Fox pushes off from a boulder and sidles over to me. I straighten up, regarding him warily, as if half expecting him to toss me over his shoulder and carry me away from the water’s edge. He looks tempted. Instead, he reaches out and runs a finger along the ridge of my jawline. I flush, mindful of the dozen or so Singers scattered across the rocky shore – sharpening weapons, washing clothes, and stealing less-than-subtle glances in our direction.
Fox smirks. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t already had an arrow through the back for the impertinence of laying a hand on their beloved Om Shikara.’
He speaks in jest, but there’s truth to his words. The Singers are adoring, if a little too reverential, and fiercely protective. For the first time in my life I feel as though I belong. When I’m not searching for the Eye, I’m learning the histories from Harana, or taking long walks across the mountains with River. Fox and I have barely had a moment alone since that night in the cliffside pool. My heart thuds at the memory, then again as he impulsively trails his finger over my throat, along my collarbone and down the side of my arm, calling to mind the ghost of other, more toe-curling touches, each as gentle as it was explorative. His hands were clever, mine a little clumsy, though he didn’t seem to notice.
I look up at him, his face framed by the veil of clouds hovering overhead. There’s a glint in his green eyes that tells me he’s remembering too.
My breath hitches as he shamelessly tugs me closer.
I arch a brow. ‘Are you finished?’
‘Not quite,’ he says. At that moment the vine curling slowly round his forearm shoots out from beneath his sleeve and wraps itself round my ankle.
I yelp indignantly and a few of the Singers jump to their feet in alarm.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ I demand, tugging at the thick green rope binding us together.
‘I’m making sure you don’t drown. Consider it a pre-emptive rescue measure.’
I scowl darkly and reach for Silverclaw to cut myself free, but Fox has already swiped it from my belt.
‘Unbelievable,’ I mutter.
He grins as I stalk back to my rock pile, the vine lengthening with every step. It’s perfectly ridiculous, of course. He’s being unnecessarily overprotective. I purse my lips disapprovingly in an effort not to smile while I toss stones into the boat.
‘Want me to teach you how to row?’ Fox asks as I push it out into the shallows and clamber inside.
‘No, thank you,’ I say waspishly.
Honestly, how hard can it be?
The answer isvery.
I zigzag haphazardly through the water, almost dropping an oar.
‘Don’t think about me too much while you’re in there,’Fox calls from the shore. ‘You don’t want to be responsible for boiling all the fish.’
‘Pissoff,’ I yell back, which only makes him laugh.
The vine extends between us, curled securely round his wrist.
It takes an age, but eventually I reach what I judge to be the deepest point of the lake, midway between the rocky beach and the waterfall.
I rest my oars across the bench and pick up two large stones.
If I found the Eye at the bottom of the training pool, then why shouldn’t I find it again at the bottom of a holy lake? It’s worth a try, and at this point I’ll try anything. I think of Senna, cursing the Castellion line as an act of vengeance. I think of Hal, weakening by the day just like his father before him, condemned to die for a crime he did not commit.
The boat rocks as I get unsteadily to my feet. I glance back to where Fox is teaching a little girl how to skim. He’s already lost one sibling. I won’t let him lose another.
I steel myself, then jump, silver bubbles streaming from my nose as I sink fast towards the lakebed, which is carpeted in a fine layer of silt and festooned with tall, translucent plants billowing eerily in the sway of a phantom current.
Squinting blearily, I turn my head from side to side, searching for a glimmer of gold, a sharp tug on an invisible thread, anything to indicate that the Eye is here. I crawl on my belly, feeling my way through the underwater wilderness until my lungs scream for air.
Frustrated, I release my grip on the stones and swim back towards the surface, grasping the side of the boat and grabbing two more from the pile.
As I sink downward a second time, my mind paints a picture of the future I cannot let come to pass – a future in which Hal will be dead, the Maker’s gift along with him, leaving King Balen to claim the Imperial throne, flanked by his army of Demari. How many are able to wield the gifts of both Etheri and Magi, like River, or are possessed of one gift that’s no match for their pureblooded counterparts, like me? How many agreed – or were coerced – to fight for the Ventalla King? And how long before he makes his next move?
Suddenly, without warning, the lake seems to quiver.
