Skyfire (27 page)

We sit in silence, watching as Lukas's breath grows stronger. I heal his wounds with the silver bone charm, but I don't speak. I barely breathe. I just sit there, shaking, and let the last few hours of terror melt into memory.

Maisy tends to my cuts and scratches. She uses the charm to heal my shoulder and we even salve our fingertips, which still throb a little after Skyfire Peak. It seems so extravagant, somehow, to use such a powerful charm on minor injuries. But we must sit and wait for Lukas to recover, and so sit we do. The moonlight fades. The sky grows lighter.

And one by one, we erase the wounds from our bodies.

My proclivity fades as dawn unfolds. I hear noise
in the distance, from the direction of the Valley. Shouts, clatters, voices. But I don't think it's the sound of fighting. It's the sound of … dismantling. Of people taking charge, dealing with the wounded, burying the dead. The sound of a battle that
was.

My last memory of the Valley flashes into my head – Taladian soldiers bringing down their king. Soldiers sick of war, finally seizing control over their lives. Both countries' leaders are dead, and the soldiers are just innocent conscripts.

And now, I guess, the war is over.

‘What happens next?' Clementine says, a little hoarse. I've just finished telling them about the Hourglass – about Lord Farran's plan, and his death inside the mountain. ‘Lord Farran's dead,' she says. ‘King Morrigan's dead …'

No one answers.

My gaze drifts across to Lukas. His eyes are open now, and I know he's listening. He manages to raise his hand a little. I lean across to take it and we clutch each other's fingers. The warmth in that hand – the life, the pulse, the flowing blood and living tissue – is enough to make my own breath stop. Just for a moment. There's nothing but Lukas, and the life we've returned to him.

‘Hey, Lukas is the king now,' Teddy says suddenly. ‘Wasn't he heir to the throne?'

He turns to Lukas with a silly grin, performs a fake bow, and spreads his hands in supplication. ‘Glory to His Majesty, King Lukas Morrigan of Taladia!'

The twins laugh, but Lukas's fingers stiffen. My own body tightens in response. I know Lukas doesn't want to be king. I remember his words in the dark of our cell at Skyfire Peak. How he once dreamed of a better way. A way for people to choose their own leaders: for everyone to have a say.
‘If I became king … I think kingship's the first thing I'd get rid of.'

‘You don't have to take the crown,' I say. ‘We'll find another way.'

Lukas nods. His eyes are a little clearer now, and his breathing strong. He wets his lips and swallows, then opens his mouth. ‘I'd like that.'

His voice is barely a whisper, but I can hear it. Only hours ago, I thought I'd never hear that voice again. I tighten my grip on his fingers and close my eyes, scrunching back a surge of tears.

‘Hey, I'll be king!' Teddy says. ‘I'd be a damned good king, I reckon.'

Clementine rolls her eyes. ‘Oh yes? And what would your first law be: a knighthood for every thief in Rourton?'

‘Hadn't thought of that! Good idea. You can be my chief advisor.' Teddy turns to Lukas. ‘Well, what
d'you reckon?
King Theodore Nort.
Got a nice ring to it, I reckon.'

Lukas shakes his head, a faint smile upon his lips.

‘Damn,' Teddy says. Then he brightens. ‘Oh well, never mind. I've got another idea, anyway – a new business venture.'

‘Do I want to know?' Clementine says.

‘Probably not.'

Silence settles across the shore. It isn't awkward, or cold. It's just … comfortable. Warm. The silence of a group of friends sitting together in the light of dawn. I slouch forward, rest my head upon my knees and let the rising daylight play across the back of my neck.

A breeze trips across the shore, swirling around our feet. I notice, for the first time, a tiny green shoot poking through the muck.

After a while, Teddy turns to Lukas. ‘Hey, if you're gonna ditch the king job,' he says, ‘d'you mind doing one thing first?'

‘What's that?'

‘Could you scrub my name off the Wanted list?' Teddy grins. ‘I can't run “Nort & Sons: Fine Bred Foxhawks” with every guard in Taladia gunning for my scalp.'

The Valley is bright with sunlight.

Our crew stands a little way up the slope, staring at the remains of the battlefield. We rest on mud and rock, as a thousand soldiers bustle and the water ripples below.

As we descend into the crowd, I begin to see order in the chaos. Officers have gathered their soldiers into ranks. The troops work together – both Víndurnic and Taladian – to clean up the mess their leaders left behind. Blood and bodies. Broken tents and scorched canvas. The air stinks of death, and smoke still rises in tendrils.

But despite it all, the daylight glints and the troops struggle on.

The soldiers hesitate when they recognise Lukas. He's a Morrigan. The enemy. I tense, prepared to leap to his defence.

But then, one by one, they drop to their knees.

Lukas stands tall, fighting against the weakness in his limbs. He holds his head high and he looks at his people, trying to hide the surprise in his eyes.

‘Your Majesty,' says a soldier, his knees in the dirt. ‘We saw what you did. We saw you stand up to your father to save this fugitive.'

His gaze flicks to my face, and I recognise him from the firing squad. I flinch, the image of his arrow flaring back into my mind. But then he gives
a quiet nod of respect, and my stomach settles. He doesn't plan to hurt me. Not any more.

Lukas steps forward and holds out his hand. ‘Thank you,' he says, and his voice is regal. The voice of a boy who has been trained all his life for this moment. For now, at least, the voice of a king.

‘Rise,' he says. ‘I don't need you to bow to me.'

The soldier hesitates, eyeing his comrades. Then they begin to stand. They stare at us: a wall of silent faces, pale and strained in the light of day. Some struggle to rise, but their comrades help them clamber to their feet.

And then someone else recognises me.

‘Hey! Hey, it's her!'

I freeze. I feel my friends tense. The soldiers have decided Lukas is their new king … but do some still see me as their enemy? Am I still wanted? A traitor?

‘You were in my head!'

I blink. The speaker is a girl of about eighteen, her Taladian uniform soaked with blood and grime. Her eyes are wide and she holds out her hands, quavering a little. ‘You were in my head, and you saved me. I don't know what you did, but …'

Other soldiers are gathering now. They mill about, pressing nearer, supporting wounded comrades as they hobble through the mud. People point and whisper.

‘She stopped it!'

‘There was a thing in my head, but she made it go away! I felt her. I swear, I felt –'

‘She saved us! She's the one who –'

I stare between them, my mouth as dry as sand. And one by one, I begin to recognise them. A boy from Rourton. A woman from Gunning. An old man from a Víndurnic village. Their faces aren't the same as their souls, but there's still something there. A connection. A faint curl of recognition, like the memory of a long-forgotten friend.

A young man stumbles forward, a bloody gash across his cheek. He's skinny as a snake, all knobbly knees and elbows, but I recognise his eyes beneath the muck. We once shared a camp fire, I think, and a conversation.

‘I know you.' Private Mitcham stares at me, eyes wide. ‘You was at the catacombs.'

I nod.

‘You tried to stop the war,' he says. ‘Didn't you?'

I don't know what to say.

Private Mitcham's mouth opens and closes, as though he's trying to figure out his next words. ‘What happened last night? What'd you do … in our heads, I mean?'

I hesitate. How much should I reveal? The Hourglass is a secret. It's been hidden for centuries, buried beyond the reach of human greed. But these soldiers deserve to know the truth.

‘There was an alchemy charm,' I say. ‘A man tried to use it to kill you.'

‘And it was you what stopped him?'

‘I …' I glance back at my friends, then turn to face the soldiers. They cluster around me, their eyes wide, their clothes ragged and bloody in the daylight. ‘I suppose so. I mean … he's dead now. It won't happen again. In your heads, I mean. You won't feel him there again, or –'

I realise I'm babbling, but I'm too scared to shut up. Too scared to let the silence settle, or face the weight of their stares. The look in their eyes is almost like … reverence. It makes my muscles clench. I've spent my entire life being nothing, worthless. Scum on the streets, then a fugitive on the road. All these staring eyes are unsettling.
Danger
, my instincts shriek.
Danger, danger …

And, as one, the soldiers lower their heads.

I stare at them, my insides twisting. I can't remember how to breathe. This isn't how it's supposed to go. I'm just a scruffer from Rourton. Lukas must see the distress in my face, because he brushes my hand before he takes a step forward. The soldiers register the movement in their peripheral vision, and whip their heads back up to survey their king.

‘What are your orders, Majesty?' says a nearby soldier.

Lukas hesitates. He gazes around at the wounded faces and broken bodies. His eyes travel across burnt tents and bloodied ruins. He lets out a slow breath.

‘Heal,' he says. ‘I want you to heal, and take care of each other. Tend to the wounded. Scrounge up whatever food and fresh water you can. We've got a long road ahead of us before everyone can get home.'

‘Home?' The soldier looks startled. ‘The army barracks, you mean?'

Lukas shakes his head. ‘No. I mean
home
. I'm sure you have people who miss you.'

The soldiers all stare. They seem unsure how to respond. Their limbs are frozen, their eyes wide.

‘You didn't ask to join this army,' Lukas says. ‘And I think we've all had enough of war. Just rest, and care for each other.'

‘But –'

‘And if my memory serves me correctly,' Lukas says, ‘my father's treasury is heaving with coins.' He gives a gentle smile. ‘Don't worry. You'll be rewarded for your service. I won't send you home to starve.'

The soldiers are too stunned to speak.

‘Now,' Lukas says. ‘Who's in charge of the Víndurnic troops?'

The soldier shrugs. ‘No one really, Majesty. Just people working together is all.'

Private Mitcham raises his hand, looking nervous. ‘There's a bloke in there what's sort of organising
stuff, Majesty,' he says, pointing to a nearby tent. ‘Giving people jobs to do and that.'

‘Thank you,' Lukas says. ‘We'd better pay him a visit.'

The tent is humble, just dark grey canvas over a simple frame. Inside, figures stand around a table, rifling through sheets of paper. Víndurnic cloaks drape their shoulders, pulled back to give their arms space to move.

Their leader's voice is low and deep. When he looks up, he jerks in recognition. He's bloody and scraped, his cloak hanging in a tattered fringe. Then he smiles: bright white teeth upon the brown of his skin.

Bastian.

‘Well,' he says. ‘And here I thought I'd imagined you poking around in my head.' He looks at me, his expression shifting. ‘Is it over?'

I nod, wetting my lips. ‘He's gone.'

Bastian gives a slow nod. ‘He wasn't such a great leader, in the end. He never meant to save us.' He pauses. ‘But I felt you, lass. I felt you drive him away.'

I nod again, but do not speak.

‘Well, then,' Bastian says, smiling, ‘that's all for the best, I'd say. Perhaps you're one of our people after all.'

He extends his hands in greeting, and we all rush forward to accept his embrace.

The day passes slowly. People share whatever rations they can gather – waterskins, biscuits, bags of oats. We give the healing charm to Bastian, who organises trips into Taladia to heal the wounded.