I rub my thumb over the waxy scar where my first brandmark had been. I was branded at birth along with Flint, since they believed me to be Ignitia. They burned it away after the storm, replacing it with the waterdrop of the Aquatori on the other hand instead. All Etheri are branded on their right hands, yet my brand is on the left, serving as a constant, inescapable reminder both of who I was supposed to be, and of the anomaly that I am.
Flint catches my eye and raises an eyebrow – a question.
I don’t tell him that I’m concentrating on keeping the contents of my stomach down, or that the stares feel as though they are burning holes into my flesh. Then someone calls his name and, with a squeeze of my arm and a rather exaggerated bow to Grandmother, Flint disappears into the throng. That’s when I realize Renly has also vanished. I’m not happy about this, but I’m too much of a coward to charge through the crowd to hunt him down. Instead, I hover awkwardly at Grandmother’s side, feeling like a child.
Countless guests approach to speak with her, although their eyes are fixed on me. Some introduce themselves and wish me a happy Name Day. Some even kiss my cheeks, admire my dress, tell me how like my mother I am. Others glower darkly, not bothering to conceal their hostility, while many appear flustered, their fear betrayed by the slight tremor in their voices or the clamminess of their palms. One ancient-looking woman, seemingly an old friend of Grandmother’s, takes to flinching each time I blink. I attempt to stop blinking altogether in an effort to ease heralarm, but if anything this only adds to her distress. When she eventually totters away, a wrinkled hand pressed to her heart, I try to remember everything Grandmother taught me about court etiquette, but come up blank.
Turning my gaze towards the floor, I begin to nibble on the ragged skin around my cuticles.
‘Stop eating your hands!’ Grandmother hisses out the corner of her mouth.
After about an hour, when I’ve smiled so much my jaw seems to have locked in place, Grandmother tries to nudge me encouragingly into the crowd. I ignore her, planting my feet on the stone floor. This turns out to be a good thing, because the sudden gust of air that fills the hall is almost enough to knock me backwards.
The Court of Wind stride through the doors, dressed from head to foot in flowing robes of steel grey. I see King Balen at the forefront. Tall and striking, with pale skin and dark hair, he wears a billowing cloak that looks as though it’s been cut from morning fog. On his head sits the Ventalla crown, a wreath of shining golden feathers.
Chatter slows, then stops entirely.
‘King Balen of the Windlands,’ a voice announces.
The king’s raven eyes scan the crowd, snagging on Grandmother and coming to rest on me. There is no fear on his face, no loathing. I can’t place his expression because I’ve never seen it worn before. I want to look away, but I don’t. I force myself to hold his gaze, and when he speaks, his voice soft and silken, I know his words are meant only for me.
‘Hello, little dove.’
King Balen does not speak loudly. In fact, from here, I would have hardly been able to hear him at all if it wasn’t for the whistling streams of air that carry his words across the room. It’s as though he’s standing right next to me. As though he’s whispering in my ear.
Another gust of wind fills the room as King Balen makes a casual, careless gesture. ‘Go and play,’ he tells his court.
The Ventalla courtiers disperse among the crowd, and before I can so much as blink, the king has crossed the floor in a few gliding strides. Grandmother leans heavily on her stick as we both curtsy deeply in unison. King Balen might not be the Ignitia or the Aquatori sovereign, but every member of the Crowned Council is Ostacrian royalty and must be afforded the same respect across each of the four kingdoms. His own kingdom, the Windlands, occupies the north of the empire. I’ve heard tales of his court, the Marble Palace, which sits at the very top of the tallest cliff, high above the clouds.
‘Your Majesty, allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Blaze.’
King Balen angles his head, drinking me in. ‘The last Rain Singer. What a privilege it is to meet you.’
My mouth has gone very dry. ‘Your Majesty,’ I mumble.
‘How like Analiese she looks, don’t you think, Lady Harglade?’ muses King Balen.
Grandmother nods, her voice equal parts pain and pride as she says, ‘Indeed, sire. Indeed she does.’
He’s right. I do look like my mother, and it is because of this that my father cannot bring himself to look at me.
The king smiles, pressing the tips of his pale fingers together as if in prayer. ‘Such a beautiful little thing. Tell me, how does one so pure sing a song of such destruction?’
I watch him notice my scar as he reaches for my hand. His lips are cold as he presses them to it.
My stomach feels as though it’s been lined with lead. Is he taunting me? What does he want me to say? That I regret the storm? That I feel guilty? Well, I do. Every day.
Only what I will never admit, not to King Balen, not to anyone, is that there is another side to my guilt. For while I may mourn the loss of life, I mourn the loss of my gift, too. I can’t help it, as selfish and soulless as it might be.
I can’t help but wonder,What was it all for?
And I can’t help but think,What a waste.
Grandmother lays a protective hand on my arm. ‘Your Majesty,’ she begins.
But King Balen only chuckles. ‘Forgive me. Tonight we commemorate the past and celebrate the future. Tonight it is you we honour, little dove.’
The King of the Air bows low, and then he is gone, followed by a cold breeze.
