‘Hyperion, I—’ My mother reaches for him again, but can’t catch her breath. Her words are swallowed by another fit of wet coughing, so violent the muscles bulge on her neck. I flinch with each new spasm.
Astrophel’s face is more pinched than ever. ‘Estelia can never make peace with those rats!’ He’s trembling with rage.
His hatred of the Fire Clans rivals my father’s, and not without reason. I can’t remember the specifics of how Astrophel’s father died. I was only a child, my recollections hazy, but I know Lord Caelum fell victim to Flamefever, that he contracted it in the High Lands drumming up forces to defend against a feared Oralian invasion. My father erected a statue in Meissa’s Southern Quarter after he died, commemorating his role in crushing this threat to the Crystal Throne, for paying the ultimate sacrifice to defend it.
We all have reason to hate the clans, to mistrust the other enemy races. If I think about it too long, my own rage will flare – bright as a supernova. But that won’t help matters.
Right now, I need to persuade my father to forget the past and look to the future.
He’s tracing slow circles on my mother’s back. For all he’s a tyrant, he cares for my mother with a quiet, deep devotion. She doesn’t know him as the monster he’s become. They number among the fortunate; their binding – though arranged – wasn’t a choice between love and duty.
If the chance of curing her can’t sway him, nothing will.
I pitch my voice low enough that it won’t shake, and try to project a confidence my trembling legs don’t share.
‘The magic of the Sister-Stones wasn’t powerful enough to break Arden’s curse, but it could save my mother.’ My voice falters and this time I don’t fight the quaver.
My father exhales. He tilts his head, scrutinising me.
I can practically hear him wrestling with this decision, weighing his prejudice against the enemy realms and his concerns for the succession should harm befall me on my quest against the chance – slight though it is – of saving his wife, perhaps even saving Estelia itself.
Hope flickers in my chest again. Anyone sane can see it’s a chance worth sacrificing our pride for. He has to agree.
My mother starts to cough again. With each moist rattle, her face pales. The withered apples of her cheeks grow pink from the exertion, and her gentle eyes are bloodshot. Her lips blue at the corners and her head lolls back.
I scream as Astrophel sweeps her up into his arms, catching her as the chair topples, before her head strikes the hard floor.
‘Quick,’ my father shouts, rising from his chair. ‘Take her to her chambers. Summon the healers.’
Astrophel rushes out, cradling my mother to his chest. I start to follow, but my father yanks my sleeve, pinning me in place like a dead moon-moth.
‘Are you happy now?’ He crumples the pages of Noelani’s letter into a ball and presses them into my hand. ‘Let this be an end to your nonsense. I won’t have you disturbing your mother with talk of alliances with our enemies, travel to dangerous parts of the realm, Shadow rites… Let her last moons be peaceful. Surely you can give her that, after all you’ve taken from her?’
He might as well have struck me. As it is, he flings the Celestial Chain at me before striding from the room without a backward glance.
The spark of hope gutters out.
Even this wasn’t enough. Not even a shadow of love for me remains. He’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done. For what I am.
I slip the chain over my head, place my back to the door, and lean against it. Even the strange pulse of the starstone is little comfort. I wrap my arms around my chest and weep.
Orthriel hovers beside me.
‘Leilani.’
Warm, soft pressure cradles my mind, infinitely more soothing than my own arms – the closest I’ll ever get to a true embrace from my Guardian. I lift my gaze to the ceiling to avoid meeting their eyes. I don’t want to see my own disappointment mirrored in their face.
I study the ceiling bas-reliefs through the glitter of my tears. The sculptures depict scenes from Estelian history, a history now on the verge of extinction.
I’m standing beneath a carving of the Scattering of the Flarestones. It depicts King Hesperos, Noelani’s father, presenting the leaders of Arcelia’s other three realms with large summoning stones – pillars of crystal mined from the Astral Mountain, capable of emitting strong beacons of light under the right solar conditions, each one a different colour – a gift intended as a sign of solidarity, acknowledging the strengthening ties between the realms in the wake of the Elemagi’s Blood Bond.
These carvings are part of the fabric of the palace, else my father’s purges would have claimed them too. As it is, Arden’s features have been gouged out. A faceless woman.
The realms once coexisted in harmony, and here is irrefutable physical evidence.
An idea streaks through my mind like a shooting star.
I unfurl the pages of Noelani’s letter and smooth the creases.
