Skyfire (12 page)

I crumple, slipping down into a blur of shoes and dirt and cobblestones. I see feet. Legs. Startled cries echo above my head, as muted as if I were underwater.

And then it hits me: not just the pain, but the shock. Someone attacked me. Someone in this crush of flickering bodies tried to kill me. If I hadn't turned aside to sniff the air …

It wasn't supposed to be my shoulder. It was supposed to be my throat.

Pain flares in my shoulder, hot and white. I lurch to the side, half-expecting another blow. Nothing. My would-be killer has vanished into the crowd, or dissolved into shadow.

I stagger to my feet; the last thing I need is to
be crushed in the throng. A moment later, someone grabs my uninjured arm and yanks me sideways.

‘What happened?' Lukas's breath is sharp in my ear. ‘Danika, you're bleeding! What –?'

‘We've got to get out of here!'

The mass of bodies surges around me. My pulse quickens. Any of these people could be my attacker. He could be here right now, just waiting to move in for the kill …

Lukas presses closer and I realise he's trying to shield me. He hasn't put it all together yet – not the fact that someone slashed me – but he knows that I'm bleeding.
Danger
. And yet his first reaction is to put his own body between me and the crowd.

A flash of emotion runs down my spine. I'm not sure whether it's fear or gratitude or something deeper. All I know is that I can't let him do this. If someone plans another attack, I can't let Lukas take the blow.

I jerk aside through the crush of bodies. Lukas shouts, but I've already slipped away. I bluster along towards the rest of our crew, but they've dispersed in the crowd. ‘Teddy? Clementine?'

I fight towards the market exit. The locals use their proclivities to ease through the crowd, and elbows and dissolving limbs shift like wind around me. Blood trickles down my shoulder, but I've
suffered much worse. My mind still seems clear, so I don't think the blood loss is too –

Someone shoves me aside, and for a terrible second I think their fingers are a blade. Their hand digs right into my wounded shoulder, causing a fresh burst of pain, and I can't hold back a cry of alarm. But it's just another stranger surging through the crowd.

As I shove forward, the world begins to blur. A familiar rhythm echoes through my mind, spurring my footfalls. The rhythm of the smugglers' song, rising and falling with every heave of my lungs.

 

Oh mighty yo,

How the star-shine must go,

Chasing those distant deserts of green …

 

The first verse blurs into the second, then the third, until the words
‘the prisoner's pit, the prisoner's pit, the prisoner's pit'
ricochet like a bullet in my skull. The crowd seems less and less like a horde of humans, and more like … a sea. A sea of limbs, of rushing water.

 

With mine hand on the left,

I shall not spill my breath

From desert to tomb, I shall die …

 

Are those the right words? The end of the song? Yes. No. I don't think so. My brain is a jumble, my body a throb. Everyone pushes so tight, so close. My chest feels crushed. Surely the last line of the song is different. Not ‘to' my tomb, but ‘from' it. Isn't that right? I was supposed to be running towards a new life, away from death. Not the other way around.

And now I hear the entire song as a mess of staccato phrases.
How the star-shine must go
…
when the glasses of hours hold on …

And suddenly, I'm free.

I stagger with a hacking breath onto a patch of open cobblestones. I gasp, coughing up panic and spittle, then slap a hand across my shoulder to slow the bleeding. Someone grabs me – Clementine, I think – and we're tripping over our feet in an effort to reach the others.

Slowly my senses return. I inhale several deep breaths and keep my hand pressed to my wound. Clementine waves her arm frantically. Teddy finds us, then Lukas and Maisy.

Bastian is the last to join us, his face twisted with concern. ‘What happened?' he says, grabbing me.

I wince at the jerk to my shoulder. ‘I don't … I …'

Bastian pulls back and examines his bloody palm with a look of horror. ‘Who did this?'

‘I don't know! I was walking in the crowd, and suddenly –'

Lukas yanks down my collar, staring at my bloody shoulder. ‘Who's got a bandage?'

Bastian fishes a scrap of fabric from his pocket: the material he used to carry the firestone. He gives it to Lukas, who presses it tightly to my wound. Bastian digs through his cloak and produces a pouch of crushed herbs. ‘Here, try this.'

Lukas lifts the bandage for a moment and applies the herbs. I hiss at the sting but, a moment later, the pain begins to dull and my dizziness fades.

‘Better get out of here, I reckon,' Teddy says, face pale. ‘Whoever did it, I bet they're still lurking around. Going for another shot. And if they've got Air for their proclivity …'

He's right. My attacker could reappear at any moment, melting out of the air itself. I take the scrap of fabric from Lukas and school my face into the most determined expression I can muster.

‘I'm fine,' I say. ‘Let's go.'

We pour down the street in a flurry of footsteps. I'm a little disturbed to find myself distrusting the shadows, the darkness, the patches of air where a body might hide. I keep to the light, avoiding the shadows cast by the spires. They don't look so beautiful any more, those spires. They're enormous blades of stone, casting
darkness onto the streets. Places for assassins to hide.

It's a ridiculous fear, of course, because an Air proclivity allows a person to hide
anywhere.
But still, the shadows open up the risk to people with other ethereal powers too, and I'd rather not take any chances. Not here. Not now.

‘Lucky they missed your throat,' Teddy says, beside me. I notice that he's stepping a lot closer than normal, in time with my footsteps. His eyes scan the street around us, as alert as a burglar on the prowl. ‘If you're gonna have a hitman after you, better to pick one with lousy aim.'

‘I looked away,' I say, still a little stunned. ‘I smelled something nice at the food stall, and I turned – just for a second. That's why he missed, I think.'

Teddy forces a laugh. ‘Told you those potatoes could work miracles.'

No one else laughs. I blink hard, and press the fabric tight against my wound.

‘But why would someone attack Danika?' Clementine says. She sounds rather put-upon, as though this attack is a personal insult. ‘I mean, we've just arrived here.'

‘Mistaken identity?' Lukas sounds hopeful. ‘There were so many people in the crowd, and Danika wasn't the only one in a black cloak. Perhaps someone mistook her for –'

‘Nah.' Teddy shakes his head. ‘I don't reckon it was a mistake. That close, it'd be hard to get a face wrong.'

‘The hunter,' I say. ‘King Morrigan's hunter – the one who followed us from the Valley. We thought he died at midnight, but …'

‘But maybe he's still out there?' Teddy shakes his head. ‘I don't reckon it was him. Even if he's alive – and that's a big “if” – there'd be way easier spots to attack us. On the road to get here, for instance. Hunters work best in the wild, not in cities.'

‘But –'

‘Anyway,' Teddy adds, ‘we're not in Taladia. That means King Morrigan's got no – what d'you call it?'

‘Jurisdiction,' says Maisy.

‘Yeah, exactly. The king's got no jurisdiction here, right? So it'd be a stupid risk for his hunter to attack us in the market. Too many local guards around. If he got caught, I bet he'd get shot as a foreign spy or something.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I reckon it was someone from the city. Someone who saw you there today, and decided to get rid of you.' Teddy glances at me. ‘Reckon it was Hinrik?'

In front of us, Bastian stiffens. He whirls around to grab Teddy by the shoulders. ‘Never say such things,' he hisses. ‘Not here. It isn't safe.'

‘All right, all right!' Teddy says. ‘Sorry.'

But as we set off again down the street, Teddy's words churn through my mind.
Hinrik
. The idea makes just enough sense to set my stomach squirming. I didn't break any explicit laws by rejecting Hinrik's offer … but in doing so, I insulted an entire class of people.

Worse, I insulted the entire structure of Víndurnic society. If other people hear of my actions, it could cause whispering. Gossip. Rumours. Maybe even inspire others to do the same – to live with their solid friends and family, despite having proclivities of Air or Wind or Darkness.

Hinrik can't afford for that to happen. His job as magistrate is to uphold the social structure, and to keep everyone in their rightful place. Solid souls live down in the villages; ethereal souls live up in the spires. And if I won't take my rightful place above the ground …

He'll find me a rightful place beneath it.

The trek back to the village is slow and painful. I hobble downhill, gritting my teeth against the sting. I half-hope Bastian might scout ahead and fetch the clan's sólfox, but my wound is shallow and I don't want to beg for favours. I've already proven myself a liability.

When we finally reach the village, a man called Deníel tends to my wound. He smears on a paste of berries and alchemy juice, then bandages it tightly, while I clench my fists and try to ignore Annalísa's muttered comments about wasting expensive medicine on an outsider. All that matters is the numbing of the pain. I let out a sigh of relief and offer Deníel my most grateful smile.

He doesn't return it.

Bastian confines us to our cabin with a pot of tea and a warning. ‘Don't go far, lass. It won't be safe for you, I'd say.'

Teddy flops onto his bed, while Clementine pours out the tea and the others position themselves around the room. I peer out the back window, gazing at the forest canopy. The trees are thick and knotted, frost glimmering like sugar on their leaves.

‘So.' Teddy sits up to accept a mug of tea. ‘What do we reckon?'

‘It was obviously Hinrik,' Clementine says. ‘You insulted him, Danika. I don't see who else it could be.'

‘Well,' I say grimly, ‘better not go wandering up in the city again anytime soon. Too many people.'

‘Too many enemies,' Teddy says, nodding. ‘This Farran bloke … Reckon he's really the prisoner? The one in the smuggler song?'

I shake my head. ‘That song's hundreds of years old.'

‘Yeah, but if he's figured out how to stretch his life …'

‘That's impossible!'

‘A hundred years ago,' Maisy says, ‘people thought alchemy bombs were impossible. That didn't stop them being invented.'

She's got a point. Since the Alchemical Renaissance, the rate of magical discoveries has spread like
an explosion. In a few centuries, we've gone from candles to alchemy lamps, town criers to radios, and catapults to alchemy bombs. And unlike Taladia, progress in Víndurn wasn't postponed by the Dark Ages. Here, they have silver-spun towers. They use alchemy to flavour their rice, and make enchanted toys for their children.

They have sólfoxes. They have firestones.

Perhaps Lord Farran is like the Timekeeper – the old Víndurnic legend that caused temporal proclivities to be condemned. Perhaps the story is true. Perhaps, with a temporal proclivity, it
is
possible to rip time from another's body.

No. That doesn't make sense. Lord Farran's proclivity is Silver, which isn't temporal. Unlike Night or Dusk or Daylight, it isn't linked to a time of day.

But if his proclivity is Silver, perhaps he's found a way to manipulate the metal. A way to preserve his life, his youth, within the shine of silver itself. And that brings me back to Maisy's words, and the fear of an entirely new type of alchemy.

‘Wish we knew what he was up to,' Lukas says. ‘The firestone traders made it sound like something huge was about to happen. A big announcement, or something. And he must be harvesting those stones for a good reason.'

‘I reckon we need an escape plan,' Teddy says. ‘A way out of here – just in case things go rotten.'

‘I thought we'd decided we couldn't outrun a sólfox?' Clementine says.

‘Yeah, I know.' Teddy shrugs. ‘But if there's one thing I've learned, it's to suss out all your options before you start the job. You wouldn't believe how many times I nicked off from –'

‘The scene of the crime?'

‘– a job gone wrong, and I only got away because I'd figured out my escape route beforehand. The bloke who taught me thieving always reckoned preparation was worth its weight in gold.'

I frown at this final sentence. I've never considered how Teddy learned his trade. I always assumed he just picked it up as he went along: a natural talent, honed by years on the streets. He's hinted that he once had a family – someone who read him bedtime stories, and a grandfather with stinky socks – but that's as much detail as I've managed to wrangle. For the most part, the infamous Teddy Nort remains a mystery.

Clementine slams down her mug, splashing him with a whiplash of hot tea.

‘What the …?' Teddy splutters. ‘What'd I do this time?'

But I know right away that the action wasn't deliberate. Clementine's fingers have flown to the back of her neck, scratching violently. That can mean only one thing.

‘Your proclivity,' I say. ‘It's developing, isn't it?'

Clementine lowers her hand, then gives a slow nod. ‘I suppose so. It's been bad for a couple of days now.'

‘Hope it's a low proclivity,' Teddy says. ‘Last thing we need is to tick off more of those toffs in the spires.'

Clementine shakes her head. ‘I just hope it's not temporal. I'm not an illusionist – I don't have a way to trick Hinrik when he comes to test me.'

Maisy's eyes are downcast, focused on a back corner of the room. A frown creases her face, as though something odd has drawn her attention.

‘What's wrong?' I say.

‘That floorboard.' Maisy tilts her head. ‘Does it look a little … uneven … to you?'

I follow her gaze. The board is slightly higher than the others. The tilt is subtle – perhaps the simple warping of rot in the wood. Or perhaps a board that has recently been shifted.

I rest my mug on the windowsill. Lukas follows me to the corner of the room and shoves his fingers beneath the plank.

‘Hey, maybe there'll be hidden treasure!' Teddy says. ‘An old chest filled with gemstones or gold tiaras or something.'

Lukas pulls the floorboard aside, revealing a dark cavity – a crudely carved hole, hewn into the massive
branch that supports our treehouse. Inside, I see a thin book and swathes of ripped paper. I select a loose page. It's ripped down one edge, as though torn from another book: stolen, perhaps, from a library.

Does the city have a library? I'm not sure. Even if it does, I doubt that solid souls are allowed to visit it. I scan the page quickly, picking out fragments of sentences.
Prisoner. Firestones. Hourglass.

‘Looks like a secret stash.' Lukas gazes down into the cavity. ‘Information you're not supposed to have.'

‘Information that could get you executed,' I say.

‘Who d'you reckon hid this stuff?' Teddy says.

Maisy swaps me the book for my sheet of paper, her forehead creasing as she scans the page. ‘This is from a history book,' she says. ‘A biography of Lord Farran. ‘
From Taladia he came, our noble lord, through the un-drowned sea of sorrows
…'

‘Blimey,' Teddy says. ‘They like laying it on a bit thick, don't they?'

‘They must be talking about the Magnetic Valley,' Maisy says. ‘It was an inland sea until it was drained.'

‘That's when the prisoner escaped the catacombs,' I say. ‘You know that bit in the smugglers' song –
from the prisoner's pit to the sky
. The Morrigans locked Farran in the Pit to drown, but he escaped.'

‘And made his way to Víndurn,' says Lukas.

Maisy selects an older page and holds it up to the light. This paper is yellowed, thin and creased, its ink so faded that it's barely legible. ‘
The lies of the Taladian prisoner are countless and deep. Down in the depths of the mountains, his untruths curl like the blackening of paper in flame
…'

Teddy lets out a low whistle. ‘Bet that's not on the official pamphlets.'

We stare at the paper, struck by its vehemence. Teddy's right. This isn't the sort of book that Lord Farran would allow to be distributed freely. It hardly supports his image as the hero of Víndurn, beloved by all his people. It whiffs of treachery.

‘In the early days, people must've doubted him more,' I say. ‘When he first arrived in Víndurn.'

‘Yeah,' Teddy says. ‘But then he convinced everyone he was the great heroic prisoner, enemy of their enemies, here to protect 'em and all that.' He shakes his head. ‘Gotta admit, it's a pretty good con-job.'

The book, as it turns out, isn't a book at all. It's a diary. The pages are handwritten, the ink still dark and fresh. No sign of fading, nor yellowing on the papers. This isn't a diary written centuries ago. It was written recently, perhaps even in the last few weeks.

And inside the front page …

I almost drop the diary. My hands shake a little as I trace the fresh-inked drawing on the inside of
the cover. A flower. A familiar flower, with a curved ‘T' beneath its petals.

‘What is it?' Lukas says. ‘Danika, what's wrong?'

‘I've seen this before,' I say. ‘Tindra's pendant. The one she gave me, and I gave back to her mother …'

It takes them a second to realise who I'm talking about. Then it hits them, one by one. This cavity beneath the floorboards, this secret stash … it was hers.
Tindra's
. The girl we failed to save.

I remember our conversation with Annalísa on our first night in the village, when we sat together in this very room.
‘My daughter liked this cabin
…
She came here to be alone.'

But Tindra didn't come here to be alone. Not really. She came here to hide her secrets.

‘Go on,' Lukas says quietly. ‘What does it say?'

And so I turn the page, and I begin to read: