She arches a flame-red eyebrow.
‘Elaith,’ I correct myself.
Her scarlet-silk dress trails behind her in a delicate train. I select a handful of ruby-studded hairpins and sweep her hair back over one shoulder, pausing as I catch sight of a series of marks adorning her fair skin. It looks as if someone’s gripped her by the throat.
She flushes, reaching up to tug her hair back into place. ‘It was a necklace. The clasp was too tight. Clumsy.’
Maybe I would’ve believed her if this brief action hadn’t exposed her wrists. They too are covered with marks – a bracelet of angry purple bruises.
‘It’s nothing, really,’ she says hastily, slipping on a pair of crimson gloves.
That’s exactly what Hal says whenever I ask what’s ailing him.
Nothing.
That word is a weapon. I’m defenceless against it. So I bite my tongue, brush a little golden powder over Elaith’s freckled cheeks, and follow her to the banquet hall.
It’s sweltering in here, the torches burning fiercely in their brackets, candles dripping wax on to the floor. Hal is sitting in his father’s throne on top of the dais, Zephyr on his left, Ember on his right. Blaze’s cousin is a tiny creature, almost as small as Elaith. She’s not yet sixteen, her heavily lidded eyes, alight with malice, ill-suited to such a youthful face. She’s wearing a gown studded with garnets, so many that they reflect the flames, making it look as if the whole dress is sparkling. The cost of the hem alone would be enough to feed my village for a year.
Even after all this time, the wealth and splendour of Ostacre never fail to astonish me. Compared to my plain, bone-coloured tunic, Ember’s dress is outlandish. But next to the suffering and poverty of the Otherlands, it is utterly grotesque.
Snatching up a tray of glasses, I begin to make my way around the room. The Aquatori, Terrathian and Ventalla tables are more or less empty, while almost every chair at both the Ignitia’s and Eyes’ tables is occupied. Voices ricochet off the walls, and I screw up my face as the noise overwhelms my newfound bat-like hearing. Gritting my teeth, I attempt to extract individual conversations from the din, tuning in to different frequencies.
Poor Flint Harglade, he lost the Choosing and his good looks in one fell swoop.
Pity the Storm Weaver didn’t choke on all that smoke at Fire Mountain.
Pass the salt, would you?
Marina appears in the doorframe, looking elegant in a silver fish-scale dress. If it weren’t for the remarkable quality of my eyesight, I likely wouldn’t have noticed that several scales appear to be missing, or that the hoops round her wrist are tarnished with age. I watch as she makes her way up on to the dais to embrace Ember.
Apparently, the Earth Cleaver was last seen in Alvora with the Prince of Thaven.
I heard he fled to the Eastern Isles.
I spot Elaith sitting with the Court of Flames. A conversation is taking place around her, but she’s too absorbed in the boy at her side. He’s roguishly handsome,stocky and muscular, with fair hair and hazel eyes. I recognize him as one of the Ignitia Heirs – Cole, I think. His arm is slung possessively across the back of Elaith’s chair, and he’s nursing a glass of dragon whisky. My gaze lingers on his large hands before flickering to Elaith, to the curtain of fiery hair shielding her neck, to the pair of fine gloves concealing her wrists.
More conversations compete for space in my head.
He looks a little peaky perhaps, but then he has just lost his father.
The King of Vost has pledged allegiance. That’s something, at least.
Ventalla soldiers have been cropping up in every province, so I hear. Rallying support, handing out food to the commonfolk. King Balen’s influence is spreading by the day.
Abandoning my tray, I reach for a decanter of wine. Yet the second my skin grazes the surface, an awful sensation takes hold, so achingly cold it seems to numb my very bones. I jerk backwards, bewildered. It takes a few moments before I understand.
The decanter is made from crystal, and crystal weakens Magi.
Suddenly an unfamiliar voice cuts through my realization.
Tonight’s the night.
It belongs to an Eye sitting at the furthest end of the centre table, a tall, pasty-faced man whispering quietly in his companion’s ear. The urgency in his tone catches my attention. Grabbing a golden flagon of ale, I slowly make my way towards them.
The Pyros’ arrival is the perfect distraction.
I still don’t understand what he wants with a bunch of half-starved prisoners.
