animals, or could take the form of anyone or anything they chose. Even those with the power to communicate with the dead.
But without their magic, the Magi were defenceless and the Otherlands fell. Their people, once deadly and dangerous, are now nothing but Fidra, forced to pay for the crimes of their forebears. Though not with jewels or oil or spices. No, the Otherlands provide something far more valuable. Slaves. Or as we call them – serfs.
Being from Obsidia, the Land of Eternal Night, Elva’s ancestors were once Shadow Magi. They wielded darkness, ruled over the dusk.
She’s sipping tea, not looking at me.
I clear my throat. ‘What was it like?’ I ask quietly. ‘Obsidia?’
Elva goes still, then carefully places her cup back down on the tray. I’m convinced I’ve thrown away what little of her trust I’ve managed to earn, but then she finally whispers, ‘Beautiful.’ Then she shuts her amber eyes tight.
I fall silent, thinking about Elva being ripped away from her family, a child shackled and put on board a ship bound for the land that conquered her own, sailing towards a future without freedom, emptier than the Rift, darker than the midnight skies of her homeland.
Tonight the emperor is throwing a ball in his brother’s honour, so in true Ventalla fashion, the ballroom is filled with feathers. They’re everywhere – adorning dresses and doublets, handed out as favours, floating around the ceiling, and fluttering around the dance floor, swept up on the breeze created by the twirling ring of dancers. I myself sport a large peacock feather in my hair. Spinner gave Flint one too, but he’s mostly just been using it to tickle her. Sheen stands a little off to the side, watching them with a distinctly unamused expression.
Most of the Crowned Council are dancing. The emperor dances with Aunt Yvainne, though he can’t seem to take his eyes off Kestrel Calloway, who looks radiant in a feathered gown complete with a pair of falcon wings. I spot Ember too, wearing her usual shade of burnt orange, spinningsmugly around the floor with Hal. I experience a brief stab of jealousy just as a sudden hush falls over the room.
I turn my head to see the Earth Cleaver striding through the doors. He removes a hand from his pocket and holds it out expectantly, and a serf rushes over to him with a tray. Fox takes a single sip of wine, then tosses the glass over his shoulder. I flinch as it shatters, shards skittering across the golden floor. The courtiers nearest to him have backed away, some of them even bowing their heads as he passes by. His green eyes come to rest on me, glittering with amusement, and I hear an echo of his words from the night before.
Been smashing many glasses lately, Storm Weaver?
Heat prickles up my neck. Why is he taunting me? And why must he call me that, as though it were a badge of honour?
He himself has many names. Maybe even more than me. But ever since my conversation with Elva this morning, there’s one I can’t seem to ignore.
