I kiss him once, lightly, then slide out of bed and pull on my white tunic and boots.
The solid-gold floor gleams in the waning moonlight. Hal is still living in his old chambers. He has no wish to move into his father’s quarters, not while his death is so fresh. There’s also the fact that Lady Kestrel Calloway, Imperial Mistress and mother to the Earth Cleaver, refuses to leave the emperor’s rooms. She is, by all accounts, inconsolable. She barely sleeps, will not speak to anyone, won’t eat. The serfs bring her trays of food, which remain untouched. One of the girls, Shireen, swiped a peach, thinking Matron wouldn’t notice. Her foolishness cost her two days in the Pit.
‘I have to go,’ I say again, but Hal catches hold of my hand.
‘Promise me you’d tell me if anything was wrong?’ He laughs, short and hollow. ‘What am I saying? What isn’t wrong? Nothing about any of this is right. I just meant, you’d tell me if anything’s … changed?’
I can hear the words he doesn’t say ringing loudly in the silence.
Between us.
I don’t answer, tracing the lines on his palm.
‘Elva?’ Soft, almost pleading.
‘Of course I would.’
The lie burns my tongue. There are too many secrets. We are an ocean apart, he and I, and he doesn’t even know it.
Gently, I break the bridge of our joined hands and edge behind the screen. There, I press my shoulder into a portion of the wall, which swings open. Hal whispers something into the darkness, but I don’t catch it before the door snicks shut behind me.
The serf tunnels are dank and dark, but I ignore the torch crackling in a bracket. I have no need for it any more.
Ever since the shadow magic of my ancestors was returned to me, I can … well, I can see in the dark. And I don’t just mean I have a better sense of direction or can make out shapes amid the gloom. I mean that I can see, fully, perfectly, in complete darkness. It’s difficult to explain. There’s no invisible spotlight. There’s no light whatsoever. The dark doesn’t lessen or recede. It’s still there, surrounding me. Only, I can seethroughit. I slip between it, just another shadow. I’m part of it now.
After what feels like an age, I emerge from the tunnel near the kitchens. The cramped corridor is empty. Everyone is in bed. I move silently through the passageway until I reach my room – a space no larger than a few square feet, furnished with two wooden boards sticking out of the wall. Ingra sleeps on the bottom one, I on the top.
The moment I creep inside, Ingra opens one eye like a cat, smiling conspiratorially.
‘Well, if it isn’t fair Irabella returned from seeing her Emmeric. Tell me, how is loverboy this evening? I do hope he earned his keep.’
The Tragedy of Emmeric and Irabellawas a play performed for the Court of Eyes by a travelling theatretroupe called the Bronze Buckle some years back. Ingra and I were both serving wine at the time, and so we got to watch along with everyone else. It was a tale of two lovers: rich, handsome Emmeric and poor, beautiful Irabella, who fell in love against the odds and sacrificed everything to be together. Only, Emmeric was cursed by a witch who’d lost everything at the hands of his scheming family. Hence, the tragedy.
Ingra doesn’t know that the Emmeric to whom she refers is none other than the former Crown Prince, now emperor, of Ostacre.
I reach up to the top bunk and pull back my bedroll to reveal the assortment of rags beneath, all bunched together to give the appearance of a human silhouette, just in case Matron had decided to check on us.
‘Thank you, Ingra. I owe you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she says, waving her hand dismissively, her long honey-brown hair spilling off the side of the bed in a thick braid.
I step on the edge of her bunk and pull myself up on to my own, finally allowing myself to exhale as I lie down and close my eyes.
What feels like minutes later, the bell begins to clang.
5
Flint
‘Ispy with my little eye something beginning with …’ I pause, searching for inspiration, which is notably lacking given that we’re crossing a barren stone plain. ‘With … H.’
Blaze ignores me. After almost a week of nothing but, well,nothing, she is tired, bored and very, very irritable.
I, too, am tired, bored and irritable. I’m also in quite a bit of pain. My burns aren’t faring well in this heat, and the searing ache in my left eye never lets up. Yet despite all that, and how unappealing I suspect I look in these drab Fidra clothes, I’m trying to stay positive. They say problems should be tackled head-on, but I find that my problems are best left alone. Ignore them for long enough and you can pretend they don’t exist.
‘Come on, sister,’ I urge. ‘Play the game.’
When Blaze does speak it is through gritted teeth. ‘Flint.’
