‘I’ll try,’ he promises. ‘I can’t see everything, but I’ll try.’
With my heart beating fast enough to choke me, I stretch out my hands, feeling in front of me, and when I find the grooves of the woodpanels, I do as Benny says, bracing myself against the wall. I remove my dagger from its sheath before calling my sister’s name again.
‘Kay! Kay, I’m here! I’m here!’
My throat cracks, and as I go to scream her name again, a voice bellows, ‘Silence! All of you! You will listen!’
For a heartbeat, I assume the voice is being amplified by magic, but as my skull begins to pound, the truth hits me.It’s inside my head.The voice isinsidemy head.
‘You need to hear the truth! You need to hear what yourgreatking is doing to the people of his kingdom.’ The voice is thick with sarcasm and disdain.
The screams have turned to whimpers, and I’m not sure if I’m among the people making the sound. This magic’s so loud that I can barely form a thought, though there is only one that matters. I need to get to Kay.
‘Tonight is the night you will hear the truth …’ the voice continues. ‘Tonight you?—’
An agonised scream detonates inside my skull, spearing straight into my mind. And then …snap.
In the space of a single heartbeat, both the darkness and the voice inside my head vanish.
One minute, my senses have been dominated by powers beyond my control; the next, the room returns before my eyes and my head is my own.
My hand flies to my mouth at the sight of the ballroom. Several bodies lie prone on the floor, smashed glasses and blood smeared on the wood around them.
‘Kay!’ No sooner has her name left my lips than I spot a glimpse of her green dress on the edge of the dance floor. Hew has put himself between her and whatever this threat is, and relief slams into me with such intensity that my knees buckle.
Hew may have come across as an arrogant arsehole, but at least he’s protecting my sister.
Now that I know she’s safe – for now – I tear my eyes from Kay and assess the situation. It takes less than a heartbeat to understand why the magic stopped so suddenly.
‘You took your time, Commander,’ Korvane says as he takes a sip from his drink.
‘Apologies, Your Majesty,’ Zelle replies. ‘I was walking the walls.’ I note that the commander doesn’t look at the king ashe speaks. Instead, his attention is on a woman in the crowd with ash-blonde hair and deep mauve lips.
‘Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?’ Zelle says, his eyes still locked on hers.
‘I think it might be harder than you think.’ She smiles and the instant Zelle takes a step towards her, two dozen other men and women step out from the crowd, all of them armed, including one with a sword of ice formed in his grip.
‘Issen!’ someone screams.
Chaos breaks loose yet again, and beside me, another ice wielder appears. These aren’t like the Issen I was told about as a youth, with white eyes and white skin. Instead, their skin tones and eye colours are as varied as those of the men and women of Morathka. That thought has barely entered my head when a single ice bolt is hurled towards the king, only for it to be extinguished in a blast of air before it reaches Korvane.
My heart thuds. It shouldn’t be possible for them to use magic this close to Zelle.
‘They have their own siphon!’ The cry goes out just as I arrive at the same conclusion. It’s impossible to tell if their siphon is strong enough to nullify Zelle’s powers completely, but given that I’ve seen the commander mute the powers of forty Rettlings without breaking a sweat, the flicker of something close to consternation that crosses the old man’s face is alarming.
Another shard of ice comes out of nowhere, and heads turn in the direction it came from. The panic that started to fade at Zelle’s appearance has returned, and people are rushing to exit the ballroom when someone hurls what appears to be molten metal at one of the attackers. A woman with bright blonde hair drops to the ground, dead, the ice of her own formation melting around her.
She can’t be Issen, can she? Issen, here? So far from the Coltan Mountains? Yet the Issen are the only ones gifted with ice, and so I have no other explanation. What the hell is going on?
There must be at least a dozen ice weavers and fire wielders workingtogether in here, all wanting the king dead. The ice weavers are undoubtedly Issen, but the fire wielders?Rebels.
I’ve heard whispers, of course, in the slums. Angry people insisting that if we rose up together, we would be able to fight back. But I dismissed such voices as naïve fools. No one in the slums has the energy, let alone the resources, to dethrone a king. Yet here they are, inside the palace, fighting with their lives.
Grenda is one of the first Rettlings to jump into action, and she disarms the first attacker with a flick of the wrist. I still have no idea what her power is, but from the way the rebel facing her writhes in pain, I reckon it’s something to do with manipulating bodies.
All the while, the king stands unmoved, a bored expression on his face as he sips his drink, as if he can’t even see what’s happening in front of him.
There’s so much magic in the air that it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from or how to avoid it.
