Above the Storm
Page 7
“I don’t know what I’d do,” she sobbed.
“What, Lena?”
“If you joined the Navy and died.”
“I’m not going to join the Navy or die.”
“My pa did. He went and died, and you saw how my ma shriveled into a husk. She was barely my ma anymore when she died.” A sob escaped her lips. “His death crushed her!”
“Well, it’s not gonna happen. I’m not signing up.”
Her arms tightened about him. “But . . . what if you’re drafted?”
“I won’t be.”
“You don’t know that. How can you possibly know? Are you a Stormwitch? Did you see the future in the sun?”
“Solarmancy isn’t real,” Ary sighed. “And I don’t need to stare at the Storm to know that I’m not joining the Navy.”
“If you’re not a solarmancer or a Stormwitch, then you can’t know the future.”
He stroked her golden hair. “Well, there’s no war going on. So I’ll be fine if I do get drafted. And it’ll only be four years. I’d get leave to visit or . . .” The moonflower rested still in his pocket. “We could get married, and . . .”
Her wet lips pressed into his own, warm and sweet. The question died. Her arms entwined about him, hugging with a fierce desperation. Everything faded, drowned out by the beat of his blazing heart, the fire of her lips, and the warmth of her body in his arms.
The fire of their love.
“Here they are!”
Ary started. Chaylene jerked away. Gretla stood atop the hill, pointing down at them. His little sister skipped down the slope and dropped to her knees beside him. Chaylene stood, brushing grass off her dark-blue skirt.
“What were you two doing?” Gretla grinned. “A little kissing?”
“No!” blurted Ary as his sister smacked her lips.
His cousin’s wife marched up a moment later, her hands upon stout hips. Just like his ma right before she’d scold him. Well, I never have to listen to another one of her tirades.
“Come along with me, missy!” She seized Chaylene’s arm. “You and Gretla are sleeping with me tonight. Ary, you and Jhevon can bunk in the barn.”
“But . . .” Chaylene protested.
“You’re not an adult yet.” The older woman marched Chaylene away. “And even if you were, I’d keep my eye on you. Vaarckthian blood runs far too hot for my taste.”
“Goodnight, Lena,” he called after Chaylene.
“Night, Ary,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Gretla nudged him in the side. “Is she a good kisser?”
“None of your business.” His blood pumped fire through his veins. “You head back to the farmhouse. It’ll be another long day tomorrow.”
“What about you?”
“I need to cool off.”
She laughed. “So she was a good kisser.”
Chapter Five
Hruvvoa 32nd, 398 VF (1959 SR)
Gretla gasped when she saw Tloavith Lake.
Mid-afternoon burned across Isfe, the party riding all day from Xofe. The lake heralded their proximity to Ahly. Jhevon straightened in his saddle, peering in astonishment at the blue expanse churned by the falling rain. Chaylene’s gray eyes widened in amazement, and even Ary admitted to himself that the sight impressed him. He hid it, feigning indifference. He’d seen the lake before eight years ago when he and his pa had journeyed to Ahly for the Summer Solstice.
The dark-gray clouds stormed water into the lake while a breeze wafted refreshing mist across their party. Ary smiled, savoring the pleasant change after two days riding in the dusty heat. The clouds roiled above the lake, fighting against the control of the two Weathertowers on its opposite shores, their engines forcing the storm to remain stationary. A herd of wild pegasi with shaggy, brown coats galloped away from the lake. Their gray wings flapped hard as they took flight.
Gretla chortled and Chaylene clapped, an envious gleam in her eyes.
“Why is there so much water?” blurted Jhevon.
“Don’t you pay attention in school?” sighed Gretla. “It supplies Ahly with water.”
“But why that much water? There can’t be that many people in Ahly. Right, Ary?”
Ary grinned at his brother. “Every village we passed, including Xofe, could fit in Ahly with room left over.”
“Oh, look, you can see Incompetent across the lake.” Gretla pointed at a gray smudge on the far shore. “You do know what Incompetent is, Jhevon? Or is your brain just full of ostrich down?”
“It means someone who’s bad at their job.”
Gretla’s chortled. “No, downyhead, it’s the name of one of the Weathertowers. There’s Incompetent across the lake, and that’s Kinslayer on this side.”
“I have better things to do than learn pointless names of things,” muttered Jhevon.
“Like practicing your kissing with a hog?”
The hiss of rain striking water stopped and the dark-gray clouds dissipated. The Weathermasters had finished topping off the lake’s supply of water. Isfe and its surrounding farms only had a single Weathertower. Ahly needed two just for their reservoir, and more dotted the dense fields and orchards surrounding the city.
“Don’t you wanna know why they’re called that?” Gretla asked, bouncing in her saddle to the annoyance of her ostrich.
“Not really,” Jhevon shrugged. “Seems boring.”
“You’re boring,” Gretla huffed, sticking her tongue out at her brother. “And you like to kiss sows.”
“I do not!”
Chaylene laughed, joy filling her eyes. “Do you know why they’re called those names, Ary?”
He shrugged. “I never did finish my schooling. So, do you know?”
“I do.” Her smile turned proud.
“Well?”
“What will you give me if I tell you?”
He glanced at his siblings embroiled in a shouting match over whether Jhevon actually kissed sows. So he leaned over and gave Chaylene a quick peck on the lips, flushing at such a bold display of affection. The kiss was devastating—her lips parted in a sigh, her body shivered, and her eyes glowed.
“I can’t believe you don’t know,” she answered when she recovered her composure. “What with it being a famous battle.”
Ary scratched his head. “I didn’t think any fighting ever got down here. Was it during the Les-Vion Revolt?”
“No. Further back. The Vesche-Arxo Succession War.”
“Wait, what? I don’t remember that one. Was that back when Vesche was its own country?”
Chaylene sighed. “You’re descended from Vesche’s kings. You should at least know the skyland’s history.”
He shrugged.
“Fine. You do know that the Kingdom of Vesche-Arxo existed, uniting the Duchy of Vesche and the Kingdom of Arxo, right?”
“Yeah. That was a long time ago.”
“Seven hundred years ago.”
He whistled.
“Anyways, King Dhejon died and his heir, Thurmin, was a downy-headed idiot. His kin all thought they would make better rulers, so they fought over the throne. The main contender was Thurmin’s younger brother, Varcus. After about five years of fighting, Thurmin’s and Varcus’s armies drew up along Tloavith Lake. Varcus’s army camped around Kinslayer Tower, and his older brother camped by the other one.”
“And there was a battle fought here?” Ary asked, boyish enthusiasm gusting through him. She gave him a questioning look. He tapped down his excitement.
“Eventually.”
“So what happened?”
“They had a parley. Only when Thurmin showed up, his young brother cut him down. Then Varcus attacked Thurmin’s army while they were disorganized. Varcus claimed the throne of Vesche-Arxo that day and earned the title of Kinslayer.”
“Ah, so the towers got named for them?”
“Yeah. I guess people started calling them after the warring brothers, first by their real names, then their nicknames.”
“So what w
ere they called before?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then frowned. “I don’t know.”
“So Varcus became King of Vesche-Arxo?” Ary found it distasteful that a vile kinslayer ruled his home.
Chaylene shook her head. “No. Vesche-Arxo disintegrated during the succession war into a half-dozen kingdoms and baronies. Varcus was left ruling only the Skyland of Arxo. Chethion, a cousin of his, founded the Kingdom of Vesche.”
“How do you remember all that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . easy.”
“Well, it’s impressive. I could barely remember the history of the Les-Vion Revolt, and that was only a hundred years ago.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. He turned crimson. “Thank you, Ary.”
“Knock it off, you two.” A mocking smile twisted Vel’s lips. He put on a stern face, his voice becoming high-pitched as he said, “That’s hardly appropriate behavior for two youths.”
Ary snorted with laughter at Vel’s impersonation of an Isfain goodwife.
“I have decided to chaperone the pair of you. Until you are properly adults and officially betrothed, that sort of behavior will not be tolerated.”
“You’re turning into your mother,” giggled Chaylene.
His face blanched. “Don’t say that.”
Ary fixed Vel a look. “Then don’t interfere. We’re talking history.”
“Really?” He fixed Ary with a stare. “Chaylene, what were you two really talking about?”
“History. And kissing. Ary has some skill in that area.”
He flushed and sent a shocked glance at Chaylene.
“I didn’t know Ary had any skill in history,” Vel quipped.
“No, kissing. He’s a complete downyhead when it comes to history.”
“How do you know he’s a good kisser?” Vel leaned towards Chaylene. “How many others have you kissed?”
“Hmm,” she considered. “That’s a fair point. Alas, who else am I going to practice with?”
“I volunteer.”
Ary glared at his friend, his mood evaporating.
“Now, Vel, if I was to kiss you, then I’d have to help Ary hide your body.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “And that sounds like far too much work. I’ll just have to trust my instincts.”
Vel glanced at Ary’s glowering face. “Fair point. I’d hate to be dead.”
“And it would make all your admirers so jealous,” Gretla said as she rode her ostrich alongside Ary. “They’re all giving Chaylene such terrible looks right now.”
Vel flashed a grin at the group of young women farther down the road. Ary didn’t recognize any of them. “The price of being this handsome.”
“I bet if you kissed a sow, it would muddy your face up,” Gretla giggled. “I know one you could try. Jhevon swears by her. If you ask, I’m sure—”
“Gretla!” roared Jhevon.
Laughing, his sister booted her ostrich and dashed down the column chased by Jhevon.
“I hope you’re done chaperoning?” Ary asked his friend. “We want to get back to talking history. Why don’t you go chaperon those jealous girls?”
Vel hesitated. Before he could answer, Gretla and her ostrich darted back down the road, her bonnet hanging precariously on her head, her round face bursting with excitement. She circled Ary as Jhevon rode up, eyeing his sister.
Ary groaned.
“Oooh, look!” Gretla shouted.
“I am not falling for that again,” Jhevon snarled, his face mud-red.
“No, the pegasi. They’re flying back!” She stabbed a finger into the air. “They’re so gorgeous! Ary, I want one!”
“Then fly on up there and get one,” shrugged Ary.
“Won’t help you get away from me.” Jhevon heeled his ostrich, darting around Ary.
Squeaking, Gretla bolted off, chased by her brother. Ary shook his head and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, the felt soaked by his sweat.
“It would be nice to have one,” Chaylene said, her voice low, tight.
The tone drew his attention. She stared up into a sky, a smile curling the corners of her lips. But something tightened her forehead.
“Then I could fly away from Vesche.”
Ary blinked. “You want to leave Vesche? I mean, you have a life here.” You have me here. Wait until you see our new home. “You can’t go.”
Before Chaylene could answer, Vel snarled, “Of course she can, Ary! She can go wherever she pleases!”
Ary’s forehead furrowed at the outburst. Vel’s tight eyes and clenched jaw faced him, his cheek throbbing. Confused, Ary started to say, “I didn’t—”
“Theisseg’s scrawny tail feathers! You never care, do you? You just think we’ll do whatever you want!”
“We?” Heat stirred in Ary’s chest, grappling with the confusion clinging to his thoughts. “What?”
“Just telling us what to do, where to go, never asking what we want?” Spittle flew from Vel’s face. “Storming selfish, Ary.”
“What does that mean?” Ary growled. “What are you blathering about?”
“Vel,” Chaylene said, voice soft, moderating. “I don’t think—”
“Neither does he! Did you hear him? ‘You can’t leave.’ You’re not his prisoner, even if you marry him.”
“I didn’t—” Ary started to say.
“You did!” Vel ground his teeth. “You don’t even see it. That’s how selfish you are!” With a violent yank, he hauled on the reins and heeled his ostrich away.
Cheeks burning, Ary glanced at Chaylene. “Do I . . .?”
She winced. “Sometimes. But . . . it’s not like Vel makes it sound.”
“Sounded like a hot breeze.” Ary gripped his reins, watching his friend riding up the column. “Do you really want to leave?”
Chaylene shrugged, also looking after their departing friend. “Do you really want to stay?”
“It’s our home. Where’d we go?” A part of Ary wanted to blurt out his surprise, the little farm, their own home. A new beginning away from both their mas. His hand idly touched his coat pocket. He wanted to wait, to see her eyes light up when he asked to unite his fires with hers.
“I guess so.” She sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Yeah. Downyheaded fool. You should’ve been the one to get mad, not him.”
~ * * ~
Sweat burned Vel’s right eye. He snarled, rubbing at it as he slowed his ostrich. His knuckle dug into his eye, his vision fuzzing black, pain spiking. He ripped his hand away. “Storming Ary!”
Vel found it hard enough watching Ary touch Chaylene, but to hear him order her around, tell her what to do like she were a child, infuriated him. Thunder-deaf boar always treated us like that. Always had to play his storming games!
The shark lurking in Vel’s heart hungered for blood. Ary’s blood. The two last year . . . A figure painted in moonlight. Glowing, ethereal, stealing Vel’s breath. Two storming years, and I’m still too scared to say anything.
He didn’t want to end up like the Shardhin boys: beaten to a bloody pulp, left unconscious on the road. The pair had Ary’s burly strength, and still Ary had thrashed them with ease. A wild boar goring any who looked at him wrong, his hide prickly. Whisper about his ma, his fist kissed you in the face. Look askance at Chaylene, and he’d thrash you black and blue.
Thrash me black and blue.
The Shardhin boys had thrashed Vel the day he’d witnessed Ary’s fury unleashed at its fullest. His friend, standing between him and the Shardhin boys, took blows that should have felled him. Powerful punches to the stomach, to the sides. The blow that broke Ary’s nose would have left Vel senseless.
But Ary withstood them, a rock weathering a storm. Then he lashed out with his own punches. The meaty thunks and snapping cracks echoed in Vel’s memory. Ary, wearing a pair of coveralls and nothing else, his brown flesh rippling as his muscles bunched and flexed. Though attacked from all sides, he refused to go down.
Vel hoped, for months and months, she’d see the truth. Ary was a cyclone, a Storm wraith sent by Theisseg. Maybe his ma’s right about him. The way he fights . . . It’s unnatural. But Chaylene never saw it. Like a boar harnessed to the wagon, her blinders kept her from discovering other options than the road the teamster wanted her to take.
Because no one’s given her options. Every village boy pants after her black skin, but none would court a Vaarckthian. My ma’d thrash me before the entire village if I did. But that fear, dwindled, evaporated more and more by Chaylene’s presence. Every dawn swelled her radiance.
And he wanted her light to shine only for him. Not Ary.
Vel didn’t want to hate his friend. He tried not to, but the shark flew in his heart, hungry for Chaylene. And Ary stood in the path. Please, Riasruo, let him enlist. Let him break her heart. Then I’ll put her back together. I’ll show her something better. She deserves something better.
“What’s wrong, Vel?”
He jumped, and his ostrich warked in protest. He winced, the saddle crushing sensitive anatomy. A dull throb radiated out of his groin as Chaylene heeled her bird beside his, her peering face framed by her bonnet.
“Just the heat,” Vel said, shifting on the saddle, finding comfort.
A smile played on her lips—I want to kiss those lips—as she said, “With all these pretty girls looking at you? I figured you had plenty of offers for shade.”
No hint of jealousy. Vel’s heart ached. She stood so close. Stop being a guppy, lean over, and kiss her. Be a shark!
Ary’s fists striking flesh echoed in his mind.
“Ary’s going to enlist.”
“Is that what has your tail feathers snarled?” Chaylene cocked her head. “That your friend’s gonna leave Vesche? Leave you?”
“No. That he’ll assume you’ll go with him.” He hated how hot his words sounded, how they gusted so fast from his voice. “I mean, he won’t even ask you. He’ll just tell you to go with him.”
“He’s not going to enlist.” Her words were firm, her gaze direct. The fear from yesterday had wholly vanished.