The Last Stormlord

by Glenda Larke

  The robe they had then pulled over his head, with its gold embroidered hem and neckline, was heavy and hot, and it scratched. And it was all a lie. He wasn’t a stormlord. Not really. Unaided, he would have been incapable of creating a single cloud from sea water, let alone one sufficiently laden to carry rain. Oh, he could feel Granthon’s power. The way it reached out to suck up the water in the sea like dry desert soil thirsting after a man’s piss. It tingled, that power, coursing through his blood, stinging the inside of his nose and mouth and throat. But he couldn’t emulate it.

  All he could do was move clouds. At that he was an expert, sending them across the sky with an ease that baffled Nealrith. He didn’t need to see them; feeling their water was enough. Guided by maps and his feel for fixed areas of water—the distant cities, the mother cisterns, the mother wells, the tunnels—he could shift clouds to the designated destinations with an accuracy that impressed even the old stormlord.

  But it was Granthon—weak, half-crazy Granthon—who created the storms, even as he died, inch by inch. Without Jasper, Granthon was a stormlord with insufficient strength to move a cloud. Without Granthon to free the water from the sea to make a storm cloud, Jasper was no stormlord.

  The ceremony in the temple had been a lie to give people hope.

  Far better than the public acknowledgement of Jasper’s skill was Granthon’s equally public withdrawal of his endorsement of Taquar as his heir. Jasper knew whom he had to thank for that: Lady Ethelva. Afraid for the safety of her son, she had finally managed to convince her husband that any man who had done what Taquar had done to Jasper and Lyneth was unfit to rule a city, let alone a nation. Jasper had not been present at the conclusive argument on the issue—no one had except Granthon—but the servants had been full of it for days. Normally gentle Ethelva, who protected her husband from every stress, had made her opinion heard in a voice that had resonated from behind two sets of closed doors. And Granthon had caved in like a pebblemouse hole under pede feet. He had changed his recommended succession and confirmed it publicly. What he had not done was propose someone else. The Quartern was once again without a recognised heir.

  “Come,” Kaneth was saying in his ear, “let’s get out of this crush.” He took Jasper by the elbow and shepherded him back in the direction of the palace, signalling for the guards to close in around them. “What did you think of your first Temple Gratitudes?”

  Jasper gave a snort. “We wouldn’t waste water like that in Wash Drybone. Just pouring it into the ground as a sacrifice to the Sunlord?” He shook his head. “I don’t think the priests have any idea of what it’s like to go thirsty.”

  “Probably not, at least not on this level. Some priests on lower levels often share their water, or so I’m told.”

  “When did you get back?” Jasper asked. Kaneth had been away, riding the Sweepings with his men, searching for any evidence of further infiltration of the Scarpen by Reduners.

  “Last night. A tame spying trip, not as exciting as chasing marauders off the White and Gibber Quarters.”

  They caught up with Nealrith and Ryka. Ahead of them, Ethelva, Laisa and Senya accompanied Granthon’s litter. “What’s the news from Qanatend?” Kaneth asked, laying a hand on the highlord’s shoulder as they all walked up the stepped street towards the closest entry to the hall. “I heard there were messengers in this morning.”

  Nealrith nodded unhappily. “No news. The spies couldn’t get through. The Reduners continue to hold the northern side of Pebblebag Pass through the Warthago Range. All we know for certain is that the city fell about ten days after the siege started. We guess it is still occupied and the Reduners are still helping themselves to the water.”

  “Any word of Moiqa and Iani and the other rainlords?”

  “Nothing. I’ve no way of knowing whether Iani even made it as far as Qanatend.”

  Kaneth’s lips tightened. “We can ill afford to lose another rainlord. He should never have gone back.”

  “And just how could we stop him from going to the rescue of his wife and her city?” Ryka snapped. “Bad enough that we did nothing to help them.”

  Jasper did not want to hear any more. To him, it was unconscionable that Qanatend had received no aid, and the thought of a city fighting Davim while others watched and waited was acid in his gut. “What happens now?” he asked. They had reached the main gate of Breccia Hall, and the guards snapped to attention, disconcerting him. It felt strange to be the object of such formal respect. “How long will they stay in Qanatend?”

  “The Reduners have a distaste for roofs over their heads,” Nealrith replied, nodding an acknowledgement to the guards, “so I doubt it will be permanent. More likely their intention is to stay awhile, rest their mounts, replenish their supplies, eat well, drink well, sleep with new women and then return to the Red Quarter.”

  Kaneth snorted, disbelieving. “Slim chance. More likely they’ll move on to the next city. If they are generous, they will just kill the guards and the water sensitives and leave each city intact. If they aren’t so generous, then they will destroy the groves and the cisterns as well.”

  “Without groves and cisterns, everyone would die,” Ryka said in protest.

  “You have met Davim, Jasper. Do you think that would bother him?” Kaneth asked.

  Jasper shook his head.

  “He knows we have Shale now,” Nealrith said. “He knows Jasper is Shale, because we’ve told him. There’s no point in him trying to threaten Taq—”

  “He refused to negotiate with the mediators you sent,” Kaneth pointed out. “Face it, Nealrith. He wants his Time of Random Rain.”

  “What can we do other than train more guards, as we are doing?” Nealrith asked. “If only we had more stormlords, we could still salvage the situation…” The words trailed away, as futile as the desire to have them come true.

  Jasper’s insides lurched. Always, always, it came down to a stormlord’s power. The power that he had to have, and have soon. Everything depended on him. Everything.

  Ryka said softly, “Iani will never forgive us for not going to Qanatend. He loved that city.”

  “Iani is doubtless dead,” Kaneth said. “Moiqa, too.”

  “There has been yet another deputation of Alabasters bringing more news of what has been happening in the White Quarter,” Nealrith said. “More requests for help against Reduner raids.” He looked away, and there was real pain in the words that followed. “We can’t even help ourselves, and they want aid from us!”

  “Davim must be stretching his resources,” Kaneth remarked. “Which seems foolish.”

  Jasper thought about that, remembering the red man, remembering the heat of his gaze. Impatient to the point of recklessness sometimes, perhaps—but a fool? They might not comprehend his ambition for a Time of Random Rain; his desire for a different future might be ridiculous in their eyes—but that did not mean he was stupid.

  “Are we going to do nothing except guard our side of the Pebblebag Pass?” Kaneth asked. “What if they find a way to bypass our guards? Or launch a full-scale attack with ziggers? We have only a handful of rainlords up there. And there must be other ways through.” He looked at Jasper. “Tell me, by any chance, could you sense the water of an army on pedes descending on us?”

  He hesitated. “If I was looking for it, yes. Most of the time, though, I close down my senses, otherwise I get overwhelmed by all the water in the city—people, tunnels, cisterns, plants, dayjars, the groves…”

  Nealrith nodded glumly. “I do the same thing.”

  “If they scatter their forces rather than bunch together,” Jasper added, “that would make it difficult to sense them. Do they know enough about rainlord or stormlord powers to know that?”

  “Probably,” Nealrith said.

  “So,” Kaneth drawled, “the question remains: is Davim going to try to seize both Breccia City and Jasper—and if he tries, how do we stop him?”

  Nealrith returned the salute of more guards as they pas
sed into the forecourt of the Hall. “I don’t know how to fight such idiocy. We may all perish in such a conflict. If they destroy the tunnels and cisterns and slots, they could bring down our whole civilisation! The Reduners would be the only ones to survive. Damn Taquar to a waterless death for ever starting this.”

  Jasper shivered.

  “Do you think Taquar truly did kill the talented among us, Nealrith, as Jasper believes?” Ryka asked. “Eliminating the competition?”

  “Oh, he did it all right,” Nealrith said. “All the really talented ones. Kaneth and me, he didn’t bother about.”

  “Me, neither,” added Ryka with a hollow laugh.

  Kaneth nodded. “At that time, he thought he would be a stormlord, and he wanted to make sure he was the only one. He destroyed our future by murder.”

  Ryka shook her head, not in negation but in grief. “And later, when he realised he didn’t have the skills of a stormlord but Lyneth probably would… That poor little girl.”

  Kaneth glanced at Jasper. “Rith, the sooner you marry this youth off to your Senya, the better. They have to produce children of talent, and quickly. We need more stormlords, and they are our best chance.”

  Marry Senya? Jasper’s jaw dropped. His stomach twisted and knotted; his heart pounded at his throat. Marry Senya? That spoiled, manipulative bitch? Every time he met her, he was exposed to her contempt, her childish sulks and her brainless remarks. He gaped at them, speechless.

  “That reminds me, Jasper,” Kaneth added, not noticing his consternation, “someone gave you something down in front of the temple. What was it?” Jasper put his hand into his robe and pulled out the parchment. He turned it over to see the inscription on the outside fold. “It’s a letter.”

  “Who gave it to you?” Nealrith asked sharply.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see.” He broke the seal and unfolded the sheet. Slowly he read the words written there—and felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him light-headed. “It’s from Terelle. Taquar has her. He says I’ve got to get back to him, otherwise—otherwise—”

  Kaneth twitched the letter from his hand, glanced at it and handed it on to Nealrith. “This time he’s making sure Jasper knows.”

  “That’s mine,” Jasper said in agonised protest. “It is addressed to me.” He stopped. Then, “This time?” His gaze shifted from one to the other as his mind raced in disbelief. They had known she was alive and hadn’t told him?

  “I’m sorry,” Nealrith said when he had finished scanning the sheet. “Kaneth, see that the apothecary Bankor that’s mentioned here is dealt with.”

  Kaneth nodded and walked away. Ryka watched him go, biting her lip, then walked briskly after him.

  When Nealrith went to continue up the steps into the hall, Jasper—outraged—stayed where he was. “This time? You knew?” he accused. “You already knew that he had Terelle?”

  Nealrith paused and turned back. “Not at first. But a while back Taquar tried to send you a message, and it was intercepted. He said he had her, but we had no way of knowing whether it was true, so we didn’t tell you. There is no question of your leaving Breccia, Jasper,” he added gently. “The idea of you going back to Taquar is unthinkable. You know that.”

  “She is my—my friend.” The only one I’ve ever had.

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m sorrier still for her.”

  Jasper took a shuddering breath. Sandblast them all. She is nothing to them!

  Aloud he said, “You don’t understand. I made her a promise. I said I would look after her.” He shoved his hands behind his back so Nealrith did not see his fists clenching in anger. “I had a little sister once. I promised myself that no one would ever harm her. And they slaughtered her in front of my eyes, throwing her around from spear to spear until she wasn’t recognisable as anything but a piece of meat. And I had a brother taken as a slave. I made myself another promise about him, too. I promised I’d free him. I’m very good at making promises, Lord Nealrith. I’m just not good at keeping them. Do you understand what that’s like?”

  Terelle, ah, Terelle—be brave. I haven’t forgotten you, I swear.

  “Look.” Nealrith took him by the shoulders and roughly turned him to face the entrance hallway, where Granthon’s litter had just arrived and the Cloudmaster was laboriously climbing out. “He should not have gone to the temple today. But he needs to be seen. People need to know he is still alive, still able to read the prayer of sacrifice as he did today. His presence gives them hope and comfort, so he went. And now he will go back to his room and call up another cloud for you to move. That’s what sacrifice is, Jasper. That is what is required of us all.”

  “It’s not my sacrifice I’m worrying about. It’s all the people who trust me to fulfil my promises to them, only to have me discard them as if they are no more than zigger fodder. Do you know what that’s like?”

  “Of course I do! Iani has been closer to me than my own father—and look what we did to him. And to Moiqa. Their whole city!” Nealrith’s voice cracked. “I pray every day that the Sunlord will forgive me, Jasper, because I can’t forgive myself. I have so much blood on my hands I don’t know how I can ever wash them clean.”

  They stood there in the entranceway, staring deep into each other’s souls. Nealrith put a hand on Jasper’s shoulder, and Jasper felt the message there. A seeking of understanding, a request for respect, a sharing of pain so deep that it was inexpressible any other way. Jasper knew Nealrith wanted a sign from him, a sign that he understood what they shared.

  He withheld the indication.

  Nealrith took a deep breath. “If I were to send anyone except a rainlord to free Terelle, they would simply die in the attempt. Taquar’s guards use ziggers, remember. And I can’t afford to send a rainlord. Not now. Not when our own safety is in jeopardy. If I had sufficient rainlords, I would send them to the defence of Qanatend and other cities, not to rescue a single young woman in Scarcleft.”

  “Then I will ask this of Granthon.”

  “I forbid you to worry him with this.”

  “Today in the temple, Granthon proclaimed me a stormlord, Nealrith. You cannot forbid me a voice. Besides, it is still your father who rules the Quartern, not you.”

  Nealrith drew in a sharp breath, but it wasn’t anger Jasper saw on his face; it was grief, that and despair. “Speak to him, then. It will make no difference to the outcome. Your friend Terelle must look after herself. For you to put her safety before your own would be a terrible misjudgement of what is important. The life of no individual can be more important than your safety, Jasper. None. You are the only hope for the Quartern. Don’t you understand that?”

  Jasper came close to slamming a clenched fist into Nealrith’s jaw. He halted the movement in time, and let his anger explode in words instead.

  “Even if she was just ordinary, she’s in trouble because she helped me. That makes me responsible. On top of that, I have been trying to tell you that Terelle is important. Perhaps even more important than I am. You just aren’t listening.”

  “There is no such thing as magic, Jasper. I don’t know what you saw, but it was just trickery.”

  “You think I am lying?”

  “No, just misguided.”

  “Oh—a fool, then.”

  “You are being ridiculous.”

  Jasper choked back his words. He could not trust himself to speak.

  “Do I have your word that you will not try to leave Breccia City in some misguided attempt to rescue her?”

  Jasper hesitated, gritting his teeth in angry frustration. Citrine, Mica, now Terelle. Was he bound to betray everyone he had ever cared for? “Yes,” he snapped, his bitterness spilling out in words. “You have my word. Without me, Granthon would not manage another rain cloud. Without me, there would be no rains anywhere. I know my value. It’s a pity you can’t recognise hers.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nealrith said again.

  Jasper snorted and walked into the hall. Grief spilled fro
m his every pore, and every step felt as if it left its imprint of pain behind. The beat inside his head repeated the same words over and over: betrayer of friendship, betrayer, betrayer…

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Scarpen Quarter

  Scarcleft City

  Had she screamed? She couldn’t remember. If she had, then the sound would have been lost in the noise that saturated the air anyway. A deep groaning from a tormented earth. Screams of naked terror from outside. Crashing, creaking, cracking. Unidentifiable explosive sounds. Things falling, bursting, breaking. Then the candle tumbling, going out, so that when the outer wall crumbled, she saw it only as a darkness that disappeared into choking dust.

  When it was all over, she continued to lie where she had fallen, unable, in her shock, to move. Everything was suddenly awfully, unnaturally quiet. Dust settled around her, coating her skin with grit, sifting into her hair and silting through her clothes. She moved then, to cough, to retch, to grope around for a cloth so that she could cover her nose and mouth. She found her bedcover, already ripped by a falling shutter, and tore a piece from that.

  When she had control of her breathing, she was able to think. Yet her thoughts made no sense. What had happened?

  In the distance, someone shouted into the silence. There was another far-off crash. She lay and thought about it, forced her wits to work. The building. Something had happened to Scarcleft Hall. Part of it had fallen down, that was it. There was a hole in the wall. She had no idea why, and didn’t want to know, but one idea was as clear as water in a cistern: she had to get out while she had the chance.

  She scrambled up, coughing in the swirls of powdered mud-brick. In the darkness she couldn’t see much, and the air was as thick as a spindevil wind full of desert dust. She groped her way over to the dayjar, toppled but still stoppered, in the corner. The idea of leaving her prison without a supply of water was tough to accept, but there was no alternative. The jar was too heavy and cumbersome to lug far, and she didn’t have a water skin. She found her mug and poured herself a drink, and then another and another, until she could drink no more. Extravagantly, she used the last to wash away the grime and wet the cloth that covered her face. Once that was done and she could breathe more easily, she felt around for what was left of her paint jars and brushes. There was no way she would leave those behind. She made a bundle of the rest of the bedcover and tucked the painting things, Russet’s paintings of her, Viviandra’s mirror and a spare suit of clothes into it. Everything was covered in dust.