It happens again: a violent, pulsing tremor that wracks my body. I drop the stones and kick my legs hard until I break the surface.
Something is wrong, yet nothing looks amiss. Then I catch sight of Fox. He’s standing stock-still, staring straight at me, one hand clasped round the Eye of the Past. I watch, stricken, as his gaze snaps upward. My stomach lurches and I tilt my face towards the pale sky.
A single feather floats lazily down towards the lake, cradled by a gentle breeze. Sleek and black, flecked with grey, it lands not two feet from where I cling to the boat.
Whispers ricochet across the surface of the water, two words repeated over and over in warning.
He’s coming.
He’s coming.
He’s coming.
That’s when the wind begins to blow.
I barely have time to gasp before the vine round my ankle grows taut, then reels me into shore at lightning speed. A pair of arms scoops me out of the shallows.
Fox’s voice is rough with dread. ‘He knows. He knows about the decoys. He knows we’re here.’
At that moment the first Ventalla soldier materializes out of thin air.
He is followed by another, then another, each flitting into view, their armour gleaming like freshly sharpened knives. My eyes widen with terror as somewhere high in the cliffs a bell begins to clang. The sound of it reverberates through my very bones.
The Singers leap into action. After herding the children to safety, they sprint for their weapons, launch themselves on to the backs of dragonflies and soar high into the sky as the squalls howl through the valley. Rain splatters down in great sheets. Arrows begin to fall.
Fox severs the vine, grabs my hand and pulls me towards the caves. Scout darts ahead of us – a streak of copper through the chaos.
Seconds later, we’re surrounded. The soldiers’ faces twist with frenzied glee as they circle us. Fox doesn’t hesitate. The first vine winds itself round a man’s legs, swiping his feet out from under him, while a second snakes round his comrade’s neck, growing tighter and tighter. A third vine seizes another soldier and flings her so hard into the cliff face that her spine snaps on impact. I follow suit. One soldier lets out a strangled cry as his rain-slicked armour begins to freeze, while another screams in agony as her own begins to heat, burning her skin. A blast of wind nearly knocks me off my feet, but Foxcatches hold of me before I’m thrown backwards, then sends a rock the size of his fist straight at the culprit’s face.
The rain grows heavier still. The Singers fight using their weapons as well as their water gifts. Dragonflies swoop overhead, their riders armed with bows and spears and fishing nets designed to ensnare. A stray arrow flies straight at Fox, but my reflexes are faster than they once were, and I send a shard of ice up to meet it, knocking it off course.
My ears fill with a cacophony of screams and voices and clashing metal until, all of a sudden, a silken whisper slips through the din.
Hello, little dove.
Everything inside me seems to buckle. I whip my head round, straining my eyes against the torrent. He is standing right in the thick of the battle, yet is somehow set apart, as though protected by an invisible forcefield or a dense current of air.
King Balen.
His lips curl into an amused smile, as if to say,Surprise.
Beside me, Fox goes very still. I reach for him, and as soon as my hand makes contact with his skin I see Emperor Alvar lying in a pool of blood. I see the Council dropping like flies round the golden dais. And I see his sister suffocating to death.
The expression on Fox’s face chills me to the bone. It is fury untethered, bloodlust unquenched. Vengeance itself.
King Balen inclines his head. ‘What are you waiting for, nephew? Come and play.’
Fox doesn’t hesitate before taking off through the fray, cutting down any who stand in his way, carving a path through the throng of bodies. I follow him, encasing a group of Ventalla soldiers inside a frozen wave and shattering it to pieces.
We’re barely ten yards from King Balen when two figures emerge from behind him. One man, one woman, both dressed in long silvery cloaks. They wear no armour, carry no weapons, yet all around us the air seems to thrum with powerful, dangerous magic.
Demari.
The man brandishes something in his palm. It looks like fire, only it’s as black as coal. I stare at it uncomprehendingly until the pieces fall into place, and I realize what it must be.
Shadow flame.
A gift born from inheriting the magic of both an Ignitia Etheri and an Obsidian Mage. Victims would burn blind, engulfed in blazing darkness.
