My head snaps up. ‘What?’
‘The year you were … taken, my father made a deal with our neighbouring kingdoms. Rather than trading gold, he decided to trade serfs.’
My breath catches. I pull my hand from his grasp and brace it on the piano. ‘What’re you saying?’
‘That two of the slave ships departing from the Otherlands were not bound for Ostacre, but for Thaven and Vost.’ He pauses, swallows, looks me right in the eyes, then says, ‘Elva, there’s a chance your sister may still be alive.’
His words take a moment to land. But when they do, they hit me with the force of a falling star, lighting up the world with joy so bright it’s blinding.
Astrid.
Tears well up and spill over. A flood of relief breaks free from the carefully constructed dam inside my chest and cascades through me in dizzying waves. I sway where I sit, and Hal reaches out to steady me before I topple right off the stool.
‘Help me discover which Eyes are still loyal to me and I’ll send them as emissaries to make discreet enquiries,’ he says. ‘I can’t promise to find her, but I can promise to try.’
I make a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and the next thing I know my arms are round Hal’s neck and I’m pulling his mouth down to mine. His lips are cool and soft, always a little hesitant at first, as though making sure this is really what I want. Then one of his hands moves to cup my waist as the other slides gently through my hair.
For once, I don’t object to my heightened senses. His touch is as warm and welcome as sunlight caressing my skin.
Suddenly Hal pulls back, his face twisted in pain, a fist pressed to his forehead.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, startled.
He stifles a low groan, his jaw clenched. Then, with obvious effort, he straightens up, his expression smoothing over.
‘What was that?’ I demand.
He shakes his head dismissively as he tucks me under his arm. ‘It’s nothing.’
I let him lie, let it slide, let him brush a tender kiss to my temple – but I don’t let it go.
I take the tunnels back to the serf quarters, and when I slip into my room, I find Ingra fast asleep and snoring, sprawled across her bunk. Wherever she was, it wasn’t the Pit.
In my dreams, I see Astrid, as beautiful as the night, beckoning me home.
18
Blaze
The forest at dawn looks like something out of the fairytales I read to Renly.
Curling tendrils of silver mist snake through the undergrowth as I walk among the trees, the leaves glittering with early-morning dew. All around, wildflowers compete for space on this canvas of green, blooming in varying shades of deep blue, bright yellow and heartbreak-red, their petals sprawling and feathered – nothing like the perfectly uniform bunches of golden roses Hal used to leave in my chambers.
I lean down to pluck a thick stem from another patch of flowers. It’s pretty, if a little peculiar, heavy with a dozen thimble-shaped purplish blooms.
‘I like these better anyway,’ I mutter, as if Hal could hear me.
It’s not long before sunlight begins to filter through the branches, and I come to a stop in a small clearing. After ascertaining that I’m not about to be set upon by a packof hungry beasts, I take a long, deep breath, then close my eyes. Injured or not, I resent the exhaustion seeping through my body. Without my gifts I’m vulnerable, and I’d rather not keep it that way, particularly since the idea of aiming a jet of icy water at Fox’s arrogant face is becoming increasingly appealing. I tug moodily at the collar of his shirt, which digs uncomfortably into the underside of my throat. It would be far more practical to just wear it the right way round, but I meant what I said about the neckline gaping open to a frankly indecent degree.
All of a sudden, I’m seized by an unwelcome memory of a cold blade on hot skin, a dagger sliding down my chest punishingly slowly, cutting the buttons off my shirt one by one as a pair of green eyes bored into mine, piercing and hungry and …
I give my head a little shake, attempting to expel the Earth Cleaver from my mind.
I hate that I’m wearing his clothes, and I hate how much he likes it.
Clearing my throat, I force myself to concentrate on my anchors, deciding to start with rain. When I’m ready, I reach inwards for that familiar sadness – grief that became a gift, pain that became power. But all I manage to produce is a weak flurry of drizzle.
Exasperated, I roll my neck and try again.
