Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

  “Under the light of Riasruo’s sun and the guidance of the Synod of the Faithful,” the Bishriarch announced, mouthing the pointless platitudes, “I am ready to impart the holy words and interpret our Goddess’s will. I call upon Archbishopress of Arthu to speak with piety.”

  A tremble shivered Uarioa’s body as she stood. The parchment clutched in her feathers crinkled as she unfolded it. “I received a letter today from the Bishopress of Vesche. It . . .” She swallowed, her tongue dry in her mouth and her gizzard churning. She took a breath, a room of bright eyes upon her as she read it aloud:

  In Riasruo’s Shining Love, I greet you, Uarioa, Archbishopress of Arthu,

  Today, as I have on every Solstice for the last thirty-five years, I performed the Blessing for those Humans who reached their majority across Vesche. In all those tens of thousands of Blessings, I have never witnessed a positive reaction on the Stormtouched test until today.

  The Storm Goddess has touched Briaris Jayne of Isfe. In 391, a Cyclone struck eastern Vesche at the village of Isfe, tainting this young man. Briaris volunteered to join the Autonomy’s Navy. By the time you have read this letter, he will have already sailed for Camp Chubris, located on the Skyland of Les.

  Riasruo defend us all. Theisseg’s taint stains the skies.

  Your humble servant,

  Bishopress Traouhwiai, Diocese of Vesche

  Second of Yruoujoa, 399 VF

  Silence greeted Uarioa when she finished. The eyes watching her did not twinkle, but accused Uarioa of the discovery of a Stormtouched. She shrank back down on her perch. Then the squabbling began, like a murder of crows pecking at a carcass.

  “He must be killed,” declared young Jyaouswii of Mgeupro over the cacophony, her voice singing with fiery passion. “Immediately. We cannot risk this Human touching a Sky Tower. There is one on Les.”

  “But he is in the Autonomy’s Navy,” Saiuvii sang out, rising on her perch and staring at the young archbishopress. “We cannot afford to harm our relations with the Autonomy.”

  Jyaouswii gave a dismissive chirp. “You are too close with those Humans, Saiuvii. The Autonomy has no say in this. This Briaris Jayne must die. It is far more important than stepping on that upstart nation’s tail feathers.”

  “You know nothing!” screeched Saiuvii. As the Archbishopress of Vion, she had close ties with President Kalthin and his government. “The Autonomy already believes us to be complicit with the Empire. They think the Church’s neutrality is a farce. If we are caught assassinating one of their sailors or, worse, unleashing a pestilence that causes significant loss of life, they may break from us entirely. It is too much to risk over one man.”

  “And if he frees Her?” Uarioa said, her tail feathers bristling. “We cannot take the chance he listens to her dreams and destroys the Sky Tower on Les. Do you want that blood on your feathers?”

  “This Cyclone happened in your canton,” Saiuvii said. “Why didn’t your priestesses bother to search out Isfe for a Stormtouched years ago? We could have found him as a youth before things grew complicated.”

  “With what resources? Vesche has a bishopress, two priestesses, and a handful of acolytes for the entire skyland. I petitioned for more, but the Synod felt resources were better spent in other areas.” Like increasing our relations with the Autonomy’s Government.

  “The Skein of Adjudication has never failed in an assassination,” Jyaouswii declared. “And they have never been exposed. The Autonomy will never know, and Uarioa’s oversight will not have mattered.”

  Uarioa chirped an indignant protest.

  “They have come close to discovery,” Saiuvii pointed out. “History has been kind to us. But if our feathers are exposed, and the Autonomy turns on us, the Church will splinter. Just because She touched this Briaris Jayne, it doesn’t mean he will bring the skylands down. He’s no Wrackthar Stormrider. He is a young man, raised in the faith, anointed in the solar. He will not want to end life in the skies.”

  “Are you willing to take that chance?” Rwiistrau chirped, finally adding her voice. She stood with calm grace. The others quieted, deferring to her. “So much could be lost if you are wrong. You worry about us losing the Autonomy’s trust, but we risk more by letting a Stormtouched pollute the skies. She has a connection to him. She will guide him, manipulate him, just like She manipulates the Wrackthar into throwing their lives away time and time again in their futile attacks.”

  “The Agerzaks are proof that we do not have to fear the Stormtouched.” Saiuvii looked around the solar disk. “An entire race touched by Her, and yet they do not bring down the skylands. For the same reason this young man won’t—the consequences would be dire for himself!”

  “The Agerzaks are traitors to Her cause,” dismissed Rwiistrau. “And using Her Blessings is not the same as being touched by the Storm. No Agerzak has Her touch upon their souls. Your words are like stuffing a dummy with straw then claiming it is a fearsome warrior come to attack us if we dare to infringe on the paltry Autonomy’s sovereignty.”

  “Paltry?” Saiuvii gasped. “They control a third of the skies. They are on the rise.”

  “Doubtful. The Empire is preparing its move,” reported Puoupyi, Archbishopress of Vaarck. “And the Empire has ever been our most faithful ally. The Autonomy’s days as a power are numbered. So what if we upset them?”

  “And it’s not like the Skein of Adjudication would expose us,” added Jyaouswii.

  Saiuvii clucked her beak. “You are all fools to dismiss the Autonomy.”

  “And you are the greater fool for endangering the safety of millions,” reproached Rwiistrau.

  “Then let’s tell the Autonomy. They will quarantine the youth. Why take the risk of alienating them? If the Autonomy defeats the Empire, if Emperor Veukni even invades, the Autonomy will remain our friend.”

  Uarioa let out an alarmed cluck. “And if the Autonomy begins interrogating this youth and discovers truths best kept hidden . . .?”

  “Alerting the Autonomy is too much of a risk,” squawked Jyaouswii. “No one outside this room can ever know the truth.”

  “The University of Rlarshon has too close a working relationship with the Autonomy’s Office of Special Investigation and their prison where they would quarantine a Stormtouched,” Iaiprii, Archbishopress of Les, reported. “I agree with Uarioa. It is too dangerous. I’d rather face the anger of the Autonomy than revelation.”

  “I call this measure to a vote,” declared Rwiistrau. “I advise the Bishriarch to condemn Briaris Jayne to death. Who stands with me beneath Riasruo’s light?”

  Uarioa stood, her gizzard clenched. “It must be done. Let a few die to save millions.”

  “To save our power,” Saiuvii clucked darkly as the other archbishopresses rose.

  Uarioa flinched at her accusation, hating how much truth was in those simple words. But more was at stake than the foundation of the Church’s moral authority. Briaris Jayne posed a real threat to the skies. Better to let a few die, to even risk the Autonomy’s anger, than to take such a risk by letting him live.

  “Will you add your song to the greater harmony, Saiuvii?” the Bishriarch asked. “Let the Synod sing with one voice.”

  Saiuvii looked around at all of them, shaking her head. “Damn Iiwroa for straddling us with this mess.” She stood, glaring at the Book. “Let Briaris die. What’s one more death staining the Church’s feathers?”

  “Then we are in agreement. Briaris Jayne shall be adjudicated!”

  ~ * * ~

  The Skyland of Cwiina – Yruoujoa 13th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  The wind blew in from the east, ruffling the field of wildflowers carpeting the bluffs of eastern Cwiina. Wriavia led the pair of novitiates from the main entrance of the Aerie of Adjudication, the sole monastery for his skein. The novitiates, both young drakes on the cusp of adulthood, trooped behind him, chirping with excitement.

  After ten years of training, the Prior had inducted the pair into the true purpose of their s
kein. To the skies, the Skein of Adjudication appeared anachronistic and unnecessary. Their founding had occurred in the wake of the Theological Treaty signed nearly three hundred years ago. When the Age of Isolation ended with the rediscovery of flying ships, the Church of Riasruo needed to reconcile with the myriad heretical sects that sprouted across the skies like the riot of coral on the side of a skyland. To adjudicate these differences and bring the flock under the Bishriarch guidance, the Church founded a new skein. Many sects were eager to rejoin the Church proper, but a few resisted, forcing the skein to develop harsher methods of adjudication. The Bishriarch issued the Ecclesiastical Edict of Purity in secret, empowering them to use any and all methods—so long as the Church’s feathers remained clean—to eliminate threats to Riasruo’s teachings.

  Wriavia led his pair of novitiates through the fields along the bluff, the flowers and grass brushing against his dark-purple legs, his clawed feet digging into the soft soil with every step. A rainbow of red, purple, orange, blue, yellow, and white flowers carpeted the fields, drinking in Riasruo’s feathery rays. To his left, the skyland ended at a jagged cliff. A mix of wrinkled red and frond-like blue coral covered the side of the skyland. Schools of orange-tailed sardines and yellow carp floated along the edge, feasting on the drifting pollen.

  Spotting what he was searching for, Wriavia bent down and plucked a single, purple flower.

  “What can you tell me about this flower, Novitiate Hwistiua?” Wriavia asked, turning to face the young drakes.

  “It’s a Purple Kiss,” Hwistiua answered, his head cocking sideways. The half-Sowerese’s crown of green feathers contrasted with the red feathers about his blue eyes. If he hadn’t joined the Skein, Hwistiua would have had every young hen courting his exotic beauty. “I have read they are poisonous. When ranching, farmers need to cull a grazing field of any to keep their ostriches, pegasi, or sheep from dying.”

  Wriavia made a pleased cluck with his beak.

  “So why am I showing you this flower, Novitiate Iicuanaa?”

  Iicuanaa ruffled the crimson feathers peeking through the collar of his gray robe. All members of their skein wore the same robes: plain save for the insignia stitched on the back, a crimson feather balancing upon a scale. “I’m not sure, Skein Wriavia.”

  “The order has spent the last ten years teaching you to think. Why don’t you prove we did not waste our time with you, Novitiate?”

  The perceptive Hwistiua’s head twitched back and forth, eager to answer the question. But Iicuanaa needed the lesson more, so Wriavia kept his eyes focused on him. The young drake ruffled his feathers again, his green eyes darting as his mind worked.

  “Because it’s poisonous,” Iicuanaa answered after a long pause. “And the order can use that poison in . . . adjudications.”

  He was still squeamish. Wriavia could almost remember feeling the same way. And then he’d assassinated that heretic Prior of the Skein of Charity. Wriavia realized, as the elderly Prior had choked on his dinner of eel, that the blood didn’t stain his own feathers. He was merely Riasruo’s sunbeam, eliminating those who would threaten the harmony of the skies.

  Iicuanaa would molt out of his squeamishness.

  “Purple Kiss, when dried and powdered, is a most potent poison. It kills by causing violent seizures as it attacks the nervous system, slowly shutting it down until the target either suffocates or his heart stops. There are two advantages to using this poison over the others in our arsenal. One, its symptoms are quite similar to a number of illnesses. Two, it takes some time to metabolize through the victim’s body, often a half-day passes before the effects are felt. Tell me, Iicuanaa, why are these advantages?”

  “Because a sickness would not arouse suspicions,” chirped eager Hwistiua.

  “Did I ask you?” clucked Wriavia, cocking his head.

  “No, Skein. But, um, was I correct?”

  “What do you think, Iicuanaa? Was Hwistiua’s answer correct?”

  Iicuanaa ruffled his feathers. “I . . . think it was, Skein. I could see its usefulness.”

  Wriavia nodded his head. “And what makes the second property advantageous?”

  “Well, Skein, if it takes longer, then . . . it would be harder to suspect the source. If it was placed upon food and then ingested, but the symptoms do not manifest right away like most toxins, then others might not even suspect poisoning.”

  “So we have had some success at honing your mind,” Wriavia answered. Iicuanaa preened. “Keep using your brain. It is your most potent weapon.”

  “Thank you, Skein.”

  “Skein Wriavia,” a new voice announced. Plump Skein Xaipiai descended in a flap of wings. He alighted on the field beside them.

  Wriavia inclined his head. “What can I do for you, brother?”

  “Prior Rioatrii requests your attendance in his office,” the rotund skein answered, giving his wings a shake. “I shall attend to your novitiate’s lesson this afternoon.”

  An excited beat fluttered through Wriavia’s heart. Riasruo required an adjudication somewhere in the skies. Once again, he’d shine with her light. He said to his novitiates, “None understand the ethics of adjudication more than Skein Xaipiai. Listen well. Absorb his knowledge like leaves bathed in our Goddess’s love.”

  He extended his brown wings, flapped hard, and took flight, using the wind gusting from the Great Empty to carry him towards the gray aerie, his order’s monastery, perched on the skyland’s bluff. The assassin winged over the Storm as he banked towards the open balcony on the skyward side of the building. He passed over a school of sardines scurrying for the coral’s safety before he landed on the balcony, his talons clicking on the granite floor.

  He strode quickly through the aerie to the Prior’s office. The peaceful halls always brought him comfort, shielding the order from the pollution of the outside world. Heretical thoughts found fertile around away from Riasruo’s teachings. But here, the skein dedicated themselves fully to their contemplation.

  He passed other members in the hall, many trilling wordless songs of praise to Riasruo. Wriavia wished to sing back, but his gizzard was too tight with excitement, his feathers ruffling as he walked. When he reached the Prior’s office, he pecked with his beak on the dark-stained door carved with the feather and the scales.

  A muffled chirp answered. Wriavia entered.

  “Riasruo’s blessing, Wriavia,” the Prior greeted him, his voice warbling with age. Green eyes caked with rheum squinted at him. “You may perch.”

  “Thank you, Prior,” he answered. He perched before the Prior’s desk, his tail feathers twitching as his talons gripped rough wood. “May we always adjudicate for Riasruo’s glory.”

  “A letter has arrived from Ianwoa.” The Prior picked up a folded letter, the red wax seal broken, with his distal feathers. “On the orders of Bishriarch Swuiuprii IV, the Golden Mouth of Riasruo, and with the full support of the Synod of the Faithful, Briaris Jayne, a citizen of the Autonomy of Les-Vion, is condemned to death for the good of the Faith.”

  Wriavia nodded, questions whirling in his mind. Seven times the Abbot had selected him for the final adjudication, and all seven were heretical priestesses or skeins, never a random Human. But he kept himself still. He did not question Riasruo’s will.

  “Briaris Jayne has enlisted in the naval services of the Autonomy and journeys to Camp Chubris.” The Prior’s rheumy eyes looked up from the letter. “This adjudication is of the utmost sensitivity. The Autonomy’s Navy cannot learn the Church’s feathers were involved in this Human’s death.”

  “Have I ever failed to adjudicate before?”

  The Prior inclined his head. “You will draw what funds you need for your cover and arrange transport to Les. May Riasruo’s light guide you and bring an end to this sinful man.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Onamen Sky – Yruoujoa 10th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  As the Xorlar sailed north through the Onamen Sky, Ary learned that his new friend loved to talk. It
didn’t matter about what he spoke, Estan needed to fill the silences in conversation with whatever bookish facts he’d learned in his family’s extensive library or from his tutor, Master Rlarim.

  Chaylene discovered someone with which she could converse history. Ary enjoyed sitting on the deck of the ship out of the way of the crew, his wife on his lap, listening to the pair talk. This afternoon, they discussed the history of the Kingdom of Vesche-Arxo. The kingdom once dominated the entire southern skylands from Vesche in the southeast to Ume in the southwest, and as far north as Mysh and Thegren. The very skies they sailed through were once part of the dead kingdom.

  “So if it wasn’t for Varcus murdering his brother and seizing the throne, Vesche-Arxo would still exist?” Ary interrupted.

  “Well, no,” Estan said. “Surely the Kingdom would have endured for a time but, like all the other great nations from the Age of Isolation, it would have collapsed.”

  Ary blinked. “Why’s that?”

  Chaylene laughed as she sat perched on his lap. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Oh, Ary. What was lost when the Great Cyclone pulled Swuopii and the eastern skylands down into the Storm?”

  He struggled to remember what schooling he’d received before he’d quit to work the farm after his pa’s death. “Something about the trees.”

  “Exactly,” Estan nodded.

  Satisfaction swirled through Ary.

  Estan rapped his knuckle against the ship’s decking. “Why are all the Autonomy’s ships made of this pale, yellow-white wood?”

  “‘Cause white cedar’s the only wood that works with the amethyst engine. And amethysts are readily available in the Autonomy, so it’s the best wood for us to use. The Vaarckthians use a different type of wood, um . . .”

  “Great balsa wood with chalcedony engines. And the Ethinski use ebony. Every nation utilizes the wood and engine with which they have the most ready supply. But in the time of the Dawn Empire, they knew only the mighty Redwood worked. And those giant trees grew only upon the vast Skyland of Swuopii.”

  Ary’s eyes widened. “So when Swuopii was pulled down into the Storm Below by the Great Cyclone, they lost the wood to build new ships.”