Skyfire (6 page)

Bastian leads us to an empty treehouse near the outskirts of the village. Inside, the cabin is a hodgepodge of items. An alchemical fireplace flickers with odd-coloured sparks. There's a nest of copper piping, clearly designed to suck the smoke outside. A trio of old-fashioned clocks, arranged in a line upon the wall. Dusty paintings, a vase of dead flowers.

There are six wooden bunks, a pair of thin curtains and a lingering scent of mildew. A white cloak lies upon each bed, identical to the cloaks that I saw the children wearing through their window.

Perhaps we can build a life here after all.

‘We keep this cabin spare for new arrivals,' Bastian says. ‘The watchmen of my village will have seen me bringing you in. No doubt they've already sent word to the city.'

‘Is there anything we need to do?' I say. ‘To pay for our lodgings, I mean?'

I'm not used to the idea of free accommodation. Back in Rourton, it took hours of work – and plenty of scrimping and saving – to afford a room in even the dodgiest boarding house. Most of the time, I slept on the streets.

Bastian shakes his head. ‘I'll have a volunteer bring you dinner. You aren't part of my clan yet, lass – not until the testing. I don't expect you to work tonight.'

‘Hang on, almost forgot!' Teddy fishes into his pocket and produces the spherical crystal. ‘D'you want this thing? We found it down that hole, and I reckon we owe you something.'

Bastian accepts it with a nod. ‘Firestone. Not a very large one, perhaps, but a decent contribution to the village.'

Teddy shrugs. ‘Least we could do, I reckon.'

‘Hang on,' I say, as one of Bastian's words digs into my mind. ‘What do you mean by
testing
?'

‘Better not be algebra,' Teddy says.

Bastian looks up at me, and I notice that his eyes are a weary grey: the same hue as his ragged trousers. When he speaks again, his voice is so deep that a prickle runs down my spine.

‘Tomorrow,' he says, ‘your proclivities will be tested.'

We all stare at him.

‘What?' I say, taken aback. ‘What've our proclivities got to do with –'

‘Everything.'

There's a long pause. I lock my fingers together, oddly discomforted. I still feel uneasy revealing my neck to the world. In Taladia, we were forced to wear neck-scarves to conceal our powers until adulthood. But here, it seems, I must not only reveal my proclivity, I must actively flaunt it.

‘In Víndurn, lass,' Bastian says, ‘there's no such
thing as rich and poor. No royalty and commoners, or aristocrats and peasants. All that matters are the low proclivities and the high proclivities. Your own magic picks the life you lead.'

My fingernails curl into my palms. This doesn't sound good. Our crew includes four different proclivities: Beast, Bird, Flame and Night. Does this mean we'll be split up? Forced to live apart, to start our new lives separately?

‘High proclivities,' Bastian says, ‘are also called the ethereal proclivities. They rise above the solid, see? Above the weight of solid form.'

‘Such as …?'

Bastian waves a hand. ‘Air. Wind. Shadow. Folks with ethereal proclivities are allowed to live in the city of spires. Up in the towers. They're purer than the folks down here. Cleaner. More noble.
Chaste and unspoilt
, Lord Farran says. A breath of wholesome breeze.'

He gives us a serious look. ‘The rest of us? We've got low proclivities. My own power is Water. Others have Earth, Flame, Beast, Bird, Reptile, Stone … Those proclivities are dirty, see? Solid and filthy, tied to the earth.'

‘What happens if you've got a low proclivity?' Lukas says. He looks a little uncomfortable now, and I don't blame him. Lukas was raised as a prince: the king's only son, and heir to the throne of Taladia.
To be told now that he's not merely a commoner, but
lower
than a large percentage of the population …

Bastian shrugs. ‘We get by, son. We don't live in the towers, but we get by. Plenty of villages on Silent Peak, and down on the eastern plains. We know how to survive.'

‘What about the second mountain?' I say. ‘Do people live there too?'

Bastian shakes his head. ‘That's Skyfire Peak – it's reserved for the private use of Lord Farran. He uses it for his great experiments.'

‘Experiments?' Teddy looks doubtful. ‘Hang on, is that why the sky went “kaboom” last night? Cause I don't reckon it's normal to set fire to half the –'

Bastian cuts him off sharply. ‘Lord Farran protects our nation with his great magic. He fights to save us from the earth at midnight. Without his experiments, there's no doubt we'd all be boiled in our beds.'

I exchange a look with my crewmates. Teddy raises an eyebrow. Out of context, Bastian's words suggest respect, or even sheer admiration, for Víndurn's ruler. But the twinge in his gaze and the tightness in his jaw suggest a hint of darker emotion.

‘As I was saying, my village rests on the lower slopes of Silent Peak,' Bastian says. ‘And we hunt for firestones, out in the wild. If we find enough firestones to trade for food, we get by.'

That's the third time he's mentioned ‘getting by', and I don't like the sound of it. There's an awfully big difference between ‘getting by' and ‘thriving'. I learned that when my family burned. Starving and freezing in a richie's rubbish bin counts as ‘getting by' when you're a scruffer, but it's not the kind of life I want for myself. Not any more.

Then again, my proclivity is Night. Is that a high proclivity? If Shadow and Air fall into that category, I don't see why Night should be any different. My power's just as ethereal as the others. Perhaps I'll be allowed to live up in the towers in luxury, like a richie, with a full belly and glamorous parties and –

But what about my friends?

If my crewmates are barred from the city, forced to scrape a living down on the mountainside … Well, I can hardly leave them, can I? I picture myself feasting in a tower while my friends shiver and lie hugging their empty bellies. I picture King Morrigan's hunter, lurking around the outskirts of the village, his finger ready on the trigger …

My stomach churns.
No
. I can't leave them. No matter what the Víndurnics think of our proclivities, we're in this together.

‘What about me?' Clementine's voice is unusually subdued. ‘I don't have my proclivity yet.'

‘Your choice, lass,' Bastian says. ‘You can stay in either the city or a village, until your markings
develop. Then, of course, you'll have to be retested.' He gives a low sigh. ‘Pray that you gain a high proclivity, and not one of the alternatives.'

I frown, confused by his choice of words. ‘I thought solid was the only alternative to ethereal.'

Bastian pauses. An uneasy expression flitters across his face, but he quickly conceals it. ‘There's a third type of proclivity. But it's rarer than the others. You'd have damned bad luck to be marked by such a power.'

‘So there's ethereal, solid and …?'

A breeze snakes in through the window. The curtains dance, throwing shadows across the room.

‘Temporal,' says Bastian.

Maisy frowns. ‘
Temporal?
You mean, relating to time?'

He nods. ‘Daylight. Night. Dawn. Proclivities that revolve around a certain time of day. They're rare, but they're in a category of their own.'

My breath catches.
Night
. That's me. ‘Where do you live if you have a temporal proclivity?'

‘Temporal proclivities are illegal.'

‘What?'
It isn't just my voice, but all five of ours. Lukas's eyes are wide with tension, and Clementine looks ready to start a riot.

‘They're not allowed,' Bastian says. ‘Lord Farran has decreed that such powers are a threat to society. It's unnatural, you see, to play with the governance of time itself.'

‘But you can't make a proclivity illegal!' Clementine protests. ‘It's just something you're born with – I mean, people can't help what their proclivity is.'

Bastian shakes his head. ‘You're in Víndurn now, lass. Here, proclivities are everything. Teenagers show their markings as soon as they develop. There's a formal ceremony, to pass into the proper segment of society. If you have an ethereal proclivity, you're ushered over the threshold into the city spires. If you have a solid proclivity, you're sent down here to join a clan. And if you have a temporal proclivity …'

He trails into silence again.

‘What?' I prompt. ‘What happens if you've got a temporal proclivity?'

‘Execution.'

I freeze. The word echoes in my head, over and over.
Execution. Execution.
Around me, my crewmates erupt into splutters of horror, of indignation. But I'm barely aware of their presence. All I can hear is the echo of that word, as sharp and cold as a blade in my mind.

This can't be happening. I risked everything to escape Taladia, to reach this land of safety. I quit my life of tyrannous kings and bombings and army conscription because I wanted a home where I wouldn't constantly be threatened. Where I could try living, instead of just surviving.

But then I think of Tindra, the girl fleeing through
the skies on a foxhawk. Her body lying crumpled on the rocks, with the inky stains of Daylight across the back of her neck …

It all becomes clear. Tindra's proclivity must have just developed.
Daylight
. A temporal proclivity. She knew she'd be killed for it, so she took a foxhawk and tried to escape.

She tried to escape into Taladia.

The irony hits me like a punch to the gut. Tindra was a refugee, just like us, but running in the opposite direction. Is nowhere in the world safe? Is every soul as desperate and terrified as scruffers on the streets of Rourton?

Bastian gives me a sharp look. ‘You seem mighty interested in temporal proclivities, lass. You aren't going to tell me that –'

‘No!' I say quickly. ‘No, nothing like that. I'm just curious. I mean, if we're going to join this society, I think we should know how … I mean … how it all works. You know. Like …'

I realise I'm babbling, and force myself to shut up.

‘Why?' Lukas demands, turning to Bastian. ‘Why are temporal proclivities illegal?'

Bastian hesitates. ‘Fear,' he says. ‘Fear and old legends.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We have a legend,' Bastian says, his eyes still on
me, ‘of a woman called the Timekeeper. She lived a thousand years ago, you see. Her proclivity was Night. But her power was strong – unnaturally strong – and she spent many years developing it. You know that magic grows with practice?'

‘It's like a muscle,' Maisy says, nodding. ‘It needs training to grow.'

I open my mouth, but I can't bring myself to speak. That's why I'm still so weak at using my own powers. I've only had access to my Night proclivity for a couple of weeks, and I've only used it in emergencies.

With training, though, it's possible to stretch your magic. It takes years – or even decades – of dedication. I've heard of elderly men with Beast proclivities who could melt into the bodies of animals. And I once met a hoary old gambler who stole the air from her opponents' lungs, one tiny gasp at a time. Just enough to startle them, or make them play the wrong card. Compared with the brutal blasts of most Air proclivities, such finesse is hard to imagine.

‘Well,' Bastian says. ‘Any temporal proclivity is linked with time, see? With a Night proclivity, for instance, you can sense the different stages of the night.'

That's true enough. As my proclivity settles into my bones, I've begun to feel the brushing of time that comes with it. The way that midnight scratches my skin. How I can almost
taste
the coming of dawn.

‘The Timekeeper,' says Bastian, ‘was a very talented alchemist. And her proclivity was strong. Unnaturally strong, especially its temporal aspects. Even in her youth, she felt the breath of time upon her skin.

‘And so she began to play with it. She focused on recognising time with her magic. Touching it. Tasting it. She grew older, and stronger. At thirty, she could name the time of night down to the millisecond. At fifty, she could taste the touch of age and time within another person's skin. And finally, after countless decades – and with alchemical alterations to her own body – she learned to manipulate it.'

‘Wait, what?' Teddy says.

‘She could manipulate time,' Bastian says. ‘She could consume it. Steal it. Steal a dozen years from a man's body and give them to another or keep them for herself. Seize a lifetime from her enemy and give it to her brother.

‘Finally, she tried to seize time from the land itself, and left the earth crippled and corrupted. It's her fault, you see, that the land's so damned unstable. Her fault that we have earthquakes, and that every midnight …' Bastian trails off, shaking his head. ‘Too much power, son. Too much power for one soul to hold.'

‘What happened to her?' I say.

‘They killed her,' Bastian says. ‘Her own guards killed her in her sleep, so she couldn't suck their lives away.'

‘Oh.'

‘That's why Lord Farran banned temporal proclivities,' Bastian says. ‘If a proclivity is linked to time, who knows how it might develop? A man's grasp on his proclivity can change with the years, and the earth in Víndurn is already tainted. Already fragile.'

‘Hang on,' Teddy says. ‘This whole thing sounds like cock and bull, I reckon. I've never heard of anyone learning to –'

‘She was the only one,' Bastian says. ‘She was more than talented. She was … a prodigy. But even so, it's too dangerous to let such magic go unchecked. Any soul with a temporal proclivity could become corrupted, see? Could be like the Timekeeper all over again.' He gives Teddy a significant look. ‘And I don't know about you, son, but I don't fancy my years being slurped up like chowder.'

Silence.

A twist of fury shivers down my spine at this injustice. One old story led me here, to the land beyond the Valley. Now, another will kill me. Perhaps it's fear, or just exhaustion, but for a wild moment I fight the urge to laugh.

Bastian stares at me, noticing my strange expression. ‘Turn around, lass,' he says. ‘I want to see your tattoo.'

I hesitate.