Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

  “I’m Briaris Jayne. I . . . uh . . . am here . . .”

  “Be calm, child,” she clucked in amusement. Her eyes, larger than a Human’s and bright yellow, peered at him with calming wisdom. “I am Bishopress Traouhwiai, today assisted by Acolyte Sraiojyii.”

  A second Jwauahwiian moved forward, a wooden writing board clutched in one wing, a piece of parchment clipped to it. She wrote with a charcoal pencil gripped delicately by her distal feathers—specialized, prehensile feathers Luastria possessed on their wings—her head jerking to the side in quick movements.

  “So, uh, what do I do?” asked Ary.

  “Stand there,” Acolyte Sraiojyii answered.

  “Great Goddess Above,” the bishopress prayed. “We thank you for your love and your Blessing. One has come before you, anointed with your fire in the Solar, and ready to take up the responsibility of your gift.”

  “Touch the central crystal,” the acolyte whispered, her voice slightly higher-pitched and more musical than the bishopress’s.

  He moved to the central plinth.

  “Great Goddess Above, Briaris Jayne, of the Skyland of Vesche, comes before you with only modest humility.”

  More like a nervous stomach. Ary touched the crystal dome. Warmth flooded through him and into the crystal.

  “He stands ready to—”

  The coal erupted into flames.

  “Lanii’s golden feathers!” gasped Sraiojyii, her charcoal pencil scribbling.

  A chill pumped through his veins as the bishopress’s gaze fell upon him. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” the bishopress answered. “My gizzard is acting up. At my age, well, these things happen. You can remove your hands.”

  Ary nodded, pulling his hands away. The flames snuffed out. “Does this always happen?”

  “Mostly. You are from Isfe, yes?” Her golden eyes studied him.

  “I am.”

  “Such a terrible tragedy befell it not so long ago. A Cyclone, yes?”

  His brow furrowed. “Yeah, seven years ago.”

  “Seven? Where does the time go . . .?” Her head twitched back and forth. “Ah, well. That is why our Goddess gives us Her Blessings to fight our enemies. Are you ready to receive yours?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She placed her left wing upon his shoulder and sang. It differed from the Rosy Prayer, a deeper song whipping about Ary like a fierce gale. The air grew colder and colder. His skin prickled, and every hair on his body prickled. A faint tang of lightning filled the air, tickling his nose, and something rumbled.

  His entire body spasmed as power rushed into him. For a moment, agony suffused him. His bones burned with molten fire, his blood becoming acid, eating away at his flesh. Ary couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He could only hurt. No cut, broken bone, burn, or beating had ever hurt this bad. Only once in Ary’s life had he experienced pain this intense.

  And then it vanished. The singing ended.

  “Thank you, Goddess Above,” prayed the bishopress, “for Blessing your child.”

  “Thank you, Riasruo,” Ary croaked. Sweat rolled into his eyes. He wiped his brow.

  “Transformation is always painful,” the wizened Luastria told him, her wing still resting on his shoulder. “When you are ready, touch each of the four plinths, and we shall discover how the Goddess has Blessed you.”

  Excitement banished pain’s memory. I’m Blessed.

  He looked at the four other plinths and guessed what each represented. He went to the Wind test standing to the right of Lightning. Every Blessing came in three strengths: Major, Moderate, or Minor. Everyone received at least a Minor Blessing, though it was more common to receive at least a Minor and a Moderate. A rare few received a Major Blessing, and were often gifted two additional Blessings.

  Ary touched the Crystal surrounding the four radial arms ending in cupped bowls, a windmeter. The hair on his arms rippled. Inside, the windmeter spun lazily.

  “Minor Wind,” declared the bishopress.

  Ary remembered his lessons from school: Minor Wind granted little, only the ability to fall slowly like a feather. Ary remembered lying on the rush-strewn floor of the Farmer’s Rest as a child, listening to Ol’ Thay tell of the time he jumped off the back of a pegasus and floated down onto the deck of a Vaarckthian ship during the Neta Skywars.

  Ary moved to his right to, so he presumed, the Pressure test. The rest were all so obvious to him, but he couldn’t understand what a round marble in a narrow, crystal tube represented. He touched the crystal, but nothing happened.

  He moved on to the crystal full of the dense smoke, almost still, only the tiniest of ripples moving through the billows of vapor. The Mist test. A twist writhed through his guts. The Blessing he wanted, the one least needed for the military. The one most useful for a simple farmer.

  He seized the crystal.

  Nothing.

  Bitterness crushed hope. A pit formed in his stomach. Did Riasruo curse me with Lightning, or do I only get a single Minor Blessing? Sweat dampened palms. He wiped them on his coveralls as he stared at the glass dome covering the two metal spires. He didn’t want to touch it. If he received Lightning, he could be an Autonomy Marine like he dreamed of as a boy. They required a Moderate Blessing of Lightning to wield their primary weapon—the thunderbuss.

  “Why do you hesitate?” the bishopress asked. “There is no shame in only receiving a Minor Blessing. Besides, you do not know what the Goddess has in store for you. It could be a Major. Touch it, Briaris.”

  It’s like setting a broken bone. The sooner it’s over with, the better. He reached out and grasped the cylinder. His skin tingled, the hairs on his arms stood straight, and lightning arced bright between the two metal spires.

  “Moderate Lightning.”

  ~ * * ~

  “Let’s see your paper, missy,” growled the grizzled man sitting at a parchment-strewn wooden desk. He wore a white linen shirt and britches of an Autonomy sailor with black knots stitched on his shoulders. The desk rested in a small courtyard at the back of the temple underneath a canvas awning. Two youths who’d gone before Chaylene waited beneath a nearby tree, others lounged about the courtyard, shifting with unease.

  She swallowed, holding out the parchment the acolyte had given her after her Blessing. Disappointment still soured her. She’d only had a small chance of receiving Major Wind, and though Moderate Pressure was a consolation, she so wanted to fly all on her own. It would have been—

  The sailor looked up. Chaylene blanched—a hideous scar ran across his face from his temple, passing the eye and reaching his chin. He chuckled, a few, black teeth filling his mouth.

  “A Zzuki brute got his claws on me,” he growled then held up his left arm ending in a scarred stump. “And his teeth.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” she stuttered, the parchment trembling in her hand.

  He snorted, snatching it from her with his good hand. He unrolled it and used several small rocks to keep it unfurled on the desk. “You are Chaylene Brech?”

  “Yes.”

  He searched through the piles of parchment already spread across his desk, found one, and crossed her name off of it. “And do you swear by the Goddess Above that the information on this parchment is correct?”

  “I do.”

  “And would you like to enlist for a period of no less than four years in the Autonomy of Les-Vion’s Navy, where you would serve as a . . .” He glanced back at her parchment. “A scout?”

  “No.”

  “Course not. Why would a pretty little thing like you want to risk damaging that face?” He chuckled. “Pity. I bet you’d keep more than a few sailors warm with that hot blood of yours.”

  Chaylene cheeks burned. “I would not. What do you take me for?”

  “A pretty half-Vaarck girl,” he leered, grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment and a charcoal pencil. He wrote while muttering to himself, “Chaylene Brech of Isfe. Moderate Pressure and Minor Mist. App
ears to be in sound health and faculty.” He held out the pencil. “Sign or make your mark at the bottom.”

  Inked at the top of the parchment read: “Draft Board - Vesche.” Everyone who’d received their Blessing had to enter their skyland’s draft. Men’s names were added twice, women’s once. Each year, the Admiralty Board sent out their requirements to the skylands, requiring each to produce a certain quota of sailors, marines, and scouts to replace those mustering out after four years and any losses due to injury or sickness.

  Please don’t let Ary be drafted, she prayed as she signed her name.

  “And witnessed by me, Petty Officer Brarxo Shefe,” he muttered as he wrote beneath her signature, “on the First of Yruoujoa, in the Year of Vaarck’s Founding 399.” He stood up and walked farther back into the awning where a pair of scribes sat and handed over her draft card. When he returned, he told her, “Wait with the others. No one can leave until the draft is over.”

  The courtyard contained three persimmon trees, songbirds singing in the boughs. She leaned against one, not caring how the bark would stain her dress. Her entire body trembled and her stomach boiled. She couldn’t wait for this day to end. She kept wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt as she watched youth after youth appear from the back of the temple, presenting the results of their Blessings to Petty Officer Shefe.

  Her mind was seared by his scarred visage. He was lucky to only escape with a missing hand and a disfigured face.

  A few others joined her, youths from Isfe and its surrounding farms, clustering around those they knew. Even someone they shunned. None spoke. Tension filled the air. Their futures would all be decided in the next few hours.

  Chaylene’s mind roiled. What am I going to do if Ary gets drafted? She didn’t want to lose him. Fear pulled at her just as much as longing. She stared at the scarred Shefe, a man whose accent spoke of distant skylands. He’d left his home and been hurt.

  Ary’s face superimposed over Shefe’s in her imagination, Ary’s strong cheeks ruined, his brown skin marred, strength stolen by crippling wounds.

  But he’d be alive.

  She blinked, wondering at the source of her thoughts. Vel’s words tumbled through her mind, questioning her love.

  Downy-headed fool, a part of her mind reproached, strong and stern. The voice she’d imagine a mother should possess, not slurred by drink. Even if you don’t marry him, you’ll miss him when sleeping in your hovel. And when trudging down to the Watch to wash the sailors’ clothes or lying down beside another man. A man who took pity and married you. A man who settled for you. If you let Ary go, even if you try to bury your love, you’ll miss him every day. How’s it any different if you go with him and he dies?

  Because he might not. Shefe didn’t.

  Ary strode out of the church.

  Dread filled Chaylene’s heart as he marched to the awning, his broad shoulders set. Tension stretched taut his body. He exchanged words with Shefe. This was different. It didn’t go the same way as the other conversations had.

  She straightened. Is he enlisting?

  “Please, no,” she whispered. Her breath quickened, and her hands gripped her skirt. No, he’s not enlisting. He wouldn’t do that. Not if he loves me. He told me so.

  Her terrors ate at her, throwing up specters of her mother stumbling, slurring speech, spilling wine down her chin. It struck her, after all these years, what had happened to her mother. Weakness. Her mother lacked the strength to live. She’d retreated from the world, from her daughter, chased by the same gnawing doubt and pecking fear that attacked Chaylene now.

  Strength or weakness . . .

  She stared at Ary. Love stiffened her spine. Vel was right. If she loved Ary, she wouldn’t abandon him. She stood straighter, felt lighter. Smiled.

  Then an acolyte ran out of the temple, moving with an avian grace, her head bobbing with every step. She stopped at the desk beside Ary and presented the petty officer with a piece of parchment. The acolyte appeared contrite as she chirped to the scarred man before scurrying back into the temple. More confusion filled Chaylene. Ary signed a paper, turned, and scanned the courtyard. His gaze stopped on her. He smiled, approaching.

  “I didn’t enlist, Lena.”

  “I know. What was that all about?”

  Ary leaned against the persimmon tree. “The acolyte just forgot to give me my parchment with my Blessings recorded on them.”

  “Really?” A nervous giggle escaped her lips. “Goddess Above, Ary. I’m sorry, but for a moment I thought . . .” Her fleeting doubt stirred guilt.

  “I got Moderate Lightning and Minor Wind.”

  “So you could be a marine?”

  “I don’t want to be.” He touched his breast pocket almost absently. “I have a different dream now.”

  His words warmed her cheeks, her body. She ached for him. To kiss him, to hold him, to burn with him. They were officially adults, Blessed by Riasruo. “Ary,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “If you get drafted—”

  He touched her lip with his finger, silencing her. “I won’t.”

  “I love you, Ary.” The words spilled out, no hesitation. “I won’t abandon you. If you’re drafted.”

  His face relaxed. His rough finger stroked her cheek. Chaylene smiled, confident she possessed the toughness to weather the worst storm.

  ~ * * ~

  Bishopress Traouhwiai could not stop reading the parchment clutched in her good wing. Fear trembled in her gizzard. For thirty-five years, she’d administered the Diocese of Vesche and performed the yearly Blessing, and every year the Synod sent their warning: “Be watchful for the Stormtouched. They carry the seeds of the Downfall.”

  She’d performed the Blessing thousands of times. She’d watched more young men and women than she could count grasp the central plinth and never witnessed the charcoal ignite. Until today, just another useless trapping of the ceremony.

  Her eyes flicked down to the parchment again, reading in disbelief:

  Jayne, Briaris

  Isfe, Vesche

  First of Yruoujoa, 399 VF

  Blessing performed by Bishopress Traouhwiai, Diocese of Vesche

  Positive reaction to Stormtouched test

  Minor reaction to Wind test

  No reaction to Pressure test

  No reaction to Mist test

  Moderate reaction to Lightning test

  Witnessed in Riasruo’s name by Acolyte Sraiojyii

  “Grandmother.”

  Traouhwiai’s head snapped around to look behind her at her granddaughter standing uncertain in the doorway, anxiety twitching her head. The bishopress rolled up the parchment and slid it up the sleeve of her disfigured wing.

  “Have the next candidate sent down,” she clucked, keeping her own anxiety out of her voice. “And forget what has happened in here. That test was negative. That’s what you wrote down.”

  “The second time,” she chirped, her song full of confusion and fear.

  Traouhwiai crossed over to her granddaughter and placed her good wing around the acolyte’s shoulders. “You are doing so well, hatchling. You would have made your mother proud. Now forget what happened. Briaris Jayne tested negative as a Stormtouched.”

  “Yes, grandmother.”

  “Good. Send the next candidate down.”

  “I already told Vriicuou to—”

  A rap came from the door.

  “You may enter, child of Riasruo,” Traouhwiai chirped. “Grab a fresh parchment, Acolyte.”

  Her granddaughter moved away, but the anxiety remained. Theisseg had tainted that young man. He was a threat to everyone who lived in the skies.

  A young, Human female entered, pale-faced and trembling.

  The Synod must be alerted. Traouhwiai would pen the letter as soon as she’d finished administering the Blessings. She would let the Bishriarch and the Synod worry about Briaris Jayne. She wanted nothing more than to enjoy her twilight years and to groom her darling granddaughter to succeed her.

 
; Her gizzard felt much improved as she launched into the familiarity of the ritual.

  Chapter Nine

  The day grew warm as Ary waited with Chaylene, their fingers entwined beneath the persimmon tree, songbirds chirping in the boughs. Chaylene proved Ary’s trust. Vel did not understand her. Despite the tension, it buoyed Ary to see her standing straight-backed, unbowed by life.

  Every heartbeat tightened the knots in his stomach. He wanted the draft to be over so he and Chaylene could get on with their lives. Every few moments, his free hand would drift up to feel the moonflower in his breast pocket. The waiting dragged on and on. Chaylene’s nerves came as trembling waves sweeping through her. So he would give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Then she’d return that comforting gesture, and the knots in his stomach would lessen.

  Riasruo would answer his prayer. He’d avoid the draft. They’d be happy. Together.

  Vel walked out, his narrow shoulders sagging as he marched over to the petty officer to fill out his draft card. Ary murmured, “I guess he didn’t get Pressure.”

  “It doesn’t seem like anyone gets what they want. I got Vel’s gift, and he probably got mine.”

  “Maybe Riasruo got it mixed up?”

  She smiled, “That’s so blasphemous.”

  “A little blasphemy’s worth it to see you smile.”

  “Ary.” She squirmed, her cheeks darkening.

  He couldn’t resist and gave her a quick kiss.

  “They’re people watching us,” she protested.

  Ary flushed, noticing the nearby clumps of youths staring and sniggering at them. Feeling more than a little annoyed, he kissed Chaylene longer. He knew she loved him. Even if they drew his card, she would come with him.

  “I don’t care,” he told her, the taste of her lingering on his lips. “We’re officially adults. And if I want to kiss my sweetheart, then I will.”

  “And what if your sweetheart doesn’t want to be kissed?”

  “I . . .” His voice faltered as she gave him a penetrating look. “Well, I . . .”

  Her lips broke into laughter—a sight as gorgeous as any sunrise. “I guess you can kiss me whenever you want, since you’re so—”