I look again to the moon-arch, willing the Oralians to stride through it. Wilted garlands of moonflowers the dusky colour of a ripening bruise drape the Rotunda’s circular opening, a vestige of my aborted binding ceremony. The shrivelled blooms taunt me, a string of reproachful inky eyes bearing witness to my latest failure. My father’s insistence the Council of Four be held here, the place where such meetings historically convened, was a calculated move. Ostensibly a precaution – no Outrealmer allowed entry to the palace proper till they declared themselves an ally – but also an admonishment. Intended to remind me of all the ways I’ve failed him in the past, of his conviction I’ll fail yet again.
Astrophel glances left and right, to where the Xylian and Riverian delegates sit grumbling either side of us on the stone benches that circle the Rotunda’s central dais. His lips brush my ear. ‘Patience is wearing thin. Best send them on their way. Declare this folly at an end.’
I cradle my injured hand, trying to scrub the stab and drag of Tansy’s needle from my memory. The stitches throb, and the rest of my body aches too, after those jolting journeys in the carriage. I search beyond the gate – a last desperate prayer. But I can only see the edge of the fountain, and beyond that the sylvanmares huddled for warmth in my mother’s deserted rime-rose garden, the ice-etched hedges of the maze my father commissioned as a binding gift for his young bride, and the starcrystal domes of the cupolas that mark the four corners of the palace gardens, gilded by the ebbing sun.
‘Enough of this nonsense.’ Maris, the chieftain’s daughter, rises from her seat, spear in hand, and fixes me with an icy glare. ‘If the Fire Clans were sending representatives, we’d have met them at the Barrier. Tell us why you’ve summoned us.’
I lick my frost-chapped lips and stare up at the carved starflowers twining the dome that arches above the Rotunda’s delicate columns. Astrophel is right. I can’t string this out any longer. I must declare the Council of Four at an end. But how best to word it? The envoys have journeyed for many moonsrisings to be here, I owe them an explanation for igniting the Flarestone. Yet, there’s no point repeating the contents of Noelani’s letter without the Oralians in attendance. We need representatives from all four quarters of Arcelia if we’re to search for the lost sceptre. Better to send them away in ignorance rather than burdened under the weight of an ancient prophecy we can’t now hope to fulfil.
‘As the Fire Clans have not seen fit to answer my call, perhaps it’s best we disperse,’ I begin.
Maris’ fingers clench around her spear. ‘We haven’t voyaged all this way to be dismissed so lightly. I ask you again, Princess. Why did you summon us?’
The other delegates are grumbling louder now, frustration etched deep in their fretted brows.
‘I-I…’ Stars, I was supposed to mend bridges with the Outrealmers, not dash them further to pieces. I look to Astrophel. He’s smirking. Happy to see my plans unravel.
Maris advances towards me, presses the tip of her spear to my throat. ‘Was it a ploy to lure us here? To take us hostage?’
With that one action, fraying tempers finally snap. Everyone’s on their feet now, hands reaching for weapons.
Astrophel is not simpering anymore. He’s poised, ready to defend me. A rush of warmth sweeps my body. Glad, in this moment, he’s here.
A strange hush descends the Rotunda. We’re teetering on a precipice. Waiting to see who’ll strike first. I swallow, the spear-tip sharp against my windpipe, as the scent of lilies thickens in the air.
‘Give me a chance, Orthriel. Let me try to placate them.’
The sudden appearance of a cielsylph in our midst could be perceived as an act of aggression, might very well ignite an already smouldering tinderbox. I open my mouth, about to confess the truth about my reasons for using the Flarestone to prevent this meeting descending into a brawl, when a dreadful screeching shreds the weighted silence.
It’s coming from the gardens.
We flow from the crystal pavilion to investigate, weapons still drawn. I edge past the sylvanmares now ranged outside the Rotunda, and jostle to the front of the crowd, craning my neck to the marbled sky.
A chariot careers overhead, drawn by a pair of winged bull-like creatures I recognise from the bestiary as cindertaurs. Their golden wings stir the frosty air, circulating the syrupy scent of decaying moonflowers, as they loop in a reckless descent towards the ground. The chariot lands with a shudder, flattening a section of my father’s prized hedging.
The Oralians. They’ve come. They’ve actually come.
Two men alight from the chariot, their movements unhurried. The answer to my prayers, though they look anything but virtuous. Both wear tight leather breeches and scuffed boots. They’re bare-chested save for billowing scarlet cloaks, clipped at the shoulders with golden pins in the shape of Oralia’s sigil – the Sacred Flame. Their skin is sallow, though when the sunlight kisses them, it seems dusted with gold. Amber eyes flash behind curls the colour of a flaming sunset. Swirling ink covers their arms, the designs similar to those in Arden’s decapitated portrait. Both men are brutally handsome – broad, muscular, honed to deadly perfection – but one wears a thick metal torc around his neck, stands a few inches taller, and wears his hair longer. In all other respects, their appearance is so similar I assume they’re brothers.
They look too young to lead the Fire Clans, though both have a weathered quality, particularly about their eyes, which makes it hard to guess their true age.
They stand with feet planted wide, flame-handled axes holstered at their sides. The cindertaurs adopt a similar stance behind them, beating their enormous wings, and pawing the ground, horns lowered. Eyes like fire-opals glint from a shadowed recess of the Oralian chariot. They belong to a bird I recognise at once by its glimmering plumage – crimson shot through with bronze – and fan-shaped tail, containing three longer, more ornate feathers, glowing brighter than the rest.
I lean towards Astrophel. His jaw’s clenched, and though he’s sheathed his blade, he’s gripping the pommel with such force his knuckles are bone-white.
‘An emberwing,’ I say. ‘A runt from the looks of it, but we best take care.’ I think back to the description in the bestiary. A super-predator capable of summoning storms and manipulating Flame-Aether to flare and overpower their opponents if provoked. They’re similar to cielsylphs in this respect, though the emberwing’s defence fast erodes their Aether reserves, carrying a risk of immolation, so it’s rare for them to ignite. Thank the Stars for small blessings.
The taller of the Oralian men saunters forwards; the emberwing flies to his shoulder.
As he approaches, he raises a scarred eyebrow, looks me up and down. His heavy-lidded gaze lingers an instant too long for comfort, a phantom finger trailing my body. His top lip curls. Heat rises in my cheeks, and my pulse spikes. No one, not even my father, has ever looked at me with such open contempt. The stranger’s gaze drifts to my injured hand. I removed my pendant sleeves so Tansy could stitch my wound, and haven’t replaced them, so my brand is on display.
I fight the instinct to cover my blemish, to tug my mantle lower still. The Xylians may not despise the Branded, but prejudice against my kind clearly transcends at least one other Barrier.
‘Blayze Arcuri – Clanschief.’ His voice is low and full of gravel, the shared tongue smoke-rasped through his lips, consonants scoured sharp by the desert sun. ‘My brother Kyden.’ He indicates the shorter man with a jab of his thumb. ‘And this is Serafine.’ He ruffles the emberwing’s head. She burrows into the crook of his thick neck. ‘You won’t cross her if you know what’s good for you.’
Blayze glowers at each of the delegates in turn, but when he sees Maris, his hard stare becomes an unabashed leer. Maris returns his roving look, twirls her spear, and a wolfish smile spreads over the Clanschief’s face. Delphine’s slit-pupils narrow. Streaks of emerald fleck her hair as she edges closer to her charge.
I think I preferred his scowl too.
