Skyfire

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  And I realise, with violent terror, that this is how I’ll die. Not from the flames, but from the heat. The air itself is boiling, writhing, wrapping around me to burn my flesh and suck the oxygen from my lungs …

  Maisy throws out her arms. The heat flares backwards, as though hit by a wall of solid air. Flame. She’s using her Flame proclivity to shield us. Her eyes are wild and her hair flies back as she struggles to hold off the heat. The rest of us grab her, steadying her legs upon the branch.

  The sky above us burns red and yellow, frothing with smoke. Cinders fall like rain and the air stinks of bitter fumes. If Maisy falters, if that wall of heat ripples down on us …

  The others are spluttering now. I gasp for air and get a mouthful of cinders, struggling to hurl up the heat from my lungs.

  It stops.

  The skyfire retracts upon itself, as though the geyser’s lungs are sucking in a breath. The light and heat and ash roll back, giving way to a stark black night and a spatter of star-shine. The sole sign of the fire is a lingering heat in the air, and a curl of dark grey smoke upon the breeze.

  My ears ring. I think I hear Clementine grabbing Maisy, sobbing into her shoulder, but everything is fuzzy. The canopy is awhirl with smoke. I can hear someone coughing, choking, spluttering. Perhaps it’s me.

  Through blurry eyes, I search for Lord Farran. I look for a pile of charred bones: a heap of burned flesh. There’s no way he could have survived the flames – not out there on the lip of the geyser. His proclivity isn’t Flame; he had no way to hold back the fire. But there’s nothing. Just empty air. ‘Where …?’

  ‘Get down!’ Teddy manages, coughing. ‘Too much smoke …’

  We scramble from our tree. The midnight steam has faded and the rocks are cooling rapidly beneath my boots. I drop to my knees, retching, and smoky rasps pour from my throat.

  Ahead of us, a figure paints himself out of the night, sliding from the darkness itself. A whipping silver cloak. A head of white hair.

  Lord Farran.

  But I don’t just see him. I sense him. A cold ripple in my proclivity: the sting of an invader within the scope of my power. Someone else is touching the night. Someone else is playing with the tendrils of my Night, my darkness, my –

  This man’s proclivity isn’t Silver. It’s Night. The man who banned temporal proclivities – the man who declared them an offence worthy of death – has a temporal proclivity himself.

  He turns towards us, his mask gone. His face shines in the light of his lantern. It’s too late to duck away; he sees me, and our eyes meet. His beard is gone, and he isn’t wearing the magistrate’s gold chain, but I recognise the face instantly. My stomach sinks with the weight of a thousand lies.

  It’s Hinrik.

  I think suddenly of his speech at the ball: ‘I have eyes and ears in every pocket of society.’ And not just Taladian society, but his own. All this time, Lord Farran has been wearing a mask. Parading around as his own damned magistrate, spying firsthand on the whispers and rumours that fill his nation’s streets. A man who trusts no one. And now, as his eyes meet mine, Lord Farran knows he has been unmasked.

  He’s upon us in a moment. He melts into Night and reappears behind us. He whips a pistol from the holster at his belt, and its barrel stares at me like a metal eye socket. It sizes me up, preparing to blast my skull into fragmented blood and bone.

  ‘Wait!’ I say. ‘If you kill us, you’ll regret it!’

  He stares at me. I stare back, my lips dry. The last time I saw that face was in our cabin in Bastian’s village. He was assessing my proclivity, preparing to deliver a gunshot wound to my neck. And here we are again. His Hinrik persona is cast aside, but I’m about to die in the exact same way.

  ‘Regret it?’ Lord Farran’s voice is low and powerful, with the same unerring confidence that enriched his words upon the ballroom stairs. ‘Why? Do you think I’m afraid of you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I think we’re worth something. If you kill us now, you’re throwing away an advantage in this war.’

  Lord Farran raises an eyebrow.

  ‘We’re from Taladia,’ I say. ‘You know that. But you don’t know why we ran away. You don’t know who we are. I know Quirin’s working for you – if you bring him here, he’ll identify us, he’ll tell you –’

  Clementine grabs my arm. ‘Danika, what are you doing?’ she hisses. ‘Shut up!’

  I don’t take my eyes off Lord Farran. I’m playing a dangerous game. We’ve guarded our identities so tightly; they’re all we have, all that stands between us and death.

  ‘We didn’t mean to interrupt you, Lord,’ Teddy says, a fake drunken drawl in his voice. ‘We were going for a stroll, that’s all, and we got a bit tipsy – golly, you know how it is, biggest party of the year and all that – and we reckoned we were going up the right mountain, but …’

  Lord Farran’s finger curls around the trigger. Teddy shuts up.

  We have only one option. Back in Rourton, I learned never to bet against a gambler at his own game. Lord Farran’s game is lying. He plays it even better than Teddy Nort. And if we want any hope of living beyond the next ten seconds, we have to risk something drastic.

  We have to risk the truth.

  ‘My name is Danika Glynn,’ I say. ‘If you’ve got spies in Taladia, you might have heard of me.’

  Farran’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t shoot me, either, which I take as a good sign.

  ‘I shot down a palace biplane. These people are my crew. We set fire to the town of Gunning, we blew up the king’s airbase in the wastelands, and we flooded the catacombs to stop his invasion. We’re the most wanted fugitives in Taladia.

  ‘If you take us to this battle, alive, you can trade us. King Morrigan wants us badly. He wants to execute us in public, to show his people what happens to traitors. If you hand us over alive, he might give up an advantage, or make a deal, and –’

  Lord Farran laughs with a derisive choke. ‘Do you think I’d believe that? That children destroyed those biplanes? Flooded the catacombs?’

  Teddy bristles beside me. ‘We’re not little kids. We’re the new generation. Just because old gits like you don’t –’

  I cut him off with an elbow to the ribs, my eyes on Lord Farran. The longer that I watch the man, the longer I suspect there’s something … wrong … about him. His posture doesn’t quite match the grand, powerful figure from the Ball of No Faces. This close up, there’s no hiding the arch of his spine. The ragged lines across his face. The coarseness of his breath.

  Lord Farran isn’t well. He has the look of a man who is gradually weakening – succumbing to a long illness.

  But even a weakened man can pull a trigger.

  I glance sideways at Lukas. This situation could escalate at any second. If Lord Farran decides he’s done with us, all it’ll take is a rally of gunshots. We have only one trump card left to play, but I don’t want to play it without permission.

  Lukas stares back at me, an unbearable tightness behind his eyes. Then he nods. ‘Go on.’

  I turn back to Lord Farran. ‘I haven’t told you everything. I haven’t told you who we’re travelling with.’

  Lord Farran isn’t interested. His finger hovers at the trigger. I feel my friends tense, ready to move, and my muscles clench. If that gun fires, it might not be me who’s in the firing line.

  ‘Lukas Morrigan!’ I cry, before he has a chance to shoot. ‘Lukas Morrigan, heir to the throne of Taladia!’

  This time, the silence isn’t just uncertainty. It’s shock. Lord Farran stares at me, long and hard. Then his eyes shift between us, one by one. He looks at Teddy and dismisses him, then brushes over the richie girls, before his gaze flickers back to settle upon Lukas’s face.

  Lukas steps forward.

  As soon as he enters the lantern light, Lord Farran’s eyes flare in recognition. He stares at Lukas – at the high cheekbones, the dark curls of hair, those startling green eyes – and his lips part, suck
ing a sharp breath into his throat.

  He’s seeing those Morrigan features. I don’t yet know how Lord Farran has lived so long, but in this moment I don’t doubt the stories. There’s something honest in Farran’s hatred, the shock flashing to vitriol. The flared lips, the breath of bitter recognition. Somehow, this man is the prisoner. He must have twisted magic, twisted his body, done something to stretch his life through the centuries. And as he looks upon Lukas Morrigan’s face, he recognises those who once tormented him. The long-dead king who sent him to die in the catacombs.

  ‘I heard that the prince was missing,’ he says. ‘I was under the impression you’d died in an accident and your father hushed it up.’

  Lukas shakes his head. ‘If you offer us in trade, my father will give you anything you ask for. You don’t need to start this war. Whatever you want, he’ll give it to you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Lord Farran says quietly. ‘I very much doubt that.’

  He shifts his weight and lifts his arms, focusing the pistol on Lukas’s chest. I stiffen, preparing to leap. I’m hyper-aware of every twitch in my veins, the tightness in my throat, the sharpness of my breath. It’s as though time slows down, and all that exists is the man, the gun, and Lukas.

  Lord Farran stares at Lukas as if he has stumbled across a chest of treasure and has no idea how to spend his newfound riches. But the pure hatred remains behind that stare. It burns so hot and tight and dark within him that I half-expect him to spit out a ball of poison when he next speaks.

  ‘Oh, this is good,’ he says. ‘This is very good. I wanted revenge on the current king, but I’d say you’re an equally valid target, Lukas Morrigan. The crown prince. Heir to the throne of Taladia, by virtue of only the scum in your blood.’

  Farran’s fingers shake on the pistol now, his face a mask of fury. He’s barely restraining himself, fighting his urge to blast Lukas into oblivion. He spits onto the rocks beside him, then bends to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. ‘You and I have a lot to discuss, Prince Morrigan.’

  I suddenly notice the flicker of his body: a recurring little fade into the dark. It’s so subtle that almost no one could spot it … no one except for me, with a Night proclivity of my own. The flicker tugs at the edge of my consciousness, flaring my magic as though it’s been stung by a wasp.

  Night. His proclivity is definitely Night. And now the words of the song roll through my skull, as strong and rhythmic as a heartbeat:

  Oh mighty yo,

  How the star-shine must go …

  Star-shine. It isn’t just the third verse of the smuggler’s song that deals with the prisoner. The entire song is his story. The tale of a man with star-shine in his veins: a proclivity of Night. Those lyrics guided us across Taladia, along the route that Lord Farran himself once took when he first chased the Valley. And finally, they have guided us here – into the clutches of the prisoner himself.

  ‘Your proclivity is Night,’ I say. ‘Not Silver.’

  Lord Farran whirls to face me, taken aback. It’s as though he’d forgotten that the rest of us existed, now that he has a Morrigan in his hands. ‘Don’t you dare interrupt me,’ he says. ‘I have no interest in you, you little –’

  ‘That’s how you’ve lived so long, isn’t it?’ Lukas cuts in. ‘You’re like the Timekeeper.’

  ‘No,’ Lord Farran says. There is a sudden bitterness in his eyes. ‘No. I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve tried for centuries. But I don’t believe that anyone could replicate the magic of the Timekeeper. She was a prodigy. Her proclivity was … freakishly strong.’

  I stare at him, my mind whirring. If Farran could replicate the Timekeeper’s powers, surely he’d gloat about it. He clearly likes to brag – this is a man who has proclaimed himself the Eternal Lord and hero of a nation. This is his chance to humiliate a Morrigan – to prove to Lukas that he, the prisoner, is more powerful than the Taladian royals. He might even steal a little time from us, here and now, just to prove the strength of his power. To prove that we’re at his mercy. So if Farran admits that such magic is beyond him, my instincts say that he’s telling the truth.

  That means he’s found another way to extend his life. But whatever it is, I’d bet fifty coins that it’s finally failing. He stands with frail posture, ragged skin and a stultified drumbeat for breath. The ‘Eternal Lord’ is weakening.

  ‘How did you fool everyone?’ Lukas says. ‘How did you fake a Silver proclivity for so long?’

  Lord Farran stares at Lukas, his eyes hard. ‘Oh, but you’re a Morrigan, boy. You should know all about the power of lies.’ He pauses. ‘Lies … and illusions.’

  Illusions. The realisation burns. Lord Farran is an illusionist – just like me. For hundreds of years, he has faked a Silver proclivity. I think of his trick upon the stairs at the ball: coaxing the silver banister up into spinning tendrils. I could do that trick myself, if I practised enough. And he’s had centuries to hone his skill, to shape his illusions into masterpieces, good enough to trick even the closest eyes …

  I stare at him, my heart racing. That’s how he’s disguised his proclivity marking. A constant illusion maintained upon his neck. He must wear one illusory tattoo for himself and another when he’s playing Hinrik. Just like Hinrik’s white beard, and his ethereal proclivity …

  I sense Teddy shifting beside me, blown away by the complexity of this scam. It’s the ultimate conman’s ruse: a con centuries in the making, with an entire nation fooled. I almost refuse to believe it.

  ‘But no one’s guessed?’ Lukas says. ‘In three hundred years, someone must –’

  Lord Farran waves a hand. ‘There are no illusionists born in Víndurn. The ability is unique to Taladia. How can the audience suspect a magic trick when they don’t know it exists?’

  No one speaks.

  ‘And I’m no fool,’ Lord Farran says. ‘Unlike most rulers, I know my people. I understand them. I know their abilities, their susceptibilities. I keep my most malleable subjects close to me – and I keep any threats at arm’s length.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lukas says.

  But Maisy lets out a little gasp, her eyes wide. ‘High and low …’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t think of it until now, but people with ethereal proclivities are more susceptible to illusions, aren’t they?’

  Lord Farran’s expression is cold, but there is a spark of pride in those eyes – a ruthless pleasure at this recognition of his work. A showman, always in need of an audience.

  ‘Those with ethereal proclivities,’ he says, ‘tend to be magically … flighty. They’re used to drifting and twisting, to insubstantial bodies melting in and out of existence. Such people rarely question an illusion. But folk with solid proclivities are more … grounded. Solid. Salt of the earth, as they say.’

  Lord Farran pauses. ‘They’ll believe an illusion for a while, of course – but eventually, their gut will tell them that something is wrong. Their magic will seek out solidity. The reassurance of what is real.’

  My throat tightens as I remember the smugglers’ boats. Silver taught us to see through their illusion, to glimpse the boats hidden beneath. It’s possible to break an illusion if you suspect that it’s there. And if solid proclivities help to spark such suspicions …

  ‘If I shared my city with such folk,’ Farran says, ‘I could never have maintained my charade. For a week, perhaps. A month. A year. But no longer. And so I sent them away, and I filled the spires with those more receptive to my … performance.’

  I stare at him, my insides hollow. A city of ethereal souls. A city of light, and air, and dancing. A city of beauty and frivolity. Where people melt into the breeze, and attend masked balls, and live in a constant shimmer of magic. A city where reality shifts upon the wind.

  A city where people believe the mask.

  ‘And, of course,’ Lord Farran says, ‘I offer people hope. I offer glory for their nation, and victory beyond their wildest dreams.’ He looks at Lukas. ‘Do you know the difference between myself and the Morriga
ns?’

  ‘You’re both psychotic killers?’ Teddy says.

  Lord Farran ignores him. ‘Your father is a fool, Lukas Morrigan – just like every king before him. Brutal, barbaric fools. Little wonder your family seized power during the Dark Ages. A time of chaos and savagery, brutality and death.

  ‘Even now, you rule by coercion. By bombs and guns and curfews. It is fitting that your father’s proclivity is Stone – the power of blunt force.’ Farran scoffs. ‘Your people hate you, but they obey out of fear.’

  Lukas wets his lips. ‘One day, it’ll be different. If I can –’

  ‘I am that difference,’ says Lord Farran. ‘I am a true leader. My people fear me, of course – but with respect, not hatred. They believe that I, and I alone, can defend them from our nation’s enemies. They will never rise against me, because they need me.

  ‘They need me enough to let me break up their families, to execute their children. All in the name of defending Víndurn. They long for my protection, and so they accept the laws that come with it. To insult me is to blaspheme. I am the prisoner of the Pit, the man from the Valley, the hero who saved their city.’ He smiles. ‘And I know how to put on a show.’

  My breath catches. I remember how we strolled into the ball, without a single question turning our way. People accepted us. Believed us. Just confidence and costumes, and the willingness of others to believe in what they see.

  But midnight is over, and it’s time for unmasking.

  Lord Farran guides us down a dark tunnel, into the guts of the mountain. He keeps his pistol pressed to Maisy’s temple. Teddy twitches once or twice, as though to lunge for the gun – but Farran simply smiles. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not if you want your friend’s skull to remain intact.’

  He leaves us in a prison cell, locked securely in the shadows. His footsteps echo as he disappears back along the tunnel.

  It’s not exactly a cell: more of a rocky cave. A storage cellar for army supplies. Sacks of potatoes and dried beans, and wooden crates of bandages. Even what looks like sólfox armour, with huge copper plates to shield the creatures’ throats. But the only doorway is lined with magnetic bars – designed, I suppose, to keep the supplies locked away safely.