Skyfire (22 page)

The camp squats on a flattish area near the shore. It looks haphazard: a splotch of tents here, another there. The air stinks of foxaries, camp fires, unwashed bodies and an open sewage pit. King Morrigan must have summoned his troops on short notice – no time to worry about hygiene.

Wasn't this Lord Farran's plan? To force Taladia to defend itself without warning, leaving its forces in a flustered panic? As far as I know, most of King Morrigan's soldiers have been fighting on other fronts, striving to expand the Taladian empire. It must have taken all his alchemical machinery – all his carriages, wagons and trains – to drag them here in the space of days.

There's a constant undercurrent of noise: clanking metal, shouts, crackling camp fires, hammers and axes and the ring of steel. Some of the soldiers practise with their swords, pressing metal blades to each other's throats. I can't make out their faces from here, but I can read the terror in their posture.

These aren't soldiers. They're kids. Conscripted at eighteen from cities like Rourton. They've probably never held a sword before in their lives, and they're about as good at using them as Teddy would be at baking decorative cupcakes.

‘It's chaos,' Lukas says, aghast. ‘What on earth was my father thinking?'

‘That's not thinking,' Teddy says. ‘That's panic.' He shakes his head. ‘Better to use a smaller force, I reckon, than a massive one you can't control.'

A few months ago, I'd have been gleeful to see King Morrigan make such a monumental mistake. But now, I don't feel glee. I just feel sick. It won't be the king who suffers for his blunder, but those boys and girls on the battlefield.

‘What d'you reckon Farran'll do next?' Teddy says. ‘Once he's beaten this lot, I mean.'

‘Don't know,' I say. ‘Go into Taladia, I suppose. Take control.'

‘You don't think … you don't suppose that could be a good thing?' Clementine hesitates. ‘I mean, he can't be any worse than King Morrigan, can he?'

‘He kills people based on their proclivity,' I say. ‘We'd just be swapping one tyrant for another. And in the meantime, a hell of a lot of people are going to die.'

On the outskirts of the camp, a few nervous soldiers are fitting arrows to their bows. Their hands shake, and the arrows simply flop to the ground when they try to shoot.

‘Yes,' Clementine says. ‘I suppose so.'

I turn to the others. ‘Look, we can't stand here watching all night. We've got to warn King Morrigan about the firestones. Get him to pull his army back into the borderlands. If these soldiers can
use magic, at least they'll have a chance. And if Lord Farran loses his advantage, maybe he'll fall back too, and no one has to die.'

‘What about us?' Clementine says. ‘How are we supposed get out again?'

‘We'll figure it out when the time comes.'

There is a pause.

‘Can't go in dressed like this, though.' Teddy gestures at our Víndurnic cloaks. ‘I reckon they'd shoot us on sight.' He glances down at the soldiers fumbling with their arrows, then says, ‘Well, stab us.'

‘You're right,' I say. ‘We need a disguise.'

The last time we snuck into a Taladian army camp, we wore the uniforms and identity cards of a squad of dead soldiers. It was Radnor who murdered them, just to steal their uniforms. But we aren't Radnor. And we're here to save these soldiers, not kill them.

Besides, the day is still bitterly cold. As afternoon fades to evening, it will only get worse. Without our cloaks, we might be too cold and stiff to defend ourselves in an emergency.

‘We're going about this the wrong way,' Lukas says. ‘We don't have a lot of time. Maybe we shouldn't be trying to sneak inside.'

‘Oh yeah?' Teddy says. ‘What else are we supposed to do?'

‘We declare ourselves.'

Silence.

Lukas straightens, his shoulders back. His green eyes glint in the afternoon light and – just for a moment – he resembles the prince he was born to be. Lukas Morrigan: heir to the throne of Taladia.

‘We declare ourselves,' he says, ‘and we demand to be taken to the king.'

King Morrigan's tent is tall and plush, with velvet flaps and poles of rich mahogany. It squats right in the centre of the camp. A few foxaries doze outside, chained to a wooden post. The scent of roast duck wafts in the breeze, and I can just make out sharp voices inside.

At the entrance stands a pair of guards, resplendent in cloaks of shining gold. With a start, I recognise those cloaks from the catacombs: the elite squadron of guards who imprisoned Lukas in the Pit.
Goldies.
It must be their job to guard the most important prisoners – or, in this case, to defend the King of Taladia himself.

‘What is it?' one snaps.

The lieutenant who guides me tightens his grip
on my shoulder. I wince a little, the wound still inflamed from Annalísa's fingernails. ‘Prisoners, sir,' he says. ‘For the king.'

The goldie nods. ‘You may seek permission from His Majesty.'

The lieutenant swivels to face one of his sergeants. ‘You! Take word to the king.'

The sergeant – a pudgy little man in his twenties – hurries forth into the billowing crimson tent. He skirts past the foxaries with a nervous twitch, before the tent flaps shut behind him.

We wait in silence. The lieutenant's breath is hot against my neck. I'd hoped King Morrigan's tent might lie further up the slope, high above the commoners. High enough to slip away without a fuss if we could only escape his wrath.

But instead, we stand amid a sea of soldiers. Tents and fires, shouts and smoke. There will be no easy escape. We've already drawn a hundred suspicious glances, just walking through the camp to reach this tent.

The voices inside fall silent. There's a long pause, then the sergeant bursts through the flap, his eyes wide as he beckons for us to enter.

‘Come on, come on! His Majesty wants to see you right away.'

I look at Lukas. His face is tight, with just the barest flicker of fear in his eyes. I fight a sudden urge
to slip my hand into his and squeeze it. I want to tell him:
This man isn't your family. We are.

But to take his hand would be to take a risk. It would reveal personal information to the soldiers around us – and the less they know, the better. If we're to end up in King Morrigan's clutches …

‘Hurry up.' The lieutenant shoves me in the back and I stumble forward, towards the gaping maw of the tent flap. There's a flurry of fabric and a confused moment of darkness, before I step into the light within.

Since alchemy can't be risked in the Valley, the tent is lit by the golden glow of candles. A banquet table sits at the centre of the space, topped by sheaves of paper, maps, pens, books and the mutilated remains of a roast duck. Lukas twitches beside me, and I think suddenly of his Bird proclivity.

Then my eyes travel up from the table to the shadows behind it, and all thoughts of Lukas's magic are wiped from my mind. Because there he is. The man who killed my family. The man who conscripts our youth, bombs our cities and sends hunters through the wilderness to slay us.

I've seen his picture before – a family portrait in Lukas's room at the airbase – but the portrait was seventeen years out of date. Those years have changed him. Aged him. His thick black hair is speckled with white and grey. Heavy bags squat under his eyes
and loose skin hangs around his lips and forehead. I remember what Lord Farran said about the king's proclivity being Stone. He does look a bit like a craggy old boulder.

But the eyes … those Morrigan eyes are a startling green. As young and vibrant as Lukas's. My throat tightens, disturbed by the resemblance.

This is it. It's as though I've spent my whole life, in some way, awaiting this moment. This man ordered the bombing. This man killed my family. I could leap forward now, I could go for his throat, I could plunge my fingernails into his eyes and –

No. What would that achieve? The deaths of my friends and chaos in the army camp. Lord Farran's forces will be upon us soon, and killing King Morrigan would mean killing the Taladian army's hope of survival. These soldiers would be leaderless, and death would come for us all. I dig my fingernails into my palms, and force myself to keep still.

The king's eyes fall squarely upon Lukas.

There's a moment of silence. No, not just silence. It's heavier than that. Like the air itself is holding its breath, clamping down upon my lungs.

‘Leave us,' King Morrigan says.

The soldiers bow and obey. There's a flush of daylight as they push through the tent flap, and then the fabric slaps us back down into shadow.

The king steps forward. I sense the tension in Lukas's body. I want to do something. Anything. I can't stand feeling so powerless. But this is a moment for the Morrigans: the father and the son. It's not my place to interfere.

Not yet, anyway.

‘You're supposed to be dead.' The king's voice is clipped. Cold. ‘I had reports you were imprisoned in the catacombs. You should have drowned.'

Lukas takes a shaky breath. ‘Well, I didn't. Sharr did.'

The king's expression tightens. ‘Your cousin was a better royal than you ever –'

‘Sharr wanted to kill you and take the throne,' Lukas says. ‘You might think you were her beloved old uncle, but she –'

‘She was loyal to her nation!' King Morrigan spits. ‘She would never have sabotaged her own family's plans to –'

‘To start another war?'

‘To finish one.' The king steps forward, fists balled. ‘Do you have any idea what you've done, Lukas? Do you have any idea what you and your little friends –?'

‘We stopped a war.'

‘A war of self-defence! I've spent my entire life defending Taladia. I built up this country's empire, its strength, the obedience of its people … all in
preparation for this day. There have been sacrifices, of course – but they were
necessary
, Lukas! We had to strike first. The man who rules Víndurn is –'

‘The prisoner. We know.' Lukas runs a hand through his hair, his muscles still clenched with tension. ‘Father, we're not here to argue with you. We're here to warn you.'

The king pauses. His eyes are still alight with fury, but he manages to force his quivering fists back down to his sides. He takes a low breath. ‘About what?'

‘We've been to Víndurn,' Lukas says. ‘We know what the prisoner is up to. He's calling himself “Lord Farran” now, and –'

The king shakes his head. ‘This isn't news to me, boy. The treacherous fool was a lord of our ancestor's court before he threw it all away.'

‘Before our ancestor locked him in Midnight Crest?' Lukas says.

‘Don't you dare feel sorry for him,' King Morrigan snaps. ‘Farran was there at the forefront of alchemy, in the wake of the Alchemical Renaissance itself. But he was a traitor. He refused to pay his duty to his king, and he sold royal secrets to his filthy smuggler friends. Farran never cared for anyone but himself.'

‘Well, that's why we came to warn you,' Lukas says. ‘Whatever our differences might be, I don't want all these soldiers to die.' He stares at his father,
a sudden choke in his voice. ‘Enough people have died already because of our family.'

‘You're no family of mine, boy,' King Morrigan says. ‘Not any more. You gave up that right when you threw in your lot with these –' He glances at the rest of us, a sneer upon his lips – ‘these scruffers.'

Clementine stiffens at the slur, but has the sense to keep her mouth shut.

‘You say people have died,' King Morrigan goes on, ‘but all I've done has been to protect this nation. You would let our kingdom fall before you would –'

‘Slaughter my own people?'

‘It was for the good of Taladia!' The king points at his son, gold rings gleaming in the candlelight. ‘You can't win safety without sacrifice.'

His words spark a memory. What did Silver say, when she spoke of creating the alchemy bombs?
‘I invented terrible things … Things I convinced myself were necessary, things for the greater good.'

‘Your mother!' I blurt. ‘She knew about Lord Farran, didn't she? She invented those bombs to defend Taladia – not to blast the hell out of innocent cities.'

Morrigan turns, taken aback that a mere scruffer would dare speak to him. ‘Perhaps,' he says. ‘But rebellion must be punished, and weapons must be tested. Why not kill two birds with one stone?'

I stiffen. ‘Tested?'

Lukas grabs my arm, silently begging me to shut up. But my fury is tighter than his fist, and my next words explode like a geyser: ‘
Tested?
You killed my parents, my brother, just to test how your bombs worked on cities? You stand there and tell me –'

‘I saved our nation,' King Morrigan says coldly. ‘I would do anything to keep Farran at bay. I'm not the one in this tent who betrayed Taladia.'

That catches me off-guard. I'm about to respond when Lukas steps forward, his words coming in a rush. ‘Lord Farran's got firestones. He's got firestones, Father, and they transmit magic.'

Silence.

‘You have to retreat,' Lukas says. ‘You have to fall back into the borderlands. It's not too late to stop this war. Once you're back in neutral territory, where you can both use alchemy, Farran might think twice and –'

The king laughs. It isn't a pleasant laugh. It's cold and false, a ring of bitterness behind each breath. ‘You really think I'd believe that, boy?'

‘It's true. We've seen them.'

King Morrigan shakes his head. ‘Lukas, we're sitting in the
Magnetic Valley.
Have you forgotten already? No matter how talented an alchemist Farran might be, he can't rely on magic inside a magnetic field.'

‘He's found a way to scorch Curiefer into the firestones,' Lukas says. ‘They'll work in the Valley.'

The king shakes his head. ‘Impossible. You can't imbue Curiefer into other objects. Do you think I haven't set my own team of alchemists onto the task – that I haven't tried applying Curiefer to bombs, to biplanes?'

‘But Farran's more talented than –'

King Morrigan cuts him off with a wave of his hand. ‘Don't you dare, Lukas. Don't you
dare
imply that man's talents – whatever they may be – can outrank my own resources.' His voice is almost a hiss. ‘For centuries, our forefathers have passed down the knowledge of Farran's treachery. For centuries, we've prepared for his return. We've developed weaponry. We've conquered other lands, conscripted other soldiers. We've kept the entire nation under control – ready to defend ourselves against the prisoner.

‘Farran is just a scoundrel. A traitor. A sack of muck on the outskirts of proper society. If he thinks his firestones will work in the Valley, let him try! I have no qualms about fighting a fool. Makes it easier to trample his guts into the mud.'

Silence.

‘And speaking of fighting,' the king says, ‘I believe this war is almost upon us. I need a way to raise my soldiers' spirits. A way to ramp up their bloodlust. To teach them the glory of fighting in my name – and the punishment for rebelling against me.'

His gaze slips away from Lukas. It flits across the
rest of us, landing finally on me. He points at my face. ‘You're the Glynn girl, aren't you? The one who shot down Lukas's biplane.'

‘No,' Lukas says quickly. There's fear in his voice now. Not just the tightness that has plagued the whole conversation, but something more. ‘She's not. This is just a girl we met – her name's Tindra. Danika Glynn drowned in the catacombs.'

But the king isn't listening. He crosses the tent and retrieves an enormous wooden chest. A swipe sends the remains of his dinner skittering off the table, spilling duck bones and crimson wine. He slams the chest down and opens the lid.

Inside, I see the papers. Posters. Arrest warrants. Sheets of newspaper, flashes of headlines.
Danika Glynn: Wanted Fugitive. Traitor on the run.

‘I've kept a close eye on you,' the king says. ‘The girl who kidnapped my only son.'

I don't deny it. There's no point. I can see it now, in his triumphant posture. The ring in his voice. He knows damn well that I didn't kidnap Lukas – that Lukas ran away with us. But that doesn't matter. Not to the monarchy's publicity machine.

‘No!' Lukas says, his voice panicked. ‘No, it's not her! She's just a random girl. You don't –'

King Morrigan holds up a crumpled poster, and my face stares back at me. Wide eyes, rumpled hair, a neck-scarf to hide my proclivity. A face stained with
soot, about to scale Rourton's city wall. I look oddly young in the picture. It was taken not long ago, and yet it looks like a snapshot of another life. Another Danika. A part of myself that I've lost, never to be retrieved.

‘Danika Glynn.' The king says it slowly, tasting every syllable. ‘All my soldiers know your name. They've seen the wanted posters. They've heard about the reward. The whole country has been waiting for your execution. And here I was, wondering how to get my soldiers' blood pumping before the fight.'

A nasty smile folds onto his lips. ‘And do you know what, Danika? I believe they could do with some target practice.'