Bastian shakes his head. ‘I’ll have a volunteer bring you dinner. You aren’t part of my clan yet, lass – not until the testing. I don’t expect you to work tonight.’
‘Hang on, almost forgot!’ Teddy fishes into his pocket and produces the spherical crystal. ‘D’you want this thing? We found it down that hole, and I reckon we owe you something.’
Bastian accepts it with a nod. ‘Firestone. Not a very large one, perhaps, but a decent contribution to the village.’
Teddy shrugs. ‘Least we could do, I reckon.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, as one of Bastian’s words digs into my mind. ‘What do you mean by testing?’
‘Better not be algebra,’ Teddy says.
Bastian looks up at me, and I notice that his eyes are a weary grey: the same hue as his ragged trousers. When he speaks again, his voice is so deep that a prickle runs down my spine.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, ‘your proclivities will be tested.’
We all stare at him.
‘What?’ I say, taken aback. ‘What’ve our proclivities got to do with –’
‘Everything.’
There’s a long pause. I lock my fingers together, oddly discomforted. I still feel uneasy revealing my neck to the world. In Taladia, we were forced to wear neck-scarves to conceal our powers until adulthood. But here, it seems, I must not only reveal my proclivity, I must actively flaunt it.
‘In Víndurn, lass,’ Bastian says, ‘there’s no such thing as rich and poor. No royalty and commoners, or aristocrats and peasants. All that matters are the low proclivities and the high proclivities. Your own magic picks the life you lead.’
My fingernails curl into my palms. This doesn’t sound good. Our crew includes four different proclivities: Beast, Bird, Flame and Night. Does this mean we’ll be split up? Forced to live apart, to start our new lives separately?
‘High proclivities,’ Bastian says, ‘are also called the ethereal proclivities. They rise above the solid, see? Above the weight of solid form.’
‘Such as …?’
Bastian waves a hand. ‘Air. Wind. Shadow. Folks with ethereal proclivities are allowed to live in the city of spires. Up in the towers. They’re purer than the folks down here. Cleaner. More noble. Chaste and unspoilt, Lord Farran says. A breath of wholesome breeze.’
He gives us a serious look. ‘The rest of us? We’ve got low proclivities. My own power is Water. Others have Earth, Flame, Beast, Bird, Reptile, Stone … Those proclivities are dirty, see? Solid and filthy, tied to the earth.’
‘What happens if you’ve got a low proclivity?’ Lukas says. He looks a little uncomfortable now, and I don’t blame him. Lukas was raised as a prince: the king’s only son, and heir to the throne of Taladia. To be told now that he’s not merely a commoner, but lower than a large percentage of the population …
Bastian shrugs. ‘We get by, son. We don’t live in the towers, but we get by. Plenty of villages on Silent Peak, and down on the eastern plains. We know how to survive.’
‘What about the second mountain?’ I say. ‘Do people live there too?’
Bastian shakes his head. ‘That’s Skyfire Peak – it’s reserved for the private use of Lord Farran. He uses it for his great experiments.’
‘Experiments?’ Teddy looks doubtful. ‘Hang on, is that why the sky went “kaboom” last night? Cause I don’t reckon it’s normal to set fire to half the –’
Bastian cuts him off sharply. ‘Lord Farran protects our nation with his great magic. He fights to save us from the earth at midnight. Without his experiments, there’s no doubt we’d all be boiled in our beds.’
I exchange a look with my crewmates. Teddy raises an eyebrow. Out of context, Bastian’s words suggest respect, or even sheer admiration, for Víndurn’s ruler. But the twinge in his gaze and the tightness in his jaw suggest a hint of darker emotion.
‘As I was saying, my village rests on the lower slopes of Silent Peak,’ Bastian says. ‘And we hunt for firestones, out in the wild. If we find enough firestones to trade for food, we get by.’
That’s the third time he’s mentioned ‘getting by’, and I don’t like the sound of it. There’s an awfully big difference between ‘getting by’ and ‘thriving’. I learned that when my family burned. Starving and freezing in a richie’s rubbish bin counts as ‘getting by’ when you’re a scruffer, but it’s not the kind of life I want for myself. Not any more.
Then again, my proclivity is Night. Is that a high proclivity? If Shadow and Air fall into that category, I don’t see why Night should be any different. My power’s just as ethereal as the others. Perhaps I’ll be allowed to live up in the towers in luxury, like a richie, with a full belly and glamorous parties and –
But what about my friends?
If my crewmates are barred from the city, forced to scrape a living down on the mountainside … Well, I can hardly leave them, can I? I picture myself feasting in a tower while my friends shiver and lie hugging their empty bellies. I picture King Morrigan’s hunter, lurking around the outskirts of the village, his finger ready on the trigger …
My stomach churns. No. I can’t leave them. No matter what the Víndurnics think of our proclivities, we’re in this together.
‘What about me?’ Clementine’s voice is unusually subdued. ‘I don’t have my proclivity yet.’
‘Your choice, lass,’ Bastian says. ‘You can stay in either the city or a village, until your markings develop. Then, of course, you’ll have to be retested.’ He gives a low sigh. ‘Pray that you gain a high proclivity, and not one of the alternatives.’
I frown, confused by his choice of words. ‘I thought solid was the only alternative to ethereal.’
Bastian pauses. An uneasy expression flitters across his face, but he quickly conceals it. ‘There’s a third type of proclivity. But it’s rarer than the others. You’d have damned bad luck to be marked by such a power.’
‘So there’s ethereal, solid and …?’
A breeze snakes in through the window. The curtains dance, throwing shadows across the room.
‘Temporal,’ says Bastian.
Maisy frowns. ‘Temporal? You mean, relating to time?’
He nods. ‘Daylight. Night. Dawn. Proclivities that revolve around a certain time of day. They’re rare, but they’re in a category of their own.’
My breath catches. Night. That’s me. ‘Where do you live if you have a temporal proclivity?’
‘Temporal proclivities are illegal.’
‘What?’ It isn’t just my voice, but all five of ours. Lukas’s eyes are wide with tension, and Clementine looks ready to start a riot.
‘They’re not allowed,’ Bastian says. ‘Lord Farran has decreed that such powers are a threat to society. It’s unnatural, you see, to play with the governance of time itself.’
‘But you can’t make a proclivity illegal!’ Clementine protests. ‘It’s just something you’re born with – I mean, people can’t help what their proclivity is.’
Bastian shakes his head. ‘You’re in Víndurn now, lass. Here, proclivities are everything. Teenagers show their markings as soon as they develop. There’s a formal ceremony, to pass into the proper segment of society. If you have an ethereal proclivity, you’re ushered over the threshold into the city spires. If you have a solid proclivity, you’re sent down here to join a clan. And if you have a temporal proclivity …’
He trails into silence again.
‘What?’ I prompt. ‘What happens if you’ve got a temporal proclivity?’
‘Execution.’
I freeze. The word echoes in my head, over and over. Execution. Execution. Around me, my crewmates erupt into splutters of horror, of indignation. But I’m barely aware of their presence. All I can hear is the echo of that word, as sharp and cold as a blade in my mind.
This can’t be happening. I risked everything to escape Taladia, to reach this land of safety. I quit my life of tyrannous kings and bombings and army conscription because I wanted a home where I
wouldn’t constantly be threatened. Where I could try living, instead of just surviving.
But then I think of Tindra, the girl fleeing through the skies on a foxhawk. Her body lying crumpled on the rocks, with the inky stains of Daylight across the back of her neck …
It all becomes clear. Tindra’s proclivity must have just developed. Daylight. A temporal proclivity. She knew she’d be killed for it, so she took a foxhawk and tried to escape.
She tried to escape into Taladia.
The irony hits me like a punch to the gut. Tindra was a refugee, just like us, but running in the opposite direction. Is nowhere in the world safe? Is every soul as desperate and terrified as scruffers on the streets of Rourton?
Bastian gives me a sharp look. ‘You seem mighty interested in temporal proclivities, lass. You aren’t going to tell me that –’
‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just curious. I mean, if we’re going to join this society, I think we should know how … I mean … how it all works. You know. Like …’
I realise I’m babbling, and force myself to shut up.
‘Why?’ Lukas demands, turning to Bastian. ‘Why are temporal proclivities illegal?’
Bastian hesitates. ‘Fear,’ he says. ‘Fear and old legends.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a legend,’ Bastian says, his eyes still on me, ‘of a woman called the Timekeeper. She lived a thousand years ago, you see. Her proclivity was Night. But her power was strong – unnaturally strong – and she spent many years developing it. You know that magic grows with practice?’
‘It’s like a muscle,’ Maisy says, nodding. ‘It needs training to grow.’
I open my mouth, but I can’t bring myself to speak. That’s why I’m still so weak at using my own powers. I’ve only had access to my Night proclivity for a couple of weeks, and I’ve only used it in emergencies.
With training, though, it’s possible to stretch your magic. It takes years – or even decades – of dedication. I’ve heard of elderly men with Beast proclivities who could melt into the bodies of animals. And I once met a hoary old gambler who stole the air from her opponents’ lungs, one tiny gasp at a time. Just enough to startle them, or make them play the wrong card. Compared with the brutal blasts of most Air proclivities, such finesse is hard to imagine.
‘Well,’ Bastian says. ‘Any temporal proclivity is linked with time, see? With a Night proclivity, for instance, you can sense the different stages of the night.’
That’s true enough. As my proclivity settles into my bones, I’ve begun to feel the brushing of time that comes with it. The way that midnight scratches my skin. How I can almost taste the coming of dawn.
‘The Timekeeper,’ says Bastian, ‘was a very talented alchemist. And her proclivity was strong. Unnaturally strong, especially its temporal aspects. Even in her youth, she felt the breath of time upon her skin.
‘And so she began to play with it. She focused on recognising time with her magic. Touching it. Tasting it. She grew older, and stronger. At thirty, she could name the time of night down to the millisecond. At fifty, she could taste the touch of age and time within another person’s skin. And finally, after countless decades – and with alchemical alterations to her own body – she learned to manipulate it.’
‘Wait, what?’ Teddy says.
‘She could manipulate time,’ Bastian says. ‘She could consume it. Steal it. Steal a dozen years from a man’s body and give them to another or keep them for herself. Seize a lifetime from her enemy and give it to her brother.
‘Finally, she tried to seize time from the land itself, and left the earth crippled and corrupted. It’s her fault, you see, that the land’s so damned unstable. Her fault that we have earthquakes, and that every midnight …’ Bastian trails off, shaking his head. ‘Too much power, son. Too much power for one soul to hold.’
‘What happened to her?’ I say.
‘They killed her,’ Bastian says. ‘Her own guards killed her in her sleep, so she couldn’t suck their lives away.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s why Lord Farran banned temporal proclivities,’ Bastian says. ‘If a proclivity is linked to time, who knows how it might develop? A man’s grasp on his proclivity can change with the years, and the earth in Víndurn is already tainted. Already fragile.’
‘Hang on,’ Teddy says. ‘This whole thing sounds like cock and bull, I reckon. I’ve never heard of anyone learning to –’
‘She was the only one,’ Bastian says. ‘She was more than talented. She was … a prodigy. But even so, it’s too dangerous to let such magic go unchecked. Any soul with a temporal proclivity could become corrupted, see? Could be like the Timekeeper all over again.’ He gives Teddy a significant look. ‘And I don’t know about you, son, but I don’t fancy my years being slurped up like chowder.’
Silence.
A twist of fury shivers down my spine at this injustice. One old story led me here, to the land beyond the Valley. Now, another will kill me. Perhaps it’s fear, or just exhaustion, but for a wild moment I fight the urge to laugh.
Bastian stares at me, noticing my strange expression. ‘Turn around, lass,’ he says. ‘I want to see your tattoo.’
I hesitate.
‘Come off it,’ Teddy says. ‘What is this, the tattoo inquisition?’
‘You’re too damned interested in temporal proclivities,’ Bastian says, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘And I will see your neck, whether you like it or not.’
‘Leave her alone!’ Clementine says.
The others step protectively towards me. I want to tell them to back down, to leave it, but my head is throbbing like alchemy fire and I can’t think clearly. Anything I do or say might cement the man’s suspicions.
‘Turn. Around.’ Bastian’s tone is suddenly cold. ‘Turn around, or I swear I’ll make you.’
On the far side of the room, the flower vase shatters as Bastian’s proclivity clenches around the water. Dead petals and stale liquid spray across the floor. He steps forward, his hands raised.
I turn.
When he sees my tattoo – the moon, the stars, the swirls of darkness – a slow hiss escapes his teeth. ‘Night,’ he whispers. ‘A temporal proclivity.’
‘No! It’s not –’
‘It isn’t Night? Then what else could it –’
I cut him off. ‘Darkness! My proclivity’s Darkness. It’s not temporal – it works all the time. Nothing to do with the time of day.’
‘Darkness?’
I swallow hard, my throat painfully tight. ‘I swear it’s not temporal. The moon and stars are just symbols of the dark.’
‘It’s true!’ Lukas says.
‘I’ve seen it too,’ Clementine pipes up. ‘I’ve seen her use it – it’s definitely Darkness, there’s nothing temporal about it. She used it all the time when we were … um …’
‘Back in Rourton!’ Teddy says, always ready with a lie. ‘Any time of day, I swear, she’d just melt into the shadows to sneak up on the guards. Should’ve seen their faces when she popped out of an alleyway wall – just about carked it from shock, I reckon.’
Teddy tries to maintain his confident smile, but it slips with every passing second.
Bastian stares at me. I watch the emotions cross his face. The distrust. The uncertainty. ‘Perhaps I believe that,’ he says slowly. ‘Or perhaps not. But tomorrow will show the truth. If your power’s really Darkness, you’ll be able to prove it in the morning. Won’t you?’
I force a nod.
‘Good,’ Bastian says. ‘I’ll send your dinner shortly.’
The door swings shut behind him.
I drop my head into my hands. This is bad. The magic of my Night proclivity will only last until dawn. But tomorrow morning, the Víndurnics will want a demonstration. They’ll want proof that my power is ethereal, not temporal. Proof that I’m not a threat.
And all I can picture is Tindra, dead and bloody under the morning sky.
<
br /> ‘All right,’ Teddy says. ‘We nick off now, while it’s dark. I reckon we could make it halfway across the country before the sun comes up.’
‘And go where?’ Clementine throws open the curtains and peers into the night. ‘We’ve given up everything to reach this place! We’ll just have to paint over Danika’s tattoo, disguise it somehow –’
‘How’s that gonna help?’ Teddy snaps. ‘Bastian’s already seen the damn thing. Our only hope is to scarper while it’s dark. Wish I hadn’t given him that firestone thing – I bet we could’ve flogged it to some other village on the road …’
I sit in silence as the argument rolls around me. My head throbs. My bones ache. They can argue all they like, but I won’t let them risk their lives for me.
This village is a place of refuge. If we flee, we’ll be out on the road again, and with King Morrigan’s hunter on our trail. Where would we run? North, south? Even further east? We’ve no idea what lies beyond the borders of Víndurn. I can’t drag my friends on such a hopeless journey.
Besides, this is their chance to be safe. I picture Teddy growing old here. Laughing around a cooking fire, raising squirming children and grandchildren on his knees. I think of the twins, safe and content in their quiet new lives. And Lukas upon a foxhawk, soaring beneath a starlit sky …
Yes. My friends could be happy here. But not me. When they test me at dawn – when they find out my proclivity stops working as soon as the sun rises – it’ll all be over. A bullet to the back of the neck, most likely. Right through my Night tattoo.
I must leave alone. Tonight. I’ll wait until my friends fall asleep, then I’ll strike out into the wilderness. Out beyond the boiling craters and scraggly forests. All the way to … what?
A cold night breeze sneaks in through the window and ruffles the curtains. Every gust brings the scent of the forest. The argument rolls on around me, as fervent and frothy as a geyser.
After a while, a middle-aged woman in a green cloak brings broth and bread. Her name is Annalísa, and her hair and skin are eerily pale, almost white. I wonder how much time she spends beneath the canopy.
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