I slip the chain over my head. It’s strange not to bear its weight around my neck, like a part of myself is missing. The sensation of lightening is refreshing though, almost like I can breathe easier.
‘Can you recreate the tincture?’ I ask.
Izarius strokes his beard. ‘I think so, yes.’
I press the chain into his hand. ‘Be careful with it.’
He nods. ‘I won’t fail you.’
I whisper my thanks, pull him into a tight embrace, briefly allow his comforting scent of ink and parchment to envelop me. I draw back before my nerve breaks, before Izarius tries to stop me again, and grip the key tighter.
I can’t afford to fail either.
*
THECHESTISwhere I remember it. Forgotten in that same dusty alcove of the main viewing dome. I scan the soaring vestibule for marauding Watchers, wait an extra breath, then fish the key from my cloak pocket and fit it to the lock.
It’s stiff, but turns.
I drink in the Flarestone, skim my fingers across its surface, lustrous and pure as first-snow. It’s taller than me, I can’t hope to lift it alone. But I only need drag it far enough from the shadows so the sun can strike it as it rises. The resulting flare once served as a signal to the leaders of the enemy realms to convene at our borders in time for a Council of Four at the next full moons. Granted, the Flarestones haven’t been used in generations, but I have to trust the lore persists. That they’ll answer its call.
Clenching my teeth to stifle my groan, I grip the Flarestone and twist, freeing it from the wooden chest and scraping it across the flagstones. It shunts a meagre handspan at a time. With every grating rasp, I pause, expecting the Watchers to sweep in.
My arms are half-wrenched from their sockets by the time it stands square beneath the crystal dome. This should be far enough.
I turn my back on the Flarestone, tripping up the stairs in my haste to return to Izarius’ chambers. Those two hours will soon be spent.
I have to pray this works – that the beacon is seen from across the Barriers before my father realises what I’ve done and orders the stone swathed.
Izarius is right, there’ll be a price for disobeying my father. Stars willing, a price worth paying.
FATAL FLARE
ASTROPHEL
I’MUPWITHthe starlarks. A habit formed on the smallholding where my father chose to conceal his doxy and natural son from the court’s censorious eyes. A habit continued at the Asteum, using the precious hours of solitude to study, to train, to work harder than all the others to make up for the deficits of my blood. A habit I now can’t seem to break.
Just as I can’t scrub the sight of the Queen’s bluing lips, the limp hang of her limbs, from my memory, nor the bitter gnaw of my disappointment at the binding’s interruption, turning to a fierce burn of rage when Leilani dared suggest calling upon the Outrealmers – the sand-rats themselves – to chase after lost relics and vague prophecies.
Hyperion tried to warn me of her wilfulness, but when I saw her wearing my diadem, when I saw how lovely she’d grown – strange, yes, but lovely nonetheless, lovely precisely because of her strangeness – I confess myself beguiled. Even blushed like a moonstruck fool. But the enchantment fast wore off. Until the night of the ceremonies, I had no real understanding of the depths of her depravity, how far she’s sunk into the curse of her brand. Now I understand the King’s barbed asides. Without wishing to scare me off, Hyperion’s been subtly preparing me, ensuring I stand ready to guard against her corruption. No wonder he sought to wrest control of the Throne from her.
I dress quickly, adding the Crescent Sword as an afterthought, enjoying the way it settles against my thigh. Leilani may have taken the binding from me, but she’ll never take this.
The morn is strangely bright overhead as I slip from the palace. I must have woken later than I thought. But it seems everyone else has slept in too. The palace is silent as the Void. Even the guard stationed at the door is yawning, rubbing his eyes, as I nod to him and set out on a brisk tramp through the gardens, intent on the stables. I pin my gaze to the frosted grass, so I won’t have to see the garlands still festooned around the Rotunda, reminders of the ceremony that never was. Again, that flare of rage surges through me.
I shall master this. A hard ride the surest way to settle my spirits. There’s nothing like tearing across open hills, with no one to speak to, no pretences to maintain. I’ve got jousting practice at noon and I need my head clear before then – not just to perform well at the tilt, but to maintain the Silver Tongue persona the courtiers expect from me. I’ll not allow the Princess to unravel the guise I’ve spent careful sunrings perfecting. She’s taken enough already.
The earthy scent of hay wraps around me like a familiar embrace. The stables are also unusually quiet, no sign yet of the grooms. Better. It’s unseemly for a man in my position to saddle his own mount, but I enjoy the ritual.
I reach for saddle, bridle and crop and heft them towards the furthest stall. Silvermist greets me with a snort. I pat his withers, produce a lump of honeyloaf from my pocket, which he snaffles immediately – tongue warm against my palm. I slip the cool bit into his mouth. There’s a freedom in this: the rhythm, the liturgy, the warmth of worn leather beneath my hands, even the smell – it instantly calms me. It’s why, when I first came to the palace, especially after nights when Leilani’s screams came thick and heavy through the ceiling, I sought solace here. The stables reminded me of our smallholding – of my mother. They gave me something solid to cling to in a world where everything was shifting around me: my home, my clothes, my very name.
Saddled, bridled, I swing myself up onto Silvermist’s back. With a smart click of my heels, I guide him from the stables. He, like me, is ready to move. We edge past the tiltyard, then skirt the hedge-maze, the nearby fountain conjuring the spectre of Leilani scrubbing her wrists bloody. I shake myself. She deserves no measure of my pity. Forcing my gaze starwards to dispel the memories, I draw sharply on the reins. Silvermist bristles, straining against my command. I draw tighter, bringing him to a complete halt, and blink. But when I open my eyes, it’s still there. The reason for the strange brightness of the dawnrise.
A beacon of white light spearing the bleeding-pastel sky. A fatal flare.
I curse under my breath.
What has she done?
