Today, I am not the Storm Weaver – she is. Posing as me, she will stand on the stone dais with the rest of my family, leaving the real me, dressed as I am in Ignitia colours, to watch the funeral with the unsuspecting crowd of mourners below. This way, if anything were to go wrong, if there were an attempt on my life, I would be safe. Though I can’t say the same for the girl at my side.
I jog my knee impatiently as Grandmother braids our hair, hands us each a pair of gloves, then produces two veils – one cerulean, one scarlet.
She sighs reluctantly, then nods. ‘It works. No one would know unless they knew to look. My guards will be positioned around the throne room, Blaze. As for the crowd, you must blend in. Whatever happens, donotreveal yourself.’
‘I won’t.’
She lets me go and snaps her fingers at the attendant as she moves towards the door, the skirts of her thick red gown whispering across the stone floor.
‘Grandmother?’
She turns back, hands resting atop the hilt of her stick.
‘I love you,’ I tell her.
She looks at me for a long time, eyes glassy in the flickering candlelight, before limping from the room, her decoy granddaughter hurrying along in her wake.
I hold back a moment before crossing to the dressing table and picking up a tiny wooden figurine of a knight holding a sabre. It was a gift from my younger brother, Renly, who, after a series of tantrums, has been grudgingly left at Harglade Hall with the kittens.
For luck, he said.
Slipping the knight into my pocket, I take a long, deep breath then head out into the corridor, merging seamlessly with the tide of Ignitia courtiers.
Flint falls into step beside me. ‘Everything’s ready,’ he mutters, without looking in my direction. ‘After the service, find a way to get to the kitchens. I’ll meet you there.’
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
The throne room is so cavernous that the first time I saw it I was instantly reminded of the training room in the Golden Keep. Given that we are standing directly below the mouth of the volcano, there is no ceiling, only a glimmer of blue sky far above. At one end of the room sits a towering stone throne atop a dais, and in front of it, built high with wood and kindling, a gigantic pyre, upon which lies the silk-wrapped corpse of the Fire Queen.
I keep my head down, careful not to draw attention to myself as I take my place among the crimson sea of mourners, all of them having travelled from every corner of the Firelands to offer their condolences, to express their sorrow, to say goodbye.
It’s some time before House Harglade emerge. Grandmother, who cannot bring herself to look at the pyre. Aunt Hester, who appears unable to look away. Flint, with his arm round Aunt Yvainne’s wife, Seraphine. And me – or rather, my decoy, who’s seemingly so wracked with nerves that she stumbles slightly while taking her place on the dais.
Someone nearby snorts quietly. ‘Never thought I’d see the day I pitied the Fish.’
I grit my teeth just as a second voice hisses, ‘Another word and I’ll torch you.’
I bite down on a gasp, because I know that voice. It belongs to my friend Elaith. And she’s standing right behind me.
I force myself to remain still, keeping my eyes trained on the dais as the final member of the congregation decides to grace us with her presence. Fury slithers through me like cold water as Ember flounces into view, her rust-orange dress trailing behind her. It takes every scrap of willpower I possess to bow my head along with everyone else.
Flint’s expression doesn’t change, but I can almostfeelthe tension wedged between his shoulder blades. He’s seen our cousin only once since the third trial – a meeting that was monitored by Grandmother, and which consisted of a sugared, insincere apology. What happened was an accident, Ember had claimed.An accident.
‘My dear friends, my fellow mourners, I thank you for being here to celebrate the life of my beloved aunt, Queen Yvainne.’ Ember’s voice is girlish, sickly-sweet, honey stirred into milk that’s gone bad. ‘Because that is why we have come together today. To celebrate. To remember her glorious reign, and not the unspeakable circumstances that led to her death.’
It appears like a mirage before my eyes – the dagger, the golden tendrils of power, the three queens lying crumpled in pools of blood. I taste bile and swallow it down, trying to block out the murmurs spreading through the crowd. Murmurs of a name.Hisname.
The Earth Cleaver.
Queenslayer.
The last time I saw him, he was being dragged from the Choosing Chamber, hands stained red, eyes hollow. I remember the way he held my gaze, clung to it like a certainty, until the doors slammed shut between us. For I am the only one who knows what truly happened that day. That Fox is, if not entirely innocent, then not entirely guilty either.
Ever since, he has haunted me. Almost as if his absence has become a kind of presence.
‘I want you to know that I share your pain, just as I shared your love,’ says Ember, her gold-flecked eyes sweeping over the room. ‘These past few weeks have been filled with darkness. We have been wounded. But wewillheal. I promise each and every one of you that when I am crowned your queen, we will walk together into a new era, a new dawn.’
All around me, the crowd are nodding. I scowl. How does she know what to say? To make them listen to her, to make them feelsafe?
