Skyfire (18 page)

‘No,' Lord Farran says. There is a sudden bitterness in his eyes. ‘No. I've tried, believe me. I've tried for centuries. But I don't believe that anyone could replicate the magic of the Timekeeper. She was a prodigy. Her proclivity was … freakishly strong.'

I stare at him, my mind whirring. If Farran
could
replicate the Timekeeper's powers, surely he'd gloat about it. He clearly likes to brag – this is a man who has proclaimed himself the Eternal Lord and hero of a nation. This is his chance to humiliate a Morrigan – to prove to Lukas that he, the prisoner, is more powerful than the Taladian royals. He might even steal a little time from us, here and now, just to prove the strength of his power. To prove that we're at his mercy. So if Farran admits that such magic is beyond him, my instincts say that he's telling the truth.

That means he's found another way to extend his life. But whatever it is, I'd bet fifty coins that it's finally failing. He stands with frail posture, ragged skin and a stultified drumbeat for breath. The ‘Eternal Lord' is weakening.

‘How did you fool everyone?' Lukas says. ‘How did you fake a Silver proclivity for so long?'

Lord Farran stares at Lukas, his eyes hard. ‘Oh, but you're a Morrigan, boy. You should know all about the power of lies.' He pauses. ‘Lies … and illusions.'

Illusions
. The realisation burns. Lord Farran is an illusionist – just like me. For hundreds of years, he has faked a Silver proclivity. I think of his trick upon the stairs at the ball: coaxing the silver banister up into spinning tendrils. I could do that trick myself, if I practised enough. And he's had centuries to hone his skill, to shape his illusions into masterpieces, good enough to trick even the closest eyes …

I stare at him, my heart racing. That's how he's disguised his proclivity marking. A constant illusion maintained upon his neck. He must wear one illusory tattoo for himself and another when he's playing Hinrik. Just like Hinrik's white beard, and his ethereal proclivity …

I sense Teddy shifting beside me, blown away by the complexity of this scam. It's the ultimate conman's ruse: a con centuries in the making, with an entire nation fooled. I almost refuse to believe it.

‘But no one's guessed?' Lukas says. ‘In three hundred years,
someone
must –'

Lord Farran waves a hand. ‘There are no illusionists born in Víndurn. The ability is unique to
Taladia. How can the audience suspect a magic trick when they don't know it exists?'

No one speaks.

‘And I'm no fool,' Lord Farran says. ‘Unlike most rulers, I
know
my people. I understand them. I know their abilities, their susceptibilities. I keep my most malleable subjects close to me – and I keep any threats at arm's length.'

‘What do you mean?' Lukas says.

But Maisy lets out a little gasp, her eyes wide. ‘High and low …' she whispers. ‘I didn't think of it until now, but people with ethereal proclivities are more susceptible to illusions, aren't they?'

Lord Farran's expression is cold, but there is a spark of pride in those eyes – a ruthless pleasure at this recognition of his work. A showman, always in need of an audience.

‘Those with ethereal proclivities,' he says, ‘tend to be magically … flighty. They're used to drifting and twisting, to insubstantial bodies melting in and out of existence. Such people rarely question an illusion. But folk with solid proclivities are more … grounded. Solid.
Salt of the earth
, as they say.'

Lord Farran pauses. ‘They'll believe an illusion for a while, of course – but eventually, their gut will tell them that something is wrong. Their magic will seek out solidity. The reassurance of what is real.'

My throat tightens as I remember the smugglers'
boats. Silver taught us to see through their illusion, to glimpse the boats hidden beneath. It's possible to break an illusion if you suspect that it's there. And if solid proclivities help to spark such suspicions …

‘If I shared my city with such folk,' Farran says, ‘I could never have maintained my charade. For a week, perhaps. A month. A year. But no longer. And so I sent them away, and I filled the spires with those more receptive to my … performance.'

I stare at him, my insides hollow. A city of ethereal souls. A city of light, and air, and dancing. A city of beauty and frivolity. Where people melt into the breeze, and attend masked balls, and live in a constant shimmer of magic. A city where reality shifts upon the wind.

A city where people
believe
the mask.

‘And, of course,' Lord Farran says, ‘I offer people hope. I offer glory for their nation, and victory beyond their wildest dreams.' He looks at Lukas. ‘Do you know the difference between myself and the Morrigans?'

‘You're both psychotic killers?' Teddy says.

Lord Farran ignores him. ‘Your father is a fool, Lukas Morrigan – just like every king before him. Brutal, barbaric fools. Little wonder your family seized power during the Dark Ages. A time of chaos and savagery, brutality and death.

‘Even now, you rule by coercion. By bombs and
guns and curfews. It is fitting that your father's proclivity is Stone – the power of blunt force.' Farran scoffs. ‘Your people hate you, but they obey out of fear.'

Lukas wets his lips. ‘One day, it'll be different. If I can –'

‘
I
am that difference,' says Lord Farran. ‘I am a true leader. My people fear me, of course – but with respect, not hatred. They believe that I, and I alone, can defend them from our nation's enemies. They will never rise against me, because they
need
me.

‘They need me enough to let me break up their families, to execute their children. All in the name of defending Víndurn. They long for my protection, and so they accept the laws that come with it. To insult me is to blaspheme. I am the prisoner of the Pit, the man from the Valley, the hero who saved their city.' He smiles. ‘And I know how to put on a show.'

My breath catches. I remember how we strolled into the ball, without a single question turning our way. People accepted us. Believed us. Just confidence and costumes, and the willingness of others to believe in what they see.

But midnight is over, and it's time for unmasking.

Lord Farran guides us down a dark tunnel, into the guts of the mountain. He keeps his pistol pressed to Maisy's temple. Teddy twitches once or twice, as though to lunge for the gun – but Farran simply smiles. ‘I wouldn't, if I were you. Not if you want your friend's skull to remain intact.'

He leaves us in a prison cell, locked securely in the shadows. His footsteps echo as he disappears back along the tunnel.

It's not exactly a cell: more of a rocky cave. A storage cellar for army supplies. Sacks of potatoes and dried beans, and wooden crates of bandages. Even what looks like sólfox armour, with huge copper plates to shield the creatures' throats. But the only doorway is lined with magnetic
bars – designed, I suppose, to keep the supplies locked away safely.

Now, they work to lock us in.

The air in our cell stinks like sulphur. I pinch my nose and try to keep my panic under control. All I can think about is the last time I was trapped underground, in the catacombs. The rising water, the flooding dark …

Our sole source of light is the star charm on my bracelet. It stutters a little in time with my breath as I wrap my wrists around my knees.

‘What will he do with us?' Clementine asks.

‘If he was gonna kill us, he would've done it already,' Teddy says. ‘I reckon he's weighing up his options. Figuring out whether we're worth a trade.'

‘He might be checking with Quirin,' I say, ‘to see if our stories are true.'

‘He looked ill,' Lukas says.

‘Maybe he's coming down with something!' Teddy says. ‘It'd serve him right to catch the flu. Or maybe chickenpox. I'd pay good money to see him scratch his face off.'

I turn to the twins. They look pale and drawn, huddled together in the pool of light cast by my charm. ‘You saved all our lives when the sky caught fire, Maisy. If you hadn't been there …'

She shakes her head. ‘It's just lucky my proclivity was Flame.'

‘That wasn't just luck,' I say. ‘That was skill. Back in Gunning, you could barely fight against a candle – and now look at you! Your proclivity's developing pretty damn quick.'

‘Speaking of flames,' Teddy says, ‘any idea what the hell that's all about? Dunno about you guys, but chucking a firestone into a pit of boiling Curiefer isn't exactly a normal recreational activity.'

‘Firestone soup?' I say. ‘Maybe it's a delicacy in Víndurn.'

It's not a very good joke, and it falls flat. We're silent for a while as we struggle to find a reason for Lord Farran's behaviour.

‘I think we can assume that he throws a firestone into the geyser every midnight,' says Maisy. ‘And I suppose he must collect them again, once the fire has ended. If his proclivity is Night, he could float down safely to retrieve them from the shaft.'

‘What for?' Lukas says.

Maisy looks thoughtful. ‘He trades the stones back to the villagers, doesn't he? To rebury in the earth, and keep their magic active until they're needed.'

I nod. ‘In the market, when that stonetrader gave a stone back to Bastian to bury, it looked a bit duller than the fresh ones. Like it had been lacquered over or something …'

‘Or had something scorched into it,' Maisy says.

Teddy runs a hand down his chin. ‘So, let's say your legends about the firestones are true. They're conduits for magic, right, so Farran figures he'll use 'em in his war against Taladia. But –'

‘But magic doesn't work in the Valley,' I say.

‘Exactly,' Teddy says. ‘So …'

Maisy bites her lip. ‘So he's fusing Curiefer into the firestones. When the geyser explodes into flame, it might be just enough force to imbue the stones with Curiefer.'

I stare at her.

‘If the firestones are imbued with Curiefer,' she adds slowly, ‘they might be impervious to magnets.' Her eyes widen. ‘They might work in the Valley.'

‘Hang on,' Teddy says. ‘If that's possible, how come the Morrigans never thought of it? They would've been coating all sorts of stuff with Curiefer – biplanes, pistols, alchemy bombs … The king would've been jumping out of his throne, I reckon, if he could get his weapons working in the Valley.'

Maisy shakes her head. ‘It was never thought possible; Curiefer's too unstable, too flammable, and the force of the heat you'd need to make it work …'

She trails off. ‘But Farran's using the geyser to do it. He's mixing up alchemy with the force of nature itself, to soak the Curiefer's powers into the stones. And with the strength of the blast …' She hesitates.
‘It must have taken centuries of experiments, of trial and error, to get the process just right.'

I nod slowly. Alchemy has been more advanced in Víndurn for a thousand years; the city spires themselves contain silver in their stone. But in Taladia, the Alchemical Renaissance was only a few centuries ago. We're still learning and experimenting. Our alchemy isn't advanced enough for King Morrigan to develop a method like this.

‘If Lord Farran's been burning Curiefer into a stone every night, for years and years …' Lukas says. ‘Well, he must have thousands of firestones prepared by now, mustn't he?'

Maisy nods. ‘And if they really work as conduits, Farran could send any magic he liked through their frequency.'

A long pause. I imagine thousands of Víndurnic soldiers marching to the Valley, firestones glowing in their hands. And Lord Farran, smiling coldly, as he blasts alchemical destruction through those streams of light …

I suck down a sharp breath.

‘So what do we do?' I say. ‘We can't just sit here and wait – we've got to find a way out, find a way to stop this.'

‘Can you slip out through the Night?' Clementine says.

‘Not through magnetic bars.'

We stare at the bars. If they were simple metal, it would be so easy to melt between them. To float into the night and fade between their shining forms. But magic and magnets don't mix. It's the very fact that has kept the Magnetic Valley safe from alchemical warfare – at least, until now.

If I risk my proclivity within a magnetic field, the results could be deadly. If I'm lucky, the magnets might simply erase my power. If not, the magic could ricochet violently back into my body. I watched Sharr Morrigan die when she fired an alchemy pistol beneath a seam of magnetic rock. The bullet slammed back into her own skull.

Footsteps clatter on the stairs.

I extinguish the star charm, as quick as snuffing out a candle. We all scramble back, forming a huddle in the centre of the cell. Then we think better of it and spread out a little, trying to disguise our fear. Trying to look casual. If Lord Farran is coming down here to shoot us, I refuse to die with terror on my face.

Even so, a warm hand presses into my own. Lukas. Our fingers snake together and we wait in silence, listening to the
thud
,
thud
,
thud
of boots upon the rock. The sound echoes, growing louder with every stride. My throat tightens. It's like listening to the sound of our own deaths edging closer and closer through the dark.

When a light swings into focus from around the corner, I realise that we have two visitors. Lord Farran … and Quirin.

I stare at Quirin, my stomach tight. The charm necklace hangs from his throat, glinting silver in the lantern light. To actually
see
him here – those eyes, that peppered ginger beard – in the dark of Skyfire Peak … Well, it's unsettling. I keep picturing him back on Green Lagoon, coaxing the song of the prisoner from his flute. Or back on the river, clenching his proclivity to crush our boat into scraps.

Teddy scowls. ‘What the hell are
you
doing here?'

‘I'm a smuggler, boy,' Quirin says. ‘Some folks smuggle spices. Some smuggle silver, or people, or pistols.' His lip curls. ‘But you know the most profitable job? Smuggling secrets.'

‘You mean spying!' Clementine says.

Quirin seems to consider this, weighing the accusation in his palm. ‘Depends on your definition. Does it count as spying when both sides know what I'm up to?'

‘What do you –?'

‘Well, King Morrigan knows I'm here,' Quirin says. ‘And Lord Farran, of course, knows when I'm reporting to the Morrigans.'

He offers a quick bow to Farran, who merely raises an eyebrow. ‘Works out best for everyone this way. I'm what you might call … expedient. An
unofficial diplomat. A way for both sides to keep an eye on the enemy.'

‘But neither side wants to kill you,' Teddy says slowly. ‘Better to get sketchy facts than none at all, I reckon. You've made yourself too valuable to kill.'

Again, I remember Quirin's words on the lagoon. The motto of his smuggling clan:
sense, not sentimentality
. A man who was willing to work around King Morrigan, but not to openly defy him.

And here he is, trading coins and secrets with both sides of the coming war. Quirin doesn't care how many innocents will die. He doesn't care if his information is used to commit atrocities. All that matters is the gold in his purse.

Lukas turns to Lord Farran. ‘Don't you
care
that he's selling your secrets?'

‘My dear Prince Morrigan,' says Farran, smiling, ‘have you no brain for politics? I want to know what my enemy is planning.'

‘But he knows what you're planning too!'

‘No. Your fool of a father knows only what I let slip to Quirin. And so he thinks that he knows what I'm planning – and
I
know what he thinks I'm planning – while I plan another move entirely.'

Another pause, as we try to wrap our heads around that sentence.

‘It's time for me to strike. And so I've “let slip” to Morrigan that I'll bring my army into Taladia
tomorrow. The fool is frantically assembling his own forces to stop me crossing the Valley. He'll be panicked and disorganised.

‘I've fought to destroy your family for three centuries, Lukas Morrigan. This is not a street-ball match. It's a chess game. It's a game that requires … finesse. And that, young prince, is why I will win.'

Silence.

‘Well, Quirin?' Lord Farran shines the light into our cell. ‘Do you believe their story?'

‘Seemed keen to do something about the catacombs when they were travelling with my boats. Wanted us to help them stop the war.' Quirin looks suddenly bitter. ‘But I didn't see it myself, if that's what you're asking. Too busy chasing after my damned traitor wife to worry about a bunch of brats.'

His wife. Laverna. She was working for the hunters, spying on Quirin's smugglers on behalf of King Morrigan. Given Quirin's mercenary nature, it makes sense that the king didn't entirely trust him – but judging by Quirin's bitterness, it seems he was unaware of his wife's true allegiance.

A laugh bubbles to my lips – part amusement, part hysteria – at the idea that Laverna got the better of Quirin. They were both spies, in the end. A perfectly matched pair of liars.

Quirin steps forward. ‘Who thinks this is funny?'

His eyes settle on me, and his lips pull back into a
snarl. He wrenches at the air, as though to blast one of the metal bars at me. With his Metal proclivity, it'd be a deadly lance when fired at such close range. But the bars just squat there, cloaked in magnetic immunity.

Quirin whirls upon Lord Farran, fury on his lips. ‘Let me kill that one! You don't need to trade them all.'

Lord Farran holds up a hand to silence him. Quirin obeys, although his scowl still lingers. Any humour in the situation is gone. Farran looks at me, his eyes cold, his expression calculating. Is he deciding how much I'm worth to King Morrigan? Is he considering Quirin's request, deciding whether it's worth throwing away one little bargaining chip to keep his spy happy?

I can picture it now. They'll drag me from the cell, kicking and fighting. My friends will have to watch as they push me to the floor and Quirin presses that pistol to the back of my neck, and then –

‘Leave us, Quirin,' Lord Farran says. ‘I desire a private word with my guests.'

I let out a low breath. Quirin looks ready to argue, but he bites back his words and retreats, his fists clenched tight by his sides. Lord Farran waits until the footsteps have faded before he turns back to us. The lantern throws shadows on his grey complexion, making the sags beneath his eyes look hollow.

‘You've caused me a great deal of trouble, girl,' he
tells me. ‘You rejected my offer to live in the spires. And then you had the audacity to wander around the market with a bunch of solid souls.
Flaunting
your decision. Encouraging my people to think that such blasphemy was acceptable.

‘My reputation is everything. I don't gamble with the respect of my people. I like them to believe that they have a choice – but to know, in their hearts, there is only one right decision.'

Lord Farran stares at me, his eyes cold. ‘You made the wrong decision. You chose selfish whims over loyalty. That isn't an idea I can permit to fester. My spies in the market sent word as soon as you arrived. I regret only that I gave one of those fools the order to deal with you, instead of doing it myself. If you want a job done properly …'

He pauses. ‘At least you left the city, which was my main concern. You could live like filth down in the village if you liked, so long as my ethereal souls couldn't see you. So long as their minds couldn't be poisoned.'

He spreads his hands.

‘And yet, despite all my generosity, here you are. And you've brought me a gift. An entire crew of fugitives, and the son of King Morrigan himself. I suppose I should thank you.'

Lord Farran leans closer. ‘Consider this my “thanks”. I'll forbid Quirin his spot of fun, and let
you live a day longer. You'll be allowed to die with your friends, and I'll negotiate a higher price from King Morrigan. Everybody wins.'