‘I do.’
‘You know the law,’ Hinrik says. ‘As soon as her markings begin to develop, we must be notified to perform the testing.’
Bastian bows low: not just a head bob like Maisy, but a proper bow to his knees. A little startled, I wonder if this is the proper protocol for addressing the magistrate. How much power does Hinrik wield?
‘Next,’ he says.
And suddenly it’s my turn. I’m the only one left on this side of the room; all my friends wait by the doorway, ready to enter their new lives in the clan. The twins look paler than ever, and Teddy mouths a single word at me. ‘Calm.’
My eyes flicker across to Lukas. He stands with every muscle in his body tense, ready to leap. If I fail this test – if Hinrik decides I have a temporal proclivity and draws his pistol – Lukas will attack him. But Lukas doesn’t have a gun … He’ll die. We’ll both die.
I want to mouth ‘No!’ at Lukas, to keep him in place. But there’s no way to move my lips without drawing suspicion. All I can do is step forward and try to keep my breathing steady. My life isn’t the only one on the line.
‘Turn,’ Hinrik says.
I turn. I know what his initial judgement will be; I know I have to react quickly. ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ I say. ‘I can prove it.’
He doesn’t respond. He flicks my hair aside and runs a finger down the back of my neck. I feel the moment when the fingers stiffen, when his muscles clench.
‘Night.’ The word slips out between gritted teeth. ‘A temporal proclivity.’
‘No!’ I say. ‘It’s not Night, I swear. It’s just Darkness. I know the tattoo’s misleading, but –’
Hinrik grabs my shoulders and spins me around. Then he slams me back against the wall and his breath is right in my face, hot and stinking. ‘You are a cancer upon this land,’ he says, as though reciting a poem. ‘You are a danger to us all.’
‘No!’ I say again. ‘My proclivity isn’t temporal – it works all the time, I can prove it! Just let me melt into the shadows, just give me a chance!’
Hinrik steps back, leaving me to slump against the wall. ‘Evil,’ he whispers. ‘A danger to us all.’
His hand goes for his pistol. This is it. He won’t give me a chance to prove myself. I have to do it now – to catch him off-guard.
I paint my illusion.
It takes only a moment. I don’t have to hide an entire camp site. Just me. I conjure a mental image of my body and then I paint over it, layering wooden walls and silent air across my face, my limbs, my torso. I take the way my breath huffs dust in the air, and I replace it with silent threads of shadow. I erase myself. The illusion runs like liquid on my skin.
Hinrik lowers his gun.
He stares into the darkness, cold surprise upon his face. To him, it looks as though I’ve used a Darkness proclivity to melt into the shadows.
My illusion is strong. It doesn’t flicker, or threaten to fade. When we left Rourton, I could barely stretch an illusion for a few seconds – but now, weeks of practice have honed my skills. And I’ve just spent half the night practising: vanishing and reappearing, sloshing illusions back and forth across my limbs.
Illusionism is a rare skill, even in Taladia. Do illusionists even exist in Víndurn? I don’t know. Either way, it doesn’t occur to Hinrik that I might possess such a talent.
I suddenly realise that I’m a good liar, in my own way. I might not lie well with words, like Teddy, but I can lie to people’s eyes. I can create a lie out of the air and spin it like silk. After all, what else would you call an illusion?
When Hinrik’s gun is lowered all the way to the floor, I drop my concentration. The illusion shatters and I melt back into visibility. His eyes widen a little when he sees me, but there is no longer disgust or fear in that gaze. Instead, I see … respect?
Hinrik thrusts his pistol into his belt. ‘Your proclivity is Darkness,’ he says. ‘As this is ethereal, you are permitted to live in the spires.’ He opens his hands wide. ‘Welcome to the ranks of the highborn souls.’
I stare at him. The weight of it hangs between us: an awkward twist in the air. I take a deep breath, then force myself into a very low bow.
‘I’m honoured by your generosity, sir,’ I say. ‘And I thank you for your kind welcome. But …’
I glance across at my friends, waiting by the door. Teddy. Clementine. Maisy. Lukas. The thought of leaving them, of heading off alone into the spires of that unknown city …
‘If it’s permitted, sir,’ I say. ‘I’d like to stay here.’
Hinrik looks as though I’ve slapped him. His hands have fallen low again, and I have a terrible feeling that he’s reconsidering the pistol. But then he takes a slow breath and raises an eyebrow.
‘Despite your foreign birth, you are being offered a position of great honour and luxury among our people. You shall live in our spires. Feast at our banquets. This very week, you may even attend the Ball of No Faces. Do you dare to turn it down – to reject our generosity?’
I swallow. ‘I didn’t mean any offence, sir. I’m deeply honoured by your offer. But my friends …’
‘You would choose a bunch of commoners with low proclivities over the honour and prestige of life in the spires?’ Hinrik’s stare is now a glare, and I hear the tightness beneath each word.
I bow my head. ‘If it’s permitted, sir.’
Hinrik is silent for a long moment. I risk raising my eyes a little to check his expression. His lips are pursed and his eyes are narrowed. No matter how this decision goes, I’ve deeply insulted the magistrate.
Good going, Danika. My first few minutes as an official Víndurnic, and I’ve already made an enemy of one of the most important men in the land.
I can’t bring myself to look at my friends. Instead, I stare at my feet and strain to keep my breathing steady. Why doesn’t Hinrik say anything? Why is he just standing there, silent, as though waiting for –
‘Very well.’ Hinrik’s tone is so sharp you could use it as a climbing pick. ‘If you wish to denigrate yourself, and insult the honour of the high proclivities …’
I look up just in time to see him turn away, clicking his fingers for the guards to follow. My friends scurry aside as they stride through the doorway, Hinrik bringing up the rear.
As he reaches the door, the magistrate pauses. He spins back around to face me, silhouetted against the pale morning light.
‘Your ingratitude has been … noted.’
And then he’s gone: a swirl of cloak into the grey.
I stare after him, a little shaky. I have made an enemy. An enemy who considers it demeaning to reject his offer. Not just demeaning for myself, but for all those with ethereal proclivities. A rejection. An insult. An affront to Hinrik himself.
Perhaps he’ll seek to stop me living in the village.
Or to stop me living at all.
We’re each allotted a coloured cloak: brown for Teddy, crimson for Maisy, tan for Lukas and white for Clementine. Thanks to my supposed ‘Darkness’ proclivity, my own cloak is black. When I slip it on, pockets of warmth rub like fingers down my spine.
‘Once your proclivities are tested,’ Bastian says, ‘keep your cloaks with you. The law says you’ve got to wear your colours. Got it?’
Clementine scowls at her cloak’s stark white, and I hear her mutter something to Maisy about it ‘washing her out’. But Bastian is already striding from the cabin, so we stumble into our boots in an effort to follow him.
We cross rickety chain bridges, balance upon platforms, and poke our noses into various cabins. The grain stores, the blacksmith’s cabin, the kitchen. I can’t help but peep over the railing, scouring the forest below for signs of movement. But the trees are still, and the undergrowth is silent. No sign of the hunter.
‘Danika, he’s dead,’ Lukas says gently, noticing my tension. ‘He couldn’t have known to climb into the trees at midnight.’
I nod. He’s right, of course, but still I’m unsettled
.
The kitchen squats near the centre of the village, its walls lined with pipes and cooking fires. There are racks of spices and alchemical juices used to scorch different tastes into the food. Back in Rourton, I heard rumours of richie chefs hiring alchemists to achieve such effects, but the food was deemed too unstable for public consumption. It’s strange to think that here, in Víndurn, even the poorest villagers can afford such alchemy.
I watch the cook pour a vial of bronze smoke into the flame. It spits up a waft of warm scents, like freshly roasted apples – the same flavour that enhanced our porridge this morning. These people might be poor, but they’re not starving. Their diet seems mostly limited to grains and beans, perhaps with wild nuts and berries if they can find them, but a whiff of alchemical smoke turns even the plainest fare into a feast. Compared to an alleyway in downtown Rourton, this is a life of luxury.
Next, we venture into the stable. It’s a massive wooden treehouse with Bastian’s foxhawk roped inside. When I peer around the doorway, I’m met with the glare of a beady yellow eye.
‘Each clan is entitled to two sólfoxes,’ Bastian says. ‘One for work, you see, and one for urgent communication with the city.’
Sólfox. It takes me a moment to realise this must be the Víndurnic word for ‘foxhawk’. I roll the word over in my mind, determined to remember it. If we’re going to settle here, we need to fit in – and that means getting the details right.
‘Where’s your second one, then?’ Teddy says.
Bastian’s face tightens. With a lurch, I remember Tindra’s fatal flight above the rocks. That must have been the clan’s second sólfox – as dead and broken as the girl who rode it.
As we explore the treetop village, I keep an eye on the passing locals. Most are native Víndurnics, with the same pale skin and black hair as Tindra. But others share Bastian’s dark colouring, and a few heads sprout hair of pale white or scruffy ginger. People from a dozen lands, drawn here by Lord Farran’s stories.
‘There are many villages like this on the mountainside,’ Bastian says. ‘And countless more down in the fields behind us. The lower villagers build their houses upon stilts, see? To save them from the curse of midnight.’ He pauses. ‘When Lord Farran came to Víndurn, this land had very few citizens. Most people had left, I’d say, because of the dangers of the earth. But thanks to Lord Farran, we have enough workers to make this nation great. Some folk are farmers, growing grain and fruit to trade. Some are hunters. And some …’ He shrugs. ‘Some of us trade firestones.’
‘Firestones?’ I say.
Bastian nods. ‘We find them in the fields and forests, beneath the rocks and the soil. A decent stone is worth enough to feed the clan for a fortnight.’
‘Who buys them?’ Teddy says.
‘Stonetraders,’ Bastian says. ‘They work for Lord Farran, up in the city market. Selling firestones is one of the few times we’re permitted to enter the city. Lord Farran uses them in his experiments, see? Up on Skyfire Peak, to save us from the boiling earth.’
‘Could we come with you, sir?’ I say. ‘To see the city, I mean?’
Bastian turns, a hard look in his eyes. ‘Changed your mind already, lass? Fancy going to live in the spires?’
‘What? No!’ I shake my head. ‘I’m curious, that’s all. We’ve landed in the middle of this whole new culture, and we don’t know a lot about it.’
Bastian stares at me for a moment longer, then nods. ‘I’m heading up to the city tomorrow to trade the firestone that you found yesterday. It’s only low grade, but it’s the best we’ve found in weeks.’
‘And we can come? Sir?’ I add hastily.
Bastian shrugs. ‘Normally I’d take a sólfox, but I suppose I could hike for a change. Never hurts to stretch these old legs.’
As the day wears on, I begin to decipher the workings of the village. Although everyone has a low proclivity, there are various ranks and roles. People with Earth or Water proclivities, like Bastian, work as firestone scouts. They scour the nearby landscape for stones, and use their powers to pry the bounty from the ground.
Those with Flame proclivities, like Maisy, tend to work in the kitchen or the blacksmith’s cabin. And when they’ve proven themselves trustworthy, I suspect that Lukas and Teddy will be given charge of the sólfox stable.
But some proclivities are useless in this treetop society. If Clementine develops something like Dust or Reptile, she’ll face a life of mindless labour: scrubbing floors, washing dishes and hauling sacks of grain. And as for me …
Well, I’m lucky to have a life at all.
Meals are shared in the kitchen, under the eyes of the villagers. We eat bowls of steaming rice and nuts, finished with roseberries. No one speaks to me, but I spot a few nervous glances at the back of my neck. Víndurnics, it seems, don’t give their trust away easily. They hoard it carefully, as precious as firestones.
‘They still think you’ve got a temporal proclivity,’ Lukas whispers.
I force myself to shrug, trying to look casual. ‘They’ll see I’m not dangerous soon enough.’
‘And hey,’ Teddy says, through a bulging mouthful, ‘at least they’ve got some different flavours. I’ve had enough apricot syrup for a lifetime.’
In the afternoon, we’re allocated our first jobs. Maisy stokes the blacksmith’s fire, while Lukas is sent to harvest nuts from the forest. The rest of us work in the kitchen.
Since dinner isn’t for hours, we have the room to ourselves. I use the chance to practise my illusion skills. I try concealing a hand, or changing the colour of my hair. I force myself to hold each illusion for longer and longer – even up to five minutes, with a sheen of sweaty concentration.
‘Geez, Danika,’ Teddy says, noting my exhaustion. ‘You look like a guard’s been chasing you all over Rourton.’
I blow out a hard breath. ‘An illusion just saved my life, Teddy – and not for the first time.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘I’ve got to keep practising.’ I hoist a sack of grain onto the scales. ‘No excuses. Not any more. If I’ve got an advantage, I’m damn well going to use it properly. What if it’s the difference between life and death?’
Teddy frowns, but doesn’t argue. We wait for the scale to measure the grain, and I paint my hands into a mirage of glinting glass.
‘Very nice,’ Clementine says.
I look up at her, a little surprised. The others take my illusions for granted now; no one ever comments on my performance. But Clementine is studying the skim of magic closely, with a faint smile on her lips.
‘It’s just an illusion,’ I say.
‘Yes, but it looks stronger than usual.’
I glance back down at my hands. The ripple of unnatural air does seem a little more solid than usual. A thicker sort of brushstroke on my flesh.
We peel potatoes and wash a sack of nutty brown rice, while Teddy volunteers for peanut duty. This is supposed to involve shelling the nuts to cook with the rice, but in Teddy’s case it includes ‘accidentally’ flicking bits of peanut shell in Clementine’s direction.
‘Stop it!’ she hisses, swatting at the air.
‘Sorry.’ Teddy grins. ‘Too powerful, I reckon. Don’t know my own strength.’
Another chunk of peanut shell goes flying.
Clementine raises her paring knife. ‘If one more piece of peanut gets stuck in my hair, Teddy Nort, you’ll have cause to worry about a different kind of nu–’
At that moment, Annalísa strides into the kitchen. Clementine drops her threat mid-word and looks quickly back down at her potatoes, flustered. I’m surprised to see the richie girl cowed so easily. Clearly, I’m not the only one to remember Annalísa’s words last night.
‘Well, my dears, I see you’re all still here.’ She gives me a hard look. ‘I had hoped for happier news.’
I’m tempted to snap back at her – ‘Sorry to disappoint you’, perhaps – but I bite my tongue. I can’t afford to antagonise these people, and esp
ecially not the ones who’ve already classified me as an enemy.
‘What is your proclivity, then?’ Annalísa says.
‘Beast,’ Teddy says cheerfully, before I have a chance to say anything. ‘And by the way, you’ve got a serious rat infestation in the –’
‘I was not talking to you, boy.’
Teddy raises an eyebrow. ‘Huh. Didn’t know you were running a deliberate rodent sanctuary. Real nice of you, I reckon – giving those rats a warm spot to kip.’
Annalísa ignores him. Her eyes are fixed on me. All I want is for her to leave us alone, so I figure it’s best to give her what she wants.
‘Darkness,’ I say.
Her gaze doesn’t flicker. ‘That is an ethereal proclivity. Why are you down here, instead of up in the spires?’
‘Because I wanted to share my life with –’
‘A bunch of rats?’ Teddy suggests.
‘With my friends,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want to leave my friends behind.’
Annalísa flinches, and I know instantly I’ve said the wrong thing. Her fury is physical now: a clenching in her muscles, a tightness in her eyes. I know what she’s thinking. You left my daughter behind.
But she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even nod. She turns stiffly and strides from the room. When she reaches the exit, her shadow lingers just a moment too long on the wall. As though she’s waiting behind to hear our whispers.
Waiting to catch us in a lie.
When night falls, we settle down to sleep. It’s a different feeling from last night. There’s no fear, no dread, no tightness in my chest. Just the exhaustion of a long day’s labour.
I’m dozing off when Lukas touches my shoulder. I blink, startled, and almost cry out before I recognise him in the shadows. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he whispers. ‘There’s something I want to show you, down below.’
‘Down on the ground?’ I hesitate. ‘Is it safe?’
‘It’s still hours until midnight,’ Lukas says, offering me my cloak. ‘I promise we’ll be back before the earth starts boiling.’
Skyfire Page 8
