by Amy Alward
I’m about to look away, when it happens. A shooting star. Except – it can’t be a shooting star, it’s way too close for that. But it was a bright point of light, moving faster than my eye could catch it, leaving just a streak of golden glitter in the air. There’s no sound, but I swear the hairs on the top of my head move ever so slightly in its wake.
‘What was that?’ I ask Zain.
He doesn’t answer, just squeezes my shoulders.
Another, and then another light shoots overhead, until suddenly there are too many to count. They’re all heading towards the Tree of Light.
The first light settles in the upper branches of the tree, and then it is joined by a swarm of others. They sparkle on the tree so that it looks on fire, the lights winking in and out.
In another breath, they change colour, switching from brilliant white to a piercing red in perfect synchronisation. But from our angle, I can see other things happening too. The crowd of lights above my head streaming towards the tree becomes thinner, so I can make out the individuals. They’re fairybugs, magical creatures with incredible powers.
Fairybugs – drawn to sadness, or to those who are about to receive bad news, sometimes seen in the delusions of those who drink too much psychedelic liquid or who are under the influence of drugs. Said to be brilliant muses for creativity, if they can be caught. The bright lights that they carry, sometimes confused for will-o-the-wisps, can illuminate any dark places, if given freely as a gift. The dust trails they leave behind can also cause levitation, if acquired in enough quantities.
The fairybugs are making the utmost effort to create a dazzling light show. From this angle, I can see that every now and then, one of the fairybugs will exhaust itself, falling from its place on the tree, and another will come and take its place so that not a beat is missed from the display. The tired bug is collected by some of its friends, who carry it back, over our heads, to wherever it is that they’ve come from.
I turn to Zain. ‘Do you know that they think that this happens in other places in the Wilds? Just not on a regular basis. Can you imagine coming across something like this in the Wilds, without expecting it? That’s why I’m so desperate to keep exploring. The Wilde Hunt just opened my eyes to all the wonders – and now I think I’m addicted.’
‘Sam, the great explorer,’ Zain says with a smile.
I grin back.
I’ve seen pictures of this phenomenon. I’ve even seen a docucast, which tried to bring it to life as vividly as possible. And yet, no medium can compare to seeing it with my own eyes.
Just as quickly as it begins, it’s over. The tree turns dark again. I can imagine everyone on the other side of the tree starting to walk away, back to their homes or hotels, but Zain and I stay put. We watch the now-extinguished fairybugs fly overhead, swarming through the night sky, lit only by the dim glow of the street lights.
‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ I tell Zain. ‘How did you know about this place?’
‘A lot of people know about it, but they want to see the main spectacle. They don’t want to see behind-the-scenes, the hard work of the fairybugs. But for some reason, I thought you would feel the same way as me. Seeing how hard it is for them . . . I know you appreciate that the best things don’t come easily.’
‘I do appreciate that. This is . . . this is beyond wonderful, Zain. I have no words.’
If I lived in Laville, I would be out here, on this bridge, every night. How do people resist it? But then I think about all the wonderful sights in Kingstown, sights that people travel from all around the world to see. The mermaid gathering practically on our doorstep. The prancing kelpies in High Park. Do I really appreciate what’s in my own backyard? I don’t think that I do. We become immune to the wonders on our doorstep.
Some people even complain that the Tree of Light is too much of a distraction in the centre of town. That magic performs strangely on the streets around it, so it’s not always a safe place for Talenteds. They complain that’s why they can’t wear glamoured clothing, because if the stability of the magic drops for a moment, all the glamour could unravel, leaving them ordinary and boring at best, and naked at worst. I think it serves them right for wearing totally glamoured clothes in the first place.
‘Wow, it’s great that we can get into Gergon tomorrow,’ Zain says, when the last of the fairybugs has disappeared overhead.
‘I know. I hope the Princess sticks to her word. And I hope forty-eight hours is enough time.’
‘Yeah, it feels like a long shot. And besides, a marriage to Prince Stefan could be a good thing for her.’
I pull back from him slightly. ‘What? I can’t believe you’re saying that. Evelyn doesn’t love Prince Stefan.’
‘I know that . . .’ He taps the railings with his fingers, deep in thought. ‘You haven’t known the Princess as long as I have, but she’s known about this requirement her whole life. She’s prepared for it. And yes, okay, she went to great lengths to avoid it, but it’s kind of part and parcel of the whole “being-a-Royal” thing. She’s always known it was the price of her power. She’s lucky to have you to help her stave off the decision with your stabilising potion. I don’t think she really recognises how lucky.’
‘You’re helping. She has you too,’ I mumble.
‘She had me her whole life– I couldn’t figure out a way to help her! No, you did that. She doesn’t give you nearly enough credit. You can’t help her forever. Eventually she knew she’d have to face up to this. That’s not your fault.’
‘It is my fault. If it wasn’t for Grandad, for Emilia . . .’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘You ask too much of yourself, Sam. You’re the most amazing girl I’ve ever met. Do you know that? But you can’t always be saving the world.’
Why not? I want to ask, but saying it out loud would make it sound stupid. I know I can’t save the world. But I do want to do my best to help my friend.
He lifts his hands up to my face and draws me towards him, entangling his fingers into my hair. Our lips meet, and all the worries that have built up into tight knots between my shoulder blades melt away.
A kiss – if it could be bottled, it would be the most potent cure . . . for sadness, for worries, for tension, for despair, for anger . . . maybe that’s the aqua vitae.
When we part, I look up into his eyes and smile.
‘I love you, Sam Kemi,’ he says.
‘I love you too, Zain Aster.’
I turn away from him, afraid that if I keep looking at him I’m going to cry. I look down at the ground, breathing deeply, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. When I open them again, I jump back in shock. There’s a fairybug fluttering in front of me.
And she’s staring at me, her tiny hands on her hips, giving me the darkest glare I’ve ever seen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Samantha
SHE SPEAKS TO ME, BUT the high-pitched squeaks make little sense. I wish I knew what she was saying. It seems to be urgent, and she spins a frustrated circle. Eventually, she rolls her eyes at me. Then she turns, removes a small light that is attached to her waist, and hands it to me. She gestures impatiently for me to put it in my bag. I do as she says. Then she puts her finger to her lips.
That much I understand. She flies away, as quickly as she appeared.
A feeling of dread creeps over me, and I pull Zain’s tuxedo jacket tighter around my shoulders.
Zain hasn’t noticed a thing, distracted by the sight of a narrow boat floating underneath the bridge.
‘Let’s go back to the party,’ I say. I tug at his shirt sleeve.
Then my phone rings and I jump.
‘What is it?’ Zain looks alarmed at my reaction.
I fish my phone out of my bag, and swallow hard as I see the name on the screen. Mum. She knows I’m at the ball (or supposed to be). She wouldn’t be calling unless it was absolutely necessary. Fairybugs appear to those about to receive bad news. I already feel my eyes prick with tears.
‘H
ey, are you going to answer that?’ Zain asks, softly.
I flip the phone open and try to keep my voice normal. It could be nothing. ‘Hi Mum!’ I say, as brightly as I can.
‘Hi Sam.’ Her tone confirms it. Bad news. The phone trembles against my ear. ‘I wouldn’t call but . . . it’s Grandad. He slipped into unconsciousness last night. We’re not sure if he’s going to recover.’
Now the tears fall freely down my face. Zain grips my free hand tightly. ‘Oh Mum, should I come home?’
‘I think it would be best. I hope the Princess doesn’t think you’re being rude . . .’
‘She’ll understand, I promise.’
Zain squeezes my hand again, and I look up into his eyes. They’re glassy too, as if he’s attempting to hold back tears. But looking at him jogs another memory. ‘ZA,’ I say.
‘What was that honey?’
‘ZA, ZoroAster . . . they said they have a new medication that’s just been approved that can help Grandad’s symptoms.’
‘I don’t know. He has the no-synth rule in place.’
‘The no-synth rule is for when there is a viable natural potions alternative. There isn’t in this case.’
Zain nods at me. It might just work. ‘My dad can get someone out there straight away,’ he whispers.
‘We can get Grandad the medication ASAP,’ I relay to Mum down the line. ‘At least mention it to his doctors. If we can do anything to help him . . . we should do it, right?’ I’m speaking so quickly, I don’t know if I’m making any sense.
‘I promise I’ll talk to the doctor about it,’ Mum says. Her voice has brightened a tiny bit, I’m sure of it. ‘We’ll see you soon.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I hang up the phone.
Zain grabs my arm. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the party. I can tell my dad to get ZA on the case and then we can arrange your transport back home.’
I slide my arm around Zain’s waist and pull him tight. He puts his arm over my shoulders, and wrapped up in each other, we speed-walk back towards the Palace – and the party. We find the security guard, who helps us slip back in.
It’s almost like we never left. Everyone is in a merry mood, laughing a little bit louder, their faces a little bit redder, eyes sparkling a little bit brighter. It seems like the ball is a great success.
‘Come on, I see him,’ Zain says. Zol is never hard to find, his imposing figure always surrounded by hangers-on.
The expression on Zol’s face moves from welcome surprise to concern. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Oh my, is this the lovely Samantha?’ Zain’s mum spins around on her heels, a wide smile on her face. It freezes in place when she registers my appearance. ‘Oh dear.’ Her hand flies to her mouth.
‘Mum, Dad, Sam needs your help. Her grandfather has taken a turn for the worse and . . .’
‘Say no more!’ Zol says. ‘I’ll have the medication out to the hospital this evening.’
‘Thank you,’ I stammer. It’s not exactly how I pictured my first meeting with both parents, but I can’t worry about what kind of impression I’m leaving. All I can think about is my grandad. ‘Now, I have to get home—’
Before I can continue, a waiter presses a glass into my hand, along with a little spoon. Then the entrance trumpets sound again, bright and cheerful, stopping me in my tracks. There’s no chance of me slipping out now.
An old man in full military dress stands at the front of the room, his hands outstretched. At his side is a tall, slender woman, at least three decades his junior. It’s the Pays president and his wife. She used to be a famous Pays actress – I’ve seen her in a few films from the time when Anita and I thought it made us uber cool to only watch movies in translation. It did expand our world view, but also taught us that bad movies can be made in any language. I want nothing more than to leave, but to do so now would just be to draw more attention to myself. I’m already getting evil glares just for breathing so loudly.
‘Ladies and gentleman,’ says the president, in a lightly accented voice. ‘Welcome to the Laville Ball!’
I can’t stop fidgeting with the urge to get away. I put down my glass and clap, but the sound of my hands is out of place as everyone else tinkles a spoon against the edge of their glass, creating a delicate noise throughout the room. Much more refined. Yet another faux pas of mine.
‘The Laville Ball has been a Pays tradition for centuries, and has always hosted many wonderful celebrations. Tonight is no exception. But not only are we here to celebrate the wonderful Princess Evelyn of Nova’s life and health, but also . . . her happiness. And it is with great pleasure that I present to you, Princess Evelyn!’
There’s more glass tinkling as Evelyn steps up to the stage and takes her place next to the president. She looks utterly radiant in her crimson and orange ombre gown that’s glamoured to imitate the colours of a sunset. He gives her three kisses on alternating cheeks, before finally letting her have the floor.
‘Thank you, President Lafleur,’ she says – first in perfect Paysan and then in Novaen. ‘It is a particularly special feeling to be here tonight, especially as it could easily have been a different story. So many of the people who have supported me throughout my life are here. And all of you will know I have never been one to let fate dictate what happens to me . . .’ The room laughs along with Evelyn, but I feel a tightness in my chest that I can’t get rid of. ‘And so tonight is a celebration of health and happiness. I want to clink my glass to the health and happiness of all here tonight – and to all our citizens across the globe.’
The chime of glasses is so loud I’m surprised none of them shatters. Once the crowd settles down, Evelyn speaks again. ‘And now, how about some cake!’
On cue, an enormous gateau is wheeled out into the centre of the ballroom. It’s the most extravagant cake I’ve ever seen: a seven-tier, white-iced extravagance adorned with a thousand iced fairybugs that shine and flash with their own edible lights. It’s a homage to the Tree of Lights, in patisserie form.
There’s a snap as all the lights in the room go out simultaneously.
My breath hitches inside my chest, but I know this is just part of the spectacle.
But then there’s a loud, piercing scream. The room lights up, but not with fake fairylights. Instead, there are blindingly bright flashes from explosions that shake the room with their force, the room filling with smoke that stings my eyes. Everyone shoves towards the exits, and I hear the tinkle of glass again – but this time, the guests aren’t tapping their glasses, they’re dropping them.
In the intermittent flashes, I see Evelyn’s security storm the stage, grabbing her and carrying her away from the action. There are spells going off everywhere, trying to clear the smoke or get the lights back on – but whatever magic has been set off to cause this commotion is resisting any interference.
My eyes are streaming, each breath searing my lungs – this isn’t magic at all, this is just plain old tear gas. Simple, but effective.
Someone yanks at my arm, so hard it feels like they’re going to tug it out of its socket. At first I think it must be Zain, or one of the security team.
But then as a wad of cloth is stuffed into my mouth, I know that this isn’t a friend. I struggle, throwing my arms out as wide as possible, and I drop down onto my knees. I cry out in pain, my voice muffled by the cloth, as my knees scrape against the broken glass on the floor.
‘SAM!’ I hear Zain cry my name.
I can’t cry out through the gag. I can’t respond. I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth as I cough my throat sore, trying to expel the gag and the smoke and the fear.
My attacker doesn’t stop, wrestling my arms behind my back and binding them tight. I’m powerless to stop them, as they drag me from the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Samantha
LEFT.
Right.
Right.
Down some stairs.
I try to keep
track of where I’m being taken, but it’s futile. I never thought I’d want to be knocked out, but being dragged – fully conscious but bound – through the dark, twisting passages beneath the Palace is painful, disorienting and terrifying.
Zain’s voice screaming my name echoes in my ear, accompanied by the high-pitched ringing of tinnitus caused by the explosions. I wonder if my ear drums have burst. I’m in such pain throughout my body, I can’t seem to isolate what’s actually injured.
Just as we left the room, the security team hit the person pulling me away: I could feel the pressure lessen on the rope securing me, felt the ground shudder as they fell. I scrambled to escape. But someone else took up the cause, pulling at me even harder until it felt like my arms were going to be yanked from their sockets. They dragged me backwards through a small hole they’d blasted in the Palace walls. They folded me over like a pretzel, forcing me into an unnatural pose: backwards, hunched-over, moving in an awkward half-run, half-crawl.
That’s when I started to keep track of our direction. If there’s any opportunity to escape, any chance to run, I have to be able to remember how to get back.
We run – or rather, they drag me – through a labyrinth. My eyes dart around, taking in the moss-covered, crumbling stone and the ancient-looking metal hooks that would have held torches before there was electricity. I keep waiting, praying that I will see Zain, or Katrina, or any of the other stern-looking security guards, appearing in front of me, chasing my attacker down. But the noises from the party seem to be growing dimmer – I can’t hear the cries of the crowd, muffled or not. Maybe they’ve all fled or fainted from the gas. Maybe others are being dragged down tunnels, similar to me. Or maybe they’ve forgotten all about me . . .
I twist in my captor’s grip, attempting to see the face of the person who has taken me. All I can see is the black, ribbed fabric of the balaclava over his face. It is definitely a man though, judging by the bulk of his biceps and the rough, hairy skin on his arms. There’s something eerily familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.
