Keep your voice down.
My heart thuds violently, though I can’t make sense of what I’m hearing. Distraction from what? Which prisoners are they referring to? And who ishe?
At that moment, Hal gets to his feet, and a hush falls over the room.
‘Thank you all for being here tonight,’ he begins. ‘It’s a great pleasure to have the Court of Flames back in our halls, particularly their future queen.’
The Ignitia cheer, banging their fists on the table, wine sloshing out of their glasses.
Ember smiles, her voice little-girlish. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, the pleasure is ours.’
Hal attempts to return her smile, but I watch in alarm as his face suddenly crumples in pain, his mouth twisting into a grimace, his jaw protruding sharply.
All around, courtiers are murmuring.
He blinks hard and straightens up. ‘A toast,’ he grits out through clenched teeth.
The Etheri raise their glasses.
‘To … to the future,’ says Hal. ‘Let it be –’ He breaks off again, wincing, two fingers pressed to his temple.
I swallow nervously. Several of the serfs exchange looks. Zephyr places a hand on Hal’s arm, but Hal shakes him off, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his doublet.
He looks like a ghost.
‘Let it be brighter … than the past,’ he finishes weakly, then collapses on to the table in front of him.
My piercing shriek is drowned by the uproar that ensues. I move forward instinctively, but Hal is already surrounded. Blood rushes in my ears, and I clench my fists tightly in case my shadows decide to descend, sensing my fear.
All night, I sit in the serf tunnels outside Hal’s chambers, listening as the physicians try and fail to determine what’s wrong with him.
Worry eats away at my insides. I feel colder than I did when I touched the crystal.
I must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because I’m awoken by Alator’s reedy voice on the other side of the door, informing the emperor that in the early hours of the morning, a large number of prisoners were freed from the palace dungeons.
All that was left in their place was a single black feather.
23
Blaze
‘Tell me how you became a Healer.’
I’m sitting cross-legged on a tree stump, watching as Fox forages through the undergrowth. His hair is still wet from bathing, damp strands framing his face.
‘Really?’ He tries not to smile. ‘That’s your question?’
I nod, resolved.
Fox slides Soulkiller from his belt and uses it to slice a few long stems before stuffing them inside his satchel. Then he says, ‘My grandmother was a Healer.’
I gasp as he brushes his fingers against mine. The woman in the memory looks remarkably like Kestrel Calloway, only older. Green eyes, auburn hair streaked with grey, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She wears a leather apron with a dozen pockets of varying shapes and sizes. I edge closer to discover that each contains something different – flower cuttings, soil samples, a handful of emerald-coloured beetles, even a baby mouse.
The woman smiles softly, then fades into nothing.
Fox clears his throat as he draws back his hand. ‘She taught me everything I know. About medicinal herbs, edible plants, how to treat a wound. I was younger than your brother Renly when she first took me out into the forest. I’d help her dig for roots, gather pine cones, scrape sap from tree bark. Then we’d take it all back to her workshop.’
Another light graze of our hands and I see it – a poky little hut lit by firefly lanterns, the shelves crammed with pots and potions.
