Page 3 of A Kiss of Flame

The royal palace of Pelias perched high above the harbour city, built into the mountain. It was a rabbit warren of a place, full of corridors and galleries, chambers hewn from living rock and balconies hanging out over the ocean. The sound of seabirds and breaking waves was its song and the wind carried the scent of the sea. Wren couldn’t have found it more alien if she had been dropped into another country altogether.

That was without the court and its mysterious rhythms and rules. Everywhere she went she found people following her, people who became silent and awkward when she tried to talk to them, or got a gleam in their eyes like she could give them something.

Wren was a disaster. She was always wrong, always. In the wrong place, wearing the wrong thing, saying the wrong words. It was exhausting. She missed the forest so much it hurt, the deep green-gold light, the sway of the canopy overhead, the birdsong so much sweeter than the wailing of the gulls.

The palace itself was divided in two, one side housing what remained of the royal court and now the regents’ council, and on the other the Maidens of the Aurum in their Sanctum. The Aurum’s chamber, buried in the rock face, was the bridge between them, accessible from both sides, but she hadn’t dared set foot in there since that terrible night.

‘We have to be careful,’ Finn told her solemnly that night. ‘If it ever happens again…’

So now he was avoiding her. Avoiding being seen with her.

She knew he still loved her. And what she felt for him was brighter than any magical fire. They only had stolen moments and those were already getting few and far between.

Great terraced gardens filled with flowers and trees overlooked the city, climbing the mountainside in tiers. From here Wren could see all the way down to the city walls on one side and the harbour on the other, and far, far beyond, across the plain and towards the hills, almost as far as the great forests, but not quite. And here she could be alone. Or as alone as she ever could be with attendants and servants and all those people who wanted something from her.

At least the air here was fresh, unlike the hot and stuffy halls, and the audience chambers they would lock her away in for hours on end, the air ripe with perfume and sweat. Here, leaves rustled, and cut the sunlight with green, and if she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was back in the forest with Finn. Safe with him. Curled up together under Cellandre’s canopy.

Where no one could touch them. Watch them. Judge them.

She thought he would be here to meet her, but there was no sign of him. Had she got it wrong? Had he meant they should meet somewhere else?

Three women sat at the far end of this particular garden, shaded by an array of parasols in red and gold, and attended by a host of silent servants who never made eye contact. Wren didn’t know the woman clothed in the robes of the Maidens of the Aurum, but Lynette of Goalais sat beside her. And the other was Lady Ylena, Wren’s great-aunt.

Wren froze as the old woman locked eyes with her and beckoned her forward. Behind her one of the attending servants murmured something between a prayer and a blessing and Wren had to fight not to turn tail and run.

But of course, she couldn’t. Running was against the rules. There was no escaping this.

Finn must have seen them and beat a hasty retreat. Or else they had sent him away. Probably with no more than a glare.

Wren cursed softly.

One of the dour-faced attendants pulled out a chair for Wren, opposite the regent. Beside her, the Maiden of the Aurum sat demurely, hooded and gazing at her hands. A smile flickered over Lynette’s lips, encouragement and comfort, or an attempt to convey both.

Don’t cause trouble, Wren, she seemed to say with her gaze. This is important.

It was always important.

‘Wren, what a delightful coincidence,’ said Ylena. She didn’t sound like she was in any way delighted. And Wren didn’t imagine for a moment that this was a coincidence. The woman had a plan for everything. She had been waiting for her. The old woman carried herself like an empress. Or a bird of prey. Wren couldn’t quite decide which was worse.

‘The gardens here are beautiful,’ Wren replied, noncommittally. ‘I was taking the air.’

‘You are used to fresh air and freedom,’ said the maiden. Her voice was almost familiar, soft and lyrical with the accent of Pelias. For a moment Wren’s heart gave a different kind of jerk. It wasn’t Elodie, though they sounded similar. The woman looked up, her gaze searching, but she said nothing more. It felt like being studied by some kind of professor. ‘And select companionship.’

She saw far too much with her pale blue eyes and sculpted features. She was perhaps forty, and the resemblance between her and Elodie could not be denied. Perhaps it was the bearing. Perhaps it was what Pelias did, creating women like statues with hearts made of stone.

The regent, Ylena, was no better, just older and harder. ‘A princess has no need of such things, neither solitude nor select company. There is a whole court here and you need to become its beating heart, young lady. You have many duties here, Wren, and I have selected Lynette to help you, guide you.’

Lynette bowed her head graciously, accepting the role before Wren had a chance to interject. Not that it was exactly a surprise. Lynette had been angling for this since Knightsford and she was an expert in the political games of court.

‘Your life has changed irrevocably,’ Ylena continued, ‘and Queen Aeryn clearly did nothing to prepare you for it.’

‘This was not meant to be my life,’ Wren said and Ylena stiffened.

The maiden in her white robes made a noise that might have been a stifled laugh and might have been a cough. Wren stared at her, but she didn’t look up again. Ylena glowered at Wren, unmoved.

‘On the contrary,’ Ylena told her. ‘It always was and now it is. Accept that and we can move on. You have ancient magic in your veins, in your soul, the very light of the Aurum. You channelled it and it accepted you. Or so I am told. I have yet to see any evidence myself… But the queen says you are her daughter.’

‘Then why can’t I see her?’ No one answered. ‘I need to talk to her.’