Fox smirks. ‘Scared, Storm Weaver?’
Yes.
‘No,’ I snap, but inch ever so slightly closer to him and lower my voice. ‘Can you hear their thoughts?’
He nods.
‘And?’
‘Oh, they’re planning all kinds of tricks. Nose-dives, feinting, loop-the-loops.’
I elbow him in the ribs.
River, who’s readying the saddles, watches this exchange with amused curiosity. He finishes adjusting the stirrups, then beckons me forward. I edge towards him nervously and reach out to stroke the dragonfly’s ridged flank. Her eyes are as large as my head.
Fox follows suit, approaching his mount slowly. After a silent exchange he bows respectfully and swings up into the saddle.
I let out a squeak of protest as River half lifts me into my own.
I grip the reins tightly. ‘Aren’t you … you know, going to give us some lessons first? You are my trainer, after all.’
‘The greatest lessons are taught through experience,’ River replies with a smile.
At that moment Harana gives a short, high whistle and the dragonflies take flight, shooting out of the mouth of the cave and soaring up, up, up into the sky.
Fox whoops, jubilant, while the sound of my scream issnatched by the wind. Fear quickly morphs into adrenaline and, though I’m still clinging on for dear life, my mouth curves into a smile. I’ve never known anything like it – the rush, the ecstasy. It’s as though I left all my burdens in that cave and now I’m unencumbered, weightless. It’s almost childlike, this sense of wonder – so palpable it takes on wings of its own.
My mind gradually relaxes into a state of utter calm. Up here, safe in the quiet fortress of the clouds, gazing down upon the patchwork of blue and grey, I feel utterly serene. The Rain Singers have named me Om Shikara, and perhaps this is what it feels like to be a God – untroubled and untouchable, watching the world from above.
I doubt even sailing the Second Sea could feel thisfree.
Fox’s dragonfly glides beside mine, their iridescent wings gleaming blue-green in the morning sun. They have four wings apiece – two sets working independently in a blur of motion.
We spend the next several hours in the clouds, occasionally swooping down between the gorges, waiting for a sign, a tug of recognition.
I’ve almost given up hope by the time something catches my eye. I stab my finger at an expanse of ragged rocky plains nestled between tall peaks. ‘What’s that?’
‘Let’s find out,’ Fox calls.
Hope sings in my chest as the dragonflies plunge towards the cliffs, hovering a couple of feet above the ground. I hesitate before dismounting. For we appear to be standing in a sea of graves. Thousands of them, the headstones carved from slate.
‘What is this place?’ I breathe as I slide from my saddle.
Fox traces the names with his finger. ‘I think … I think these must belong to the Rain Singers who died during my grandfather’s attack on Brava.’
My heart sinks, folding in on itself as I gaze out at the sprawling graveyard, a cloud of drizzle forming overhead.
We walk among the headstones, sobered by the scene before us. The euphoria of flying is replaced by a heavy, melancholic silence we both seem reluctant to break. The graves stretch on and on. So many people: mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, all dead and buried. Entire families gone. Generations wiped out and unavenged.
My stomach twists the way it often does when I think of the storm. I didn’t mean to almost drown the empire, the same way Fox didn’t mean to cleave the earth in two. Yet Caius Castellion knew exactly what he was doing when he sent his soldiers to slaughter the Rain Singers. This was intentional, premeditated. A cold-blooded massacre.
‘How could he do such a thing?’ I whisper.
‘Because he’s despicable,’ says Fox simply. ‘Deranged. The worst man who’s ever lived. Though I doubt you’ll find many emperors who aren’t morally bankrupt. Power tends to suck the goodness out of you. That’s if there was any to begin with.’
‘Hal’s an emperor,’ I argue. ‘He would never do anything like this.’
‘No,’ Fox agrees. ‘But then, he never does anything at all.’
