Ignite the Sun

by Hanna Howard

  “Thank you, Freda,” said Yarrow. “We truly appreciate your hospitality.”

  She nodded and strode toward the door but stopped with her hand on the knob. “I know I’m only one person,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at me, “but I want you to know that I’m with you—all of you—in what you’ve come to do.”

  I blinked at her, but before anyone could reply, Freda was gone.

  I slept fitfully beside Elegy in the house’s only bed. My chest and ribs ached, and my dreams were strange, full of Eamon, the rebels, and the men from the mountain pass. I woke while it was still dark but found I could sense the sun as a distant presence in the east, below the horizon. Its proximity was calming, and I lay in bed for a solid half hour, letting it seep into me while Elegy breathed, deep and rhythmic, beside me. Gradually, I fell back asleep.

  After breakfast, I went to find Eamon, and we spent the afternoon on a grassy bank of the river, dangling our feet into the water and comparing childhoods. I told him about Phipps and Milla, and then how Yarrow and Linden’s arrival at Nightingale Manor had upended my dull, lonely life. He told me about growing up with nymphs and rebels and people who had known our parents; how it had been both balm and sting to be constantly surrounded by people who had loved them.

  After a while, a companionable silence fell between us, and I dug my index finger into the dirt, idly drawing a starthistle blossom from a barren stalk. My control was getting better and better. I barely noticed myself holding the energy back from my skin anymore.

  “Kysia,” I said eventually. Her name was like a lyric to a long-forgotten song. “Tell me about our sister Kysia.”

  Eamon beamed. His memories of our dead family were clearly not a torment to him anymore, but rather a source of joy. It was true he’d had fourteen years to grieve, but I could tell my brother was not the sort of person to let his pain rule him.

  “Kysia,” he said, settling back on his elbows in the grass. “Well, Kysia would’ve run the kingdom if she’d had the chance. She was two years younger than me, but by the time she could talk she was already bossing me around, telling me what to do and where to go. She looked more like Father, but had all of Mother’s personality.

  “Father was quiet and kind, but often unsure of himself. But Mother”—he chuckled—“Mother was decisive and frank and bold. When you were born, Kysia already had half the palace bending to her funny little toddler whims.”

  “I’m more like Father,” I said, feeling oddly disappointed by the conviction. Quiet and kind were very admirable qualities, of course, and I was glad to know I had inherited things from both parents. But bold and decisive and brave . . .

  “You’re like both of them, I think,” said Eamon, and I looked up to find him studying me. “I know I haven’t had much time to observe, but you seem to have the best blend of them. Father’s kindness with Mother’s conviction. Mother’s bravery with Father’s introspection.”

  “You think I’m brave?” I said, astonished.

  “You think you’re not?”

  “I think . . . I think I want to be brave, but I’m always afraid.”

  “Well, that just means you’re wise,” said Eamon. “I don’t think someone who wasn’t brave could have come all this way and through as much danger as you did.”

  I mulled this over, feeling a quiet happiness settle into me. For a moment I wished I didn’t have to go back down into Terra-Volat. That I could just stay here in peace, with my brother, with Linden, with Yarrow and Merrall and Elegy, in an elf-made tree house, with the sun. The idea was enough to make me hurt. It was almost everything I had wanted since I was a child.

  But staying would neither make nor keep me brave.

  43

  CHAPTER

  Midway through the afternoon, Linden brought us a picnic lunch and news. The feast Sedge had announced the evening before, he told us, was to be postponed.

  “Why?” asked Eamon.

  Linden shrugged, but I could see he was uneasy. “Something about preparations, and there being business to settle between Yarrow and Briar.”

  “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” Eamon said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Linden smiled a little abstractedly, then turned to me. “Yarrow wants to use the next couple of days to teach you some practical skills. He asked me to tell you not to run off in the morning.”

  I nodded. “Where is he now?”

  “Went to meet Briar. Said he wouldn’t be back before supper.”

  We invited Linden to sit with us the rest of the afternoon, but his distracted mood persisted, even after we collected Merrall and Elegy and went with Eamon to eat supper with some of his friends in the lavish tree house mansion he called home.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Linden quietly while Eamon and his friends roared with laughter together over some memory.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Something just feels wrong about all this. When I was here before, it was different. I know I was young then, but—the people seemed . . . less comfortable.”

  I could see what he meant. Eamon’s house was not a palace compared to the Black Castle, but it was nothing to sneeze at either. It made Yarrow and Linden’s cozy cabin at Nightingale Manor look like a hovel.

  Linden trailed a finger lightly across the back of my hand, and sunlight leapt in my veins. “No point worrying yet, though,” he said with an unconvincing attempt at levity. “Worry ruins good ale.”

  He raised his mug to me, and Eamon’s spirited friends followed suit.

  “To the sunchild!” one cried.

  “To ale!” said another.

  “To more nights like this one!” proclaimed a third.

  Yarrow was tired and cranky the next morning, so I followed him outside to a clearing with some reluctance. But I was surprised to find his manner much gentler than usual, and I wondered if whatever had made him grumpy had also increased his sympathy for me and my ignorance.

  He didn’t waste time repeating the things he had told me during our journey. Instead he faced me across a distance of several yards, drew his Runepiece, and told me to do whatever occurred to me. Then he sent a ball of green fire speeding through the air toward my face.

  What occurred to me was to yelp and duck.

  “Weedy!” he said in exasperation as I picked myself up off the grass.

  “I’m sorry! It was so sudden!”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do you think Iyzabel’s going to warn you before she attacks?”

  “No, of course not.” I sighed. “Try again.”

  I dodged the second fireball before I could even think to stop myself, but whirled to fire a blast of sunlight after it as it fizzled out among the trees. It missed. Grimacing, I turned back to Yarrow—but he had already hurled a third green fireball at me.

  This time I reacted out of sheer terror. I threw my hands up, feeling heat rush out of my core, down my arms, and into my palms. The next second there was a sound like damp cloth on glass, and a shimmering, faintly golden, concave barrier—thin and glossy as a mirror—materialized in front of me and absorbed the fireball like a pool catching a droplet of water. I stood still, chest heaving.

  “That’s more like it,” Yarrow grunted. “That’s a sunshield, Weedy. You see how it acted as a defense rather than a weapon? You need to master that one.”

  And so we practiced it, over and over, until I could produce the sunshield without difficulty. By noon I was positively dropping from exhaustion, having achieved a rudimentary adeptness at producing a sunburst—which was essentially just a fiery missile—a flaming lasso, and a sun-energy sword, as well as the sunshield. Yarrow promised we would begin working with the citrine dagger after lunch.

  “If I can move after lunch,” I groaned from where I lay in the grass, feeling as if my limbs were made of wet dough.

  “It’ll wear you out less after you’ve seen the sun,” said Yarrow, digging into our cold chicken and cheese. “Remember, your transformation is still incomplete, a
nd magic will always take an extra toll on you when you don’t have direct access to your source.”

  “Then why don’t we go find it today?”

  “Because I still think waiting to expose you during the equinox is the best hope we have for breaking the Darkness. That should maximize your power.”

  “And when is the equinox?”

  “Eight days from now.”

  “How much time before Iyzabel’s forces are here, do you think?”

  There was something strained in his gaze when he looked at me. “Two weeks,” he said. “Three, if we’re lucky. They won’t want those reprobate Upland soldiers fighting for them, so I imagine our little scout will run a few horses into the ground to get back to Umbraz for the queen’s best men.”

  “But surely he couldn’t get all the way south and back again in two weeks?” I said, incredulous. “It took us almost two months to do half as much!”

  “On foot, hugging the long arc of the Forest of Eli, Weedy. They’ll have horses, and the use of the road the whole way.”

  I nodded dismally, trying not to think about how much time we could have had to rest in the resistance village if we’d been able to ride horses along the Queen’s Road. “Briar’s still determined not to reinforce their borders here, I suppose?”

  Yarrow’s eyes were hard. “He’s just determined not to take my advice, I think. Arrogant fool.”

  “Well,” I said, “the equinox is a little over a week away. I’ll have had a crack at the Darkness long before they arrive, won’t I?” I shivered as I spoke, the idea almost too surreal to believe.

  He nodded. “Let’s hope so.”

  Yarrow went easier on me during the afternoon, mostly helping me master the use of my dagger, and the next day was much the same, albeit with a longer lunch break including both Eamon and Linden. When I could feel the sun beginning to sink toward the west behind the thin layer of Darkness, Yarrow stretched and groaned. “Nearly supper-time,” he said. “We’d best get dressed.”

  The banquet was to take place that night, and we had all been given new clothes to wear, which everyone seemed to have different opinions about. Merrall grumbled as she pulled on the aquamarine silk dress she had been given, apparently annoyed to have her wardrobe dictated, but Elegy swirled around our bedroom in her new violet frock in wild delight, squealing over the detailed embroidery. I wondered whether she had ever had anything new in her life.

  Mine was a sweeping white dress with beautiful gold detailing, which felt as if it had been tailored to fit me—though I couldn’t imagine how anyone could have done the work in the mere two days since we’d arrived. I plaited my hair into a thick rope around the crown of my head, and Elegy, seeing it, gasped that it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. With a smile, Merrall offered to do Elegy’s hair the same, though I noticed she left her own untouched.

  Linden looked uncomfortable in the garments he had been given, though they were finer than anything he owned and made him look absurdly handsome. Yarrow, however, had flatly refused to wear any clothes but his own, and as we all walked toward the pavilion, I thought his rough leather tunic and wool trousers made him look stubbornly shabby.

  I stole glances at Linden as we went, admiring the way the new clothes set off the broad sweep of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. His hair had grown past his ears, and he had washed it so that the dark waves shone glossy as they brushed his collar and curled against his stubbly jaw.

  He caught me looking and a slow grin spread over his face. “See something you like?”

  “Just marveling at the radical change,” I said archly. “Looks like you’ve finally found something worth washing your hair for.”

  He laughed, his step springy. “Ah, well, why not make a bit of effort when you’re offered a banquet? Maybe there’ll be pretty girls there.”

  He laughed louder at my outraged expression, and I strode ahead, determined to give him nothing more to smile about the rest of the night.

  It was a merry feast. The long table had been removed from the pavilion, and all the chairs and benches were set in a ring around the edge. On the far end, a little knot of musicians was reeling out jaunty tunes, and there was food and wine in abundance.

  “Having fun?” I asked Elegy about halfway through the evening as she collapsed into a chair beside me at the edge of the pavilion, eyes bright and smile wide.

  “It’s wonderful!” she gushed, and then jumped right back up again, apparently too excited to bother resting. I was grateful that most of the village had welcomed a banshee into their midst without complaint, and though there were still a few who avoided her, she seemed not to notice.

  Linden had just been dragged away by yet another girl determined to have him for a dance partner, and I watched askance as she preened and laughed at his every word. It had always been this way at Gildenbrook. Even when we hosted mixed balls with schools of eligible young men, and Linden served punch in ill-fitting servant’s livery, my classmates hovered around him like flies at a picnic, hoping to catch his eye.

  I shook my head and laughed at myself. After everything that had happened, it seemed pretty, confident girls still had the power to make me jealous.

  From across the pavilion, Linden’s eyes flickered onto me, and I realized he had heard my laughter even from so far away, amid all the noise. Or perhaps he had merely seen it, eyes trained to my slightest movement. My jealousy evaporated, and I thought for the thousandth time of our night at the Polter inn, of his attempt to kiss me in that dwarf cave, of his declaration to Eamon . . .

  I had been holding myself back out of fear of hurting him, but now, if I was being honest, I was holding back out of plain old fear.

  “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”

  A brawny young man stood over me, half-bowing with his hand outstretched. He gave me a cheeky wink, and I noticed a few other boys seated nearby, watching us with wide grins. His friends, I guessed. Maybe they had placed wagers on whether I would accept.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling back, “but no.”

  Linden had just disentangled himself from the girl and was looking with narrowed eyes toward my suitor. Enough of fear, I thought, and left the young man where he stood, weaving through the crowd toward Linden. The petite brunette at his shoulder was still gripping his arm as she effused her thanks.

  I swept him a clumsy curtsy. “Will you dance, sir?”

  He bowed solemnly, but the side of his mouth twitched. “I will. But you’re a terrible dancer, my lady.” He took my hand, and the brunette stalked away, looking sour.

  “That’s true,” I said. “But I try to help friends in need, when I can.”

  The dimple winked in his cheek as he led me onto the floor. Though the dance was a jig, we wove a slow waltz through the other pairs, drawing irritated glances as they swerved to avoid us.

  “I hate to inconvenience you, Miss Nightingale,” Linden said after a moment, his earnest voice betrayed by the glint in his eyes, “but would it be too much trouble for you to perform the correct steps to this dance? We’re dancing a waltz, not stomping grapes in a winepress. It’s a delicate balance, I know . . .”

  I made sure to stomp his toes. “Perhaps you’d prefer one of your other partners,” I said, sucking in my cheeks to control my smile. “I imagine they’re better dancers than this wine-stomper.”

  “No, no, certainly not,” he said gravely. “I’m only offering a suggestion, after all. You’re a fine dancer, really . . . except for the way you move your feet.”

  My bursts of laughter were starting to draw attention.

  “Hush, now, hush!” said Linden in mock embarrassment. Then he pulled me closer and said, still in that falsely earnest voice, “There is something else I wished to ask you.” He gestured over his right shoulder to a clump of young women standing off to the side, several of them his former dance partners. They were all watching us, presumably waiting for the dance to end.

  He cleared his throat.
“I hate to—”

  “Inconvenience me?”

  “Yes, quite. But if it—”

  “Isn’t too much trouble?”

  “You’re so intuitive, Miss Nightingale. Yes, if it isn’t too much trouble, I wonder . . .” He paused to give me a significant look. “I wonder if you might pretend to be in love with me. Then perhaps I might receive fewer invitations to dance with complete strangers.”

  My nerves tingled and sang. “It strikes me, Mr. Hatch, that all the other young women have acted in that precise way, and yet you’ve had no lapse in invitations.”

  “Ahhh,” he said, choking on a laugh. “I see. So you think it should go the other way around?”

  “Only if you wish to break a great many hopeful female hearts.”

  He bowed his head. “A necessary evil, I think.”

  And with a dramatic flourish, he dipped me and pressed his lips against my cheek. But when his mouth touched my skin, something changed.

  The comfortable flirtation, the easy joking, the ambiguity—all of it—vanished like an icicle plunged in boiling water. I felt a tremor run the length of our two bodies where they touched, and all pretense of dancing was abandoned and forgotten. For a moment it was as if the pavilion and its whirling throng of people had ceased to be; we were back in the dusty dwarf cave in the lantern light, back at the inn, curled together on the shabby bed. I clung to his neck, scarcely breathing, as our faces hovered a hair’s breadth apart.

  But then someone knocked Linden’s elbow, jarring us back into the present, and we straightened and stepped apart. As we fumbled to resume the dance, I became aware of both the number people around us and the cold, yawning distance that now separated my body from Linden’s. My hands trembled as he guided me through the steps, and I could not look anywhere but at his face, and the bright, burning green of his eyes.

  The dance ended, and I thought of my mother, asking the prince of Luminor for a dance.