Skyfire

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘I have a temporal proclivity. I’m a creature of time. You couldn’t understand such a thing – you, with your plodding proclivity of Stone.’ He curls the last word in disdain. ‘The Hourglass is a machine of time and magic. It calls to me. It sustains me. And I’m here, tonight, to see its magic freed.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here?’ I force my voice lower. Hoarser. ‘You want to dig it up … to unleash its power?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Lord Farran says. ‘I don’t want to unleash its power. I want its power to unleash me.’

  ‘What power? What does it even –’

  ‘Time,’ he whispers. ‘The final realm of magic. The power to change the time in my own body. To erase it. To replace it.’

  The light of the Hourglass throbs.

  ‘You’re lying,’ I spit. ‘You’re just a fool with a pretty ball of light.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Farran says. ‘I am far more than that, Morrigan. And you will admit it, by the time we’re through. You will beg me for mercy.’

  There is a long pause.

  ‘The Timekeeper,’ Lord Farran says quietly, ‘was so talented that she made the earth shake. Talented enough to twist the breath of Time from her magic, and to create an entire new power from it.’

  ‘She’s just a myth!’ I say.

  ‘No,’ Farran says. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m afraid, King Morrigan, that she was very real. Real and remarkable. In the thousand years since her reign, no other soul has managed to twist their proclivity in such a way. Not even me. But those who lived beside her knew her for what she was.’ Farran steps closer. ‘A monster.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Power over Time,’ Lord Farran says, ‘is power over Death. The Timekeeper could steal the years from one man and gift them to another. She could kill a group of children and prolong her own life for centuries.’ He pauses. ‘How does the song go? Ah, yes – I shan’t waste my good life.’

  My skin tingles.

  ‘But she grew too greedy,’ Farran says. ‘Too powerful. She was the first great alchemist, and she delved far beyond the limits of magic. She injected alchemy spells into her own veins, desperate to increase the strength of her proclivity. To govern not just the time of living creatures, but of … everything.’

  My illusion blinks, threatening to fade. I feel it running from my skin, dying like shadows in lantern light. I clench my fists and fight to refocus.

  Dark curls. A gold crown. Eyes of green …

  Lord Farran doesn’t notice the flicker. He’s too wrapped up in the moment – too in love with the sound of his own voice. He’s spent three hundred years fighting to bring the Morrigans to their knees, and this is his moment of triumph.

  ‘The Timekeeper,’ he says, ‘tried to steal time from the land itself. From the movement of tectonic plates, and the ache of the earth, and the sway of the tides. She corrupted the land’s magic. She broke it to pieces, and left parts of it poisoned forever. In Víndurn, she even tried to steal a moment from midnight – from the birth of each day. She failed, of course, but the earth still quakes and boils as a symptom of her meddling.’

  My heartbeat stutters.

  ‘And this place?’ Lord Farran says. ‘The land we now call Taladia? Here, she didn’t twist the earth. Instead, she twisted the people. Years of fire, years of death. She twisted minds and wrenched time from people’s souls.

  ‘She caused enough chaos to plunge Taladia into the Dark Ages and her experiments led to … mutations. Powers that occur nowhere else, like illusionism.’

  I swallow. I don’t dare to speak – not when my own illusion of King Morrigan still paints my skin. It trembles now. At any moment, it will fail.

  ‘And so they killed her,’ Lord Farran says. ‘They killed the Timekeeper in her sleep, and trapped a sliver of her power in this sphere of silver, hoping to one day understand it.’ He lets out a low, caustic laugh. ‘A primitive alchemy charm, you might say. So primitive that only other souls with temporal proclivities could use its power.

  ‘You called the Hourglass a pretty ball of light. But I want you to know what it truly is, King Morrigan. It’s victory. It’s my victory.’

  Just for a moment, my illusion fades. I struggle to wrap my head around the enormity of Lord Farran’s words. The Hourglass is an enormous alchemy charm – and one with no ordinary power …

  I clench my fists, fighting to paint King Morrigan’s face across my own. Dark curls. A gold crown. Eyes of green.

  The illusion settles more solidly.

  When I glance at Lord Farran, his eyes are slitted, turned away from the light. He hasn’t noticed the quiver in my illusion. He’s too desperate to brag, to gloat above this vanquished king.

  He doesn’t want to see behind my mask.

  ‘They locked it away where no one could touch it,’ Farran says. ‘Buried it deep within the earth: a weapon of last resort, to be unearthed only in the direst of emergencies. For centuries, Morrigan, your family sent prisoners to die in the snow. You sacrificed their lives to keep the alchemical protection strong. To keep the Hourglass locked away.’

  He smirks. ‘But with time, people forgot the importance of those sacrifices. The Hourglass fell into legend, into myth. In Víndurn, the truth was lost in the pages of ancient books. In Taladia, it was forgotten entirely.

  ‘You Morrigans have always been fools. Your ancestors still sent prisoners to die at Midnight Crest – but only for the sake of tradition. For the sake of cruelty. Not to renew the alchemical protection that kept the Hourglass locked beneath the earth.

  ‘With time, fewer and fewer prisoners were sent to die here. The magical bonds began to weaken. By the time I myself was imprisoned here, I was able to sense the hum of the Hourglass beneath the earth. It was naked, now. Exposed. Its power was ripe for the plucking.’

  ‘Power?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t contain the full power of the Timekeeper,’ Farran says. ‘It isn’t strong enough to rip the years from a healthy soul. But a soul facing death – a man already staring down his own mortality – well, the years of such men are like grapes on the vine. Easy to harvest. Easy to taste.’

  I suck down a sharp breath. I have to keep him talking. More than anything, Farran wants me to admit that he has won. He wants me to grovel, to beg. If I refuse to acknowledge his victory, he’ll keep trying to convince me and perhaps –

  But Farran doesn’t need my prompting. He looks almost hungry, as though he longs to speak these things. To confess these memories to another living soul.

  ‘I connected with the Hourglass,’ he says. ‘I used its power to suck the years from half a dozen dying men imprisoned beside me in the dark and snow. I left them dead and empty, and I filled my bones with three precious centuries of time. And when I burned our prison to the ground, your foolish family failed to rebuild it.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘The protection has weakened further,’ he says, ‘in the years since the prison burned. Weak enough for us, tonight, to break through those tendrils of alchemical protection and reach the burial place of the Hourglass itself.’ Lord Farran exhales slowly. ‘And it’s time for the Timekeeper’s magic to be claimed.’

  ‘You want her power for yourself,’ I whisper.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he says. ‘I’ve outlived centuries, King Morrigan, but I won’t live forever. My flesh is weakening. I’ve spent my stolen years, and I’m running out of time.’

  He steps towards me. ‘I’m running out of time, so I’ve come to purchase more.’

  And that’s when I understand.

  The war. The sacrifices. Thousands of soldiers are dying in the Valley. Bodies falling, burning. Blood and guts and death upon the air. The Taladian army, the Víndurnic army. Thousands of years of wasted life, slaughtered in a single evening. Every soldier on that battlefield is facing death. Every soldier on that battlefield is ripe for the plucking.

  And here stands the man who is ready to collect.

  ‘But you
can’t.’ I take a shaky breath. ‘The soldiers aren’t dying on Midnight Crest; they’re all the way back in the Valley. You can’t harvest their lives from here.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I have firestones,’ he says. ‘A trail of firestones, leading back to the Valley.’

  No. It can’t be. But the images play out in my head, and they make a horrible kind of sense. The firestones are a conduit for magic. Lord Farran must have scattered the stones as he flew here: a chain of glowing lights, connecting this place to the Valley.

  And of course, there are hundreds of stones on the battlefield itself. They were carried into war by the soldiers of Víndurn – and they’re imbued with Curiefer, to keep them working in the Valley.

  At midnight, the Hourglass’s light will point directly skyward. It will beam into the circle of firestones above us. And from there, Farran will transmit the Hourglass’s power back to the Valley. The firestones will work like a two-way radio, blasting the magic of the Hourglass into the Valley, and sucking the soldiers’ time back into the Hourglass. It will be quick. Silent. And the Valley will be awash not only with water, but with corpses.

  I suck down a breath. It sounds painfully raw above the hum of the Hourglass. For a moment my illusion falters and I step back, retreating into the shadows.

  ‘When it’s over,’ says Lord Farran. ‘I will take Taladia. Víndurn was just a substitute – a foolish little country. I built up its population, of course: a nice crop of lives to harvest. But it was only a pawn on our chessboard. A way to draw you out.

  ‘I will seize the land of my birth: the land where I was truly destined to rule. I’ll teach its people to love me. To respect me. To view me as their saviour. I will rule Taladia for a thousand years, and a thousand more.

  ‘And finally …’ His voice cracks. ‘Finally, Morrigan, I’ll know that your family has paid for what you did to me. I’ll know that I have won.’

  My fingernails dig into my palms. I don’t know what to do, how to move, what to think. I can’t process this. Not the information, not the terror, not the gaping hole that Lukas has left inside my chest. Not the fact that the man responsible stands right here, ready to kill again, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop him.

  ‘Now admit it,’ he says. ‘You can’t deny it now, King Morrigan. You can’t deny that I have beaten you.’

  A chill swells under my skin. I can feel my illusion crumbling.

  The light of the Hourglass ticks upwards. It’s almost midnight. If I can just hold Farran’s attention for a few moments longer … make him miss the deadline, when that beam of magic reaches the firestones atop this pit …

  ‘Admit it!’ Farran cries.

  I can’t hold the illusion. I feel as though I’m splitting at the seams: breaking into shards of myself, shards of Morrigan, shards of lies. I grit my teeth and I strain, I fight, but the magic drips like water from my skin.

  Hold it, Danika. Hold on …

  The illusion shatters.

  I am not a king. Just a teenage girl, with a ragged mess of auburn hair and defiance in my upraised chin. I am Danika Glynn.

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ I say, ‘who can wear a mask.’

  Lord Farran’s lips part. His eyes widen. He stares at me, shocked into silence.

  And with a piercing crack, he pulls the trigger.

  I dissolve.

  It isn’t a slow, controlled melt into Night. It’s fast and brutal and leaves my mind gasping at the whiplash. Bam, gone. Like clicking a finger. I disappear before the bullet strikes and it passes through me, like shooting through air.

  ‘No!’ Lord Farran shouts, sudden fear behind his fury.

  I don’t know why he’s panicking; all I’ve done is use my proclivity.

  And then I feel it. Midnight.

  The Hourglass is calling me. I am the night, and I feel its song upon my skin. The thrum of the light. The rhythm of the dark.

  It’s everywhere. Light. A shine beyond a thousand stars. I have no eyes to shield – not any more – and so I let it run through me, through my senses, through the echoes of my bones. Warm and cold and soft and sharp: all things, all at once. The rhythm ticks. One. Two. Three.

  And I realise it’s the ticking of a clock. The breath of Time.

  The ultimate proclivity.

  I reach out for it with my mind. I can almost touch it. It’s shining out there, waiting to be plucked. If I focus, I can seize it for my own …

  There’s a rush of darkness, and a sudden jolt, as though someone has slapped me. An intruder has stepped into my skin, a ghost inside my own body, sharing my breath in the dark.

  Lord Farran. He must have melted into his own Night proclivity – and now here we are, together at midnight. Two souls ready to fight for a single prize.

  He lunges for the light.

  The world explodes around me and I sense it all: the firestones high above us in the mountain snow. I sense their cousins, their linked comrades, shining so far away in the Valley. The firestones throb, calling to me: a thousand conduits for the power of the Hourglass.

  No!

  I summon up every last skerrick of strength. The light bursts in violent shards, like the blast of an alchemy bomb, and I know I’m losing control. We’re both fighting to command the Hourglass, but Lord Farran is winning.

  He’ll kill them all.

  I can feel the soldiers. One by one, their faces flash into my mind. Their thoughts, their souls. I feel each of them brush up against me, joined through the light of the firestones. A boy from Rourton. A woman from Gunning. An old man from a Víndurnic village. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of souls.

  Their minds are startled, uneasy: they can feel the intruder, sense the brutal burst of alchemy in their bones. Terror, panic, confusion. I feel Lord Farran grasp around them, preparing to rip their lives from their bodies …

  He’s too strong. I can’t stop him.

  And in the dark of my proclivity, I’m fading. I melt into the Night, drifting into deeper shadows. It would be so easy to let go. To forget it all, to float away, to lose myself. No more grief for Lukas. No more fear or guilt or doubt …

  And then I feel it. One solid object, still clutched in the echo of my hands.

  Lukas’s charm.

  I can feel him within the silver feather. I feel the echo of his breath, his magic, locked into this twist of metal. It’s as though he’s here, just for a moment. Green eyes. Dark hair. A whisper on his lips.

  And suddenly I’m not just thinking of Lukas. I think of Maisy, of Clementine, of Teddy. Of Bastian and Leifur, Mitcham and Riley, and every soul who will die in the Valley tonight.

  I refuse to let this happen. I refuse to fade into Night. Lord Farran’s plan killed Lukas. I won’t let him kill these soldiers too.

  And so I surge.

  It happens in a blast, a wrenching gust in the air. I hurl myself towards the Hourglass and its dazzling beam of light. The charm digs tight into the air of my body, silver and alchemy stinging non-existent flesh. I collide with Lord Farran and we press against each other: two minds battling, pushing, straining.

  I struggle to shove him away from the light. Lord Farran pushes back. He’s older, stronger, wiser. He knows how to use his proclivity. He summons tendrils of Night and they whip through me like blades in the dark. I gasp at the pain. It feels as though my flesh has been cleaved into shreds, broken and crushed into strands of blood and skin.

  It’s not real. It’s not real, Danika.

  I have no flesh. I have no blood or skin. I am the Night, and the Night can’t hurt me.

  And so I push back. I call tendrils of dark and wrap them around myself: a cloak of shadow as I strive for the light. The Night doesn’t scare me. Not any more. My proclivity is part of me, and I’m part of it. I have finally found control.

  Lukas’s proclivity pushes with me: a screech, a flap, a ruffle of feathers. A melding of powers, just for a moment. Wingbeats in the dark.r />
  Lord Farran falters.

  I feel it immediately: a body slumping back, retreating. I push outwards again, my mind gritted, my soul formed into fists. I push and shove with every shred of strength I can muster. I am the night. I am the dark. And I realise suddenly that I’m stronger than him. Lord Farran might be older and wiser, but I have youth. Strength. Life.

  After three hundred years, the prisoner’s strength is crumbling. He’s stretched himself too thin. He’s pushed too hard, for too long.

  And with a final burst, I push him out of the light.

  I float.

  The light is warm around me. It feels almost like water. A warm bath, soft upon my skin. I breathe it in, and I keep on floating.

  I can still sense the firestones in the Valley. I can feel the souls carrying them, jostling around them, riding foxaries through the crowd. A woman from Norville. A man from Bastian’s clan. A girl of eighteen, with blood on her hands and an ache in her belly. Every soul is like another tiny light. A cluster of years, a cluster of time.

  I could take them. I could take their years and make them mine.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  It would be so easy.

  Tick.

  They can sense me too. I feel their fear and confusion. The primal instinct in their minds that screams intruder, intruder, intruder. But there’s nowhere to run. They can only register my presence and wait, frozen on the remains of the battlefield. They must wait for me to make my choice.

  And with my mind like fire, I let go of the light.

  I cast away the firestones, one by one. As each stone dims, it feels like losing a limb. Another patch of loss, another cluster of souls blinking out of my awareness. But I press on. This power isn’t mine to take. And so the firestones wink out: a thousand eyes, shutting into sleep.

  Finally, the connection is broken. All that remains is this cavern, buried deep beneath Midnight Crest. Only darkness around me, and the heat of the Hourglass.

  There’s no temptation to float away. Not now.

  I ease my body back into solid form. My hands, my eyes, my arms. The frizz in my hair and the scars upon my body. Even the throb of the wound in my shoulder. I welcome them back, cling to them, paint myself back out of the dark.