Page 152 of A Palace of Smoke & Mirrors
“Belgrave’s insignia was flame,” I whispered, glaring at John with tears burning my eyes. The slight shift of his head was myonly clue that he heard me. “It really was enchanted to deter people from looking, wasn’t it?”
“The day ye asked me about it ‘twas the day it stopped appearing to ye as flame, lass.” John Dante’s dark eyes lifted to my face, sorrowful and wide. “Flip the Court o’ Fire around, and it willna take much to convince ye that it’s Light.”
An image flashed across my mind, blurred with static.
Dante’s Bookstore looms high above me as I stand outside the front door waiting for the Closed sign to turn over to Open. The polished rosewood carving is striking, a larger-than-life depiction of a single flame curling towards the west. A breeze stirs, and the outline of the etching shudders and bends.
“What are ye standing out in the cold for, ye wee lass? Yer early today.”
“How long has it been doing that?” I ask the old man in the doorway.
He steps over the threshold with a grunt, craning his neck so he can look up at the insignia’s carving, too. Our breath clouds in front of us in the bitter morning air as we stand out the front of the bookstore, and I’m sure that he can see the way it’s moving, but all he does is let out a really long sigh.
“Been like that since I was a boy. And my father before me…”
“That’s it!” Lucais exclaimed, yanking me out of my reverie. He stalked into the middle of the platform and started to pace in a small circle. “That is fuckingit.They’re always confusing our two Courts, and I’ve had it.” Pivoting, his golden eyes landed on the High Lord with perfect aim. He dipped his head, a serious crease forming between his brows as he pointed to him with both manacled hands and declared, “You’re changing your insignia.”
Owain snorted. “Why us?”
“Because I don’t want to change mine,” Lucais replied, a snarky emphasis on each word.
“But yours is the one everyone thinks is a flame,” Owain protested in a voice that made the whole thing sound utterly ridiculous.
“Yes, and yoursisan actual flame,” the High King argued, “but nobody really seems to know that, do they? So it can’t be that good a depiction of flame! They’re constantly mistaking it for something else, and they think mine belongs to this hellscape. Why is that, huh?” He twirled in a circle, scanning the small crowd of faces. “Who works in advertising here?”
“Lucais,” Wrenlock began, raising one hand in the air. “We have more important—”
“No.” Lucais spun to face his friend. “No, we will get to those life and death matters in due course,” he avowed with a deadly look, “but right now, Owain and I need to settle this vexing ordeal about the insignias once and for all.”
“Lucais,” he tried again. “You’re being ridiculous.”
The High King looped around in another circle, throwing his head back with his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he groaned at the ash-tainted sky. “Am I?” he rebuked. “Don’t you see how much trouble this fucking thing has caused us?”
“I can settle this for you,” Owain offered casually.
He was deeply tanned, tall, and broad-shouldered—though not as toned as the other men—and his face was lined with a greater number of years. His clothing was plain and black, though embroidered with red flames along the collar, and it shifted as he strode over to the throne and settled into the seat, flicking his hands up.
“It’s not happening,” he announced, utterly blasé. “I’ve seen the future, Boy King, and there is no Court of Light in it.”
Lucais had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Forget your iron-thread, did you? When did you become a Secret-Keeper, Owain?”
The High Lord shook his head and signalled to one of his men. “Not me,” he replied, and then he glanced up. “Her.”
We followed his upturned gaze and found an enormous bird cage being lowered to the floor. It appeared from within the clouds of smoke high above us, the metal chains anchored to something obscured way up in the sky. To my horror, a girl was curled up inside of the cage, bony and frail, with dull strawberry blonde hair and worn features. She was older than me, but much smaller, like the growth of her bones had been stunted.
There was something that reminded me of an archaic torture device on her head; it was metal, tightly fitted around her temples and beneath her jaw, and rose in spires over her scalp in the shape of an old crown. Small flickers of purple light swirled between the metal rods, like she was wearing a static electricity ball on her head for sport.
Her eyes were as blue as mine, but lacking cognisance. Despite the recognition in her gaze as she looked towards us, there wasn’t even a spark of hopefulness left in them, and she couldn’t speak even if she wanted to because her mouth was sewn shut with rusted iron-thread.
She was a Secret-Keeper.
“My little Oracle,” the High Lord stated with a lot of pride and no apparent regret. “I’ve seen it all, Lucais. From the start of the world to the end of it—and I know how this goes. Your insignia really is the least of your problems.” He gestured to the cage. “Take it from Siah.”
Lucais glanced between them, understanding crawling its way over his face. “Siah…” He took a step closer to the girl, peering at her through the bars. “She’s your daughter,” he said, a lilt in his voice. “I remember now.” Crouching down a carefuldistance away, he looked over his shoulder at Owain. “So you’ve found a way to circumvent the restrictions of the Temple?”
Owain shook his head, grinning like a madman with eyes alight and wicked. “Not me,” he corrected. “Your father.”
Lucais’s brows flicked up. “My father?” he repeated, incredulous. “You don’t say…” He cocked his head towards the girl again. “And it really works? She’s able to feed you the future?”
