Skyfire

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘Water?’

  Maisy nods. ‘She used to play with us in our manor’s courtyard. We had an ornamental pond, you see, with a fountain. We’d give her requests, and she’d carve sculptures out of water – trees, animals, flowers. They only lasted for a moment, of course, but I remember how they shone. She was an artist, you know. A designer. Until …’

  I nod my understanding, my throat tight. The twins lost their mother to the same bombing that killed my own family.

  ‘Clementine was an artist too, until it happened.’ Maisy smiles sadly. ‘You’d never guess it, would you? She used to paint. The most beautiful paintings …’ She trails into silence.

  ‘My mother’s proclivity was Daylight,’ I say. ‘She woke us every morning by pulling strands of light onto our faces. Hated it at the time, mind you – I wanted to keep sleeping. But I’d give anything, I think, to wake like that again.’

  A breeze blusters down the slope, coaxing the grass into ruffles.

  ‘Are we doing the right thing, Danika?’

  I don’t respond. In all honesty, I don’t know. We’re about to meet the man whose bombs killed both our mothers. The man who sent fire blasting from the sky across our city. And yet here we are, risking our lives to warn him of his enemy’s plans.

  ‘Part of me … part of me wants to see him lose.’ Maisy glances at me. ‘Does that make me a terrible person?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But we’re not doing it for him, Maisy. We’re doing it for them.’ I gesture down at the mass of tents. ‘That’s what makes us different from him, isn’t it? Him and Farran both, really.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maisy says. ‘Of course.’

  Even so, her eyes remain fixed on the blue below. By the time the others return, we’ve settled back into awkward silence. I flick my gaze back up from the lake, and offer what I hope is a confident smile.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to slip through the soldiers,’ Clementine says. ‘I doubt the king camps near the front of his army. He’ll have a tent near the back, surely? Something lavish and safe.’

  Lukas nods. ‘Sounds like my father.’

  ‘How are we gonna reach it, then?’ Teddy says.

  I glance at the sky. The sun has begun to inch downwards. Many of Lord Farran’s troops will be riding sólfoxes, just like us. In another few hours, they could be upon us. And when he brings out his firestones, inoculated against the Valley’s magnetic field …

  ‘No idea,’ I say, ‘but we’d better hurry.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Teddy says. ‘Gotta get in and out before the battle starts.’

  No one mentions that getting ‘out’ may be considerably more difficult than getting ‘in’.

  ‘Let’s keep moving,’ Lukas says. ‘We might think of something when we’re close enough to see.’

  My limbs are still shaky, and my feet don’t want to cooperate now that I’m back on solid ground. I feel as though my calves are knitted from wool, not flesh and bone. But we have to walk, so walk we do. The water glints below, a mirror for the icy sky. It seems too peaceful for war.

  My fingertips still sting from last night’s climb, and my shoulder aches from the grope of Annalísa’s fingers in my wound. I count off a rhythm, a step at a time, to distract myself. One step, two.

  And sure enough, the rhythm soon provides a drumbeat for a tune. The smugglers’ song runs through my head: a rhythmical beat of clues and secrets.

  Oh mighty yo,

  How the star-shine must go …

  It seems so obvious, now, that the whole song – not just the third verse – is the story of the prisoner. Of Lord Farran. A man with a smattering of stars on his neck, who chased those distant deserts of green …

  Now here I am, also bearing the mark of star-shine. And I’m here in the Valley, about to throw my life away. So much for the hope we once found in those words.

  Oh frozen night,

  How the dark swallows light …

  I think of the hulk of Midnight Crest. Blackened foundations, broken walls. Just the bones of stone, its wooden skin burned away centuries ago when its captives broke free.

  Lord Farran was one of them. I think of his words to Lukas last night: ‘The first time they tried to kill me, your ancestors left me to freeze.’

  And the song takes on another meaning. Frozen night. Those lines about Midnight Crest weren’t a clue to help us find our way – they just described another feather in Lord Farran’s cap. Another reference to his fight against the Morrigans.

  I remember how Midnight Crest once inspired us: how it motivated us to fight back and destroy the airbase. My stomach sinks. The man who burned that fortress down was just another monster. And even now, three hundred years later, he and the Morrigans are still playing their little game. Like scruffers in a Rourton alley, betting their coins on a toss of marbles.

  And never mind those who die in the crossfire.

  As we approach the army camp, the sun hovers low in the sky. Our trek has taken longer than I’d hoped; it must be four o’clock, maybe five. We hide behind a cluster of boulders, about fifty metres up the slope.

  The camp squats on a flattish area near the shore. It looks haphazard: a splotch of tents here, another there. The air stinks of foxaries, camp fires, unwashed bodies and an open sewage pit. King Morrigan must have summoned his troops on short notice – no time to worry about hygiene.

  Wasn’t this Lord Farran’s plan? To force Taladia to defend itself without warning, leaving its forces in a flustered panic? As far as I know, most of King Morrigan’s soldiers have been fighting on other fronts, striving to expand the Taladian empire. It must have taken all his alchemical machinery – all his carriages, wagons and trains – to drag them here in the space of days.

  There’s a constant undercurrent of noise: clanking metal, shouts, crackling camp fires, hammers and axes and the ring of steel. Some of the soldiers practise with their swords, pressing metal blades to each other’s throats. I can’t make out their faces from here, but I can read the terror in their posture.

  These aren’t soldiers. They’re kids. Conscripted at eighteen from cities like Rourton. They’ve probably never held a sword before in their lives, and they’re about as good at using them as Teddy would be at baking decorative cupcakes.

  ‘It’s chaos,’ Lukas says, aghast. ‘What on earth was my father thinking?’

  ‘That’s not thinking,’ Teddy says. ‘That’s panic.’ He shakes his head. ‘Better to use a smaller force, I reckon, than a massive one you can’t control.’

  A few months ago, I’d have been gleeful to see King Morrigan make such a monumental mistake. But now, I don’t feel glee. I just feel sick. It won’t be the king who suffers for his blunder, but those boys and girls on the battlefield.

  ‘What d’you reckon Farran’ll do next?’ Teddy says. ‘Once he’s beaten this lot, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I say. ‘Go into Taladia, I suppose. Take control.’

  ‘You don’t think … you don’t suppose that could be a good thing?’ Clementine hesitates. ‘I mean, he can’t be any worse than King Morrigan, can he?’

  ‘He kills people based on their proclivity,’ I say. ‘We’d just be swapping one tyrant for another. And in the meantime, a hell of a lot of people are going to die.’

  On the outskirts of the camp, a few nervous soldiers are fitting arrows to their bows. Their hands shake, and the arrows simply flop to the ground when they try to shoot.

  ‘Yes,’ Clementine says. ‘I suppose so.’

  I turn to the others. ‘Look, we can’t stand here watching all night. We’ve got to warn King Morrigan about the firestones. Get him to pull his army back into the borderlands. If these soldiers can use magic, at least they’ll have a chance. And if Lord Farran loses his advantage, maybe he’ll fall back too, and no one has to die.’

  ‘What about us?’ Clementine says. ‘How are we supposed get out again?’

  ‘We’ll fi
gure it out when the time comes.’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Can’t go in dressed like this, though.’ Teddy gestures at our Víndurnic cloaks. ‘I reckon they’d shoot us on sight.’ He glances down at the soldiers fumbling with their arrows, then says, ‘Well, stab us.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘We need a disguise.’

  The last time we snuck into a Taladian army camp, we wore the uniforms and identity cards of a squad of dead soldiers. It was Radnor who murdered them, just to steal their uniforms. But we aren’t Radnor. And we’re here to save these soldiers, not kill them.

  Besides, the day is still bitterly cold. As afternoon fades to evening, it will only get worse. Without our cloaks, we might be too cold and stiff to defend ourselves in an emergency.

  ‘We’re going about this the wrong way,’ Lukas says. ‘We don’t have a lot of time. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to sneak inside.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Teddy says. ‘What else are we supposed to do?’

  ‘We declare ourselves.’

  Silence.

  Lukas straightens, his shoulders back. His green eyes glint in the afternoon light and – just for a moment – he resembles the prince he was born to be. Lukas Morrigan: heir to the throne of Taladia.

  ‘We declare ourselves,’ he says, ‘and we demand to be taken to the king.’

  King Morrigan’s tent is tall and plush, with velvet flaps and poles of rich mahogany. It squats right in the centre of the camp. A few foxaries doze outside, chained to a wooden post. The scent of roast duck wafts in the breeze, and I can just make out sharp voices inside.

  At the entrance stands a pair of guards, resplendent in cloaks of shining gold. With a start, I recognise those cloaks from the catacombs: the elite squadron of guards who imprisoned Lukas in the Pit. Goldies. It must be their job to guard the most important prisoners – or, in this case, to defend the King of Taladia himself.

  ‘What is it?’ one snaps.

  The lieutenant who guides me tightens his grip on my shoulder. I wince a little, the wound still inflamed from Annalísa’s fingernails. ‘Prisoners, sir,’ he says. ‘For the king.’

  The goldie nods. ‘You may seek permission from His Majesty.’

  The lieutenant swivels to face one of his sergeants. ‘You! Take word to the king.’

  The sergeant – a pudgy little man in his twenties – hurries forth into the billowing crimson tent. He skirts past the foxaries with a nervous twitch, before the tent flaps shut behind him.

  We wait in silence. The lieutenant’s breath is hot against my neck. I’d hoped King Morrigan’s tent might lie further up the slope, high above the commoners. High enough to slip away without a fuss if we could only escape his wrath.

  But instead, we stand amid a sea of soldiers. Tents and fires, shouts and smoke. There will be no easy escape. We’ve already drawn a hundred suspicious glances, just walking through the camp to reach this tent.

  The voices inside fall silent. There’s a long pause, then the sergeant bursts through the flap, his eyes wide as he beckons for us to enter.

  ‘Come on, come on! His Majesty wants to see you right away.’

  I look at Lukas. His face is tight, with just the barest flicker of fear in his eyes. I fight a sudden urge to slip my hand into his and squeeze it. I want to tell him: This man isn’t your family. We are.

  But to take his hand would be to take a risk. It would reveal personal information to the soldiers around us – and the less they know, the better. If we’re to end up in King Morrigan’s clutches …

  ‘Hurry up.’ The lieutenant shoves me in the back and I stumble forward, towards the gaping maw of the tent flap. There’s a flurry of fabric and a confused moment of darkness, before I step into the light within.

  Since alchemy can’t be risked in the Valley, the tent is lit by the golden glow of candles. A banquet table sits at the centre of the space, topped by sheaves of paper, maps, pens, books and the mutilated remains of a roast duck. Lukas twitches beside me, and I think suddenly of his Bird proclivity.

  Then my eyes travel up from the table to the shadows behind it, and all thoughts of Lukas’s magic are wiped from my mind. Because there he is. The man who killed my family. The man who conscripts our youth, bombs our cities and sends hunters through the wilderness to slay us.

  I’ve seen his picture before – a family portrait in Lukas’s room at the airbase – but the portrait was seventeen years out of date. Those years have changed him. Aged him. His thick black hair is speckled with white and grey. Heavy bags squat under his eyes and loose skin hangs around his lips and forehead. I remember what Lord Farran said about the king’s proclivity being Stone. He does look a bit like a craggy old boulder.

  But the eyes … those Morrigan eyes are a startling green. As young and vibrant as Lukas’s. My throat tightens, disturbed by the resemblance.

  This is it. It’s as though I’ve spent my whole life, in some way, awaiting this moment. This man ordered the bombing. This man killed my family. I could leap forward now, I could go for his throat, I could plunge my fingernails into his eyes and –

  No. What would that achieve? The deaths of my friends and chaos in the army camp. Lord Farran’s forces will be upon us soon, and killing King Morrigan would mean killing the Taladian army’s hope of survival. These soldiers would be leaderless, and death would come for us all. I dig my fingernails into my palms, and force myself to keep still.

  The king’s eyes fall squarely upon Lukas.

  There’s a moment of silence. No, not just silence. It’s heavier than that. Like the air itself is holding its breath, clamping down upon my lungs.

  ‘Leave us,’ King Morrigan says.

  The soldiers bow and obey. There’s a flush of daylight as they push through the tent flap, and then the fabric slaps us back down into shadow.

  The king steps forward. I sense the tension in Lukas’s body. I want to do something. Anything. I can’t stand feeling so powerless. But this is a moment for the Morrigans: the father and the son. It’s not my place to interfere.

  Not yet, anyway.

  ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’ The king’s voice is clipped. Cold. ‘I had reports you were imprisoned in the catacombs. You should have drowned.’

  Lukas takes a shaky breath. ‘Well, I didn’t. Sharr did.’

  The king’s expression tightens. ‘Your cousin was a better royal than you ever –’

  ‘Sharr wanted to kill you and take the throne,’ Lukas says. ‘You might think you were her beloved old uncle, but she –’

  ‘She was loyal to her nation!’ King Morrigan spits. ‘She would never have sabotaged her own family’s plans to –’

  ‘To start another war?’

  ‘To finish one.’ The king steps forward, fists balled. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Lukas? Do you have any idea what you and your little friends –?’

  ‘We stopped a war.’

  ‘A war of self-defence! I’ve spent my entire life defending Taladia. I built up this country’s empire, its strength, the obedience of its people … all in preparation for this day. There have been sacrifices, of course – but they were necessary, Lukas! We had to strike first. The man who rules Víndurn is –’

  ‘The prisoner. We know.’ Lukas runs a hand through his hair, his muscles still clenched with tension. ‘Father, we’re not here to argue with you. We’re here to warn you.’

  The king pauses. His eyes are still alight with fury, but he manages to force his quivering fists back down to his sides. He takes a low breath. ‘About what?’

  ‘We’ve been to Víndurn,’ Lukas says. ‘We know what the prisoner is up to. He’s calling himself “Lord Farran” now, and –’

  The king shakes his head. ‘This isn’t news to me, boy. The treacherous fool was a lord of our ancestor’s court before he threw it all away.’

  ‘Before our ancestor locked him in Midnight Crest?’ Lukas says.

  ‘Don’t you dare feel sorry for him,
’ King Morrigan snaps. ‘Farran was there at the forefront of alchemy, in the wake of the Alchemical Renaissance itself. But he was a traitor. He refused to pay his duty to his king, and he sold royal secrets to his filthy smuggler friends. Farran never cared for anyone but himself.’

  ‘Well, that’s why we came to warn you,’ Lukas says. ‘Whatever our differences might be, I don’t want all these soldiers to die.’ He stares at his father, a sudden choke in his voice. ‘Enough people have died already because of our family.’

  ‘You’re no family of mine, boy,’ King Morrigan says. ‘Not any more. You gave up that right when you threw in your lot with these –’ He glances at the rest of us, a sneer upon his lips – ‘these scruffers.’

  Clementine stiffens at the slur, but has the sense to keep her mouth shut.

  ‘You say people have died,’ King Morrigan goes on, ‘but all I’ve done has been to protect this nation. You would let our kingdom fall before you would –’

  ‘Slaughter my own people?’

  ‘It was for the good of Taladia!’ The king points at his son, gold rings gleaming in the candlelight. ‘You can’t win safety without sacrifice.’

  His words spark a memory. What did Silver say, when she spoke of creating the alchemy bombs? ‘I invented terrible things … Things I convinced myself were necessary, things for the greater good.’

  ‘Your mother!’ I blurt. ‘She knew about Lord Farran, didn’t she? She invented those bombs to defend Taladia – not to blast the hell out of innocent cities.’

  Morrigan turns, taken aback that a mere scruffer would dare speak to him. ‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But rebellion must be punished, and weapons must be tested. Why not kill two birds with one stone?’

  I stiffen. ‘Tested?’

  Lukas grabs my arm, silently begging me to shut up. But my fury is tighter than his fist, and my next words explode like a geyser: ‘Tested? You killed my parents, my brother, just to test how your bombs worked on cities? You stand there and tell me –’

  ‘I saved our nation,’ King Morrigan says coldly. ‘I would do anything to keep Farran at bay. I’m not the one in this tent who betrayed Taladia.’