Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

  Ary and his wife didn’t share their fires most nights, especially when she returned from her walks every few days. Ary looked forward to those evenings and the freedom from her questions.

  The stress of training only exacerbated matters between them. Exhaustion made them both cross at times, little things flaring up into pointless arguments. One night, two months into training, Chaylene erupted. “Don’t just leave your clothes lying on the floor, Briaris!”

  “Does it matter?” he groaned, weariness weighing his body as he sank onto the chair. He’d spent the day racing out of the Dauntless’s hold and to the starboard gunwale, drilling over and over on taking his battle station. Then the Sergeant-Major had the marines running for two hours when the Dauntless returned to camp.

  “Yes, it matters.” She snagged his blue trousers off the floor and threw them into the hamper. “This is our home, not a pig’s wallow.”

  He fought the impulse to retrieve his trousers and throw them back onto the floor. She nudged his discarded shirt, staring at him. He growled and hefted himself up, legs sore from running for hours in full gear, heat radiating through thigh muscles.

  And then the action horns blew—two blasts, pause, two blasts—sounding another drill.

  “See,” Ary said, marching to the hamper to grab his trousers, finding little point in soiling fresh ones. “Pointless.”

  She glared at him then turned away in a huff. He regretted the words instantly, an apology on his lips. But when angry, she didn’t assault him with questions. Stony-faced, his heart wept as he kept silent.

  The drill itself was only a scramble to launch the ship and see how fast the crew could board. Once there, Ary and the other marines descended into the hold to let the sailors work the rigging. He sat with his section, Grech snoring with his head pillowed on his arms, Ary wishing to join him, his eyes heavy.

  An hour later, he trudged back to his cottage with Chaylene. He kept glancing at her, seeing the prickliness in her stiffened stance. He knew he should apologize about the clothing. He normally didn’t just leave his clothes everywhere, but he didn’t have the strength to muster the words.

  The silence was easier.

  The ready drills could sound night or day. Three days after the clothing fight, they blared while the marines practiced close-order drills with their bone sabres. The marines groaned at the resounding alarm.

  “Move your Cyclone-tossed feet!” bellowed the Sergeant-Major the day after the clothing fight. “Are you marines or runty piglets? Move those dainty feet! Dung, I don’t care how bad your ankle hurts. Suck up the storming pain!”

  The marines marched at the double-step, almost a jog, in formation through the camp. Ahead, sailors swarmed the Dauntless, climbing into the rigging to unfurl the sails. Chaylene and Zori, pressure rifles slung across their backs, scaled the foremast to take their positions in the crow’s nest. Other sailors unlimbered the Dauntless’s three ballistae, two at the bow and one at the stern. Ailsuimnae led the crew for starboard ballista. They bent back the limbs to attach the rope cable to the crossbow-like weapon.

  The dull thud of Ary’s boots on paving stone gave way to the hollow thunk of the wooden deck jutting out over the skyland’s edge, the Storm Below churning gray and black. Lieutenant Chemy, a hawk-nosed woman and the Dauntless’s master-at-arms, was handing out weapons to the boarding crew.

  “Lieutenant,” Ary nodded. Two sailors assisted the master-at-arms, pulling weapons out of barrels and thrusting them to the boarding sailors along with quarrels of crossbow bolts. Ary seized a thunderbuss; the ceramic barrel was cool in his hands. Then he took his place at the starboard gunwale—Detachment One’s assigned position—between two sailors with crossbows.

  “Grech, keep your thunderbuss up,” Ary said. “Look sharp.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Grech muttered, lifting his thunderbuss and staring out over the side of the ship.

  “Very good, Sergeant-Major,” congratulated Captain Dhar behind Ary.

  “Adequate, sir,” the Sergeant-Major growled. “These guppies ain’t sharks.”

  “They’ll do just fine.” A hand clapped Ary’s shoulder. “Good job, Private.”

  Ary flushed with pride at the captain’s words. He glanced past the two sailors on his left, grinning at Estan. His friend gave him a nod back.

  “Don’t get cocky, Princess! This ain’t no fancy ball just ‘cause it’s a practice drill. You want to know this like lacing up your boots. ‘Cause when the Storm-cursed fray’s upon you, your training will see you through it. Watch your sector and stop giving Lord Estan dewy looks.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant-Major.”

  The Sergeant-Major stomped off as the wind gusted. The Dauntless slipped away from the dock. “Dung! Is that how you’re supposed to hold your Theisseg-damned weapon?”

  “I thought the Bosun was a charging boar,” muttered Inabron, the skinny sailor on Ary’s right.

  “You have no idea. Someone should pitch the Sergeant-Major off the deck. Let him be the Stormriders’ problem.”

  Inabron flashed him a grin. “You never know. Maybe he and the Bosun can—”

  A loud, piercing whistle blew three notes, high, low, mid—the Bosun sounding attention. Ary snapped to his feet and did a perfect about face. As he spun, he slung his thunderbuss over his shoulder. The sailors followed, though not nearly as precise, Inabron almost falling into Ary.

  The Bosun scowled with her one good eye then turned and faced the stern deck. “Cap’n, the crew stands ready.”

  Captain Dhar now stood on the stern deck before the ship’s large wheel, back straight in her dark-blue coat. Ary rarely saw the captain. She worked with the sailors and didn’t concern herself with the marine and scout cohorts. The wind blew, gusting a few strands of her blonde hair, which had escaped from her short braid, about her face.

  “Adequate, Bosun. But your sailors must unfurl the sails faster.”

  “I’ll see that they learn, Cap’n,” she answered, flashing her one good eye up at the sailors in the rigging. Groans drifted down.

  “Sergeant-Major Gahneich, your marines comported themselves well.”

  “Thank you, Cap’n.”

  “But are they aggressive enough?” Her piercing green eyes swept the marines. “They don’t appear hungry for their duty. When I was a marine, we hungered for the fight.”

  “They just need to be bloodied, Cap’n,” the Sergeant-Major answered. “Once they get a taste for it, they’ll be a pack of vicious sharks.”

  A smile split her lips. “I expect they will. You have a few promising men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ballistae crew, you must be faster on unlimbering your weapons. You have drilled this time and time again. I know you can perform faster. I expect you to perform faster.”

  “Aye, Captain,” answered pale-faced Ensign Hufame, her voice quavering. “I’ll make sure they do better.”

  Inabron gave a snort of laughter. “Right. Like anyone listens to her.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to practice the ballistae today,” the captain continued. “Targets have been set up in the fields to the north. Lieutenant-Captain Myon, make a bearing north-northeast.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Myon, the second officer and navigator, answered.

  The Bosun barked orders to the sail section and the sailors scrambled to change the rigging as the ship made the turn towards the skyland, catching the breeze summoned by the Windwardens. From above, the buildings of Camp Chubris looked small, almost like toys. Ary leaned on the railing, watching as the ship sailed by the grassy fields spotted with the occasional oak tree. Off in the distance, something glimmered. He stared, frowning. It gleamed like glass catching the light.

  A tower of crystal thrust from the plain.

  “A Dawnspire,” he whispered, a chill passing through him. Chaylene had mentioned spotting it on her training flights.

  The ship sailed closer, the spire thrusting up out of the hilly grasslands. The light
flickered on its surface rhythmically. Ary’s heart thudded in his chest, matching the pulses of light, beating in harmony. The sun sweltered on his shoulders, his wool uniform trapping its heat. Sweat broke out across his body.

  The beating, flashing spire sang to him of grief and betrayal. Tears formed in his red eyes as he hummed beneath his breath. Though solid, the tower felt tenuous to Ary, an ephemeral chain connected to something vast, ancient. Something abused.

  I could just step off the ship and walk to it, he thought. Touch it.

  Estan whispered beside him:

  “Lightning flashed

  Goddess in pain

  Betrayed, imprisoned,

  Sacrificed to hold aloft

  A crime obscured

  The sun a lie

  Sky Towers, her bonds,

  Freedom’s cost,

  Sacrifice.”

  Ary blinked. Estan leaned next to him, transfixed by the Dawnspire. His stomach twisting, he demanded, “What did you say?”

  The chains of light pulsed like lightning. The Golden Luastria screamed in pain, “Why did you betray me?”

  Ary couldn’t shake the memories as he stared at Estan. How does he know what I saw? Was he struck by lightning as well?

  “Estan?” Ary said again, grabbing his friend’s shoulder.

  “Hmm,” Estan said, his gray eyes distant. “Sorry, I was puzzling over something.”

  “You were quoting something.”

  “Did I speak aloud? My apologies. It’s a fragment of a poem I read once.”

  “Oh,” Ary said. “About?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s probably not important. The Dawnspire reminded me of it.” Estan glanced at him. “Does the poem mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Ary lied, fear of imprisonment tightening his guts. “It just . . . sounds pretty.” Ary wanted to ask more about the poem. I can’t show interest. Estan knows I’m not the scholarly type.

  Awkward silence hung between them. Ary tensed, his mouth going dry.

  An explosion ripped through the air and the starboard ballista crew cheered. Target practice had begun. “Let’s go watch them blow stuff up.” Ary forced a grin. “It’ll be like fireworks on Marriage Day.”

  Estan let out a small chuckle. “That does sound stimulating.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Aernoa 12th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Wriavia hung the last clove of pepper from the front of his stall as the sun’s first rays brightened the horizon. Every morning, he unpacked his stock. Thieves would fleece his stall in the dead of night if he didn’t. Most of the merchants rented space from one of the guarded warehouses to store their goods.

  His beak widened in a yawn. Late-night spyings and early risings were catching up to the assassin. Weeks later, and it still stunned Wriavia that Briaris had lived. The assassin didn’t understand how he’d survived the Purple Kiss poisoning. Unless he only ate a little of the candied pears and has the constitution of a boar.

  Now all his plotting rested on Vel seducing Chaylene. That plan flew on slow pigeons. He’d spied on four meetings between Vel and Chaylene since her husband’s recovery. And while the couple squabbled over dreams, she didn’t appear any closer to surrendering to her lust since the night nearly three weeks back when she’d almost kissed Vel. She held her distance, afraid of her desires.

  Frustration clenched Wriavia’s gizzard. He wanted her to kiss Vel as badly as the youth did.

  If Vel made no progress in the next few weeks, Wriavia would have to try something more overt. Another poisoning. Another fire. He even contemplated hiring thugs to mug Briaris and leave him for dead coming to or from Shon.

  An idea had occurred to him the night before. As he closed his eyes and let darkness steal over him, a thought arose. Chaylene didn’t have to commit adultery. Briaris only had to catch the meeting lovers. But the fool was oblivious to what Chaylene did on her walks. Even the nights she didn’t meet Vel, she went for an evening walk. She had established a routine.

  And Wriavia knew just how to alert Briaris of his wife’s infidelity.

  The first shoppers wove through the market. Wriavia’s eyes flashed from face to face. He had yet to see either Briaris or his wife in this end of the market since his fortuitous encounter with the female weeks ago. Wriavia’s booth lay in a terrible spot, tucked into an alley next to a fat cloth merchant named Arden. He’d arrived later than the other merchants who flocked to Shon to make money off the recruits. So he had to take the leavings.

  Today he searched for a new face in the crowds: Ahneil Rfats. During his spying, he’d observed the looks she gave Ary and overheard her conversations with two recruits, Zeirie and Xoshia. She whined to them about how unfair it was to love a man who didn’t love her back.

  Wriavia possessed a memory for faces. He’d noticed the Agerzak marine in the marketplace before—she was hard to miss with her height. She was a browser, wandering from stall to stall, never buying, but gasping in awe over any little trinket or totem.

  He hoped to see her today, and clucked in delight when he did.

  The Agerzak marine wandered through the stalls, drifting closer. Wriavia perked up, shaking off his drowsiness. Her braided black hair wrapped about her pale forehead like a circlet. Her dark-blue skirt fell to her knees, revealing black boots, and her long-sleeved blouse had a square-cut neckline. An Agerzak dress. Vionese females wore modest skirts and blouses.

  “Candied fruit,” she smiled, her amber eyes flashing about the shelf. “How delightful.”

  “Perhaps you would like to buy a jar for the man who owns your heart,” Wriavia sang.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Why do you say that?”

  “I can see it in the sunlight dancing about your aura. You love a man, but he doesn’t even notice you.”

  The suspicion lingered in her eyes. “Do you know me? Have you been to our camp? How can you possibly know any of that?”

  “Have you ever seen me there? I am but a simple merchant blessed with Riasruo’s favor.”

  “A solarmancer?”

  Wriavia disliked feigning to be something forbidden by the Church. Only the Bishriarch could divine Riasruo’s purpose. The rest were all charlatans, polluting the gullible with the nonsense of their supposed sight. “The Goddess Above has gifted me a talent,” he said to Ahneil. “Whether I deserve such a lofty title as that . . .”

  Suspicion remained in her eyes. “Do you see as true as a Stormwitch or a firegazer? Will you spin in circles like a gyromancer and tell me my future?”

  Superstitions abounded in the Fringe among the Agerzaks, many clinging to their barbaric paganism. “I cannot speak to the abilities of others, only to my own. Riasruo speaks to me through her feathery light. She whispers to me now.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “About this man I supposedly love?”

  His gizzard tightened with excitement, his wings quivering. “What is your favorite fruit?”

  “What?” she frowned.

  “Surely you would not seek my gift without patronizing my stall,” he trilled, his song brimming with indignation. He ruffled his feathers beneath his robe.

  “Ah, of course.” Some of the suspicion left her eyes. Realizing Wriavia sought money made his motivations more understandable. He went from a madman spouting gibberish about supposed visions to a merchant selling a different type of ware: information. “I like pineapple.”

  “A worthy choice. A treat from your homeland.” He turned, scooping a jar sealed with brown wax from the shelf. “Two rubies.”

  “That’s almost a week’s pay,” Ahneil grumbled.

  Wriavia moved to return the jar to the shelf.

  Her hand shot out and she seized it. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay.”

  He clucked his beak, his body trembling with excitement. She pulled out a pouch from her bodice and counted out a single red porcelain coin and five blues, before slapping the ruby and sapphires down on the stall’s counter. With the alacrity of a greedy mercha
nt, he scooped up the coins with his distal feathers.

  “What do you know about Ary?”

  Wriavia turned, looking up at the sun. “Oh, Great Goddess Above,” he sang, throwing his wings wide, “let me glimpse the truth of Ahneil’s love.”

  She gasped in shock at hearing her name.

  The sun battered his eyes. Riasruo’s love always burned too fierce to gaze at for long. “Let your humble servant read your divine message upon your feathery rays.”

  He forced his body to become rigid. His black tongue lolled out of his yellow beak. He gurgled, his wings flapping and his tail spasming. He shook before her, frothy spittle dripping off his tongue as his gizzard tightened about its stone.

  “The Goddess has permitted me to see!”

  “What?” Ahneil gasped, leaning forward. “Tell me, please!”

  “The man you love has given his heart to another.”

  “Is there no hope that he’ll see me? I know he’s married, but . . . he’s so kind to me. He stood up to the Sergeant-Major. He’s bold. I . . .”

  Through vision stained with bright-blue afterimages, Wriavia stared into the young female’s eyes, which were dewy with desire confused for love. “There is hope,” he whispered, leaning towards her, the tip of his beak brushing her ear. “Though he loves his mate, Chaylene’s heart belongs to another.”

  “Vel!” she hissed. “I knew it.”

  “At night, she steals from her mate to meet her lover and exchange passionate favors.”

  “That’s what she does on her walks? Poor Ary. Xoshia was right about her.”

  “When Ary learns the truth, he will need you. Betrayal will shatter his heart, but you can mend it.”

  “I’ve tried. But . . . he trusts her.”

  “Undermine his trust. Let him discover what his mate is truly up to at night.” Wriavia let out a great, whistling sigh and slumped forward, leaning against the counter as he sucked in a deep lungful of air. “The vision has passed. I hope it helps you.”