17
Elva
It’s the darkest part of the night, and the Golden Palace is as silent as the grave.
I steal through empty hallways, ears pricked for the slightest sound – hushed voices emanating from any of the opulent chambers, a clandestine meeting of traitorous Eyes. I figured that if such gatherings were taking place, then this would be a good time to convene. Those operating under the cloak of darkness often have something to hide.
I should know.
A ribbon of shadow curls from my fingertip and begins to twine round my wrist. I shake it off, cursing, and it fades into nothing.
I spent the day slipping into the rooms of some of the courtiers Hal suspects may be working for his uncle, armed with a mop and bucket for plausibility, searching for anything that might confirm his suspicions, yet I found no incriminating evidence. When evening arrived I helped ready Elaith for the feast, weaving tiny red fire-opals through herhair, then joined the other serfs in the banquet hall, pouring wine and fetching platters of food from the kitchens. I mostly lingered at the Eyes’ table, listening in on conversations, paying attention to particular groups and pairings, to who was whispering in whose ear.
Ingra wasn’t in our bunk when I returned to the serf quarters just before midnight. I couldn’t account for her absence. I began to worry that she’d been tossed in the Pit, though if Matron catches me out of bed, at least Ingra will have some company.
The Pit is exactly as it sounds – a damp, dark hole. The space is cramped and narrow. You just have to stand there, or sit, hugging your knees tight to your chest. The walls are uneven, filled with footholes used to climb back up again once you’ve served your time – if you’re strong enough to climb, that is. Ingra once spent three days down there without food or water. She was barely conscious and had to be hoisted back up.
I was eleven years old the first time I was thrown in the Pit.
There was this little girl – she couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. She was from Obsidia too. I remembered her from the ship. She’d cradled this sorry-looking piece of sack that I think was supposed to be a doll, and would whisper to it over the creaking sails. One time, I found her crying in a stairwell. Matron had confiscated her doll, claiming that it could be carrying any number of diseases. I crouched beside the girl, speaking softly and comfortingly, just like my mother would have. Only, I didn’t realize that I wasn’t speaking Ostacrian – the language of our oppressors we were forced tolearn upon our arrival here. No, I was speaking in my native tongue, Obsidian. And I was overheard.
Matron dragged me by my hair to the Pit. I was too scared to scream, but I recall making this awful whimpering noise as she selected a key from the bunch jangling ominously on her belt. She reached down to unlock the hatch, swung it open, and then shoved me inside. I fell and hit the ground with a jarring thud. Moments later, the trapdoor was slammed shut behind me, and I was swallowed by the darkness.
I was left in the Pit all night. It was to teach me a lesson, Matron said. So that I would never do it again – speak my own language. And I didn’t. At least, not out loud. Ithinkin Obsidian all the time. Right now, in fact. My thoughts are my own, and so are my memories.
All of a sudden, I hear footsteps heading in this direction. In a crowd I might be inconspicuous, but wandering the corridors alone in the dead of night – not so much.
I spot a door up ahead and slip inside.
The candles are still burning, the flickering light dancing across the walls of the room, which have each been designed to represent a different Crown Court – one carved with golden flames, another with crashing waves, the next with towering trees, and the last with hundreds upon hundreds of feathers. In the far corner sits a grand piano hewn from solid gold.
The Golden Palace is always sparkling. That’s because every day it’s cleaned by an army of serfs. The floor is so well polished that I can see myself reflected in it. Sometimes, when Blaze was at training, I would sit in front of the mirror in her bedchamber. Though it wasn’t an act of vanity. It’sbecause I can see my family in my face. Astrid’s straight nose and cornsilk hair. My mother’s high cheekbones. My father’s eyes – dark amber, like the sunset.
I tense as I remember what the Earth Cleaver told me about my eyes, about how they glowed in the dark that night that changed everything. Just like my moon panther Kjara’s did. Just like my grandparents’ had in the years before the war.
The footsteps are louder now. I will them to keep moving down the corridor, but to my horror the door handle begins to twist.
It’s instantaneous the way the darkness springs from my fingertips. Trembling, I shrink back against the wall, melting into the shadows. I didn’t call upon them – I didn’t will them to appear – and yet here they are, tendrils of dark mist wrapping themselves round me. Perhaps if I weren’t so afraid I’d feel something close to wonder.
At that moment the door swings open, and someone steps inside. I hold my breath, then exhale in relief. It’s Hal. Only, as his eyes slide over me without a flicker of recognition, the comfort I feel at the sight of him is swamped by a chilling realization.
He can’t see me.
Shock roots me to the spot, rippling up my spine.
The shadows – they must be concealing me from view. They’rehidingme.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the choked gasp that catches in my throat as understanding sparks to life amid the gloom.
The Earth Cleaver called my magic a gift, but it didn’t really feel like one. I never asked for it. I still don’tunderstand how it happened. I’ve spent these past few weeks terrified of accidentally revealing myself, since I never knew when those ribbons of darkness would emerge, or why. I couldn’t see a connection – until now. Or could it just be a coincidence that the shadows seem to appear when I’mfrightened? Almost as if my fear wakes them up, like they can sense I’m in danger and want to protect me.
I think of what my mother used to say.
Don’t shut fear out, Elva. Invite it in.
The idea is strangely comforting. I feel the knot in my chest loosen slightly. For if I’m right, then maybe I have a shot at controlling my power. Maybe I could …useit.
I watch as Hal crosses to the piano and sits down. He opens the lid and flexes his hands before positioning his fingers gently on the keys. He plays very well. Sometimes he follows the sheet music; other times he creates his own. Today it’s the latter. He pours himself into every note. The music echoes through me, beautiful and soulful and sweeping. There’s a desperation to it, too – the difference between wanting to play andneedingto.
