Page 33 of Skysong

‘How can you be sure?’ she pressed.

‘Because,’ Andala replied, ‘he knows he’ll have me to answer to otherwise.’

And then she was gone, leaving Oriane alone to prepare.

115It was almost daybreak. Oriane had barely slept; she was overwrought, unanchored,angry. Anger was a foreign feeling, one in whose company she had never spent much time. But the more she thought about her confinement, about the scheme Tomas must have had from the beginning to prevent her communicating with her father, the more potent the anger grew – overpowering her anxiety about what she planned to do, burning within her like a burgeoning flame.

Oriane tried to embrace it. She had not known who she was when she came here – still did not know who she was, if she was honest with herself – and unless she fled this place, she feared she might never get the chance to find out.

At last it came time to leave. To escape. The familiar sensation of the skylark waking stirred in her breast as she lay staring into the dark. That, at least, was something she knew, something she could cling to in the uncertain moments ahead.

‘Everything’s ready,’ Andala whispered when she came to fetch her. ‘East window, third from the back. Don’t hesitate for a moment.’

They walked briskly to the audience hall, Terault at their heels. The usual crowd was there, as well as nobles whose faces Oriane had never seen, a new batch brought in to bear witness to the Messenger of Day. Kitt, looking tense, gave her an almost imperceptible nod as she entered. King Tomas was there, of course, and Hana, tucked towards the back of the crowd.

‘Oriane,’ King Tomas greeted her, gracious and welcoming, as if he weren’t keeping her prisoner here in his palace. Anger simmered beneath the song building in Oriane’s chest, but she forced a smile. She did not want his suspicions roused for any reason. She wanted him to think she was compliant, unquestioning, docile.

Exactly as she’d been when she arrived.116

With a final glance at Andala, Oriane ascended the stairs, taking her place on the platform. The warmth in her chest was growing stronger. The crowd chattered excitedly among themselves.

Oriane let herself become the Lady Lark, smiling down at them all. It was easy to do now. Too easy.

She closed her eyes as the transformation drew near. Some small, shameful part of her had become fond of the hush that fell over the crowd as she did, the sense of anticipation that hummed through the quiet room – the strange, inexplicable feeling of power that filled her as she felt every eye turn her way. Casting the shame aside, she capitalised on it now. If they were looking at her, they would not be looking at the east window, third from the back.

Warmth continued to blossom behind her breastbone. It was almost time. Almost, but not quite. She needed to wait for the sign. Oriane poured all her focus into her power, into the idea she’d spoken about with Kitt and Andala – the notion that she might simply think about transforming, and in the same instant, do so. She willed herself to believe she had power over herself, power over her power.

From the back of the hall came an almightybang.

There was the sound of glass breaking, crashing to the floor. The crowd cried out. That was the sign. This was the moment.

Her body was not yet ready to change. Oriane gauged that it was still a minute or so away from doing so. But she did not have a minute. She needed to become the skylarknow.

She needed to, shecommandedherself to, and so she did.

While gasps and cries spilled through the air, while the king’s voice boomed out words she could not clearly hear, Oriane transformed.

She opened her eyes as she did. Everyone still seemed to be focused on the back of the hall, where one of the enormous arched windows had shattered. Glass littered the floor below it in a shimmering117carpet. The hall’s sparse candlelight glistened on the fragments, and to Oriane it was a beacon.Hereisyourwayout.

She stretched her wings as they appeared feather by feather. They had never been more welcome. The king was still shouting, and she heard his words now: ‘Seize her! Do not let her fly!’

But it was too late. Oriane had been born to fly, and king or not, he would not stop her.

She shot straight up, towards the back of the hall. She was too fast and too high for any grabbing hands—

Or so she had thought. All of a sudden there was awhooshbehind her, and something rushed past her back. It could not be a person, not this high – had they thrown something to try to stop her? A net?

Whatever it was, Oriane did not look back. In another breath she was level with the broken window. It had been thoroughly obliterated, the glass smashed inward, open to the predawn darkness beyond. She soared into the dying night, leaving the palace and the crowd and the still-shouting king behind her. How had she not missed this? Flying outside, where she was meant to be, feeling the wind through her feathers and watching the dawn as she sang it into life? For so many days she had winged her way around an audience hall, content to be confined so long as she had the applause of strangers. It sent shame washing through her anew.

The sun had fully risen now. For some reason, it was Andala’s face in her mind as she ascended – Andala who stirred some faint ember of regret in her breast as she wheeled east, towards the sun, and then north, towards home.

She sang louder, more joyously.I’mcoming,Papa,her song said.I’monmywayhome.

118Oriane flew true and did not pause, and before long she was in familiar territory. She knew these treetops. She knew the gentle glint of that river winding through the woods. And finally, there it was: the gap in the trees that signified home.

It was a glorious day, the sky a fierce blue and the golden light strong. Oriane had stopped singing, but a dozen other birds brought the woods alive with a morning chorus that welcomed her back. She could see the cottage now, the vegetable patch and the fruit trees, dear old Snowpea dozing in the yard.

She dropped into a dive. A few feet from the ground she transformed, landing mid-stride on the well-worn path to the back door. Startled, the chickens pecking at the grass scattered in a flutter of feathers. Oriane ignored them and tore towards the house. ‘Papa?’ she called as she ran. ‘Papa!’

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