Storm Weaver.
That is what they call me.
The girl who wove the storm that shook the world.
Part I
THE HEIRS
1
Istand, perfectly straight, in front of the mirror.
‘Don’t slouch, Blaze!’ Grandmother barks, prodding me in the back with her stick. She circles me for a full minute, lips pursed. ‘No. No, I think not. Next.’
The seamstress bows her head deferentially to hide the scowl on her face. Needles still clamped between her teeth, she helps me out of the cerulean dress and hands it to one of the attendants. Another gown is quickly produced, this one a pale seafoam. I raise my arms obediently and she eases it over my head, careful not to tousle my hair, which has been twisted into two braids and threaded with small pearls. The dress is huge. It bulges out around me in swathes of ruffled lace. I wrinkle my nose but say nothing. At this point, after a dozen vetoed dresses, I would wear a sack if it pleased Grandmother. She raises a thin dark eyebrow, looks me up and down, then motions with her finger for me to spin. I spin.
My twin pops his head round the door of the dressing room, a hand over his eyes.
‘Are you decent?’
‘Depends on who you ask,’ I mutter.
Flint splays his fingers, lowers his hand and snorts loudly. ‘You look like a meringue.’
I grab a hairbrush off the dresser and throw it at him, but he shuts the door before it can meet its mark. I hear him laughing to himself all the way down the corridor.
‘Next,’ Grandmother says with a sigh, settling herself comfortably on a red-silk chaise.
Her own gown is a rich scarlet. Rubies gleam at her throat, the same as those set into the golden hilt of her stick, which is shaped like the head of a cobra – the emblem of our House. Her hair, once darker than my own, is now greying slightly at the temples, and has been bound in crimson spiderweb netting at the back of her neck.
Families like mine always tend to wear their court colour. I have never seen Grandmother in a dress other than red, or adorned with jewels other than her rubies. She is the colour red, to me.
The room is uncomfortably warm, heady with the scent of incense and spiced candles.
‘Could you open a window?’ I ask an attendant, who flinches as if I’ve shouted at her. She does as I say, though not before first glancing at Grandmother for confirmation.
It’s marginally better, but not much. Valburn, home province of House Harglade, is situated in the heart of the Firelands. Hot, dry and densely populated, it sprawls just to the right of the Rift, the great yawning chasm that splits Ostacre in half, straight down the middle.
The next dress is a light, iridescent turquoise.
‘Well, my lady?’ The seamstress does not direct thisquestion to me, and she is answered with a small, irritated shake of the head.
‘Grandmother,’ I implore. ‘It’s fine, they’re all fine. Any will do. I don’t mind, really.’
The seamstress bristles.
‘Well,Imind, Blaze, and you should too,’ Grandmother snaps. ‘Do you haveanyappreciation for the planning that has gone into this evening? Have you forgotten exactlywhowill be in attendance? You must look perfect. You mustbeperfect.’
She glares at me with beady eyes, Harglade eyes, deep brown and flecked with gold. I swallow a sigh and nod, defeated.
Today marks seventeen years since the storm, which means that today is my seventeenth Name Day. Flint’s and mine. Tonight Grandmother is throwing a ball, and soon the guests will begin to arrive in their thousands – Ignitia, Ventalla, Terrathian and Aquatori alike, Etheri from each of the four Crown Courts. I’m scared to look at them. To look into the faces of those who think me abhorrent, who perhaps lost loved ones at my hands. Some will have travelled for days – weeks, even – just to catch a glimpse of the girl they call the Storm Weaver. I am made of stories to them, not flesh. They come to put a face to the myth, to peer at me inside my prison as though I were a songbird in a cage. Because in a way, I am. Caged, I mean. I have spent seventeen years hidden away behind steel gates and stone walls. I’m told it’s for my own protection, but really it’s to protect others from me.
Only what they don’t know is that I could not weave another storm, even if I tried. That ever since I was a child,my abilities have been entirely unremarkable. That whatever power I might have possessed, it’s gone. And I am empty.
It’s laughable, really. The last Rain Singer, incapable of summoning more than a weak flurry of drizzle.
There seems to be no explanation for it beyond some cruel twist of fate. My gift may have taken others’ lives, but it defined mine. Losing it meant losing part of my identity. Without it I’m … Well, that’s the thing. I’m not quite sure what I am.
