Real? Not real? I can’t be sure, but I chase it anyway, scared it might vanish.
Renly is gone, but the light remains, growing larger as I approach, filtering through a crumbling gap in the rock.
It takes an age, but I reach it. The hole is big enough to crawl through, and I pull myself out into bright, blinding daylight.
Behind me, the Ridge towers into the sky. Before me, nothing but trees. I give my head a shake as I take in the lush green landscape of the Wildlands.
Somehow I manage to stand, but each step feels precarious, like my legs are about to snap in two. Every breath is harsh and guttural, echoing through the ringing in my ears. Grey smoke permeates the edges of my vision.Boughs leap out at me, boulders grow and shrink before my eyes. With my senses failing me, I stumble dazedly through the forest, catching myself on branches, barely registering the pain.
That’s when my feet twist in a mass of sprawling roots and I go tumbling to the ground. My reflexes are so sluggish that I don’t even throw out my arms to try to break my fall. But it turns out I don’t need to, because something catches me, wrapping itself firmly round my waist like a length of rope – a thick vine that is replaced moments later by a pair of arms. Strong and golden, slightly weather-beaten.
Relief. Disbelief. A spark of indignation. I feel it all as I tilt my chin to stare up at the pair of spring-green eyes looking into mine.
A small smile curves the Earth Cleaver’s lips. ‘We have to stop meeting like this.’
9
Elva
Of all the rooms in the Golden Palace, the Council Chamber is surprisingly modest, consisting of a round table, five thrones and nothing much else – apart from the portraits.
Lining the walls are hundreds of faces, all belonging to generations of Crowned Councils, looking down upon their successors. I spot Queen Yvainne’s portrait nestled between Queen Hydra and Queen Aspen. They must’ve had them painted near the beginning of their rule, as all three of them are young and fresh-faced, barely older than me. King Balen is there too, lip curled amusedly. Hanging beside him is Emperor Alvar. Hal’s father is almost unrecognizable in youth, so different from the man I remember. I often wondered what caused him to look so haggard all the time. He was the most powerful Etheri in the realm. He lived in a palace hewn from solid gold, and yet somehow he managed to look almost as weary and malnourished as the serfs arriving in chains into his ports each year.
A pair of eyes seems to follow me around the room as I set out a selection of wine glasses and several rolls of parchment. Raven black, beady and cunning.
Caius Castellion.
It’s because of Hal’s grandfather that the Otherlands fell, my people were defeated, and I am a serf, forced to serve the sons and daughters of those who tore my world apart. A cold shiver runs through me, while a thin tendril of shadow curls from my fingertip. I’m grateful that he’s no longer in the palace, having disappeared without a word after the Binding Ceremony. For what would Caius Castellion do to me if he discovered my secret? Bind me in crystal chains? Burn me alive? Cut me up into little pieces and cast me into the Rift? And what could I do to defend myself? In all these weeks, I have been so desperately focused on suppressing my shadows that I don’t know how to control them, let aloneusethem. It would be like trying to tame a wild animal with my bare hands.
At that moment the doors to the Council Chamber burst open and I’m almost mown down by a gaggle of Imperial advisers. Hal stands framed in the doorway, his expression tight with worry, his fine gold doublet missing a button from where he’s picked incessantly at the thread. His eyes find mine and soften. I could swear that the tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. My heart leaps, and I make myself look away, bowing my head as he passes. Hal hesitates only for a moment before seating himself in the largest of the five golden thrones, perched like a guest, hands folded. His advisers cluster round, clucking like a brood of angry hens. They’re not talking to Hal, but ratherathim, their voices loud enough to rattle the portraits on the walls.
I edge round them and lean over to pour Hal a glass of wine – a large one.
Only when I hand it to him does he seem to forget where he is, because he looks directly into my face and says, ‘Thank you.’
I freeze, my fingers still wrapped round the glass. The chatter peters out.
Hal blinks, coughs slightly, then recovers himself. ‘Thank you, all of you, for your reports. But perhaps it might be best if we discussed matters one at a time?’
The room relaxes and I scuttle back to my corner.
Alator, the court official, clears his throat. He’s secured himself a spot standing at Hal’s right shoulder, his chest puffed out self-importantly. I remember Blaze mentioning something about his teeth. Sure enough, when he opens his mouth, I see them – two rows of gleaming gold.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he says. ‘Several of the Eyes have informed me of the support gathering for King Balen, and not just in the Windlands as we had anticipated, but across Ostacre, and even beyond to our neighbouring kingdoms.’
Hal slowly places his hands on the arms of his throne.
‘I believe,’ Alator continues, ‘that it would be in our best interests to arrange a parley with your uncle. Perhaps then we might come to some agreement.’
Hal scrubs his palm across his face. ‘Thisagain? How many times must I tell you? My uncle will not consent to a parley. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’ I watch as Hal reaches into his doublet and produces a long, sleek feather,which he slams on to the table in front of him. ‘He sent me this. It was waiting in my rooms.’
My stomach jolts uncomfortably. This is news to me.
Hal once told me of an old Ignitia king who, on the eve of battle, gave a candle to his enemy that didn’t stop burning until the war was over. And of the Terrathian queen who sent flowers to those she planned to kill. That’s the whole point of symbols – they have meaning. King Balen hasn’t just sent a feather. He is sending a message.
Alator looks stricken. ‘There must be another explanation –’
‘What other explanation? How could he possibly make his position any clearer?’ Hal stabs a finger at the feather. ‘This right here is a promise. A challenge. He’stauntingme.’
