Claire sat on a wooden bench in the huge Manor kitchen beside a woman she’d met last night: Kiera’s mother, Meghan. Her long silver hair laced with threads of auburn hung over one shoulder bound in a leather thong. Claire thought she was about sixty-five or so. Meghan smiled, her eyes the same shape as Kiera’s, only they crinkled with an instant friendliness her daughter had never shown Claire. One of the best Dorran cooks, she was constantly in and out of the kitchens.

Overhead, bunches of herbs and cured meats hung by strings. The air smelt of fresh cream, oats and bread baking and the big open space was loud with the sound of chairs scraping, chatter and pots clanging.

Claire wondered if she should tell Meghan about her nightmare from the night before. In it, the same thing she’d seen in the Rift had floated before her; it had laughed as Claire had tumbled impossibly forward into the deep caverns of its wide, open mouth …

Next, she’d stood in a small, dark cell with the sounds of cockroaches and spiders scuttling in the shadows. A boy sat on the floor, legs drawn up under his chin, dirty and thin.

The boy’s pain-dulled eyes searched her green ones. She called out, but he shrank back. Then, she’d gotten a clear view of his face.

It was Marcus.

The creature had laughed again, shriller than before, as one thin tendril wafted towards her. Its mouth stretched upwards, fixed into an unnatural grimace. “Betrayer.”

The word seemed to echo, even as shock had catapulted her awake. She’d clutched her covers in fright as the thing’s voice had followed her out of the nightmare. “Do not try to take his place.”

Was it just her suspicion that her grandfather had gotten things wrong with Marcus that had led to the dream or did it mean something more? Meghan seemed kind in a way her daughter wasn’t, but still Claire wasn’t sure she wanted to be distracted by talking about the dream right before her first magic lesson.

Meghan’s gentle voice cut through Claire’s indecision. “You haven’t touched your third slice of bread.”

Claire groaned. “I never have more than two pieces of toast back home.”

“But did you perform magic then?”

“No.” She sighed, shredding the bread between thumb and forefinger.

“You must eat,” Meghan explained for the umpteenth time. “Working magic takes a toll on one’s body.” She tapped her fingers against the table. “One more bite and we’d best be off.” She rose an arm and one of the cooks swung past with a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. He placed one on Claire’s plate as Meghan smiled her thanks.

“Really?” Claire protested. Her stomach felt so stretched she was sure she could pass for Father Christmas.

“Yes, really.”

Obediently, Claire shovelled egg into her mouth.

Meghan nodded approvingly as she pulled a stray silver hair out of her hazel eyes. “So, you slept in your mother’s old bed last night. Does she still paint? There are three of hers hanging in that room of yours, all ringed with tiny salamander borders. She had a fine eye for detail.”

What? Claire, her mouth still full of egg, shook her head. The room she’d slept in was bare of any personal trace of her mother. She’d lain awake last night wondering how different her mother might have been if she hadn’t left Kelnarium, but it had been hard to imagine without a hint of her old personality available. No objects, clothes, photographs (though maybe they didn’t exist here) or other memorabilia. It was as though Grandfather and Dorran House had erased her existence from the place.

Meghan frowned. “She doesn’t? Suranne loved painting more than anything. Many was the time I scolded her for dripping paint onto the floor.”

Claire swallowed hastily. “No, she paints in Shale. I meant there aren’t any paintings in my room.”

“Hmm.” Meghan pursed her lips. “No matter. Are you done? Let’s get you to Maen.”

Claire brushed crumbs off her knee-length tunic, then swung her legs over the bench. She’d woken to find her own clothes removed. Kiera hadn’t said where they’d been sent, but Claire felt funny about it, like she’d lost her last link to the real world. She was glad she’d held onto her underwear, even if she was wearing them inside out.

Before following Meghan out of the kitchen, she loosened the decorative brown leather belt around her waist. There. That felt better. She’d never been so full in her life.

“Come along, child,” Meghan encouraged, as Claire lagged.

They walked through corridor after corridor lined with lit candles in sconces. It didn’t seem as cold as last night, which was a small mercy.

At last, light streamed in through the windows. Yesterday she’d seen that the ones on the upper level were made of clear glass, so Claire knew they were rising higher and higher in the Manor. The passageway widened as Meghan led Claire through an arched doorway into a wide cloistered deck, open to the air and jutting out from the side of the building. The space was edged with carved timber that rose so high Claire couldn’t see over them to the outside world. Shrubs and poppies grew in narrow raised garden beds along the edge of the deck.

Maen stood by a small wooden bench holding some old pots and a small pile of kindling that Claire assumed he’d gathered from the nearby shrubs, his hands clasped over a tunic that matched Claire’s.

Meghan patted the small of Claire’s back, nudging her forward. “There’s no need to be shy. I’ll see you at the feast tonight.” She waved at Claire’s new teacher, before turning and hurrying back the way they’d come.

Swallowing nervously, Claire stepped forward to join Maen. He said nothing. Instead, he put out a hand, his outstretched fingertips almost touching her cheeks. His eyes closed and sweat beaded his forehead as he concentrated on feeling the air in front of her face. She flinched and had to stop herself from stepping backwards.

Maen dropped his hands, clasping them in front of his stomach as he opened his eyes. He looked pleased. “The learth is very strong in you.”

“Learth?”

“There are four Houses, all of which use elemental magic. We call this unique power learth.”

“Can anyone have learth in their blood?”

“No. It’s a mixture of inherited ability and individual mindset. The Houses test the populace regularly and those with the talent and desire to learn come to their respective manor.”

“And you say I’m strong in it?”

“Yes.”

He’d given her the perfect opening. “But you tested Marcus too and I think you’ve made a mistake about him.”

Before she could tell Maen about her dream, he gave a short, scornful laugh. “Young lady, I know a good deal more about magic than you do,” he said dismissively.

His words stung. He reminded her of her sarcastic maths teacher, Mr Hart, who made her shrivel up with a look. She definitely wouldn’t tell Maen about her nightmare. He’d think she was being silly. “Will you teach me how to light fires with my fingers like Grandfather did yesterday?” she asked instead.

That would be an awesome tale to tell back home. Her face fell. Except she couldn’t tell anyone but her family. What would it have been like for her if Suranne and James had stayed at the Manor? She would have had relatives at birthdays and Christmas for one thing - if they celebrated Christmas here, that is. She would have also been respected as a relation of Lord and Lady Dorran. She’d have had friends. Life would have been proscribed but simpler.

“Certainly,” Maen said. “I’m a good teacher. By the time your grandfather starts working with you, you will have mastered the basics. We will begin with attempts to call fire in these pots. Do not think it simple. Magic has its cost.”

“It causes exhaustion, right? Meghan stuffed me with food earlier because of that.”

“Yes, there’s that,” he said, yet somehow Claire knew he wasn’t telling her everything. For one thing, he looked at her with a strange recognition she couldn’t understand.

“What kind of magic stuff can Dorran House do?” she asked.

“All sorts, young lady. We can conjure fireballs and shoot them at enemies. We can make a wall of flame. We can heat metal in soldiers’ hands. We can turn mud molten.”

Claire’s mouth hung open. Wow!

“But we rarely need to do such things,” Maen went on. “Not since Councilman Eidan took over Kelnarium’s government and brought peace. Rael and his guards can manage the odd religious spy on the rare occasion they do manage to infiltrate our compound. They think magic is sedition against the gods but everyone else tolerates us and stays away.”

“Those things all seem … well … super violent,” Claire ventured, “and more useful against people. How will this stuff help with my task?”

“I don’t know,” Maen admitted. “No one does, but we’ll teach you as much as we can, and something will come to you.”

Great. No pressure, Claire thought.

“Now, there are two types of fire: hot and cold. Obviously when we want to melt, we’d choose hot, but cold is useful for generating a lot of steam quickly. One can also create an illusion to scare people off and—”

Urgh, he’s exactly like a teacher at school, Claire thought as her brain checked out. Never any fun and spouting boring theory. She wanted to get to some actual spells.

Maen droned on and on. It was harder and harder to concentrate when the sun was hot on her face and the air warm.

A sudden tap stung her wrist. “Pay attention, girl. Mistakes happen when you don’t concentrate. What did I just say?”

“I ... I don’t ...”

“As I thought,” he said. “Perhaps something more practical will wake you up.” Raising his arm, red sleeve hanging down, he pointed towards a large wide-mouthed clay pot. “Gather kindling and place it inside.”

She hastily gathered a handful of sticks from the pile near Maen and threw them into the pot.

Maen clicked his tongue behind her. “Not so fast. Neaten them up, like this.” He bent and rearranged the sticks like he was a Boy Scout. “Now, watch me.”

He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, slow and steady, both hands lightly touching the pot. He was graceful as he swayed, and a low hum reverberated in the air. Within seconds the kindling was alight. Maen opened his eyes.

“How did you do that?” Claire asked. “How do I do that?” It would be so cool if she turned out to be good at magic after all. It might explain why she’d always been so different in Shale.

“Close your eyes and breathe deeply, slowly, and with purpose. Think only of the flames. Shape them in your imagination. Let them flow through you as though you are a conduit. Try.”

Claire placed her hands on the side of the pot as Maen had done, and did as she was told. She didn’t want to let him down, but for every moment of stillness and inner quiet, a thousand thoughts drowned out her purpose. The images she tried to hold were replaced by her mother and father but most of all her brother, like the flickering pictures cast by an old projector.

She heard Maen sigh and opened her eyes. To her surprise, he merely said, “It takes time. Go again.”

The breathing exercises seemed to go on forever. No matter how hard Claire tried she couldn’t seem to conjure anything. She was about to tell Maen that the whole thing was a waste of time when she thought again of Marcus. Thought of their parents. Thought of them waiting for their children to come home. I have to do this.

Claire closed her eyes once more. She sucked in deep breaths and tasted the fresh air on her tongue. She remembered a camping trip with Marcus and the roaring campfire they’d made; she held the glittering yellow-orange in her mind, the memory vivid.

Whooosh. Her skin tingled as scalding heat rushed through her hands where they rested against the pot. A burnt meat scent curled up her nostrils. She leapt backwards, trying not to cry out in terror, gasping for breath as her eyes sprang open.

A fire leapt merrily in the pot.

“That smell,” she said. “Was I on fire?”

“No,” Maen assured her. “That is the smell of fire learth when it has manifested. I knew you would succeed when the salamanders first gathered to watch.”

Claire stared around her teacher, perplexed. She couldn’t see any amphibians on the ground or in the air, but everyone kept bringing them up. Rael had mentioned salamanders helping his party find her when she’d first reached Kelnarium, some of the clothes and jewellery worn in the Manor featured them and just this morning Meghan had mentioned Suranne painting some.

“Salamanders? Where?” she asked. “And why are they significant?”

“Each magical House has its own elemental creatures to assist them in all things. Ours are the salamanders that live deep in the rock beneath the Manor, inside a cavern full of red opals and smoke.” He pulled the neck of his tunic aside to reveal a gold chain with a tiny egg-shaped stone pendant, its clear centre shot through with crimson veins. “This stone is from their home. Each true Dorran is gifted one to connect us to our brethren and ensure we do not sicken and die away from our natural place in Kelnarium. You will be given one by your grandfather when he deems you ready.”

Claire blinked, trying to process so much new information. “But you said there are salamanders watching us now. I can’t see them.”

Maen laughed. “Because you haven’t learnt enough to be a true Dorran. Not yet. In time, you will see them as I do, and they will guide and protect you.” He shot her a wide grin. “Trust me, you won’t have to wait long. You did well with that spell. You were quick to make fire.”

“Quick?” Claire protested. “We must have been at it for hours!” Her stomach rumbled.

“Trust me; that was quick. I—” He broke off, looking behind Claire to the doorway that led back inside the Manor.

Claire spun around. Her grandfather strode towards them, his ring winking in the noon sun. Behind him was a small woman with blonde hair and icy blue eyes. She held a plain wooden bowl in her hands and wore a white cotton dress which billowed at her feet like frothy milk. Claire couldn’t remember seeing her at last night’s dinner, though she was sure she would have noticed her.

“How goes training, Granddaughter?” Lord Dorran asked.

“Good, I think,” she said.

“More than good. Lady Claire is a natural,” Maen added.

Claire couldn’t help a grin. She didn’t feel talented, but she’d take Maen’s praise. He was a tough task master, but maybe not a second Mr Hart after all.

The pair drew level with Maen and Claire. “This is Gwenivere,” Dorran explained. “She and some of her fellow Dream Mages came from Kelnariat to help summon you.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Claire stammered, worried she was going to cause offence. “I met so many people at dinner you’ve slipped my memory, Gwenivere.”

“Oh, I wasn’t at dinner,” Gwenivere explained. “My people and I had our food in private. All six of us were exhausted after the summons.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but what are Dream Mages? What do you do?”

Gwenivere looked from Lord Dorran to Claire, her expression critical.

“There hasn’t been time to explain much,” Dorran said hastily, “and her mother told her nothing.”

Claire hoped the flicker of hurt that rippled through her didn’t show. Her parents should have told her more. They should have trusted her, the way they’d done with everything else.

Gwenivere nodded, turning back to Claire. “We’re one of the three human magical brethren of Kelnarium left. We have visions of past, present and future across time and space. We knew of other worlds long before anyone else in Kelnarium did.”

“Did you help my mother summon my father? He said she had friends with her.”

“Yes,” Lord Dorran answered for Gwenivere. “We need the Dream Mages to focus our working, so we can see the location of the other person being summoned and guide them safely through the Rift.” He looked like he wanted to say more but Gwenivere got in first.

“But that’s not the only reason I came to visit.”

Claire stifled a laugh as Lord Dorran’s bushy brows beetled upwards.

“Eidan wanted me to make sure things ran smoothly.” She glanced at Lord Dorran. “He’ll be along in a week or so, but I wanted to see our saviour with my own eyes.” She fixed Lord Dorran with a hard stare. “She looks as much like your brother as she does Suranne. Are you sure of her?”

Claire smarted silently. Wonderful; first Kiera and now this Gwenivere clearly distrusted her. Also, Claire looked nothing like Great-uncle Aed.

“Yes,” her grandfather said. “Besides, she’s just a child.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gwenivere said. “She isn’t really one of us.”

“I am still here you know,” Claire broke in. If Suranne had told her more maybe she’d have felt less like a fish out of water and Gwenivere would be nicer now. Honestly, she was going to have hard words with her parents when she got back to Shale.

“Indeed. Then tell me, can you know how it feels to watch the land die, ghost towns dotting all of northwestern Kelnarium? Can you know how it felt for those in the Riftlands to watch people they loved snatched away into the Rift’s growing centre; babies out of mother’s arms, lovers from each other’s embrace, family members pulled away? All spat out in another time and place, stranded.” She looked sadly into her wooden bowl. “No, how can you possibly understand?”

Claire thought of Marcus vanishing in front of her near the dam. “Maybe I can.”

“The Riftlands’ spread is accelerating as the Rift itself widens,” Gwenivere went on, as if Claire hadn’t spoken, her voice trembling. “More and more people must flee. And to make matters worse, magic has become unstable. It was hard enough summoning you here in one piece. That’s why I’ve stayed after the summons, leaving fifty of my people in Kelnariat without their leader, and why I’ll be supervising your training from now on. I can watch for any signs of danger.” She took a deep breath, her trembles slowly subsiding.

Claire glanced at Lord Dorran and Maen. Both kept their expressions blank. The silence grew until Dorran clapped his hands together. “Well, I’d best be off. I’ll leave my granddaughter in both of your capable hands.”

Maen looked at Gwenivere. “Lady Claire had just managed to light some kindling when you arrived. I had intended to go on with that this afternoon, but are there things you wish to show her?”

“No. I’ll keep watch for you-know-what.” Gwenivere’s icy eyes caught Maen’s before Claire could ask what she meant. She reminded Claire of her English teacher, expecting a lot and disappointed by the slightest failure. She couldn’t help but feel nervous.

Maen cleared his throat. “Let’s continue. Claire, see if you can light more than one pot in a row. This time, imagine lighting them using thought alone. Forget about touching them.” He stooped to line three up in front of her. “Now, listen closely. To do this, you need to hold the correct breathing technique the whole time.”

Gwenivere’s mouth was a thin line. “Isn’t that a little advanced for her first day?”

“She’s powerful, but her stamina’s good too. That’s a rare combination.” He stared at her significantly and Claire felt a surge of solidarity with her teacher. He wasn’t going to let Gwenivere walk all over her.

Gwenivere held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

Claire closed her eyes and commenced the breathing exercises Maen had taught her. It was the work of moments to remember the time she and Marcus had built a bonfire at the back end of the farm. The tell-tale tingle spread from fingertips to upper arm and the air tasted of meat and smoke. Whoosh. One fire lit. She heard a murmur of approval from Gwenivere. She ignored the rush of heat and the fast beat of her heart and pictured the bonfire again. This time, she had to hold the image for longer as the sticks in the pot stubbornly refused to catch alight. Finally, a snap and crackle sounded to her left, her arm feeling like it was waking up with pins and needles. She heard Maen stumble out of the way.

“Ignore us,” he called. “Concentrate on the last one.”

This time it took a full ten minutes for anything to happen. Claire’s stomach felt hollow and her muscles loose, but at last, the tell-tale sound of twigs crackling let her know she’d succeeded. She opened her eyes to see Maen smiling with the exuberance of a young child.

Then, exhaustion hit. The last thing she saw was Maen and a pale Gwenivere peering anxiously at her as she blacked out.

***

Claire woke up in bed, warm and tucked in up to the chin. She rolled to her side, coming face to face with Kiera, who was sitting on a stool, concern in her eyes.

“You’re awake at last,” Kiera said. The unkindness in her voice from yesterday had vanished. “Maen said he pushed you a bit hard, but you’ll be fine by the feast. I have watered down mead and bread and meat. Let me help you up.”

Claire managed to push the thick covers back, though her muscles felt heavy, and let Kiera support her as she sat up. The room spun as Kiera held a goblet to Claire’s lips. She took three sips of the sweet honey-like mead, then turned to the plate of fresh bread and strips of venison and gravy, cramming a third of the stuff into her mouth before she realised what she was doing and started chewing properly. Claire’s vision steadied as she focused on the back wall.

“It’s all right. You used a lot of energy,” Kiera said. After a pause, she went on. “Maen says he’s never seen anything like it.” Her voice dropped as her mouth worked in odd directions. “Not even Suranne …”

Claire leant back against the pillows, unable to hide her curiosity. “I know you miss Mum, but why are you so angry with her?”

At first, Kiera merely wiped a tear from her cheek and tried to smile, but then she found her voice. “I did everything with her. I lost part of myself when she went away.”

Claire pictured Marcus and thought she understood.

“And then I told myself it wouldn’t matter. I didn’t need her. Dorran House didn’t even need her. Rael and I have talent. Maybe our children would be strong enough to close the Rift and the prophecy could go rot. Of course, that was before I discovered I couldn’t have children.”

Claire tried to think of something to say as the painful silence grew. She wanted to rub a hand against Kiera’s back but wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Kiera tilted her chin. “Rael and I are happy enough and I have found other ways to build a family.”

“I noticed you and my grandfather weren’t apart for long at last night’s dinner,” Claire observed softly.

“Yes. Suranne was his only child and my own father, his older brother, is dead too. When Lady Dorran passed it felt almost like a curse. He’s experienced too much loss. His younger brother, my mother, Meghan, and my brother and his wife, they are his family now. But he and I always had an understanding that went deeper.”

“Then I showed up.”

Kiera laughed, but not unkindly. “Yes. I thought because you look like Suranne you’d be the same as her. Everyone loved her. She was beautiful, funny, kind and the life of the party. And the mischief we made together …” She flicked her loose long hair over one shoulder. “We were the most popular girls in the Manor.”

Beautiful. Funny. Kind. Popular. Claire might have been her mother’s daughter if she’d been born here, but she couldn’t be sure. Besides, Claire couldn’t tally the woman Kiera painted with her scatter-brained and awkward mother. “She isn’t that person anymore,” she said. “Everyone thinks she’s weird in my hometown.” A lump rose in her throat. “She doesn’t have friends or go to parties. She even lost her magic.”

Kiera didn’t say anything for a long time. “I was upset that she hadn’t taught Marcus about his heritage. I thought he was lying when he said she hadn’t taught him a single spell.”

“No, he wasn’t lying.” Claire picked at the bed cover, willing away tears. “But I wish she’d told us more.” It might have helped Claire feel less like a pariah in Shale. But it was no good going over the same thing again and again.

She thought about her conversation with Meghan instead and looked about the room. She hadn’t noticed them yesterday, but now she knew to look she saw small holes in the stone, with areas around them that were lighter than the rest of the wall, like paintings had once hung there. “My mother lived here, but there’s nothing of her left. Why?”

“Lord Dorran put some of her things in a chest and kept it in his bedchambers, though he hasn’t looked at any of them since your grandmother died. The rest of her possessions were left to me. I stashed them in a wooden cupboard and locked the door.”

“Is that where the paintings ended up?”

Kiera jerked away from Claire, like her words had physically hurt. “I tried turning them around, but it wasn’t enough,” she whispered. “There was a painting of me, you see, and paintings of our special places. I didn’t want you to see them … to have even more of her …”

A lump formed in Claire’s throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“I wanted to hate you, but I don’t, and especially not now, after you’ve shown so much affinity for learth.” Kiera smiled, taking the empty plate out of Claire’s hands and standing up to place it on the fireplace mantel. Once the plate was disposed of, she turned back to Claire. “Now, we must get ready for tonight’s feast.”

“I won’t have to do anything, will I? Back home, I … I didn’t like talking to people much.”

“You’ll be fine,” Kiera said firmly. “Your things are on that wooden stool and I can do your hair again.”

“Can I do yours?” Claire had always been jealous of the girls in primary school giggling and braiding each other’s hair on lunch break.

Kiera stiffened, then grinned. “You can, but it’d better be perfect. I have a reputation to maintain.”