Skyfire

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  I stand in silence, touching the Hourglass. Its glow has dimmed, and I can bear to look directly now. The light is inside me, churning. Mine, if only for a moment longer. I feel its power. I feel its strength.

  Beside it, a figure cowers in the gloom.

  Lord Farran. For a moment, I almost feel pity. With the power of the Hourglass, I could snatch his life away in a moment. He seems so weak, suddenly. So pathetic. Just a shrivelled old man, waiting for his stolen years to run out.

  He grabs the pistol.

  Farran aims so fast that I barely have time to think. The metal barrel glints towards my face. His finger tightens on the trigger and –

  I wipe him clean.

  It’s a jerk, an instinct. A desperate reaction. As easy as plucking an apple from a tree. I reach out and pull, sucking the time and years and life from his body. I cup that life in my palms, as warm and watery as the light itself.

  Lord Farran crumples. His body jerks: once, twice. Then he begins to dissolve, to melt, to fall into dust. Hundreds of years of decomposition, compressed into a single moment. A body that should have rotted long ago.

  And finally … silence.

  My stomach churns. I cling to the years that I ripped from Lord Farran: a ball of unnatural light in my fingers. A ball of stolen life. There’s time here. The final dregs of those three centuries, wrenched into his bones on the night the prison burned …

  Lukas’s charm sparks. It’s hot. Shining. Alive.

  I know what to do.

  I take a shaky breath. I bring my hands together. One fistful of silver: the imprint of a life taken too soon. And one fistful of light: the final dregs of Farran’s time, ripped from a man who lived for centuries.

  The time melts into Lukas’s charm, as bright as star-shine.

  I flee the Crest on the back of my sÓlfox, the feather charm clutched tight in sweaty fingers. I can feel it humming. Stinging. It burns with the light that I pushed into its metal: hot with the glow of stolen time. Time that melts through the remains of Lukas’s magic …

  But already, I feel the light leaching away.

  Come on, I urge the sólfox. Faster, faster!

  How long do I have? The charm isn’t built to hold more than one type of magic, and it won’t preserve this stolen time for long. Even now, I can feel it dissolving. Drips of light roll away from the charm: floating, fading. I try to snatch for them, to push them back, but they melt at my touch like snowflakes.

  The wind whips my face, the night lashes my skin, the cold and the frost sting like fire. I clutch the reins until I can’t feel my fingers.

  I don’t care. I grit my teeth, and we fly. I’m terrified of losing my grip on the charm: this tiny silver feather, with its spark of Lukas’s soul and its spark of stolen life. I shan’t waste my good life, I must follow my knife …

  We careen over the mountains, over the Knife. We dip beneath clouds and rise upon the wind. We pass through a whirl of snow and I bury my face into the creature’s neck, using fur and muffled breaths to shield my eyes.

  The mountains fade behind us, and the borderlands roll out below. Rivers, islands, the lagoon. They lie shadowed beneath me, lit only by the faintest shine of moonlight. There are smuggler boats down there, and bristling trees, and water that churns with tainted magic. But I don’t care. All I care about is the lake at its edge, and the body that lies upon its southern shore.

  And suddenly, I see it. The broken dam. The Valley beyond.

  I yank the reins and we plummet downwards. The feather charm is still warm in my hands, still alive. Is there enough time left in the charm to save him? All I need is a few minutes. A few precious minutes to keep him alive while I heal his wounds …

  I land in a jumble of feathers and cries. There are shouts, screams, grasping arms. My friends surround me, crying out, sobbing.

  ‘Danika! You’re –’

  ‘How did –?’

  ‘Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Did –?’

  But I have eyes for only one person. Lukas lies where I left him, lifeless in the cold. Someone has cleared the ground around him, removed the rubbish and debris to honour his body in death. But I don’t want to mourn him.

  I want him back.

  And so I rip open his shirt, ignoring the startled cries behind me. I press the feather charm upon his chest. He’s cold. So cold. I push the charm down with shaking hands, suddenly aware of the tears in my eyes and on my cheeks.

  The metal shines. The silver flares, as his proclivity recognises the body it came from. The last drops of light leak away from the charm and into Lukas’s skin. They dissolve into his flesh like drops of dye into fabric. They flash as they sink into his veins. Then they’re gone, and I’m left with my hands upon a lifeless body.

  I realise I’m shaking. Not just my hands now, but my entire body. This can’t be. This can’t be. It has to work. Lukas has to pull through. He has to –

  With a violent gasp, his lungs inflate.

  And I know we’re going to make it.

  We sit in silence, watching as Lukas’s breath grows stronger. I heal his wounds with the silver bone charm, but I don’t speak. I barely breathe. I just sit there, shaking, and let the last few hours of terror melt into memory.

  Maisy tends to my cuts and scratches. She uses the charm to heal my shoulder and we even salve our fingertips, which still throb a little after Skyfire Peak. It seems so extravagant, somehow, to use such a powerful charm on minor injuries. But we must sit and wait for Lukas to recover, and so sit we do. The moonlight fades. The sky grows lighter.

  And one by one, we erase the wounds from our bodies.

  My proclivity fades as dawn unfolds. I hear noise in the distance, from the direction of the Valley. Shouts, clatters, voices. But I don’t think it’s the sound of fighting. It’s the sound of … dismantling. Of people taking charge, dealing with the wounded, burying the dead. The sound of a battle that was.

  My last memory of the Valley flashes into my head – Taladian soldiers bringing down their king. Soldiers sick of war, finally seizing control over their lives. Both countries’ leaders are dead, and the soldiers are just innocent conscripts.

  And now, I guess, the war is over.

  ‘What happens next?’ Clementine says, a little hoarse. I’ve just finished telling them about the Hourglass – about Lord Farran’s plan, and his death inside the mountain. ‘Lord Farran’s dead,’ she says. ‘King Morrigan’s dead …’

  No one answers.

  My gaze drifts across to Lukas. His eyes are open now, and I know he’s listening. He manages to raise his hand a little. I lean across to take it and we clutch each other’s fingers. The warmth in that hand – the life, the pulse, the flowing blood and living tissue – is enough to make my own breath stop. Just for a moment. There’s nothing but Lukas, and the life we’ve returned to him.

  ‘Hey, Lukas is the king now,’ Teddy says suddenly. ‘Wasn’t he heir to the throne?’

  He turns to Lukas with a silly grin, performs a fake bow, and spreads his hands in supplication. ‘Glory to His Majesty, King Lukas Morrigan of Taladia!’

  The twins laugh, but Lukas’s fingers stiffen. My own body tightens in response. I know Lukas doesn’t want to be king. I remember his words in the dark of our cell at Skyfire Peak. How he once dreamed of a better way. A way for people to choose their own leaders: for everyone to have a say. ‘If I became king … I think kingship’s the first thing I’d get rid of.’

  ‘You don’t have to take the crown,’ I say. ‘We’ll find another way.’

  Lukas nods. His eyes are a little clearer now, and his breathing strong. He wets his lips and swallows, then opens his mouth. ‘I’d like that.’

  His voice is barely a whisper, but I can hear it. Only hours ago, I thought I’d never hear that voice again. I tighten my grip on his fingers and close my eyes, scrunching back a surge of tears.

  ‘Hey, I’ll be king!’ Teddy says. ‘I’d be a damned good king, I reckon.’

&n
bsp; Clementine rolls her eyes. ‘Oh yes? And what would your first law be: a knighthood for every thief in Rourton?’

  ‘Hadn’t thought of that! Good idea. You can be my chief advisor.’ Teddy turns to Lukas. ‘Well, what d’you reckon? King Theodore Nort. Got a nice ring to it, I reckon.’

  Lukas shakes his head, a faint smile upon his lips.

  ‘Damn,’ Teddy says. Then he brightens. ‘Oh well, never mind. I’ve got another idea, anyway – a new business venture.’

  ‘Do I want to know?’ Clementine says.

  ‘Probably not.’

  Silence settles across the shore. It isn’t awkward, or cold. It’s just … comfortable. Warm. The silence of a group of friends sitting together in the light of dawn. I slouch forward, rest my head upon my knees and let the rising daylight play across the back of my neck.

  A breeze trips across the shore, swirling around our feet. I notice, for the first time, a tiny green shoot poking through the muck.

  After a while, Teddy turns to Lukas. ‘Hey, if you’re gonna ditch the king job,’ he says, ‘d’you mind doing one thing first?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Could you scrub my name off the Wanted list?’ Teddy grins. ‘I can’t run “Nort & Sons: Fine Bred Foxhawks” with every guard in Taladia gunning for my scalp.’

  The Valley is bright with sunlight.

  Our crew stands a little way up the slope, staring at the remains of the battlefield. We rest on mud and rock, as a thousand soldiers bustle and the water ripples below.

  As we descend into the crowd, I begin to see order in the chaos. Officers have gathered their soldiers into ranks. The troops work together – both Víndurnic and Taladian – to clean up the mess their leaders left behind. Blood and bodies. Broken tents and scorched canvas. The air stinks of death, and smoke still rises in tendrils.

  But despite it all, the daylight glints and the troops struggle on.

  The soldiers hesitate when they recognise Lukas. He’s a Morrigan. The enemy. I tense, prepared to leap to his defence.

  But then, one by one, they drop to their knees.

  Lukas stands tall, fighting against the weakness in his limbs. He holds his head high and he looks at his people, trying to hide the surprise in his eyes.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ says a soldier, his knees in the dirt. ‘We saw what you did. We saw you stand up to your father to save this fugitive.’

  His gaze flicks to my face, and I recognise him from the firing squad. I flinch, the image of his arrow flaring back into my mind. But then he gives a quiet nod of respect, and my stomach settles. He doesn’t plan to hurt me. Not any more.

  Lukas steps forward and holds out his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and his voice is regal. The voice of a boy who has been trained all his life for this moment. For now, at least, the voice of a king.

  ‘Rise,’ he says. ‘I don’t need you to bow to me.’

  The soldier hesitates, eyeing his comrades. Then they begin to stand. They stare at us: a wall of silent faces, pale and strained in the light of day. Some struggle to rise, but their comrades help them clamber to their feet.

  And then someone else recognises me.

  ‘Hey! Hey, it’s her!’

  I freeze. I feel my friends tense. The soldiers have decided Lukas is their new king … but do some still see me as their enemy? Am I still wanted? A traitor?

  ‘You were in my head!’

  I blink. The speaker is a girl of about eighteen, her Taladian uniform soaked with blood and grime. Her eyes are wide and she holds out her hands, quavering a little. ‘You were in my head, and you saved me. I don’t know what you did, but …’

  Other soldiers are gathering now. They mill about, pressing nearer, supporting wounded comrades as they hobble through the mud. People point and whisper.

  ‘She stopped it!’

  ‘There was a thing in my head, but she made it go away! I felt her. I swear, I felt –’

  ‘She saved us! She’s the one who –’

  I stare between them, my mouth as dry as sand. And one by one, I begin to recognise them. A boy from Rourton. A woman from Gunning. An old man from a Víndurnic village. Their faces aren’t the same as their souls, but there’s still something there. A connection. A faint curl of recognition, like the memory of a long-forgotten friend.

  A young man stumbles forward, a bloody gash across his cheek. He’s skinny as a snake, all knobbly knees and elbows, but I recognise his eyes beneath the muck. We once shared a camp fire, I think, and a conversation.

  ‘I know you.’ Private Mitcham stares at me, eyes wide. ‘You was at the catacombs.’

  I nod.

  ‘You tried to stop the war,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you?’

  I don’t know what to say.

  Private Mitcham’s mouth opens and closes, as though he’s trying to figure out his next words. ‘What happened last night? What’d you do … in our heads, I mean?’

  I hesitate. How much should I reveal? The Hourglass is a secret. It’s been hidden for centuries, buried beyond the reach of human greed. But these soldiers deserve to know the truth.

  ‘There was an alchemy charm,’ I say. ‘A man tried to use it to kill you.’

  ‘And it was you what stopped him?’

  ‘I …’ I glance back at my friends, then turn to face the soldiers. They cluster around me, their eyes wide, their clothes ragged and bloody in the daylight. ‘I suppose so. I mean … he’s dead now. It won’t happen again. In your heads, I mean. You won’t feel him there again, or –’

  I realise I’m babbling, but I’m too scared to shut up. Too scared to let the silence settle, or face the weight of their stares. The look in their eyes is almost like … reverence. It makes my muscles clench. I’ve spent my entire life being nothing, worthless. Scum on the streets, then a fugitive on the road. All these staring eyes are unsettling. Danger, my instincts shriek. Danger, danger …

  And, as one, the soldiers lower their heads.

  I stare at them, my insides twisting. I can’t remember how to breathe. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m just a scruffer from Rourton. Lukas must see the distress in my face, because he brushes my hand before he takes a step forward. The soldiers register the movement in their peripheral vision, and whip their heads back up to survey their king.

  ‘What are your orders, Majesty?’ says a nearby soldier.

  Lukas hesitates. He gazes around at the wounded faces and broken bodies. His eyes travel across burnt tents and bloodied ruins. He lets out a slow breath.

  ‘Heal,’ he says. ‘I want you to heal, and take care of each other. Tend to the wounded. Scrounge up whatever food and fresh water you can. We’ve got a long road ahead of us before everyone can get home.’

  ‘Home?’ The soldier looks startled. ‘The army barracks, you mean?’

  Lukas shakes his head. ‘No. I mean home. I’m sure you have people who miss you.’

  The soldiers all stare. They seem unsure how to respond. Their limbs are frozen, their eyes wide.

  ‘You didn’t ask to join this army,’ Lukas says. ‘And I think we’ve all had enough of war. Just rest, and care for each other.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘And if my memory serves me correctly,’ Lukas says, ‘my father’s treasury is heaving with coins.’ He gives a gentle smile. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be rewarded for your service. I won’t send you home to starve.’

  The soldiers are too stunned to speak.

  ‘Now,’ Lukas says. ‘Who’s in charge of the Víndurnic troops?’

  The soldier shrugs. ‘No one really, Majesty. Just people working together is all.’

  Private Mitcham raises his hand, looking nervous. ‘There’s a bloke in there what’s sort of organising stuff, Majesty,’ he says, pointing to a nearby tent. ‘Giving people jobs to do and that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lukas says. ‘We’d better pay him a visit.’

  The tent is humble, just dark grey canvas over a simple frame. Inside, figur
es stand around a table, rifling through sheets of paper. Víndurnic cloaks drape their shoulders, pulled back to give their arms space to move.

  Their leader’s voice is low and deep. When he looks up, he jerks in recognition. He’s bloody and scraped, his cloak hanging in a tattered fringe. Then he smiles: bright white teeth upon the brown of his skin.

  Bastian.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘And here I thought I’d imagined you poking around in my head.’ He looks at me, his expression shifting. ‘Is it over?’

  I nod, wetting my lips. ‘He’s gone.’

  Bastian gives a slow nod. ‘He wasn’t such a great leader, in the end. He never meant to save us.’ He pauses. ‘But I felt you, lass. I felt you drive him away.’

  I nod again, but do not speak.

  ‘Well, then,’ Bastian says, smiling, ‘that’s all for the best, I’d say. Perhaps you’re one of our people after all.’

  He extends his hands in greeting, and we all rush forward to accept his embrace.

  The day passes slowly. People share whatever rations they can gather – waterskins, biscuits, bags of oats. We give the healing charm to Bastian, who organises trips into Taladia to heal the wounded.

  Lukas rests upon a camp bed in one of the tents. He wants to help with the clean-up, but his body is too weak.

  ‘Just rest,’ I tell him. ‘You can help tomorrow.’

  Lukas protests, but finally sinks back onto the blanket. In moments, he is asleep.

  We burn the debris: sheets of canvas, broken tents. Many soldiers stare when I pass, visibly startled, as though they recognise me from a dream. As the day rolls on, these stares change into nods and bows, and I know the whispers must be spreading.

  But there’s too much work to worry about rumours. I’m a soldier too, in a way. Perhaps I’ve been one since my family died: fighting each day for the right to survive. All I can do is keep fighting, and help to erase these scars from the earth.

  The soldiers bury their dead on the slopes of the Valley, high above the waterline. As I traipse across the mucky slopes, I see that here, too, tiny green leaves are beginning to sprout.