Above the Storm

by JMD Reid

And Ary would follow. He could also survive the fall. She was his Eyia. The pain she caused him hadn’t change that. They were just talking anyways. He repeated that a dozen times a day. Most of the time, he believed it. But sometimes images flashed through his mind, churning his stomach.

  They were just talking!

  Ary strode back to the mess hall. He needed a distraction. He couldn’t stand here alone with his thoughts. They always twisted back to his wife and Vel. Those thoughts carried only pain, grit slashing at his face in a strong wind. They were just talking. He couldn’t stop loving her, so he had to believe she still loved him.

  He pushed into the mess hall. “Ary.” Estan waved an envelope. “A letter has arrived for you.”

  Ary smiled. It was about the time for his sister’s weekly letter. Gretla loved to tell him everything that had happened on Isfe for the last five days, along with every update on Jhevon’s blossoming romance with Myrian Xogrly. “I spied on Jhevon and Myrian at the cedar grove,” she wrote last time, “and our brother has definitely been practicing his kissing. Myrian made all sorts of appreciative sounds.” He pictured his little sister hiding in the bushes, a smirk on her face, preparing all the teases she’d launch at their brother, hurtling her playful jabs faster than a well-trained ballista crew.

  Only the letter was from Jhevon, not his sister. Ary’s smile faded. His brother wasn’t one for writing. A pit opened in his stomach, swallowing his insides. His fingers found the tallow seal and he cracked it, his hands shaking.

  “Are you okay, Ary?” Estan asked. “The letter is from your brother, right?”

  “He never writes.”

  “I’m sure it is nothing. Perhaps your brother had a fit for the literary and felt the need to commit his thoughts to quill and parchment with all the elocution he could muster.”

  Ary blinked. “What did you just say?”

  Guts laughed. “Come on, Estan, some of us speak plain normal. You can’t be using big words around us. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Ary got a letter,” Ahneil said, standing alongside Ary. She placed on arm on his, her pale, beautiful face leaning closer. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Estan sighed. “That is what I said.”

  “And we like you despite that.” Guts slapped his hand on Estan’s back. The smaller man winced.

  “Well, you better open it and relieve the burden on your mind. Our imaginations always conjure darker storms than what brews on the horizon.”

  Ary nodded. Estan was right. His brother must have felt like sending him a message. He pulled the folded up letter from the envelope, the parchment crinkling as he spread it open. What he saw were hastily scratched words, black on pristine parchment.

  Ma’s dead. An ostrich kicked her in the head.

  Jhevon

  Ary stumbled back. The words cut all the tendons in his legs. Ahneil’s hand tightened on his left arm and Guts seized his right, the pair holding him upright. The room swam about him, spinning like a windmill’s blades. Everyone pressed close, suffocating him. He had to get out of here. He had to get away.

  Ary pushed away from their senseless words and stumbled for the door. He crashed into the cool night. He took a few steps and collapsed to his knees. His ma was dead. Growing up, he’d wished for her death so bitterly, praying to Riasruo Above to deliver him from her torment. His fists ripped up tufts of grass. He had just forgiven her. He just gotten his ma back, sending her his letter and—

  His thought froze.

  He sent the letter thirteen days ago. It could take that long just to deliver it from Camp Chubris. They were put out on whatever merchant ship was sailing in that direction, and those ships usually made other stops. And his brother’s letter had had to travel back from Vesche. There was no way she could have gotten it. Both ships would have had to fly with no other stops. His stomach curled. The tears ran hot down his cheeks.

  “Why didn’t I read the letter right away?” he sobbed. “Oh, Goddess Above, she died thinking I didn’t care enough to write her back. She never learned I forgave her.”

  I have no mother.

  The last words he ever spoke to his ma echoed in his head as the tears stormed from his eyes.

  “Ary,” a woman’s voice said. He looked up, hoping to see Chaylene. Ahneil knelt before him, her amber eyes misting. “I’m so sorry.”

  Estan and Guts stood nearby, looking uncertain. Ary tried to pull himself together. He couldn’t cry in front of his men. He tried to cram the pain back inside him, bottling up the guilt. All I had to do was read that storming letter the night it arrived!

  Ahneil wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you—”

  “Did Princess stub her dainty toe?”

  Ary’s insides churned worse. The last man he wanted to see strode up to them. It was the bastard Sergeant-Major, his beard thick and his amber eyes boring down upon Ary. A sneer gathered on his lips. Teeth clenched, Ary pulled himself together. There was no way in Theisseg’s cursed storm he’d appear weak in his eyes.

  “His ma died, Sergeant-Major,” Guts said, his usual friendly tone replaced with a somber rumble.

  The sneer vanished from the Sergeant-Major’s face. He held out his hand, an offering. “Stand up, son.”

  Ary hesitated, then took the proffered hand. The Sergeant-Major hauled him to his feet. The Agerzak looked right into Ary’s eyes. He tried to hide the pain, his back snapping straight automatically. The Sergeant-Major held his gaze for what seemed like eternity. Ary was all too aware of the drying tracts his tears had left down his cheeks. He wanted to hit this man. Why couldn’t the cursed bastard just let him grieve in peace?

  “He needs a drink,” the Sergeant-Major growled. “You three, take him into town and get him drunk.”

  “Sergeant-Major?” Guts asked.

  “Are you deaf, Runt? I gave you a Storm-cursed order! Get him drunk. And you four best be back by morning revelry or there will be a storm come howlin’ that none of you sorry guppies can weather.”

  “Yes, Sergeant-Major.”

  The man stalked off, leaving all four stunned.

  “Did that just happen?” Ahneil asked, her slanted eyes wide. “Did someone replace the Sergeant-Major?”

  “Maybe he has a twin.” Guts squeezed Ary’s shoulder. “Come on. You really could use a drink.”

  Ary didn’t fight, but let his friends lead him away, Guts on one side, Ahneil clinging to the other. His mind was lost in a maze of bitter recriminations. All he’d had to do was read the letter earlier. His ma would have known he’d forgiven her.

  Her smiling, tan-brown face framed by blonde braids danced in his mind. His ma before Pa died, back when she still smiled at him and held him, rubbing his sandy hair and laughing. Did she laugh once since Pa’s death?

  “Briaris Jayne,” she’d say, her hands on her hips whenever he was in trouble, her face disapproving as she stood on the porch. His ma would always wait for him when he came home those days like she could somehow sense his misbehavior.

  She’d kiss his forehead when she tucked him in at night, pulling the covers up to his neck, her blonde hair loose for bed, falling down to tickle his face.

  She’d hum as she cooked, cutting vegetables with a bone knife, a pot boiling on the hearth, filling the air with a savory scent of herbs, a touch of flour on her cheek.

  They reached the bar before Ary had realized it, his mind rising out of the labyrinth of memories. A buxom, Vionese barmaid set a glass tumbler filled with an amber liquid before him, her hand lingering on his. Ary barely felt her touch. He seized the glass and tossed it back. The vile liquid burned his throat as he swallowed. It landed in his gut where the warmth suffused through his body.

  “Would you please bring a few more, Shoni,” Estan said.

  “His woman left ‘im?” the barmaid asked.

  “Naw, his ma died,” Guts said, taking a drink from a tankard of beer.

  My ma is dead. She smiled at him in his mind.

  Th
e barmaid dropped another shot glass of what Ary supposed was whiskey—far stronger than the grog ration the Navy provided twice a day while sailing. The second shot tasted better, and he barely felt the burning as he downed the third.

  “What was your ma like?” Guts asked.

  “Until my pa died, I guess she was like any ma,” Ary answered. “But she changed after Pa’s and Srias’s deaths. Blamed me.”

  “Srias?” Ahneil asked.

  “My sister.” He took a drink from a tankard of beer, the foamy delight mixing with the whiskey pounding through his veins. “Srias was a beauty. But the chocking plague got her. I lived. She died. And Ma blamed it all on me.”

  “That’s terrible.” Her hand touched his.

  “My mother practically ignored me as a child,” Estan said. “She was always at some social gathering. Luncheons at the house of a wealthy amethyst merchant’s wife, teas hosted by the comptroller’s wife, or dinner parties at the governor’s mansion.”

  “My ma is the best,” Guts beamed. “A big, friendly woman that always has a hug and a kiss and a sweet tucked into her apron pocket.”

  Ahneil grunted. “Lucky. My ma is a complete sow. She’s always riding other men’s horses behind my pa’s back. He never knew what she was up to while he worked to feed her. Or maybe he knew. He loves her. I could always see that.” She took a deep draft of her beer. “Miserable sow. I hit her once. Caught her riding the boy I’d been sweet on. I hit ‘em both.”

  “I bet you did.” Guts laughed, slapping the table. “You the biggest gal I ever met.”

  “My pa apprenticed me. Trained me to work stone ‘cause I was so big and strong. So I gave that boy a drubbing then popped Ma right on the cheek.” Ahneil giggled. “For a week, she was so nice to me.”

  “I never hit my ma,” Ary said, staring down at his beer tankard. “I wish I had sometime.” He downed it then poured more from the pitcher. As the alcohol fuzzed his mind, his guilt dwindled. He emptied his tankard. He filled it again. When Guts launched into a boisterous song, Ary sang along, spilling his beer as he swung his tankard.

  For a while, Ary forgot about everything as the beer flowed. Guts passed out, snoring on the table, his mug tipped over and spilling white-brown foam. Estan headed to the outhouse, his ebony face looking green, his hands clutching his stomach.

  “I’m so sorry ‘bout your ma, Ary,” Ahneil said, her hand on his.

  “Thanks. She was a good ma once.”

  The woman slipped onto his lap, her pale face swimming before his blurry vision. She had a solid, feminine feel about her warm body, and her arms slipped around his neck. Confusion filled Ary. He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing when she kissed him, her lips igniting his veins.

  ~ * * ~

  Vel’s side ached as he ran back to Camp Chubris.

  After the disastrous night where the brute had caught him and Chaylene, everything had become ash to the young sailor. He almost had Chaylene. If Ary never showed up, Vel knew she’d have been his. Now any night he wasn’t sailing on the Spirituous, he snuck out to Shon for the friendly maids. Alcohol and whores filled the gaping hole in his chest.

  For a little while.

  Every moment of the day, he replayed Wriavia’s words through his thoughts. Do I have the courage to kill Ary? Do I want Chaylene that bad?

  Yes.

  But every time he tried to work up the courage to speak to Wriavia, his nerve fled him. Memories of his boyhood poisoned his mind. Fishing with Ary on the edge of the skyland, watching their hooks float in the air, waiting for the school of fish to drift closer. The time Ary beat up the Shardhin boys to protect him. Once, Ary was his friend. But watching Chaylene’s affections for Ary swell had strangled the friendship from Vel’s heart, leaving behind only bitter bile. He was desperate to have her. And his time to possess her dwindled.

  Only seven more days then the Spirituous would sail for Riasruo, parting ways with the Dauntless. He might never see her again. But if he could have her for just one night, he could hold onto that for the rest of his life. Killing Ary was a small price to pay for that.

  When Ary and his fellow marines burst into the Friendly Maid, Vel blinked in stunned surprise. He well knew that Chaylene and the other of the Dauntless’s scouts were training for most of the night. And yet here was Ary, carousing behind her back.

  A plan formed. Vel slipped out of the tavern, his heart thudding as he raced for the camp.

  Tonight, you will be mine.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  At first, it terrified Chaylene to fly through the night sky as Les grew darker. It became a mere shadow hanging in the sky, visible only by the stars it occulted and the sheets of blue lightning flashing across the Storm’s surface it obscured. If anything happened tonight, Chaylene would plummet down into the Storm Below. If she somehow survived the violent winds and the lightning strikes, she could cushion her fall with her Pressure and land upon the mythical ground.

  How the Stormriders lived without Riasruo’s warm sun to provide for them was the greatest mystery of all. Every farmer knew plants needed her blessing to grow. Why else did leaves and flowers turn to face the sun? So if she survived the fall, she would die of starvation and the cold. And that was if the Stormriders didn’t kill and eat her outright. She would never see Zori, Ailsuimnae, Guts, and Estan.

  And most of all, she would miss her solid husband.

  But then she witnessed the stars shining bright all around her. Brilliant motes twinkled brighter than she’d ever seen them. She no longer watched them, but soared with them. The beauty wiped away her fear. She became Eyia dancing on moonbeams. A smile creased her lips then laughter burst from her mouth, the cold wind ripping away the sounds of her delight.

  She spread her arms wide as Whitesocks beat through the night sky, marveling at the majesty of everything.

  After a while, a spike of fear shot through her bliss. I need to watch the hourglass.

  Chaylene looked down at the small glass vial filled with white sand hanging from her neck. Sand was still trickling away. She hadn’t missed the hour. She had to note how long she flew on a certain bearing so she could reverse her course and find her way home while compensating for crosswind drift. Chaylene glanced over at Zori. Her friend grinned at her and made the sign to pay attention.

  Chaylene flashed her a thumbs up.

  Soon the flight just became cold and tedious as the wonder of the stars faded and the night deepened. After two flips of the hourglass and two bearing changes, they turned back for Les. Chaylene peered ahead, looking for the dark shadow of the large skyland. As they neared, the lights of Shon and Camp Chubris glowed on the edge, artificial stars. She glanced at her compass; only a degree off-course.

  Feeling proud at how well the night flight had gone, she made a slight turn, guiding Whitesocks to the field. Breston, her commander, and Velegrin waited, holding lanterns burning whale oil, beacons guiding them in. She instinctively increased the pressure beneath Whitesocks’s wings as she slowed her pegasus. He flapped his wings harder, the grass rustling as they descended straight down. It was too dangerous at night to make a running landing. Whitesocks could break a leg if he stepped in an unseen hole and would crush her beneath his bulk.

  His hoofs touched down. She released her Pressure.

  “Very good,” Breston grinned. “You two managed not to get lost.”

  “We only got lost that one time,” Zori complained then yawned. “Besides, ain’t that why you flew with Velegrin tonight?”

  Velegrin shrugged. “Breston just didn’t want to get talked to death by one of you two.” Then, in a falsetto, he said, “Look at this pretty necklace Guts gave me. Doesn’t the glass set off my eyes, Chaylene?”

  Chaylene tried not to laugh.

  “Hey! I don’t sound like that!”

  “Guts is so strong,” Velegrin continued. “He can lift an entire hog with one hand. Now if I could only get him take a bath because the hog smells nicer.”

&nbs
p; “Ooh, I’m gonna get you for that!”

  “Oh, no, the smallest woman on the Dauntless is mad at me. I’d be scared if she could punch me in the mouth, but she can’t reach.”

  “That’s not where I’d punch you.”

  Breston sighed, shaking his head. “I’m going to bed. Try to remember you’re in the Autonomy’s Navy and not at the schoolyard, children.”

  Zori flushed. “Sorry, Breston.”

  Velegrin just laughed. “Well, she’s as big as a child on the schoolyard.”

  Chaylene gasped as Zori, true to her word, hit him. Breston laughed as Velegrin crumpled to the ground, grasping his groin. The petite woman stood over him, her eyebrows raised.

  Velegrin gave a pained grin to Zori. “Well, if you wanted a tumble in the grass, you just had to ask.”

  Zori’s lips cracked. “I’m gonna go to bed. You can watch the stars by yourself, Velegrin. My big, smelly Guts is far better company.”

  He gave a mock sigh. “That’s what all the ladies say.”

  “Maybe don’t insult them,” Chaylene suggested. “That usually works a lot better.”

  He smacked palm to forehead. “How could I be such a downyhead?”

  She wanted to say something witty, but all she could do was yawn, shrug, and lead Whitesocks back to the stables. She passed the sentry, a sailor armed with a crossbow and bone sabre, and entered the dark, quiet camp. She yawned again as she stretched her sore neck, looking forward to crawling into bed and sleeping for a thousand years. But she wouldn’t even get a full sleep, half the night already gone. Tomorrow would be a long day.

  “Lena,” a man hissed.

  She shrieked, jumping as a figure stepped out of the shadows of a warehouse. Her heart thudded a mile a minute, her hand shooting down to the bone knife strapped to her right boot before she realized who it was. “Vel? What are you doing here?”

  “Listen, we need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. I was quite clear last time.” She tightened her grip on Whitesocks’s reins as his wings flapped. She patted him on the nose and whispered soothing sounds into his ear as she marched away.