In spite of everything, Éadha had room for a flash of wonder at the sight of all this plenty laid out in the normally bare kitchen. Mounds of luscious red strawberries, heaps of shining nectarines and grapes, all channeled by Master Growers, so the air was filled with the tang of fruit and the warm smell of freshly baked loaves and pastries. It was more food than she’d ever seen; despite herself, her mouth began to water at the scents and sights around her.

  Not, she thought, that any of this plenty was for her or the villagers outside. It was too rare a thing for that. Rather, it was for today’s real guests, the Masters and the Families gathered in the Great Hall at the center of the Keep, all come to see if the Ailm Family would still be one of them by the end of the day.

  Magret was steering her through the chaos, on toward the tunnel of dragonglass that connected the kitchen to the main Keep. It was lit now by flickering candles set in dips in the marble floor along each side of the tunnel, their flames reflecting in the thick, wavy glass above. About halfway down Magret paused, looking first up and down the tunnel before leaning in to Éadha and whispering, “Have you your thought-wall in place?”

  Éadha frowned then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Master Dathin will only be inches away when he reckons Ionáin. You need to be sure.”

  “I’m sure, all right?” Éadha interrupted. “Anyway, he’ll be focused on reckoning Ionáin—”

  “Yes, but he’s so powerful…”

  Éadha’s expression was stony as she replied, biting out every word, “My. Wall. Will. Hold.”

  Magret stepped back a little, her eyes widening at Éadha’s sudden ferocity. After a brief moment, she nodded once, abruptly. “Very well. We should get into position.”

  They continued on down the tunnel without another word.

  Everything feels wrong today, Éadha thought as they reached the end of the tunnel where it opened out into the Great Hall beyond. Leaving Ionáin up in his room being forced into those awful robes. Those ghouls out in the courtyard waiting to see if he’d fail. All that food in the kitchen and none of it for the underfed people who actually lived in the Keep. And now the Great Hall. For as long as she’d known it, it’d been a dimly lit, empty space with maybe just a single fire smoldering in one of the slate fireplaces that lined the wall, the wolfhounds asleep in a pile in front of it. Today, though, it was bright with the light of hundreds of candles and overflowing with people and noise.

  Directly in front of her rose one of the great yew trunks that held up the ceiling of the Great Hall, garlanded for the ceremony in fresh pine branches. An ironbound spiral staircase wound around the trunk up toward the walkways that crossed the higher levels of the hall, lit candles set into each step. Meanwhile, the flickering light from the bonfires outside shone in through the row of windows at the end of the Great Hall, bringing to life their stained-glass images: scenes of long-ago battles between dragons and Channellers, golden sunflowers being coaxed from the soil by a Channeller’s power, porcelain-white buildings towering above the tiny figures of the Channellers raising them.

  In the center of the hall stood a wooden stage, a dais built specially for the Reckoning ceremony. The other members of the choir were already beginning to climb its steps, and Magret hurried on ahead to join them.

  Directly in front of the platform, Éadha could see small groups of the most important guests: the Channellers were marked out by the silver brooches on their tunics or cloaks, their Keepers by a wide silver wristband. All the Channellers present were men, forbidding in the absolute security of their power. Their Keepers, the holders of their power, almost all of them women, stood a little behind. Some of the Channellers were heads of Great Families, dressed in rich cloaks and furs, while others wore the simple gray marking them out as a Lambay Master. They were men who spent their lives on the islands of Lambay training the next generations of gifted youngsters, securing the Channellers’ rule over Domhain as they’d done for four centuries now. Dotted among them were a few who wore the black of dragon-slayers. If Ionáin passed his Reckoning, the gray-clad men would be his tutors for the next two years, each one a master of his art, the most powerful Architects, Growers, Illusionists, and dragon-slayers on all of Domhain. If he failed, they’d be the ones deciding who got Ailm’s Keep after his Family was cast out.

  Among them moved Lord Aedan, Ionáin’s father, tall and dark-haired, with the slim build Ionáin had inherited from him, dressed for the ceremony in the Ailm Family colors of silver and blue. He quietly greeted each person, bowing deferentially to the Masters and the Channellers. Éadha saw, though, how they reacted to him: glancing at him and then away as if the very sight of him embarrassed them. That’d been his life, she thought, ever since the day he failed his Reckoning almost twenty-five years ago, setting his Family on the path that led to today and his son’s own Reckoning. Their Family’s final chance to prove the gift hadn’t died out in their bloodline.

  As she watched Ionáin’s father move among the crowd, it dawned on her the hall’s unfamiliar brightness was coming not just from the hundreds of candles below but from golden were-lights circling far above them, just beneath the dome of the hall. Tilting her head back to stare up at them, she let out a small gasp of wonder and fear. Wonder at the impossibility of those small yellow flames flying through the high air. Fear in remembrance of the only other time she’d seen lights like these in this hall, just two days before. Éadha looked down again to see it was indeed the same man channeling these were-lights. Lord Huath. Ionáin’s uncle, and the most powerful, most cruel Channeller on all of Domhain. His white-blond hair unmistakable as he stood a little to one side of the dais, his pale eyes scanning the crowd while his right hand moved almost idly, keeping the were-lights flying above them all. Beside him stood his Keeper, Treasa, a distant look in her eyes as she funneled Huath’s power, her fingers moving like someone working the threads of a loom. She knew Huath didn’t need Treasa to be able to use power, but since the early days of channeling, Channellers had used Keepers to marshal their strength for them.

  As she fought down her nausea at the sight of Huath, a murmur ran through the crowd. Lady Úra had appeared at the top of the spiral staircase nearest Ionáin’s room. He was ready. It was time.

  Éadha slipped around the back of the stage, clambering up and pushing through the choir to her spot in the middle of the front row. She’d made sure of it during rehearsal, once she’d worked out it’d be the one closest to Ionáin during his Reckoning. Magret gave her a sharp look, but there was no time for anything else. Lady Úra had reached her place, and now Master Dathin, Ionáin’s Reckoner, was climbing the steps to stand on the stage just in front of Éadha. The senior Master on Lambay, he’d traveled all the way from the islands specially for Ionáin’s Reckoning. It was not every day, after all, that the fate of a Family hung in the balance.

  As Dathin took up his position just in front of Éadha, silence spread across the Great Hall, stilling conversations and rippling outward into the courtyard where the villagers waited, wordless now too. Ionáin appeared at the top of the stairwell, and with a sweep of her arm, Magret gestured to the choir to begin. Their voices rose into the still air as he began his slow descent of the spiral staircase, his steps matching the beat of the first canto. Éadha watched as he reached the last step and walked through the crowd, his pace unwavering and his head erect, the gold of his hair catching the candlelight as he made his way up onto the dais until, with perfect timing long rehearsed, he turned to face the Master in the moment the choir fell silent.

  Master Dathin was a bear of a man, bearded and massive in his heavy cloak pinned by a clasp in the shape of a silver dragon, marking him as a dragon-slayer. Even in his Reckoning robes, Ionáin looked heartbreakingly slender beside him, his face gone paper-white with the strain. Without a word, the Master placed his hands on either side of Ionáin’s head, preparing to step into his mind. To Éadha, invisible in the choir but just inches away from where they both stood facing each other in front of her, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the hall. She watched as Dathin’s huge hands gripped each side of Ionáin’s face with a hold that couldn’t be broken until the Reckoning was over. This was it.

  As the ritual demanded, the entire congregation bent their heads, the one concession to privacy for the young man on the dais before them. Every one of them except Éadha, who kept her eyes fixed on Ionáin, standing there in Dathin’s grip. She saw his eyes widen and knew he was feeling the shock of the Master entering his mind. Involuntarily he stepped back a little before steadying himself, closing his eyes and holding himself still as he’d been trained to do.

  Still watching, Éadha saw it—a small frown beginning to appear on Dathin’s face. His brows furrowed, as if searching further for something he thought he’d sense right away. The silence in the Great Hall began to stretch thin. Éadha’s heart started to hammer in her chest. She knew Ionáin must have power, but she knew him so well—in times of stress his instinct would be to go still, to go deep. His gift could be hidden deep within him. If he’d the true Reckoner’s skill, Master Dathin would surely eventually find it, but what if he mistook it? What if he took it for a weak gift not worth cultivating or for the lesser power of a Keeper? Anything less than a hallelujah in this moment would surely break Ionáin’s heart. But still Master Dathin frowned. He wasn’t finding it, this gift he’d come expecting to find.

  And Éadha realized it was happening, right there in front of her. The worst thing. The thing she’d never allowed herself to think might really happen. Any moment now, Dathin was going to drop his hands and step back, shaking his head, and that’d be it. The end. Of Ionáin’s dream of saving them all, of his Family, of Ailm’s Keep, of the only life she’d ever known.

  And she understood that she couldn’t—she could not—let this happen. She couldn’t abandon Ionáin, the person she loved most in all the world, to this fate. And so instead, in that moment she opened her heart and made the most fateful decision of her life. One that was to change her life, Ionáin’s life, and the life of every person in the Great Hall that day. One that would, in the end, change the very fate of Domhain itself.

  2

  One week earlier

  Behind Ailm’s Keep, oak forest rises in an almost unbroken line up into the foothills of the Blackstairs, known as the Steps. But just where the forest starts to thin and the bones of the earth shoulder their way to the surface, there’s a small, grassy plateau. It sits sheltered in the lee of the Steps so that even in late winter, the grass still has growth on it, and the frost doesn’t linger long, even on the coldest mornings.

  So it was that early one morning, a week before Ionáin’s Reckoning, with freezing mist still clinging to the trees, Éadha was to be found guiding the Keep’s small flock down the avenue from the Keep before diverting off onto a forest trail and on up to graze on the plateau. Cú, a half-grown wolfhound, loped alongside her, puffs of breath billowing out ahead of the two of them. The sheep were skittish in the fog, but she and Cú were canny herders, and soon enough they’d cajoled them up onto the grass.

  Éadha was dressed for the cold in an old gray tunic, worn trews, her battered leather boots, and fingerless gloves, with a leather satchel slung across her body under her cloak. All hand-me-downs from her uncle; it was one advantage of being tall for her age, even if it did mean people always thought her older than she was. Seventeen now, just. Old enough to be expected to be of use, she chose herding like her uncle rather than work in the Keep like her aunt. She chose the sky, with Cú and the sheep for company.

  On their scramble up onto the plateau, Cú sniffed out some wolf droppings, but they were old, and Éadha wasn’t worried; the ground up here was open enough to spot any predator from a good distance out. At the eastern end there was a steep drop down into a disused quarry. Centuries ago, men had quarried granite there, but stone-working by hand was forbidden after the Channellers came to power, with their ability to raise whole buildings from the earth. The quarry had lain empty since then. Éadha made sure none of the animals were grazing too close to the drop—there was no accounting for how stupid sheep could be—then clambered up onto a rocky outcrop so’s to have a good view over them all.

  As she climbed, a falcon broke with a screech from a hidden perch on the overhang above, swooping directly above their heads. Éadha gripped her staff, ready to swing, while Cú let out a deep growl of warning; in lambing season the creatures could be a menace. This time, though, it flew straight on, out over the forest in the direction of the Keep.

  Something in the swoop of the falcon’s flight reminded Éadha of the dragons she saw from time to time when she was out here herding on the Steps. Flying so far above her they seemed to be little more than bright sparks blown on the wind, their wings reflecting the sunlight as they flew. In her lifetime they’d done no more than that, for all the Channeller tales of fiery monsters liable to burn everyone out of their beds. Flying on over her head, past Ailm’s Keep, mostly headed for the high peaks of the Blackstairs.

  Sometimes, after she’d seen one etched against the blue sky and the black hills, it’d follow her into her dreams that night. Dreams where she flew up alongside it into the bright air of morning to arrow across the icy peaks of the Blackstairs and away. Away from the herding, and the sheep, and her uncle’s cottage, and the smallness of the life that lay ahead of her already at just seventeen. Dreams so real that when she awoke, they ached like memories.

  She told no one of these dreams, not even Ionáin.

  She sat down cross-legged on the ledge and dug into her satchel to see what Béithe had given her. She could feel two—no, three—apples, small, wrinkly, and tasting of summer, and underneath—oh joy—a small bannock of bread still warm from the Keep’s oven. With no Channeller to channel grain crops like wheat, bread was a scarce, precious thing in the Keep. Béithe must’ve been in a good mood this morning, she thought.

  Leaving her hands wrapped around the little loaf for the last of its warmth, Éadha kept watch until, just as the sun climbed to its highest point and the mists below finally cleared, a familiar tousle-haired figure appeared at the edge of the plateau. Even from a distance Éadha could see Ionáin was grinning widely. Which meant that someone somewhere was annoyed with him.

  She rolled her eyes even as Cú loped over to greet him, leaping up on two legs to lick his face. Ionáin grabbed the huge dog in a bear hug so the two of them staggered and almost fell over, Cú yipping in excitement as if he were still a puppy. Éadha, on the other hand, didn’t move, only calling down to him from her rocky perch when he was close enough to hear—“Ionáin!”—putting as much exasperation as she could into that one word. Béithe would be proud of her.

  “What?” he said innocently, shielding his eyes from the sun overhead and grinning up at her.

  “So who’ve you pissed off now?”

  “Only Cousin Jarlath.”

  “You know this is the bit where I’m supposed to chase you back down the mountain. Before Béithe realizes you’ve mitched off your lessons again.”

  Ionáin laughed out loud. “With what? Will you flap your cloak at me like you’re shooing a goose? Shoo, Ionáin, go learn the history of the Channeller wars even though you already know it off by heart. Shoo.”

  Éadha snorted at the ridiculous image but sobered almost at once. “Come on, Ionáin, they just want to see you taking things seriously now…” She paused as she realized, too late, where that sentence was going. Ionáin finished it for her.

  “Now Dara’s dead and I’m my Family’s last hope, you mean.”

  Éadha didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say to that unless she was prepared to lie.

  Strictly speaking, of course, he wasn’t the only one facing a Reckoning in a few days’ time. Everyone else who’d turned seventeen in the Keep or the village, including Éadha, had to be reckoned, too, while the Masters were there for Ionáin’s big Reckoning ceremony. But almost no one outside the Families was gifted these days. Or, as Béithe liked to say, “That’s what centuries of Families only marrying each other gets you. A shrinking pool of gifted ones and every one of them afraid to stick a toe outside it.”

  Ionáin, meanwhile, was clambering up beside her, his long fingers finding handholds, and pulling himself up with ease until he reached the stony ledge where she sat. “Anyway, Mother’s so busy getting ready for the Reckoning she won’t even notice I’m gone, while Father’s too busy having flashbacks to his own failure to say anything.”

  He scrunched down, nudging her over with his hip to make room for him to squeeze in alongside her. They were, Éadha realized with a small start, finally the same height. His head was level with her own, which, after a lifetime of her being the taller one, felt unsettling.

  Beside her, Ionáin finished on a quieter note. “I just needed to get out for a bit. To breathe.”

  Éadha glanced sideways at him, her heart softening. She’d get in trouble for this later, she knew. Béithe would come to the cottage tonight and lecture her about letting the young master waste his time out herding with her again. But that was tonight, and this was now, and he was here, and this was, after all, how it’d always been, all their lives until now. The two of them together, and how could she give up on having just one more day like this?

  So instead she butted Ionáin’s shoulder and held out her satchel toward him. “Be honest: This is what you came for, isn’t it?”