‘We must stand united,’ Ember continues. ‘We cannot tremble in the face of fear. To do so would be an insult to her memory.’
A perfect tear rolls down her cheek as she glances towards the pyre. Behind me, Elaith scoffs quietly.
Ember draws herself up to full height. ‘And now, the time has come for the Burning.’
I suppress a shudder. The Burning is the death ritual of the Firelands. The head of the deceased’s House is first to light the pyre, followed by the rest of their loved ones. When the pyre is at last reduced to a smouldering heap, the family eachtake a handful of ashes to deposit inside an urn. The Ignitia believe that the dead person’s soul is carried skyward on the smoke and returned to Vesta. Like funerals, executions also take place upon a pyre. Only in these cases, the soul is thought to be damned, and the prisoner is burned alive.
The tapping of Grandmother’s stick reverberates around the stone hall as she moves forward, her tread as heavy as her heart. My mind floods with images of my mother’s funeral. My father, too grief-stricken to speak. Renly, squawking in the arms of the wet nurse. Flint clutching my hand tightly as it loomed before me – a dark, empty pit of pain. My own personal Rift.
There’s a sudden intake of breath from the crowd as a flame springs to life in Ember’s palm. I narrow my eyes. What is she doing? The head of the family is first to light the pyre.Grandmotheris the head of the family, not Ember.
‘Seeing as I am the one who will take my aunt’s place on the throne, I think it only fitting that I cast the first flame. Wouldn’t you agree, Grandmother?’
Ice courses through me, numbing every other feeling but cold, sharp fury. Howdareshe disrespect Grandmother like this, in front of the entire court? I know Grandmother will never undermine Ember’s authority in public. No one can think our House divided.
So, Grandmother steps back.
Triumphant, Ember raises her voice and speaks the words of House Harglade: ‘Flicker, flare, flame.’
The crowd echoes her, and I watch my brother flinch as Ember sends her ball of fire shooting into the centre of the pyre. Immediately, Aunt Yvainne’s body is set alight, flamesarcing and crackling. Then it’s Grandmother’s turn, her face a careful mask. She is followed by Aunt Hester. Flint swallows hard, extending his arm. He’s shaking, overcome with grief. After about a minute, when it’s clear he’s not up to it, a weeping Seraphine squeezes his hand, steps forward, and sends two flames shooting into the pyre – one for each of them.
My heart gives a painful jolt as Flint stares down at the floor, blinking back tears. Next to him, my decoy twists her gloved fingers together nervously. Being Aquatori, she or, rather,Iobviously do not participate in the ritual. I am a Harglade, one of a long line of pureblood Ignitia, a descendant of Vesta herself. I should have been Flameborn – like Flint, like Ember. But I wasn’t. I was born a Rain Singer, and my birth almost drowned the empire.
I think back to the Choosing Rite, when I used Syla’s talisman to summon that storm and claim the gift that shaped my life – and ended so many others’. I think about the way the Eye called to me,choseme. I don’t know why. All I know is that I need to find it.
Flint and I have spent weeks planning our escape, and now the day is finally upon us. In just a few short hours, I will be far from here.
Burying my guilt deep, I try not to look at Grandmother. Instead, I focus on the smoke dancing atop the pyre. To the surrounding provinces, it must look as though Fire Mountain is about to erupt, what with the grey clouds billowing out of the top of the volcano.
Many of the mourners are weeping. I hear Elaith give a muffled sob. I can’t pretend to have had any strongattachment to Aunt Yvainne, but I always respected her, in my own way. As queen, as my mother’s favourite sister, as the most powerful Ignitia in the realm.
So, as I watch the plumes of smoke curling upward towards the patch of blue sky far above, I say a silent prayer for her soul and hope that Vesta can hear me.
Suddenly, without warning, the smoke is forced back down the mouth of the volcano, engulfing the throne room. The air is dense and acrid, and I choke on it. Everyone is screaming, courtiers reduced to blurred shapes.
Another gust, and I can no longer see my hand in front of my face. I’m buffeted from side to side, crying out as figures barrel into me in their desperation to escape.
Panic takes over. Screams fill my ears.
Then, slinking through the haze, comes a voice. Smooth as silk, soft as breath, chilling me to my core.
Hello, little dove.
2
Flint
Shit.This can’t be good.
Fear lances through me as the pungent fumes pour into my mouth. My eye smarts and stings, tearing up and spilling over, obscuring my vision even further.
I was watching Blaze in the seconds before the attack, several rows back from the dais, standing with her shoulders curved inwards, face hidden by that veil, gazing up at the sky. But now the world has turned grey, and I’ve lost her in the smoke.
The crackling flames from the pyre writhe wildly. Harglade fire – hungry and merciless, streaks of burning red across a charcoal canvas. The heat is ferocious.
A familiar tremor takes hold. My palms slicken. My heart beats out of time.
No, I tell myself.Not now. Snap out of it. Concentrate.
