Two violet eyes, fixed on me from across the dying embers, unblinking and unreadable.
My breath catches. The thought of Sheen witnessing me like that – weak, vulnerable …
A memory stirs. I’m lying in the medical wing, bandages obscuring half my face, drifting in and out of a drug-induced stupor. A figure sits at my bedside, head tipped forward on his chest, white-blonde hair gleaming silver in the flickering candlelight.
I look away quickly, banishing the image from my mind and burrowing under the blanket beside Spinner. Only when I glance back sometime later, Sheen is still watching me. And maybe it’s my competitive nature, or maybe it’s that the intensity of his gaze offers some reprieve from the ceaseless torment inside my head, but I watch him back.
I watch him right back until I fall asleep, and in the morning I don’t look at him at all.
25
Blaze
The seven Magi ambassadors sit side by side along a grand golden dining table. Across from them, leaning back in his throne as though to better take in the scene, his resplendent spun-gold robes shining almost as brightly as the orbs of light floating lazily around the ceiling, is a young man who looks startlingly like Hal. But of course, this isn’t Hal.
It’s his grandfather, Caius Castellion.
While the Maker – God of Gods who created Etheri – decreed that the four elemental crowns should be won rather than inherited, he ensured that his own crown, the Imperial Crown, would be passed down only to the first-born sons of his line. It was a way of continuing his legacy and, rather chillingly, immortalizing his face, for the men of House Castellion all bear an unsettling resemblance to their forefather: sleek black hair, porcelain skin and raven eyes. Caius’s eyes flit between his guests, alight not with kindness, like Hal’s, or amusement, like King Balen’s, but with anticipation, as though he were waiting for something.
Fox and I stand over by the far wall, watching.
It’s not long before several attendants file into the room, each carrying a golden platter complete with a domed lid. I count seven – one for each ambassador.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ says Caius, his voice smooth and pleasant, so different from the grating rasp of the old man I met in the library. ‘You honour me with your presence. For too long our great empires have remained divided. Let us come together to heal the rift of the past. Let us unite and forge a new future, one rich in trade and friendship.’
As the platters are placed in front of the Magi, unease curls round me like a fist. I already know how this memory ends – with all seven ambassadors dead. But what I don’t know is how they were killed. Perhaps the food is poisoned? Or the wine?
That’s when my gaze snags on the attendants. I’m struck by just how burly they are – disconcertingly muscular, standing straight-backed and alert behind the ambassadors, almost as if they were soldiers rather than servants.
My heart plummets.
Caius smiles widely. ‘And yet,’ he says, swilling the dregs in his glass, ‘I’ve often found alliances to be such fickle, fragile things. It’s unfortunate, really, but in my experience, spilling blood is far more effective than breaking bread.’
Seconds later the supposed attendants yank the lids from the platters to reveal seven vicious-looking blades. The ambassadors leap to their feet, but they aren’t quick enough. I swallow a scream as every last one has their throat cut from ear to ear. Blood pools on the table, dripping to the floor, so much that I can smell the iron in it.
The last thing I see before the vision changes is Caius Castellion pouring himself another glass of wine.
We soon find ourselves in a different chamber. Five thrones are positioned round a circular table in the centre, and the walls are lined with portraits, hundreds of them, each depicting a different king, queen or emperor – generations of Crowned Councils. Fox leans against a portrait of a rather cantankerous-looking man wearing the Ignitia crown of golden flames. In one hand the king holds a sceptre, in the other, a pile of ash.
‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘Welcome to the Council Chambers,’ says Fox. ‘Where you’ll soon be spending an awful lot of time. It’s now the morning after the secret assassination of the ambassadors.’
I open my mouth to say more, but Fox puts a finger to his lips and points towards the far window. His grandfather is standing silhouetted in a beam of buttery sunlight, as though he were some kind of fallen angel rather than a murderous, bloodthirsty monster. He’s clutching a scrap of parchment, scanning the contents greedily. I move closer, trying to peer over his shoulder, but at that moment a set of towering golden doors fly open to reveal a beautiful woman dressed in a billowing red shirt and fighting leathers. Her dark hair is unbound, her downturned lips painted a rich shade of crimson, and her eyes – deep brown, flecked with gold – burn with unconcealed rage as she hisses, ‘What have youdone?’
I’m rooted to the spot, my jaw slack with shock. I know those eyes. I know that voice. Everything about this woman is familiar to me. She looks like my mother, only her face is sharper, more severe, more striking.
Then it hits me.
‘Grandmother?’ I whisper hoarsely.
And so it is. My grandmother, Leda Flameslinger, matriarch of House Harglade, standing right in front of me, barely a few years older than I am now.
Utterly dumbfounded, I sag against Fox then leap away as if scalded, hastily turning my attention towards Grandmother’s companion, whose hand is still raised as though he were about to knock before she decided to burst in. Dressed in a simple blue tunic, the young man is clearly Aquatori. He’s achingly handsome, with high cheekbones, close-cropped snow-white hair, and eyes the colour of deep water. He, too, is familiar. But it’s not until I clock the small silver trident strapped to his belt that I realize why.
‘Leda, River,’ says Caius, seemingly unperturbed by Grandmother’s livid expression. ‘Come in, my friends. I have something I wish to discuss with you.’
I turn to Fox, wide-eyed. Ever since I saw them speaking together on my Name Day, I’ve suspected that Grandmother and River knew one another, a suspicion confirmed at the Binding Ceremony when they united to fight King Balen. So it comes as little surprise to me that they were friends, once. But what does surprise me – horrify me, even – is that Grandmother was seemingly also friends with none other than Caius Castellion. Though the way she’s glaring at him in this moment is far from friendly.
