by Cora Carmack
“Even after what he did to your home?” Kiran asked. “He must really hate your family. To have reduced an entire city to rubble, to kill thousands, and to follow you here when he realized he did not get the job done.”
He waited for Casimir to deny it, to claim the rumors were lies, but he only smiled and shrugged. “We found a new home, didn’t we?”
“Yes, how convenient for you that the Pavan princess disappeared and then the queen fell ill.”
He wheezed out a laugh. “What can I say? We got lucky. And we could not leave Pavan defenseless. That would be cruel.”
The look in his eyes at that last word turned Kiran’s stomach.
“Cruel is what you are doing to those remnants outside the gates.”
“We cannot save everyone.”
“From the danger you brought here? As far as I can tell, you and your family are the primary problem.”
Casimir sneered. “You are all small-minded fools. Without us, you would not last a week of the Rage season, stormlord or no Stormlord.”
Kiran rolled his eyes and looked at Ransom, then Zephyr. “I don’t know who you think you are talking to, but we are not afraid of the Rage season. We have lived in the wildlands. I have stood in the middle of a firestorm and lived to hold the Stormheart in my hand. I have faced hurricanes and twisters and men much stronger than you. You, Casimir Locke, are not necessary to this world and its survival in any way. The time of the Stormlings is over here in Pavan. Soon, all magics will be welcomed—the kind you destroyed at the Eye and the kind this woman is going to spend the next few days making you intimately familiar with.” He gestured to Zephyr and she stood, coming to stand before Casimir, her shoulders straight and proud.
“I don’t know whether to call you mad or stupid,” Casimir said. “Idealistic fools. Your rebellion has always been doomed. You will die. Every single one of you. By my hand or my brother’s or the Stormlord’s—”
The words dried up in his throat, and he jerked in his chair, his face going red, then pale as Zephyr took away the water his body needed to survive.
“I think that’s enough talking for now,” she said. “Perhaps you should do some more thinking. Think about how thirsty you feel right now. Is your vision blurring yet? Has the headache started? Is the room spinning? Think too about the Stormlord, about what he might do when we offer you up to him, weak and vulnerable. Where will your arrogance be then? Will your brother come for you? From what I have heard, you are not close. Perhaps he will be glad to be rid of you. Less competition. Right now, I control whether you live or you die, whether you stay here in the safety of Pavan or meet the man who followed you here from the rubble of your former home. Think on that, Casimir Locke.”
Those with the power over earth could have been the makers of new worlds. Instead, with greed-corrupted hearts they used their gifts to rupture the land and suck the marrow from her bones.
—An Examination of the Original Magics
14
Thirteen Years Earlier
Cruze had found a spot of his very own, where he could get away from the others, and where he could listen to the voices without fear of anyone noticing. He discovered a place high in the canopy where branches from several trees crossed and wound around each other, creating a relatively safe cocoon for him to perch without fear of falling. It also gave him a good view of the sky to watch for approaching storms. He had taken to spending most of his days there, only keeping tabs on the camp and Kess with the help of the spirits who had become his companions.
In his time alone, he found himself hungry for more knowledge, about the past and whatever it was that was happening to him now. There was always the chance it was madness, of course, that had him hearing other voices, but as he searched his memories, he began to recall similar whispers during his time back in Locke when he was younger. They’d never lasted as long, not like the ones he experienced out here, and they had always seemed farther away. But he was almost certain that he had felt the sensation before being left in the jungle.
So he focused his energy on expanding his abilities, trying to communicate more effectively with the spirits, learning what he could about their deaths. For some, that was all they could remember. Others could provide minimal information about their lives. But for almost every spirit he encountered, when he tried to ask if they knew why they had been deserted in such a way, the spirits either grew quiet, disappeared, or could not remember.
“What are you doing up there?”
Cruze bolted upright, nearly toppling out of the tree entirely. But a strong breeze moved through the canopy at that moment, providing just enough of a reprieve for him to spread his legs and throw out his arms, rebalancing himself on the twisted limbs where he was perched.
He looked down to see Kess on the jungle floor, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…”
“Distract me to death?”
She shook her head. “Definitely not.”
He shrugged. “I should have been paying closer attention.” Or one of the spirits should have warned him of her approach. He sent that thought out wide, and felt a few answering nudges of apology.
“I was … hoping we could talk,” Kess said, fretting nervously with the frayed end of her shirt. All of their clothes were little better than rags now. They had taken to ripping them up and remaking them into smaller, more wearable pieces as they all lost weight.
“Yes,” Cruze replied. “There are some things I would like to talk about too.”
He had been thinking more about the possibility of her being a witch, and the strange experience he himself had had since coming to the jungle.
He made his way down the tree quickly, used to the descent by now. When he was standing face-to-face with her, she seemed hesitant to ask whatever she had come for, so he took the opportunity to ask his own questions instead.
“Do you believe in the supernatural?” he asked.
“Do you mean magic? Of course I believe in storm magic.”
“No,” he snapped, his teeth grinding at the thought of such magic, and those he knew who wielded it. “Not storm magic. Other kinds.” Stormlings were all-powerful in this world; they made the decisions, created the laws, commanded the soldiers. They had everything when Cruze had nothing.
Kess hesitated for a long moment, but eventually, she nodded. “I-I do … believe, that is.”
Her hand went up to the collar of her shirt, pulling it closer to her neck.
“What if I told you that we were not the first to be left here, in this same area of the jungle? I have been seeing things, hearing things. There are ghosts in these woods, and … and they speak to me.”
“You have magic?” Kess asked.
Cruze scoffed. “I don’t know that I would call it that. If I showed any true aptitude for magic, I doubt my father … well, never mind. I just get these visions, like the ghosts are showing me things.”
“That is magic,” Kess insisted. “Of the spirit.”
Cruze frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you can communicate with the souls of the dead.”
Cruze felt something hot and triumphant boil up in his stomach. So, it was true. He was not mad, as he had feared. And the visions were real. He had believed it, of course, done his best to convince himself rationally, but to have another confirm it …
“How do you know?” he demanded. “What do you know of it?”
Kess frowned and gave a sad shake of her head. “It is why we are here. All of us.” She pulled back the collar of the shirt she had been fiddling with, showing what was left of her nearly healed bruise. “I told you that I made a choice not to die. That choice was to use my ability to control air to save myself from a noose.” Cruze stared at the girl, dumbstruck. “I did not die when they kicked the stool from beneath my feet. So they sent me here instead.”
“Noose?” Cruze growled. “They tried to hang you? But … but you are a child.”
“As a
re you. And they left us both out here to die. The Lockes do not care. Anyone who is a threat to them, to their magic, or their way of life, they see as disposable.”
Cruze had trouble swallowing after that statement. His heart was beating so hard that he felt almost light-headed. Spirits pressed in close around him, so close—some of them trying to soothe, while others … others seemed to feed off his distress.
Kess continued, “That actually brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. The others—we talked, and we have decided to leave. We’ve built a raft, and with my air magic and Jael’s water magic—”
“So she is a water witch?” Cruze interrupted.
Kess’s brow furrowed. “Yes, Jael can manipulate water. With our abilities combined, we think we can navigate the river to the coast without much danger. It is the fastest and safest way out of the jungle.”
“No,” Cruze said. “No, it is too risky.”
“No more risky than staying here.”
“But don’t you see? I can communicate here, with the ones that came before us. I can learn from them. And then—”
“And then what?”
“And then we will take revenge.”
Kess’s eyes went wide. “We are children. What revenge could we possibly take? I would settle for living. That is more than I thought I would have the day they put the rope around my neck.”
“Damn it, don’t you see? They got rid of us because they are scared of what we could become. They want us to die out here because we are strong enough to one day challenge them.”
“And how do you expect to challenge them when you can only talk to ghosts?” Kess snapped.
Cruze felt like he had been slapped. And for just a moment, a violent urge swelled through him that told him to return the damage, to give as good as he got, better, even. To return tenfold the pain upon whoever dared hurt him. But then the moment passed, and Kess looked at him apologetically.
“I am sorry. But our decision is made. We leave at first light tomorrow. I hope you will come with us.”
Cruze let her walk away, knowing he would not. He had finally found a place where he felt at home. Yes, it was among the dead, but they accepted him; they called him their own. And he would avenge them no matter what it took.
* * *
“Again,” Cassius yelled, and on his order the small contingent of soldiers he had built began the conditioning drill anew.
Since his brother had burned the city’s black market in a bid to impress their father, he had no way of obtaining the supplies to allow his soldiers to practice against true storm magic, so he had devised a compilation of the most difficult training exercises he could think of, and he put his men through their paces as often as possible, pushing them harder and harder until they moved with speed and fluidity. Soon, he would begin to test them by allowing them to cover the palace’s defenses in shifts. He would be there, of course, in the case of an emergency, but they needed more field training, and fighting the storms that plagued the city was the only option.
Eventually, they shifted to weapons training, and he joined in, trading off with different partners to test their skill levels, trying to determine who were his strongest men.
Someday soon he would need them at his side because he would not react defensively forever. To win they would have to pursue the Stormlord on their own terms, and he would make certain they were ready. Or as ready as they could be.
Finally, when even he dripped with sweat, he took mercy on the men and called for an end to their session. He heard no groans or complaints or other sounds, but he could tell by the slow-gait and tender movements of the men that they were grateful to be done.
Perhaps, they were finally beginning to take this threat seriously. The recent damage at the palace from a firestorm and twister occurring simultaneously had put things into perspective for many. He had been out of reach for only a short time, dealing with the infiltration by the rebellion and the fog magic they had left to spread through the palace that had mesmerized the majority of his men and made them useless, but moments was all it took for tempests of the Stormlord’s caliber to reduce something to rubble. It could have been so much worse. They could have lost everything that day, but someone had worked to defeat the storm in his absence.
Another mystery to solve.
It had to be Aurora. His mind could think of no other alternative. She was out there somewhere with a witch as a partner, and he needed to find out everything he could.
Once he made it back to his rooms, he shed the layers of his clothes until his chest was bare, and he wore only his pants. He wanted to call for a bath, but it had been too long since the last storm siren sounded. They had to be due for another soon. So he settled for dipping a cloth in the water basin in the corner and washing himself clean as much as he could without a full soak.
When he was done he returned to his desk and retrieved the book that had been delivered to him this morning. The cover was black leather with no title anywhere to be seen. But when he opened it, the first page revealed the words An Examination of the Original Magics.
All books on witchcraft in Locke had been purged long ago, but the laws in Pavan had not been quite as strict. The long existence of the Eye had enabled enough of an underground to survive that works like the one he held still survived, thank the goddess, for he needed its information now.
One of the Pavanian nobles that had taken a liking to Cassius from the moment he arrived and supported his bid for the throne even before Aurora disappeared had mentioned the book to him once upon a time. He was a collector of rare items and had procured it from the owner of a popular tavern, who was said to be quite the keeper of both secrets and unique items. It was only after Cassius had mentioned his own adventures into the Eye that the nobleman mentioned the tavern owner, for it appeared the person had some connection with the old market as well.
Perhaps after Cassius read the book, he would pay a visit to this tavern and see what information the owner could offer him. For now though, he turned the page and began to read, hoping for some insight into the earth witch with whom Aurora had aligned herself.
* * *
Three days passed with no change in her mother’s condition. On the first, Aurora mostly slept herself, waking up occasionally only to worry over her mother, note the awkwardness of being in close proximity to Kiran again, and fall back asleep in whatever place she could manage. By the second, restlessness had set in, and she had paced the room, stopping far too often to check the temperature of her mother’s skin or the rise of her chest. She had been left alone more then, with various hunters dropping by on occasion.
Duke visited, and it was the first time she had seen him since before the mission. She expected him to be disappointed for her part in Jinx’s loss, for the friendly lines of his old face to be set in a grim expression, but instead he offered her a fierce hug. She clung to him like a lifeline, and he sat patiently beside her while they waited for her mother’s condition to change. He asked her questions, and she told stories about her childhood, about her mother and brother. He reassured her in ways no one else could.
But by the third evening, she felt like the walls had begun to scream at her. She needed to be doing more than sitting here. Surely there was some way to help her mother, to help the rebellion, to help Jinx and Nova. She would go mad if she spent one more day stifled and shut away, watching her mother lying so still and vulnerable, feeling guilty and useless.
So when Ransom left her alone that evening to go down and assist with something in the tavern, Aurora took the opportunity to explore. She found a scarf in Zephyr’s office and bound her hair up in a popular knotted style that Nova had taught her, and she donned one of Zephyr’s long flowing cloaks that hung on the back of her office door. The material was soft and moved across Aurora’s hands like water. Wrapping the mass of fabric all the way around her, Rora stepped just outside Zephyr’s office door to the loft area beyond that gave her a view of the tavern below—bot
h the more exclusive second floor and the ground level. She huddled back into the corner, away from Zephyr’s door, and observed the movement on the two lower floors.
The inside of the tavern shimmered in a soft blue light that reminded her of skyfire, but Aurora could detect no specific source of the blue tint, for the lanterns around the room and at each of the tables held plain burning wicks. The scent of seawater hung on the air, and a small waterfall fell over a rocky sculpture in one corner, a mermaid cast in bronze lounging on a rock at the base. If she had been anywhere else, Aurora would have thought it some marvel of mechanics, a system of pumps and pipes perhaps, but knowing what she did about Zephyr, she wondered if the woman was bold enough to risk magic in plain sight.
The room was crowded, the main bar full with people standing behind those seated. And most of the tables were full too, both the plain wooden ones on the first floor, and the more cushioned, private tables that were kept reserved for more special guests on the second floor. Aurora spied Ransom carrying a large box back behind the bar, but besides him every other employee she spotted was a woman. They came in every shape and size and look, but each of them wore pastel, flowing skirts that shimmered like the tail of a mermaid might if they were real; they dazzled in the blue light of the tavern. They smiled and charmed and cast coquettish glances at every man they passed, and every man in turn—whether he be a young lad barely old enough to drink or an old general she had seen countless times around her mother’s advisory tables—they all seemed to sway to the movement of the women around them, drawn like magnets.
On the second floor, she saw distinguished men meeting in alcoved tables, surrounded by plants for some modicum of privacy, but none of them paused their conversations when the women passed or stopped to refill drinks, and Aurora watched the way the women sometimes lingered by certain tables, unnecessarily dusting at plants, or filling up drinks that were nowhere near empty.
