Skyfire

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  Heal. Please, just heal.

  The wound begins to close. Flesh stitches itself together, little by little. I let out a rough sob, choking, as the blood slows beneath my fingers. Lukas’s eyes flutter open, but blood trickles from his lips and his breath is weak. The earth is frozen cold beneath him. Every few seconds, he gives a violent tremble.

  ‘Danika,’ he whispers. ‘You have to stop him.’

  ‘Don’t try to talk! I’ve got to do your other wound; just hold still, and –’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s okay, Danika. I’m glad … I’m …’ Lukas’s voice fades, feeble against the blood loss. And I know, with a terrible wrench in my gut, that I’m too late. He has lost too much blood. Closing his wounds means nothing if his veins are already too empty. If his heart can’t keep pumping …

  ‘No!’ I shove the charms against his other side, more roughly than I intended.

  Lukas gasps and I flinch, hating myself, hating the useless cluster of bloodied silver in my fingers. I lose the bone in the blood-slicked mass of other alchemy charms, but I press the entire bunch to his side and summon my strength anyway. Heal, heal, heal …

  Lukas reaches up, his hand weak. For a moment I think he’s trying to take my hand, but instead he touches the necklace of charms. With shaking fingers, he rifles through them – leaf, horseshoe, bone, flower – until he locates a tiny feather. It’s one of the charms that Silver never finished – imbued with alchemy juice, but not yet suffused with a dying soul’s proclivity.

  Lukas closes his eyes, as though fighting for one last moment of focus.

  I realise what he’s doing. ‘No!’

  But this time my voice isn’t a shout. It’s a whisper. A hoarse, burning whisper that strains my throat more than the most desperate of cries. Because I have seen this before, this transfer of magic into silver, in the final moments of a person’s life.

  Lukas drips his proclivity into the charm, filling the tiny shape with his power. The silver feather glows for a moment, alive with the spark of his proclivity. He looks up at me, green eyes shining with pain.

  His eyes slip shut. His breath stops.

  He’s gone.

  I am broken.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, clutching that fistful of silver and staring at the body that no longer holds him. Part of me still urges the metal to heal, heal, heal, even though I know it’s too late.

  At some point, Maisy and Clementine flap down beside us. They don’t have proper control over their sólfox and once they dismount it bursts away from them, back into the sky. I think I hear the questioning. The gasps. The moans. Teddy’s voice: low and crumbling behind me.

  And I sit there, broken, with Lukas’s body in my arms.

  Overhead, the darkness thickens. I can feel my proclivity curling through my veins. The earth stings, frozen cold beneath my knees. Someone is weeping behind me, but my own body is oddly silent. Still. Stiff. Numb. As though it isn’t Lukas who has died, but me.

  When the sólfox flies overhead, I almost don’t notice. I don’t care. A pair of wings, as black as night. Lord Farran. It has to be him, soaring forth into Taladia.

  And suddenly, I’m not numb. I’m furious. The hatred is so strong – in my gut, my lungs, my throat – that I can taste it. It tastes like fire. It stinks like sulphur. Lord Farran caused this. It was his war. His fault. His fault that all those soldiers are dying.

  His fault that Lukas is gone.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ Clementine whispers.

  An echo of Annalísa’s voice fills my head. ‘Midnight. Oh frozen night …’ The words of the song rise up inside me.

  Oh frozen night,

  How the dark swallows light,

  When the glasses of hours hold on …

  And as the meaning hits me, my breathing stops.

  We had it wrong. All this time, we had it wrong. ‘The glasses of hours’. That line was never a warning about quicksand. It wasn’t a map for refugees. It was a reference to the most crucial place the prisoner crossed in his travels.

  The glasses of hours.

  The Hourglass.

  I look up at my crewmates. My voice is hoarse. ‘I know where the Hourglass is buried.’

  And before they can stop me, I run for the sólfox. Teddy cries out in alarm but I leap upon the creature’s back. Only I have a temporal proclivity. If Annalísa is right, only I can control the Hourglass.

  Only I can stop him.

  Teddy has tied the sólfox to a boulder, but I yank free the reins and kick with all my strength into its furry sides. It tries to snap at me, but Quirin’s knife-bridle still clings tight around its jaws. There’s a rush of air and suddenly we’re aloft, leaving shouts and cries and curses below me. My friends can’t follow me: not when the twins’ own sólfox has vanished into the night.

  ‘Danika, no!’

  ‘You can’t stop him alone! You’re going to –’

  I don’t hear the rest of the cry. I block my ears and steel my heart. All that matters is the rush of the night and the bluster of wings as I rise. The sólfox twists, fighting me, and I know that Teddy’s calling it back with his proclivity. But I tighten my grip on the reins, and the creature jerks at the threat of the knife-bridle against its face.

  The sólfox shrieks like a hawk, and I think of the shout on Lukas’s lips when he connected to a creature. The shout in his lungs when he felt it cry. I clutch the charm necklace tight, wrapping my flesh against the silver feather.

  The last thing Lukas touched.

  The charm that he imbued with his proclivity.

  I can feel him there. I feel the shiver of magic within, stronger than any alchemy charm I’ve touched before. I close my eyes and think of Bird. Of flying. I’m not afraid to bond with this alchemy charm. It carries part of Lukas.

  Power flares in my fingertips, in my veins, in my mind. And through the alchemy charm, the creature’s mind meets my own – a delicate dance in the rush of the wind. Stars fly above us and the lake below gives way to rivers, to the borderlands, to the churn of forests and islands and the hidden boats of smuggler clans.

  The sólfox flies. I fly. Lukas connects us, his proclivity burning through the silver.

  Together, we will find Lord Farran.

  Together, we will stop him.

  It’s almost midnight when I reach the mountains.

  My sólfox glides high, its vast wings catching every current in the sky. I clutch the reins and bend down low, my heart pumping, my skin alive with the sting of Night. The Central Mountains stretch out before me. White caps, dark shadows.

  This isn’t just frost. It’s true snow, rich and thick and white. The sort of snow that kills you on a winter’s night in Rourton, when you huddle in an alleyway and blow into your palms and curse the sting of your lips, your nose, your eyes. Snowflakes spin around me, flurrying pale and bleak.

  We soar above the Knife. This narrow canyon once guided us out of these mountains towards Víndurn and a new life. Now, the thought makes my skin grow even colder. I think of our nights camping in that crevasse. Of Lukas, lying near the outskirts of our camp and keeping an eye on me while I sat on guard duty.

  My entire body convulses: a physical jerk, a seizure of grief, and for a moment I can’t breathe. My throat burns as though it’s filled with smoke instead of air.

  I wrench my head up, snot and tears smeared across my face. I let out another cough, a pathetic wheeze, and thrust my head towards the stars. They’re so bright here. Lukas’s line comes back to me; the line he first recited in these very mountains.

  You can’t have stars without the night.

  And finally, I soar down to Midnight Crest.

  The ruins shine a little in the dark. They’re half-buried in snow, but the blackness is lit by a circle of shining lanterns. Alchemy lamps? I squint, urging the sólfox lower. Then I recognise the shine. Not alchemy lamps, but firestones. They’re arranged in a perfect ring, encircling a dark hole in the snow. Snowflakes flutter down aroun
d them, crisp and white. Some stones are half-buried, leaking eerie ripples of light through the snow.

  This is the place where Lord Farran became ‘the prisoner’, three hundred years ago. His first prison cell. When he broke free, he burned this fortress to the ground.

  In the centre of the ruins – encircled by Lord Farran’s firestones – lies darkness. A crack in the earth, barely as wide as my fist. But it’s deep. I can feel that much in my bones. I feel it with the touch of my proclivity: the way the edges of Night curl down into the black.

  Lord Farran is somewhere down there. He has arranged this circle of firestones, presumably to transmit some kind of magic. He has melted into Night, plummeted through snow and stone. And down in the darkness below …

  The Hourglass.

  We land in a tumble of feathers, just outside the circle of firestones. My sólfox gives a quiet shriek and I quickly move to hush it, Lukas’s charm clutched in my fingers. I sense the creature’s consciousness on the edge of my own. But my control is still weak: the power of a passenger, not a true driver. I don’t hold Lukas’s whole proclivity – just a silver trinket. One preserved spark of his magic.

  I take a moment to settle the sólfox, guiding it to a clump of bushes. It flaps a little and snaps at me before it begrudgingly drops into the leaves. I don’t expect to need it again. I don’t expect to ever leave this mountain. But after years of looking after myself, it’s hard to quash my scruffer instinct for ‘just in case’.

  The crack is deep and black as ink. I kick one of the firestones, hoping to break Lord Farran’s perfect circle. But the stone repels my touch, blasting violent pain into my foot. I swear under my breath. Clearly, Farran has used an alchemy charm to keep the stones in place.

  I drop to my knees with a soggy crunch and stare down into the fissure. Nothing. Just darkness. Just –

  And then I see it. No, not see exactly. I feel it. I feel it with the same tingle that calls my proclivity. A twist of silence, an itch along my veins. There’s something down there. Something calling, down in the dark. But the crack is only as wide as my fist. There’s only one way to descend.

  So I close my eyes, and fall into the Night.

  Down, down, down …

  I fall. I float. My body is gone, dissolved into darkness. All I have is the faintest sense of awareness, a sense of me. Danika Glynn. I am real. I am alive. I am here. I repeat the mantra over and over, more potent and desperate than even the lure of Night.

  I am real. I am alive. I am here.

  The darkness curls around me. It’s part of me, and I’m part of it. My skin, my bones, my flesh. The tattoo across the back of my neck, and the wound in my shoulder. The fingernail that I bit too low. The curl of frizzy hair at the top of my forehead. The faded scars across my body. I cling to those images, hold them close. They’re me. The real me, the physical me. I have to hold on to them.

  I have to remember.

  The world spins, tumbles, falls. Layers of stone pass above me: different shades in the odd flickering light of my consciousness. Crumbling rocks and the stink of mildew and the taste of rotten air …

  And finally, the light.

  It shines from a cavern buried deep in the belly of the mountain. I collapse into my human shape: a jumble of limbs and aches landing upon the rocky floor. My hand flies up to shield my eyes against the glare. A colossal sphere of silver rotates slowly in the cavern in front of me.

  The Hourglass.

  A single beam of light protrudes from the sphere, like the hand of an enormous clock. Right now, it’s climbing slowly towards the zenith. When it reaches twelve, it will shine directly up into the night.

  Directly up into the circle of firestones.

  The light feels almost acidic in my eyes. I squint, struggling to ignore its sting. Its magic beats like a pulse. A heartbeat. The rhythm of forgotten power, buried deep in the dark. How the dark swallows light …

  Lord Farran stands on the other side of the Hourglass. I can’t quite see him from here and I know that he can’t see me either. Not through that beam of dazzling light. But he’s heard me. I hear the click of his pistol as he prepares to shoot. At any moment, he’ll step around the Hourglass. He’ll see me, and –

  I summon an illusion.

  I don’t picture empty space. I don’t picture dark stone, or shadows, or thrumming light. Instead, I coat my limbs with someone else’s body. Arms, eyes, hair, fingers. A man with a Stone proclivity, who could feasibly melt through the earth to reach this cave. The magic pinches my veins, ripples across my skin. And I paint myself into the one shape that Lord Farran can’t resist.

  I can sense him coming around towards me. I hear the movement, sense the breath, the footsteps. I force myself to my knees, then stagger to my feet, fighting to hold the illusion in place.

  I hear his startled intake of breath.

  I turn slowly, still shielding my eyes. I wear an illusory crown of gold. Dark hair curls across my scalp – greying, just a little – and bags of wrinkled skin sink beneath my eyes.

  Eyes of green.

  I force myself to meet Lord Farran’s gaze. The prisoner. He wears silver robes, and the lines of his face are as stark as the spires. He aims his pistol at my face.

  ‘King Morrigan,’ he says. ‘We meet at last.’

  I don’t respond. I want to attack him, to claw at him, to smash his head against the rocky wall. I think of Lukas lying on the frozen earth.

  It’s his fault. This man … it’s all his fault. The thought lashes out at me, hot and raw and juvenile.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Lord Farran says.

  I wet my lips. Then I speak low and hoarse, trying to sound masculine. ‘You’re not the only one with spies.’

  The result is far from perfect. Luckily, I’m right beside the Hourglass, and its noisy thrum helps to disguise my voice. And of course, Lord Farran has never heard his enemy speak. There’s no shout of accusation. No gunshot.

  I release a quiet breath of relief.

  ‘And you followed me alone?’ Farran says. ‘Your arrogance knows no bounds, Morrigan. And yet … if I’m not mistaken, you seem to be afraid. Look at you – cowering in the shadows, as helpless as a child! No wonder you need alchemy bombs to keep your people in check.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure –’ I begin.

  Farran cuts me off. ‘I’m glad that you’re here,’ he says. ‘It seems … fitting, somehow. As soon as the Hourglass reaches midnight, I’ll move my final piece into play. And you will admit, sobbing on your knees, that I have beaten you.’

  Midnight, I think. How long can I keep him talking? I have to distract him. Maybe I can make him miss the deadline, do something to throw his plans awry, and then –

  ‘You’re not as clever as you think,’ I growl. ‘Just a showman, Farran. Just flash and bang with no substance underneath.’

  ‘Oh, I have substance, Morrigan!’ he says. ‘I have carved such plans upon my chessboard as you would never dream of. I’ve lived through pain and despair and misery. I’ve endured the crest, the cold, the catacombs. And when you realise what I’ve achieved …’

  ‘You’re a traitor,’ I say. ‘A convicted criminal.’

  ‘Convicted, yes,’ Lord Farran says. ‘Convicted for daring to outwit my king, to outperform him in his own court! I’d have been a greater ruler, and everyone knew it. And so your ancestors dressed me up in false charges of smuggling, and called me a traitor.’

  He shakes his head. ‘But they could not beat me, Morrigan. This very mountain proves my victory. Your family sentenced me to die here, trapped by magnetic bars and walls of stone. And yet, here I am: alive.’

  An image flashes into my mind. Midnight Crest in its days of glory. A black fortress, high above the mountains, its prisoners writhing and dying in the cold.

  My illusion flickers – just for a millisecond – but I force it back with a flare of concentration. I’m suddenly grateful for all the recent hours I’ve spent honing my illusion skills. Dar
k curls. A gold crown. Eyes of green.

  How long can I maintain the mirage? A few minutes? Maybe longer, if I really strain myself. I just have to keep him talking, let him gloat and crow over his victory …

  ‘Just admit it,’ Lord Farran says. ‘Admit that I’ve won. Bow. Grovel. Beg for my forgiveness, and perhaps I’ll put you out of your misery. You have no idea how deep my plans –’

  ‘Go on, then.’ I keep my tone low and defiant. ‘If you want my surrender, Lord Farran, tell me how the hell you’ve earned it.’

  ‘Do you even know why prisoners were sent here?’ Lord Farran says. ‘Do you know why your ancestors chose this method of execution?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Sacrifices,’ Lord Farran says. ‘Sacrifices to the mountain. Sacrifices, to keep the Hourglass locked away.’

  ‘What do you –?’

  ‘Death can bleed into magic,’ Farran says. ‘That’s how alchemy charms are made: the payment of a dying proclivity into silver. But sometimes, to achieve our aim, one death isn’t enough. We need many deaths. We must pay a higher toll.’

  Farran’s voice is tight with betrayal. His finger plays upon the trigger, itching to plug a bullet into my brain.

  ‘And so, we prisoners were sent here to die. To bleed our magic into the earth, and to sustain the layers of ancient alchemy that kept the Hourglass buried so deep. We were sacrificed to keep prying hands and prying memories away from its call.

  ‘But I felt it, King Morrigan. I felt it in my skin and my bones. It called to me. It called to me! I was just another freezing prisoner waiting to die as the frost took over. But when midnight struck I felt it, like a breath upon my cheek.’

  Farran’s voice is eerie now. It rises above the hum in the background: the unnatural thrum and blur of the light.