‘Stop!’
The knights freeze, turning to look at me. The Riftkeeper smiles, delighted.
‘Blaze,’ I tell him. ‘My name is Blaze.’
His smile grows even wider.
My brother pokes his head out over my shoulder. ‘Well, I guess we’re doing this. Her name is Blaze and my name is Flint. Can we go now?’
‘My lady understands the value of a name,’ says the Riftkeeper. He stands aside, moving slowly, as though his joints trouble him, as though he hadn’t just fought an armed member of the Imperial Guard with a knobbly old stick. ‘All may pass.’
The knights hesitate, then lower their swords. One of them ushers me back inside the carriage and I sit down opposite my brother, who is looking at me as if I’ve sprouted wings. There’s a sharpsnapof the whip and the carriage begins to move off.
‘Wait!’ I call suddenly, leaning out of the window. The carriage halts, and I turn to the Riftkeeper. ‘You said I understand the value of a name. I gave you mine. Now give me yours.’
The Riftkeeper chuckles. ‘A name is a gift. A name is a curse. A name is a riddle. My lady wishes to know the name I bear, and my lady shall have it. My name is Eldritch, Storm Weaver, and I am the Keeper of the Rift.’
I nod once in acceptance. The carriage rolls on, followed by the old man’s eyes.
‘Making friends already, I see,’ my brother says wryly.
The pounding of hooves echoes through the emptiness of the Rift as we cross the bridge. After the Cleaving, a number of bridges were built in an attempt to connect the two halves of the empire. Yet the one we are crossing does not stretch all the way across the Rift, but rather stops midway, leading to the Imperial Province – the home of the emperor.
If the provinces are the bones, the courts the organs, and the Creek the veins, then Cor Caval is the beating heart at the centre of the realm. Golden to the eye and golden to the core, it sits upon an ancient goldmine belonging to the Gods – our principal source of wealth and trade. Though it was the site of the Cleaving, the city remains untouched. Entirely surrounded by the Rift, it is the only central province to have survived the desolation, having been built upon that which is uncleavable and protected by ancient enchantments. Lying on neither the left nor the right side of the Rift but in the very centre, Cor Caval is an island in the middle of an empire, a lighthouse in a dark, empty sea.
Even in the lower towns, the streets are paved with gold. I peer out at the markets, warehouses, apothecaries and forges, at the ramshackle, cramped little houses and lines of laundry that stream like banners overhead. Fidra, those with no magical ability, can be found in every province – they livescattered throughout the four kingdoms. But in Cor Caval, the vibrant hub of the empire situated in neither the Firelands nor the Waterlands, the Windlands nor the Wildlands, this is where many of them flock, all of them hoping to make a life for themselves in this breathtaking city of Gods and gold.
Unlike the Ignitia, Aquatori, Ventalla and Terrathian, the Fidra have no representative – they are governed solely by the Etheri. Yet although we live side by side, fraternizing is frowned upon, and intermarriage is entirely forbidden, for fear of diluting Etherian bloodlines. Still, the Choosing Rite is always cause for celebration among the commonfolk, many of whom revere our power. Some even sport ribbons and flags in various court colours.
The heat is unbearable. It clings close, like a second skin. I try to think of anything but the churning in my stomach.
‘You’ve gone green again,’ Flint says helpfully.
It’s late afternoon by the time we reach the citadel. The dilapidated lower towns have melted away and been replaced by grand estates and sprawling villas. Over the tops of gold-pronged gates I catch glimpses of mansions, manors, exotic gardens and temples.
The golden streets are lined with Etheri. Flint leans out of the window, waving and smiling to the crowd. I shrink back against the bench. The sound of cheering unnerves me. And if the people knew who they were cheering for, it would unnerve them, too.
What will they say, I wonder, when they discover that the Storm Weaver is in Cor Caval? And what will they say when they find out why?
Murderer.
Changeling.
Freak.
Heir.
Suddenly Flint yanks me over to the window. ‘Look, Blaze! We’re here.’
My mouth falls open. My brother has told me of the splendour of the Golden Palace, but nothing could have prepared me for this. As high as a mountain, made entirely from gold as old as the beginning of time, it glitters, larger than life, like an earthbound sun. Turrets rise into the cerulean sky, tall enough to kiss the clouds.
It looks like a dream. A glorious, shimmering, terrifying dream.
Only this time, there’s no waking up.
8
Ignoring a knight’s proffered hand, I climb slowly out of the carriage. Flint jumps down beside me. The palace steps stretch out in front of us, steep and lined with sentinels, their golden uniforms emblazoned with the Castellion raven. I wonder how my mother felt, climbing these same steps all those years ago. I wonder if she was afraid.
