With a shake of my head, I burn the questions from my mind and return my attention to Lorelei. “She didn’t say or do anything suspicious while she was with you?”
Lorelei shrugs. “No, she was silent. I admit, Foxglove and I gave her the cold shoulder until about an hour ago when we found the wine and decided to explore the palace.” Her expression falls again. “I’m sorry we did that.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. But you’re certain you found nothing suspect about her?”
She shakes her head, eyes turning down at the corners. “I think she’s been through a lot more than I’ve given her credit for.”
I grit my teeth, gaze trailing to my sister, who has already fallen back into casual conversation with Foxglove.
“Be careful,” I say, my attention snapping back to Lorelei. “I may have been right to bring her here with us, but she’s still a suspect. Do not let your guard down around her again.”
The trepidation returns to her eyes at my stern tone, but this time I don’t take it back.
If my sister wants my trust, she’ll need to do a lot more than charm my friends to earn it.
21
The next day, I stand at the end of a river composed of molten iron. It spreads out before me, spanning one side of the hallway to the other, where the weapons room is. The room remains empty aside from the small crate containing the Parvanovae and the few weapons—explosives, primarily—that I wasn’t able to safely incinerate.
I’ve spent the best part of my morning and afternoon melting nearly every sword, axe, dagger, spear, and mace the room contained. All but a minor selection of blades I’ve decided to keep for myself, of course. Everything else has now become a flowing stream of red-orange iron, kept in its molten state by my faintly glowing flames that dance over the top. At each side of the river, my flames are absent, leaving hardened metal to act as a barrier that keeps the river from entering the weapons room or from extending too close to the stairs at the other end.
I smile at the job well done. A tiring job, I must say, but one that will keep both humans and fae alike from getting to the Parvanovae. No fae could make it down the stairs to get to this hallway with how much iron now flows into the hall, and no human could brave a river of molten metal and flames. Only I can call my fire back. Considering my hearth still glows steady with the flame I conjured two days ago, it’s clear my fire will obey my will and remain for as long as I intend it to.
That’s my theory, anyway.
The heat of the fire is oddly comforting, despite the sweat that soaks my brow. I crouch down, balancing on the balls of my feet as I watch the beauty of my dazzling, tricolor flames. There’s something hypnotizing about the way they dance and sway over the molten river’s surface, making me feel an odd sense of calm. Or perhaps it’s exhaustion I feel. Whatever the case, I can’t help but admire my work. My fire. My magic.
Extending my hand, I reach for the nearest flame, letting its heat tickle the tips of my fingers. I open my palm, turning it upward, and the flame climbs over it, swirling until it shifts into a tiny orb. I let it dance and undulate, watching it until my eyes grow heavy.
Indeed, I should probably get some rest.
I lean forward again, about to return the flame to join the rest, when another thought crosses my mind, one that sharpens my senses and makes me feel suddenly awake.
Instead of rest, perhaps I should practice my magic.
I lift my palm again and focus on my orb of fire. Then, without touching it, I will it to rise.
It shifts and sways, moves and undulates. But for the most part, it remains an orb hovering just over my palm.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and try to summon the same elemental connection I felt when I lit the hearth—the dance between air and fire. I created my river of melted weapons through touch, but now I want to hone the skill I’ve yet to master. With human armies coming our way, not to mention the meeting we hope to have with the Renounced, sharpening my fire magic as well as I can is more important than ever.
I breathe in, letting the dense, hot air fill my lungs, then breathe out, letting air whistle between my lips. Calm settles over me. I conjure thoughts of running, leaping, air brushing against my fur when I’m in my fox form, whipping my human hair the same way it constantly dances through Minuette’s.
Eyes still closed, I focus on the heat of the fire brushing my skin, seeing the orb in my mind’s eye. I envision the flame lifting, rising, sensing the balance between air and fire, the way it feeds it, raises it, encircles it, pervades it.
When I open my eyes, my orb hovers several inches above my hand.
Pride swells in my chest, but I try not to let it overcome me as I focus on the next feat. With my intention firmly in my mind, I will the flame to move away from me. I maintain my connection to the air and fire elements, watching as the orb floats higher, moves down the hall, following the river. Once it reaches the far end, I will it to lower.
As my flame disappears to join the rest, my chest bubbles with excitement. I did it! I moved my fire through space. Not just once, not just in a single flash of motion. I controlled its speed, trajectory, height, distance. My success should be enough to satisfy me, but it only fuels a deeper yearning for mastery. What if…
“Metal is earth, right?” I mutter as I squint at the river. “Earth is an element I should be able to control.”
Again, I close my eyes, igniting my inner fire, reconnecting to air, and gathering all I know about earth. Rocks and plants are obvious. Logic and facts feel like they fit in here well. But I also remember what I learned from the goblin I met when I first visited the Twelfth Court.Safety. Security,he’d said. I wrap it all around me, picturing my fox paws padding over soft dirt, solid rock, lush grass. I see myself in the operating room, assessing facts and figures, using logic to dispense the proper amount of laudanum and chloroform. Then I imagine the halls of this palace, the walls of the apothecary that was my home, the composition of metal and stone that make up the weapons I’ve used to defend my sense of safety.
Once again, I lift my palm, and this time I picture it shaping an orb of the metal. My fire dances inside it, air envelops it, lifts it, helps it rise.
With a deep breath, I open my eyes. Just like the hovering flame, my orb of molten iron drifts above the river. My mouth falls open at the sight.
