Skyfire (16 page)

I turn. I'm back in the crowd before I know it, pushing and flashing apologetic smiles even though my heart feels ready to burst. How can he be here? Did he see me? Did he recognise my auburn hair, the shape of my face beneath the mask?

Quirin was the only smuggler from his clan to have crossed the Valley. The only one to have visited Víndurn.

Has he been spying for Lord Farran the entire time? When he sang of the prisoner, that night on the lagoon, did he
know
the man of whom he sang?

The last time I saw him, Quirin crushed our boat with a squeeze of his proclivity. His smuggling crew pursued us into the wilderness. He killed Silver. He almost killed us too. And that chain of alchemy
charms around his neck … I know where he found them.

They belonged to Silver.

Quirin must have found her body in the undergrowth – in that ditch where we left her to rot. He took the chain from her body: a bloody token of the woman he murdered. He must have seen the broken dam, the flooded Valley. And then he set out towards Víndurn to sell his new information to Lord Farran …

It was him. The lone figure behind us in the Valley. The lone figure descending the cliff, crossing those barren plains. Too distant to see his face, or even the colour of his hair.

It was never a hunter. It was a smuggler.

And my mind thumps with those words again: that rhythm that I first heard in Quirin's voice, on the banks of a night-brushed lagoon.

 

Oh Valley's vein,

How we swim through your pain,

From the prisoner's pit to the sky …

 

I hear it now. The rasp of Quirin's voice. The sound of a flute. A quiet breeze, the slosh of water, a child splashing in the dark …

And around me, the Ball of No Faces. The two images mash together, jolted a little by the wine in my stomach, and the close-pressed limbs of the
crowd. For a moment I can't breathe. There's just the rush of gloved hands and elbows and masks – so many masks, shining and feathered – and the rush of song and water.

And the night. All around me, the night. I feel a sudden rush from my proclivity and I close my eyes, scrunching back that power, pushing my awareness down into the darkest depths of my belly. I can't deal with this now. I have to get back to my friends and warn them that Quirin's here and we're all in terrible danger.

The music cuts out.

A hush falls over the ball. People turn, all at once, as though a magnet has pulled their attention across the room. But it's just a man descending the stairs. His mask is white. He wears a richie's top hat and a silver cloak, shining like starlight beneath the lanterns.

Lord Farran.

This has to be him. The prisoner. The Eternal Lord. The man with the Silver proclivity, dressed in a cloak of shining silver. Not exactly subtle. Although if you're ruling a country through the threat of your magic, I guess it pays to keep the threat visible. The silence is so thick I can taste it.

Lord Farran raises his hands in a gesture of welcome. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,' he says. ‘Welcome to the Ball of No Faces.'

His voice echoes around the hall. It's deep and strong: a tone of natural command. I wonder if it carries to the upper levels of partygoers. I wonder if they're all silent too, straining their ears, or whether they listen to the speech through alchemy charms and radios.

I'm mildly surprised that Farran hasn't adopted a Víndurnic accent. But then again, isn't his Taladian origin part of his legend? Perhaps he likes to remind people that he came to them from the Valley. To emphasise that he's truly the prisoner – the most famous enemy of the Morrigan family.

‘Our nation faces a difficult time,' he says. ‘A time of great strength, and great courage. King Morrigan of Taladia has been plotting against us. He has attempted to invade – both above the earth, and below it.'

Whispers hiss across the hall.

Lord Farran holds up his hands and the muttering dies. ‘I know these facts,' he says, ‘because my spies have carried the news straight into my ears. I am not such a fool as to leave Taladia unsupervised. I have eyes and ears in every pocket of their society, and I have waited for the right time to strike. That time is tomorrow.'

Silence.

I risk a glimpse sideways, at the faces of the Víndurnics around me. The scene is almost eerie:
hundreds of blank masks staring up at their beloved lord. With the sheen of their dresses and the gleam of their masks, they resemble statues: inhuman in the dappled light.

‘We shall not wait for King Morrigan to invade!' Lord Farran's shout slaps off the marble staircase, off the glistening walls – as loud as a gunshot in the silence of the hall. ‘It was a Morrigan who locked me in a prison of ice. It was a Morrigan who sent his hunters to pursue me across Taladia. It was a Morrigan who bound me in the Pit of the catacombs, and left me to drown when the water rushed through. But did the Morrigans defeat me?'

‘No!' a woman cries, before a hundred others take up the shout. ‘No!'

Lord Farran raises a fist. ‘The Morrigans tried to kill me, and now their descendants try to take our land. They are cruel tyrants to their people, and enemies to all who love prosperity and freedom. But this is the time to fight back. This is the time to show the Morrigans what it feels like to be victims!'

People cheer. A few punch their fists into the air. I scan the crowd anxiously for my friends, for Lukas. If Lord Farran had any idea that a Morrigan – the son of the king himself – stood in this very room …

‘King Morrigan is growing desperate,' Lord Farran says, when the cheers have died away. His voice is quiet now. Sinister. A few people lean closer,
straining to pick up the nuances in his tone. ‘His schemes have failed, and he's due to begin his plan of last resort. He shall bring his army to the Valley – to traverse the slopes above that treacherous sea. And in the Valley, that army shall fall.'

As he speaks, Lord Farran crooks a finger, as though to coax a disobedient child into movement. The silver banister ripples, before tendrils of it melt up into the air, slowly spinning ribbons of silver. My breath catches in my throat. It's true. This man's proclivity is really Silver.

‘When dawn comes tomorrow,' says Lord Farran, ‘our army shall march towards the Valley. And when dusk falls tomorrow, the soldiers of Taladia shall burn!'

His final words echo across the marble and the crowd erupts into applause. He waves a hand and the banister crashes back down into place – a perfect arch of solid silver. I hastily clap my own hands, scanning the crowd. I can't see my friends. I can't see Quirin.

Quirin. He must be one of Farran's spies. What did Farran just say?
I have eyes and ears in every pocket of their society.
And Quirin's a smuggler captain – the perfect position to sneak around Taladia, to weed out news and sneak it back into Víndurn. No wonder Lord Farran is so well informed! Quirin could sell secrets of the Taladian monarchy, of King Morrigan's expanding empire, of his plans to invade Víndurn. Hell, he might
even have smuggled in Taladian foxary pups, inspiring Lord Farran to create the first sólfoxes.

Quirin must know what happened in the catacombs. He must have seen the dam's collapse, the water flooding into the Valley. He must have spoken to the fleeing soldiers, figured out their plan to dig beneath the magnetic seams.

And so Quirin fled eastwards to report to Farran. If he recognised our crew in the Valley, of course he'd have pursued us for a while. After all, we broke our word – and I bet he still wants us to pay for it. But the smugglers' creed is sense, not sentimentality. When we gained the protection of Bastian's clan, it must have become too risky to hunt us further.

We have to move.

I find Lukas on the edge of the crowd, his arm wrapped protectively around Maisy's shoulder. Now that the speech is over, the crowd is spilling back through the ballroom. Maisy's face twists with anxiety; she keeps glancing around at the jostling crowd, the strangers brushing against her as they pass. I feel a twinge of sympathy. Maisy was once stalked by a twisted old man – a man to whom her father planned to sell her hand in marriage. She isn't comfortable with this brushing of flesh against her bare arms.

When she spots me, her expression lifts a little. ‘Danika, did you see him?'

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘It's Quirin.'

‘Are you sure? Under the mask, it's hard to –'

I nod. ‘It's him.'

‘Who?' Lukas says.

‘A smuggler captain,' I say. ‘We travelled with him for a bit, after you ran off to the catacombs. I told you about him – the one with the Metal proclivity. But Lukas, I don't think your father sent any hunters into Víndurn. I think it was Quirin who followed us out of the Valley.'

I don't mention that Quirin's proclivity killed Lukas's grandmother. It doesn't seem important right now, and I need Lukas to stay alert. If we hope to escape this mess alive, there isn't time for a fresh bout of mourning.

‘But what's a Taladian smuggler doing –'

‘He's a spy,' I say. ‘He has to be. One of those spies Lord Farran was banging on about.'

Teddy and Clementine push through the crowd towards us. Clementine rushes straight for her sister and wraps her arms around Maisy's shoulders. ‘Are you all right?'

Maisy is a little pale, but she nods. ‘I'm fine,' she says. ‘We have bigger things to worry about.'

‘Like the fact that Lord Fancypants is about to drag an army into the Valley?' Teddy says.

‘Like the fact that Quirin's here,' I say.

They stare at me.

‘What?' Clementine says. ‘That's impossible. Don't be silly.'

I scowl at her. Does she think I'd make up stories when the situation is already so fraught?

‘It's true,' Maisy says quietly. ‘I saw him too. Danika thinks he's the man who followed us out of the Valley.'

Teddy shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Just when things couldn't get any messier.'

Across the hall, Lord Farran has descended the staircase. The crowd parts to let him through. Those closest to him seem unable to breathe, star-struck by the presence of their Eternal Lord.

Lord Farran reaches the front of the hall and gives one final wave, before slipping away into the night.

Suddenly, there's an explosion of voices – whispering, muttering, calling for friends. An outburst of chatter bounces off the walls, and the musicians begin to play once more.

‘We've got to hurry,' I say.

‘Hang on, people don't unmask until midnight,' Teddy says. ‘We've still got time to talk to someone, fish for more infor–'

I shake my head. ‘That's not what I meant.'

‘Why, then?'

‘Because at midnight,' I say, ‘Lord Farran's going to set the sky on fire – just like every night. But I don't think he's doing it to stop the earth from
boiling. Remember Tindra's diary? He's up to something else. Something secret.'

I take a deep breath. ‘And we're going to be there to see it.'

The night is cold. It bites my limbs, so flimsily shielded by my silken gown. Clementine wraps an arm around Maisy, whose face is as grey as the cobblestones.

By the time we reach the alley where we stashed our own clothes, Lord Farran is already a smear upon the sky. His sólfox's wings arc through the black, and I catch a glimpse of his flapping silver cloak beneath the moon.

‘How are we gonna get there?' Teddy says as he rips off his mask. ‘I mean, I know I'm a super-strong hero and all that, but I don't reckon I can run down one mountain and up another one by midnight.'

‘It's impossible.' Clementine slips a pair of trousers up under her gown. ‘Danika, we should just find a way to esca–'

Her voice trails off as I point towards the far side of the courtyard. Rows and rows of caged sólfoxes claw at the metal bars.

I turn to Lukas and Teddy. ‘How many can you control?'

‘Only one each, I reckon,' Teddy says. ‘They're a bit … snappy.'

‘But there are five of us,' Clementine says. ‘We're not likely to fit on two sólfoxes, are we? It was a nice plan, Danika, but obviously –'

‘We can fit.' Lukas drops his mask into a nearby bin. ‘They're strong, those things. Teddy, Clementine and Maisy – you take one. I'll take the other with Danika.'

I nod, adding my gown and mask to the bin. It's a fair way to split us up, considering how little Maisy must weigh. She's always been slighter than her sister, but during this trip she must have dropped five kilos more than the rest of us. More than ever, she reminds me of a little mouse. Fragile, but with stubborn claws.

And speaking of claws …

The sólfoxes calm down a little as Lukas approaches. His eyes narrow to slits as he holds out his hands, channelling his proclivity with every speck of concentration. I keep a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding his steps across the cobblestones.

‘Easy,' he whispers. ‘Easy now.'

The nearby sólfoxes still. They stare at us with beady eyes.

‘You shouldn't be locked in there,' Lukas says, reaching a gentle hand between the bars. ‘We're going to let you out, okay?'

He meets the nearest sólfox's gaze. The creature stares back, and a promise seems to pass between them. I saw the same look in Teddy's eyes when he dealt with our foxaries.

‘Teddy?' Lukas says.

‘On it.'

Teddy hurries forward, a thin silver pin in his fingers. He slips it into the lock with all the practised finesse of a lifelong thief and gives a careful twist.

The lock clicks open.

I half-expect the creature to rush out and maul us, then take to the skies in a wild burst of freedom. But it simply stares at Lukas, as though hypnotised.

‘That's it,' Lukas breathes. ‘Good boy.'

He runs a gentle hand down the sólfox's neck, scratching its skin beneath a ruff of rumpled fur. The creature tilts its head to the side, allowing him better access to the itchy patch, then nuzzles its face almost lovingly into the crook of Lukas's elbow.

I stare between them: boy and beast, in a moment of perfect harmony. Lukas looks calm. Confident. Not a boy, but a young man. No doubt he can feel his proclivity humming: a tingle of magic beneath his skin.

Two minutes later, with a second sólfox free, we're bundled atop our mounts. I'm right behind Lukas, pressed into his back. In any other circumstances this closeness might be awkward, but our task is too urgent to worry about hormones. This is our last chance to know what Lord Farran is planning to unleash upon Taladia, and we've got less than an hour to reach the Peak.

And then we're off.

It begins with a rush of power, a jolt of muscles beneath me. I clench my thighs tighter around the sólfox, cursing its slippery fur, as the enormous wings flap around me. We lift into the air.

Someone on the other sólfox shrieks – Clementine, I think – and then we're rising up between the towers. From here the spires look like knives, pointing up to skewer us if we fall. I think suddenly of Tindra lying smashed upon the stones. I fight back a shudder and tighten my grip.

‘All right?' Lukas calls, straining to be heard.

‘Yeah, I'm fine!'

It's far from the truth. Night rushes around me, loud and loose and violent, and I feel its lure. My proclivity hums beneath my skin. My body slips a little, preparing to fade into the black.

No!

I clench my eyes shut and try to block it out. I can't lose control. Not now. If I melt into the
darkness here, in the rush of the wind and the thrill of flight, I'll never find myself again.

Our sólfox screeches, caught up in the rapture of escape, as Silent Peak falls away behind us.

‘Hold on!' Lukas says.

We swoop. The sólfox plunges and then rises, flaring its wings to catch an updraft. I clench my eyes shut and focus on Lukas's body heat beneath my fingers. He is with me, warm and solid and alive.

Lukas guides the sólfox into another sharp dive. We slip forward and my face hits the back of Lukas's neck. He lets out a whoop of laughter, as sharp and primal as the cry of a hawk. With my teeth clenched shut, and the wind like fire in my eyes, I decide that Lukas Morrigan isn't so much a romantic hero as a suicidal maniac.

‘It feels like ages since I've flown!' The joy is so fresh in his voice – so rich and vibrant – that I can taste it in the air between us. ‘Isn't it amazing?'

He's cut off as the sólfox swerves. There's a rush of sound and a sting of cold, and then we're plunging down through darkness towards a peak of ragged black. Its centre parts like a pair of hands, curving around a molten throat.

Steam pours up from the shaft, and the cold night wind gives way to a blast of fiery cinders. Down in the depths of that mountain lies a pool of boiling liquid, a geyser waiting to erupt. But this geyser
isn't normal. It glows with spitting flame, shining metallic light up into the dark. I remember Bastian's words: not a geyser of water, but a geyser of alchemical juices.

Skyfire Peak. We're here.

Our descent is eerily silent, like a kite floating down from the stars. Lukas and Teddy keep our sólfoxes quiet, murmuring under their breath. Despite their fox-like bodies, the creatures extend their claws and flare their wings – as agile as hawks swooping in to roost.

The mountainside bristles with forest, but Lukas selects a decent landing place: a stony clearing, about a hundred metres down the slope. Even so, we're almost bowled over by a tangle of thorny vines as we land.

Clementine splutters, her face alight in indignation as she clings to her fox's fur. ‘What in the name of –'

‘Shhh.' I grab her arm. ‘We're too close. Keep your voice down!'

Teddy slides onto the ground. The movement is as light and silent as you'd expect of an expert burglar. ‘Reckon he saw us coming in?' he whispers. ‘Lord Fancypants, I mean.'

I shake my head. ‘No way to know for sure.'

‘Yeah, guess not,' Teddy says. ‘Not till his guards swoop down to gut us, anyway.'

‘Think he actually keeps guards here?' I say. ‘I get the feeling he's pretty secretive about his experiments.'

‘I reckon he's got guards everywhere,' Teddy says. ‘And spies, too. Remember what he said at the ball? Eyes and ears all over the joint.' He runs a hand down his chin. ‘Better play this one safe, I reckon.'

I glance towards the peak, which looms above the canopy. From down here, it looks fairly ominous: a jagged jawline, dark beneath the stars. And if Teddy's right, we're stepping right into its teeth.

Lukas and Teddy coax the sólfoxes up into the trees, whispering words I can't quite hear. The beasts settle in a tangled bulk of branches, high above the dangers of the midnight earth. Lukas hums a quiet tune before he descends, and their heads droop as though they're on the verge of dozing. One fox rests its head across the neck of its companion, so that they jumble together in a sleepy ball of fur and feathers.

‘Good idea,' Teddy says, as he clambers back down. ‘Should stay put for a while, I reckon. Maybe a few hours.'

‘Will that be long enough?' Clementine says.

I hesitate. In the shadow of the forest, I feel closer than ever to the touch of Night. My proclivity thrums like mad. ‘It's almost midnight.'

‘How'd you know?' Teddy says.

‘I can feel it.'

No one argues. They all understand what it's like to have a proclivity – all except Clementine, who's once again scratching the back of her neck. I raise an eyebrow and she stops, embarrassed.

‘When that was me,' I say, ‘you told me to stop scratching or I'd scar myself before I even got my tattoo.'

‘Yes, I know. But it's just so itchy!'

‘Welcome to the club,' Teddy says. ‘We've all been there. Gotta think about something else, I reckon, to keep your mind off it.'

‘Something else? What, like the fact we're all about to be slaughtered by a pack of Víndurnic guards?'

‘Yeah, that'd do it.'

‘Oh, good,' Clementine says. ‘I feel better already.'

Together, we creep up the hillside. Teddy is always light on his feet, and Maisy patters like a mouse, but the rest of us are clodhoppers. I wince every time my boots crack a fallen twig. In the darkness, the slightest sound seems amplified a thousand times over.

But despite Teddy's fears, there are no sentries.
The mountainside is deserted. Lord Farran's up to something that he can't trust to anybody – not even his own guards.

Near the top of the peak, we climb into the branches of a massive tree. My proclivity prickles with an intense burst of power, warning me that it's almost midnight.
At midnight, the earth cannot be trusted.

Peering through the branches, I can make out the lip of the geyser. A white-haired man stands at its edge. He holds an alchemy lamp in one hand, casting beams of light across the peak.

Lord Farran.

His silver cloak flaps behind him, rumpled by the breeze. I can't see his face from this angle, but he's cast aside his top hat, mask and veil. It's too dark to make out his tattoo, which is a shame. My curiosity burns at the thought of a Silver proclivity. What does it look like?

Lord Farran stares into the geyser's shaft, as though to watch the sway and gurgle of the liquid below. Steam wafts up in great spirals, and I remember the swirling silver banister at the ball. It seems like a dream now: another life, a fading memory. All those coloured dresses and shining masks … all so fake. So contrived.

This, on the other hand, is raw. The man on the ledge. The boiling crater. A roar of heat from the
geyser blasts warmth into my bones, and my face stings at the whiplash of hot wind. Steam spills down around us – a rush of grit and darkness – before it fades into the night. A few splashes hit the rocks, glinting like drops of liquid starlight.

‘No,' Maisy whispers. ‘It can't be.'

‘What?' I say.

‘Don't you see?' Maisy turns to me, her eyes wide. ‘Don't you see what that liquid in the geyser must be? The way it shines, the way it explodes …' She digs her fingernails into the trunk of our tree, as though trying to steady herself.

‘Get on with it,' Teddy says.

Maisy takes a deep breath. ‘It's Curiefer.'