Skyfire (13 page)

I snap the diary shut. All I can think of is Tindra's body, dead beneath her crumpled sólfox. A smear of blood on the rocks. Her fingers closing around the
pendant as she whispered faltering words into my ear.
Hourglass. Firestones. Midnight.

I realise, after a moment, that I'm holding my breath. I release it gently and loosen my grip on the diary, forcing my fingers to relax. The cover is damp with the sweat of my nervous hands.

‘We'd better hide this stuff,' Lukas says. ‘If anyone comes in …'

I nod, still a little stunned. One particular line rolls in my mind, over and over.
Lord Farran's plans may yet lay waste to both Víndurn and Taladia.

I slip the diary back into its hiding place. We shove the papers back in, then cover the space with the floorboard. It slams back into place, looking for all the world as though it had never been disturbed.

‘So much for buried treasure,' Teddy says. ‘I was really keen for that chest of gold tiaras.'

I glance at him, my stomach tight. ‘It's like you said before though, isn't it? Preparation's worth its weight in gold.'

The evening passes in a haze of exhaustion. I know the others are worried about me. They keep unusually close: hovering by my elbows, jumping whenever a villager walks into the cabin.

But nothing happens. No more attacks, and no accusations. Just silence. We settle down to kip in our beds, our eyes focused nervously on the dark.

I have to know what's going on.

I replay my memories of Tindra's diary, desperate for clues, as though something new might jump out at me. Some sudden moment of blinding realisation.
This is the meaning of the Hourglass, this is Lord Farran's secret plan
…

At five minutes to midnight, I slip from my bed. My crewmates are asleep. My proclivity thrums
with the time of Night: a cold kiss of power on my skin.

I sneak out onto the treetop platform and reach for the nearest branch. I wriggle up through prickling leaves and dancing shadows. I climb the highest branches, keeping my weight off my injured shoulder, until I'm far above the village and my head erupts from foliage to empty night. It feels like bursting up from under water.

The breeze is wild tonight. Free. I suck down a deep breath as I gaze across the canopy. From here, my view of Skyfire Peak is unobstructed: a dark mountain rising black against the stars.

And at midnight, it pours fire into the sky.

Now, with an unimpeded view, I realise it's not exactly
fire
. Not in the traditional sense, like the greasy fire of a blacksmith's shop. It moves as though the flame is liquid, sprayed from the lips of a petulant child. Sparks erupt into odd formations, casting liquid stars upon the sky.

It sounds like my father's old radio when we tuned it to static. A rushing, roaring explosion of noise, punctuated with rasping whooshes like the intake of breath. And this roar is loud. Louder than the clang and shouts and mechanical clatter of Rourton's factories. I cling to the branches, shaken, and fight to ignore the assault on my eardrums.

But if Lord Farran is working to save Víndurn
from the Timekeeper's taint, why, after three long centuries, does alchemical steam still rise every night?

The sky fades to black.

I slink back down to bed, but sleep is slow to return. My ears still echo with the fire's roar. My mind rings with the thought of Tindra's diary, and the fear of what Lord Farran is doing up in the dark of Skyfire Peak.

Night ripples upon my skin like water – sloshes of magic, vague senses, like the taste of a meal from years ago. One o'clock. Two o'clock. The breath of Night upon my tongue.

It reminds me of the Timekeeper legend. Is it really possible? With decades of obsessive work and alchemical alterations, could I twist my proclivity into something more? By the time I'm an old woman, could I learn to steal the time from people's bones?

The idea makes my skin crawl.

I think of the hunters. Of Sharr. Of King Morrigan. Of every danger we've faced – and how
easy
it would have been if I'd had the Timekeeper's power. I could have sucked the years from their bodies, like teasing a thread of cotton from a spool. I could have left them dead and dried, like empty husks.

And as much as I want to deny it, I've already
helped to kill people. Not every hunter and pilot ran out into the wastelands before the airbase exploded. Some of them must have burned. Some of them must have died, in a torrent of alchemy and lights and fire and –

Stop it, Danika!

I scrunch my eyelids shut and dig my fingers into my palms.
Stop it.
I can't deal with this. Not now. It's too late to take back the horrors I've already caused. All I can do is try to prevent any further suffering. I have to focus on Lord Farran's plans.

I try to calm myself by practising illusions – painting my limbs into shadows in the dark.
I'm here. I'm gone. I'm here
…

My only lead is Annalísa. I think of what Tindra's diary said. That her mother grew up in the city of spires. That her ancestors were librarians, passing down secret knowledge across the generations. That Annalísa knows what the Hourglass is, and even flinched to hear its name …

But I don't dare ask her. Annalísa hates me. No, that's putting it too mildly. She wants me dead. I'm the girl who let her daughter die. If I asked her about the Hourglass, she'd sell me to the guards for blasphemy before I could blink.

Annalísa isn't an option. I have no clues, no answers, and nothing but the throb in my head and the ache in my shoulder.

And so I roll onto my side, and force myself to rest.

The next day, I'm put to work in the blacksmith's cabin.

‘Safest place in the village,' Bastian says grimly. ‘You'll have plenty of time to hide if anyone comes down the mountain.'

I can see my crewmates preparing to object; to ask that we be put to work together. But Lukas has already been rostered on sólfox duty, and the others are due to work in the kitchen. I force a reassuring smile. ‘I'll be fine.'

‘But –' Lukas says.

‘I promise.'

Bastian nods. ‘Not many folks go into the blacksmith's cabin, son. If anyone means to cause her mischief, they'll have a hard time sneaking up on Leifur.'

Leifur is the village blacksmith: thick with muscles and sinew in his neck. He doesn't speak much, but at least he doesn't look at me like a chicken due to be plucked – which is more than I can say for half the other villagers.

I help him to craft trinkets and tools for the clan: metal pots, sólfox stirrups, axe heads. Maisy joins
us for an hour after lunch, using her proclivity to stoke the flames. My shoulder still stings a little, but Deníel's paste has mostly healed the wound. The day passes in a haze of smoky air, surrounded by sparks, melting iron and the stink of filthy aprons.

It's evening when it happens. I'm sweeping soot from the blacksmith's cabin, while Leifur hums quietly and polishes his newest trinket. A barrage of shouts erupts from outside, shattering the peace.

I look up, startled, to meet Leifur's eyes.

‘Best stay in here,' he says gruffly. ‘That don't sound good.'

I lean my broom against the wall and watch Leifur stride out into the evening. After a moment's hesitation, I scurry over to the balcony and peer outside.

A guard is clambering down from his sólfox, which perches upon the central platform of the village. He's clearly agitated, flailing his arms and shouting for people to gather. ‘News! I have news from the city!'

Bodies spill from cabins, panicking at this sudden alarm call. I spot Teddy and the twins on the kitchen platform, while Lukas rushes forward to help calm the guard's sólfox. His eyes flicker around anxiously, and I know he's searching for me. But all I can think of is the firestone traders in the city: their hints at an urgent plan by Lord Farran.
You'll find out soon enough
…

‘What is it?'

‘What's going on? Is it the Lord?'

‘Is it the city?'

The guard bends over to grab his knees for a moment and takes several deep breaths, then straightens. He takes a shaky step forward, his eyes scanning the crowd.

‘It's war,' he says. ‘Lord Farran is taking us to war.'

My insides shrivel.

‘War?' Annalísa pushes forward, fury written on her face. ‘What do you mean,
war
? Against whom?'

‘Against Taladia!' says the guard. ‘Lord Farran has decreed it's time to take back his homeland.'

I freeze. For an odd moment, I have a terrible urge to laugh. After all we've risked to save this place. All we endured to stop King Morrigan's war. The airbase. The catacombs. The hot terror of the wastelands, the quiet grip of flooding darkness. All to save Víndurn from this war.

And now Víndurn will be the one to start it.

The guard pulls a scroll of paper from his pocket. He holds it out to the light and clears his throat. ‘This is the official decree,' he says. ‘To be read to every citizen of Víndurn.'

The guard closes the scroll and passes it into the crowd, allowing people to examine it for themselves. There is a long silence.

I sidle along a chain bridge, moving cautiously towards my friends. The twins look as pale as I've ever seen them, and even Teddy's face is devoid of its usual humour. He's stunned into silence, his lips a horizontal line.

Lukas reaches the group at the same time as I do. His green eyes fill with an unspoken fear, and I realise that we can't speak up. We can't argue against this war. We're already considered outsiders, and the villagers don't trust us. If we draw more attention to ourselves, to the fact that we're Taladians …

Teddy looks up at me, visibly sickened. ‘They're gonna make us fight our own country,' he says. ‘Make us kill people.'

I think of the Taladian troops, back on the outskirts of the Valley. I think of Mitcham and Riley: nervous young soldiers conscripted into King Morrigan's army. We shared their campfire. Shared their stories. And now …

‘This can't be happening,' I say. ‘Farran can't just conjure an army out of nowhere – his people aren't prepared for this!'

But then I remember what Lukas told me in the firestone field. Once a year, all Víndurnics with low proclivities are called to gather on the plains. A ‘practice drill', according to Bastian, in case a day should arise when they must fight for their country.

And now, that day has come.

‘This is what Farran's been planning,' Lukas says. ‘What the firestone traders were talking about, remember? They said we'd find out soon enough.'

‘We've got to get out of here,' I say, ‘and find a way to stop this.'

‘Oh yeah?' Teddy looks sour. ‘Good luck with that.'

I stare at him, taken aback. If anything, this bitterness from Teddy is more shocking than the declaration of war. There's a cold fire in his eyes, and he's staring at the platform as though he'd like to kick it. But he doesn't. He restrains his rage, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘Back in the wastelands,' I say slowly, ‘you were the one who wanted us to attack the airbase. You were the one who told us we could do it – we could stop the war.'

Teddy looks up at me. ‘Yeah. I know. And we did it. And we did it again in the catacombs. And look how that turned out. We're getting war anyway.'

I turn to the others, searching for support. But Clementine's arms are wrapped protectively around her sister, and I guess she has other things on her mind than Teddy's strange mood. Lukas stares at his feet, his expression dark.

‘Teddy,' I say, ‘I know you don't really mean that. You're just –'

He looks at me. ‘Don't tell me what I mean, Danika. You've got no idea what this means to me.'

And then he's gone: striding along the nearest chain bridge. I make a move to follow him, but Lukas touches my sleeve. ‘He needs his space.'

He's right. I have no idea what this news means to Teddy, because I don't really know anything about him. Not really. Teddy Nort is a legend of Rourton, sprung up from the cobblestones. A joker. A thief. I know nothing about his past, or his family, and I have no right to make judgement calls about how he feels.

But even so, my teeth grind together like stones. This isn't how it's supposed to go. When I woke this morning, it was just another day. Chopping potatoes, scrubbing floors, sucking down soot in the blacksmith's cabin.

And yet here we are. Our crew is broken and our new country sees us as enemies. Hinrik wants me dead and half this village would be willing to help him. I still have no idea what Lord Farran is playing at – why he lights the sky with flames each night, or what his plan might be for the firestones.

And at dawn tomorrow, unless we can stop it …