Reavers of the Tempest
Page 2
The student gave her a friendly smile before striding off towards the College of Esoteric Philosophy where theology and morality were taught. A half-dozen different colleges, each specializing in a different field, made up the University of Rlarshon. The College of Physiological Philosophy taught medicine and trained doctors. The College of Historiography poured over moldy parchment from before the Age of Isolation while the College of Abstract Philosophy lost themselves in numbers and mathematics.
But it was the College of Material Philosophy where researchers discovered new uses for Riasruo’s Blessings. They delved into the Sun Goddess’s gifts, uncovering new combinations of wood, gems, and powers, inventing new devices to save labor, or new weapons to wage war.
Archene touched her blonde hair, making sure no strands escaped her tight bun before limping onward. Her current assignment was as the liaison to Professor Duthan and his important work. New orders had arrived only an hour ago, the letter heavy in the breast pocket of her waistcoat. Back home, her husband packed for her trip. She fought through the growing fire in her crippled leg her quickened pace produced. Her brown-skinned forehead wrinkled as she fought the discomfort.
Ahead, her destination, the College of Material Philosophy, rose, a three-story, rectangular box constructed of gray granite mortared precisely together. A roof of red slate gleamed in the setting sun. Many classroom windows were left open to let in the cool breeze. Wedges held open the main double doors. She passed through them, the thunk of her cane transforming to a deeper thud as it struck the polished granite floor.
More students in white strode down the halls, their youthful faces full of excitement as they talked. They fell silent as she limped by. Archene could hear their thoughts whispering, “Griffin,” the nickname given to investigators. Like the fierce, wild red-crested griffins that dwelt on the skylands of Les and Vion, investigators were tenacious, tracking down their quarries with a single-minded ruthlessness. When a great crime was transgressed against the Autonomy, the griffins would swoop in to hunt the miscreants.
Archene paused when she rounded a corner to face the heavy oak door that led to the basement. A bored marine, Private Dharsene, lounged against the wall, his redcoat half-unbuttoned. Archene’s lips pursed at his slovenly discipline.
She cleared her throat.
The marine’s back straightened and he snapped a salute. “Investigator Thugris!”
Her cane thudded as she trooped down the hallway, left foot planting hard, the right half-dragging across the stone. The marine opened the door, his green eyes trembling. She fixed him with her hardest stare, the color paling from his brown face.
She swept past him and labored down the narrow stairs.
They were the worst to navigate. She had to go carefully, bracing her left hand against the coarse stones of the wall as she placed her cane on each runner. If she rushed . . . Step by grunting step, she worked her way to the basement hallway, sheens of sweat beading on her forehead. She paused at the bottom, heart laboring, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths inhaled through her nostrils. Cool, damp air wafted around her, and a faint tinge of must wrinkled her nose.
She dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief produced from her waistcoat’s pocket as she stared down the long hallway before her. Whale oil lamps, set in the wall, lit it, leaving gulfs of darkness between each skyland of light. A woman’s faint, muffled moans echoed.
The sounds of Philosopher Duthan’s research.
Her cane echoed louder in the narrow corridor as she stomped forward, passing wooden doors with barred windows. Another marine, almost a shadow in the dark hallway, guarded the final door. The cries of pain grew louder, gut-wrenching whimpers and heart-palpitating shrieks. Flickers of blue-yellow light bled through the gaps around the door.
Archene’s stomach twisted. She pushed down her revulsion. The Autonomy’s protection was worth any cost.
“Investigator,” the straight-backed marine said, saluting with alacrity, her voice calm despite the screams of pain.
“Corporal,” Archene nodded as the marine opened the door.
Inside, a woman lay strapped to a plain, wooden table, her half-naked body wizened to spindly limbs. Only a thin, dirty-gray smock covered her almost fleshless body. Agony dulled her green eyes, her shriveled lips squeezed tight. Bone needles were inserted into her arms, legs, stomach, and neck, each tipped with a sliver of rose quartz encased in a small frame of black hickory.
Shock needles.
They were one of the inventions of Philosopher Duthan and were an effective interrogation device. They allowed a person with Minor Lightning to deliver painful, though not lethal or incapacitating, shocks of static charge merely by brushing the ends.
“What did you dream about last night, Nianie?” a grave voice asked, almost a breathless wheeze from old age. Philosopher Duthan stood at the head of the table, looking down into his subject’s green eyes. “The guards heard your cries. What did Theisseg whisper in your mind?”
“They came to . . . to dance . . .” Nianie pleaded, her normal sing-song nonsense broken by hoarse agony. “They whirled . . . about three partners . . . three came . . . came to dance . . . and . . . and . . . play . . . Death’s dance . . . whirling dance . . . with . . . my . . . hero . . .”
“It is vital you talk with clarity, Nianie,” Philosopher Duthan said, reaching out to brush the needle buried in her neck. “What did She show you?”
Blue-yellow light arched from Duthan’s finger to the needle, bathing the dark room in harsh light. Archene battered down her motherly sympathy. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to watch as Nianie’s body jerked, her piteous screams echoing through the room.
Five years ago, the Cyclone of 394 VF had attacked the skyland of Humy. The warship, Courageous, sallied forth to fight it. The corvette had sustained grievous losses, and Able Sailor Nianie Srlyene was struck by lightning, tainted by Theisseg. Per regulations, the Office of Special Investigations had quarantined her. For three years she had been well cared for, kept in a pleasant cell at Rhision Prison at the south end of Rhogre. Rumors of her strange dreams had peculated out. She was the second Autonomy sailor ever to be tainted by Theisseg. The first was a madman, raving in his cells for a decade before dying. No one paid his words any attention until Philosopher Duthan had heard the rumors of Nianie.
Then he had arranged to study her.
Cyclones were on the rise. The destructive tempests that rose out of the Storm Below attacked the skylands with greater frequency. The Stormriders, the Dark Goddess’s servants, reaved and pillaged wherever they appeared. The Autonomy needed to know what secrets Theisseg had implanted in Nianie’s mind, to understand why She communicated with the mad girl.
“My hero . . . battled amid . . . the dead . . . in gray . . .” Nianie sobbed. “His fires . . . they burned . . . so hot . . . a shield . . . of her . . . love . . . about . . . the dance . . . so wild . . . women wore . . . dresses of crimson . . . and the men . . . fine doublets of . . . scarlet . . .”
“Tell me about the dream,” Philosopher Duthan demanded, his wrinkled face furrowing.
“Singing pain . . . always pain . . . free her . . .” The bony body flailed against her heavy restraints, flopping like a gutted fish. Nianie’s green eyes fell on Archene. “You . . . you must free . . . my hero . . .”
Archene furrowed her brow.
“You haven’t dreamed in months,” pressed Duthan. “Why last night? What does Theisseg want you to do? Are you supposed to aid the Stormriders?”
“There was a Cyclone this morning,” Archene answered, her hand touching her breast pocket, parchment crinkling. “The mathematicians calculate it struck Southern Les around dawn.”
Philosopher Duthan’s grandfatherly face paled. “Casualties?” Then he shook his head. “Right. This morning. Too soon to know.”
The lightning chart was an amazing discovery by Philosopher Duthan. Thirty or so years ago, his research had uncovered a new use for Majo
r Lightning. Disturbances in the Storm Below caused by Cyclones rising could be triangulated. The Office of Special Investigations had leaped on the discovery. Two were built, always manned by a cartographer and a courier, one on the northern end of Rhogre, the other on the southern end. With precise compass bearings taken, the mathematics could triangulate the disturbance. It had taken over two decades to survey the skylands of the Autonomy and fix their position on a coordinate system to make use of it.
Philosopher Duthan tapped his wrinkled chin, musing to himself, “Not all the dreams are a precursor for a Cyclone, but every Cyclone has been precursed by a dream. What does it mean?”
Archene shrugged. “I am taking a ship to southern Les. The mathematicians estimate it struck Shon or Camp Chubris.”
Duthan nodded. “Perhaps another sailor has been touched. I fear we waited too long with Nianie before we began our interrogations. Her . . . isolation already broke her mind.”
And your interrogation hasn’t helped, thought Archene, bile gurgling in her stomach.
“Shadowed death . . . comes to dance . . . with my hero . . . and the . . . burning woman . . .” sobbed Nianie in her breathy chant.
“Now, Nianie, tell me what Theisseg said to you,” the aged philosopher said as he reached out to touch her needle. “Remember.”
Blue-yellow blazed. Nianie screamed.
Archene forced herself to watch a moment longer. If she did find another sailor tainted by Theisseg . . . “I’ll leave you to your work, Philosopher.”
“Yes, yes,” Duthan muttered, furrowing his forehead as he listened to Nianie’s sobbing words, absently stroking the few wisps of white hair circling the crown of his spotted head.
If Archene’s memory held, three crews trained at Camp Chubris, almost ready to take up their duty for the Autonomy’s Navy. Please let none of them be tainted, Riasruo, she prayed as she stomped out of the interrogation room, blue-yellow light flooding around her.
Archene knew she would deliver any she found. None tainted by Theisseg could be allowed to roam free.
Table of Contents
Reavers of the Tempest
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Author Note
Glossary
About the Author
Part One
Songs
There are truths that I have long concealed from you, my daughter. Truths I held deep within my heart. Truths that, if learned, would shatter the skies and the peace of the grand empire I leave in the stewardship of your gentle feathers. Know that my true name is Iiwroa.
—Preamble, The Book of Iiwroa
Chapter One
Isamoa 14th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
“Theisseg didn’t create the Storm.” Her husband’s portentous words echoed through Chaylene’s mind. “She is the power that fuels it. It draws on her . . . essence. It exists because of her. She needs to be freed.”
The idea of freeing Theisseg, the Dark Goddess of Storms spilled frigid water down her back. She drew in a deep breath as she lay beside her young husband on their bed in the small cottage provided for them by the Autonomy Navy. Outside, Camp Chubris slept on undisturbed. She gazed at him, seeing the earnest expression filling his clean-shaven, square-chinned face. She always found his face—squat and with a proud nose—handsome, but not dashing like a hero from a story. The corners of his eyes, crimson irises darker than the surrounding white, crinkled. Doubt appeared to fill him. Fear. Concern.
He’d carried this secret for seven years, holding in that Theisseg had touched him, tainted him. A part of Chaylene—a shameful corner of her soul affected by seventeen years, her entire life, of hearing terrible things spoken about the Storm Goddess—cringed from him. Every ill wind, every foul vapor bringing plague, every stillborn child, was blamed upon Her. Chaylene drew a deep breath, resolve stiffening through her body. Her husband placed his trust, his life, in the palms of her hands. She could not snuff out his flames.
She would not betray him again.
Her cheeks warmed at how close she had come with Vel.
She stroked her husband’s face, fingers sliding across his brown skin darkened by a summer spent training at Camp Chubris. She reached his close-cropped hair. He had a darker shade of ripe barley than her lighter hue. She smiled at him. “We’ll figure it out.”
“How?”
Her smile tightened. How did you free a Goddess? How did you even trap one? Chaylene’s guts twisted. A dizzying wave of vertigo beset her as she became aware of the skyland beneath the foundation of her cottage. Les floated above the ever-churning Storm. It seemed to her she could feel the minute shifting of the massive hunk of rock. Les was larger than most skylands put together. Vesche, their home skyland, took just two days to stroll across. Les was as long as thirty Vesches, maybe more. But it still felt so vulnerable hanging in the skies, a speck before the eternal size of the Storm.
Skylands could fall. History proved that.
“You said . . . that’s what the Stormriders want, Ary,” she said, her coal-black fingers sliding through his hair, cut so short it felt almost like bristles against her palm. “To free her. Do you think . . .” She swallowed. “They destroyed Swuopii and all the Eastern Skylands a thousand years ago. What if you have to . . .?”
His face hardened. “I don’t know what it will take. It can’t be that. The Storm and the skylands can’t be related.”
“If they are—”
“Then Theisseg can stay tortured in the Storm.” Pain crossed his face, twisting the expression. His eyes became raw. His left hand, resting on her hip, squeezed her through her blue jacket and white britches. “She can suffer because . . .”
“Suffer?”
“Riasruo Above, you have no idea how she suffers. We fear Theisseg, but she’s so pitiful. Two thousand years of torture, Lena. Two thousand years of pain and torment. It courses through her. I’ve touched her chains.”
Chains . . . The word sounded so foreign to Chaylene. She tried to picture what Ary described: a rope made of metal. The silvery material was so rare in the skies above the Storm; she couldn’t imagine why anyone would make something as mundane as a rope out of it. But the Stormriders fashion swords and armor out of metal, she thought.
“The chains course and crackle with energy. Lightning. It burns, Lena. It seared my soul.” Ary’s voice grew more and more ragged. Helplessness filled his face. Chaylene wanted to soothe it away. It tortured her heart to witness him hurting. “I felt my bones melting. Like they became liquid sunlight. I screamed. I howled for an eternity. And I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t break them.
“And she gets no relief. For a
heartbeat, I felt a twelfth of what she suffers. A twelfth, and it almost destroyed me.”
Chaylene moved her hand from his head to his arm, stroking his muscle through his white wool shirt. “We’ll figure it out. Does she say anything in the dreams that’s any help?”
Chaylene had grown to dread Ary’s dreams. For the last month and a half of their marriage, when training at Camp Chubris became its most stressful, he would moan in his sleep. His jostling body would wake her up while he mumbled words that made no sense, talking to . . .
To Theisseg. The icy water poured down her spine again. She squeezed her husband’s arm.
“Nothing useful, Lena,” he said after a moment. “She just babbles about the foci, about being betrayed, and begging me to end it. To end the pain. She’s broken.”
Chaylene had demanded to know what he dreamed, needing to understand what trauma harried her husband night after night. His denials only hurt her. She couldn’t understand why Ary, a man she’d known all her life, wouldn’t trust her with something as simple as this dream. Instead, he would lie or grow angry.
Their fights . . .
Now she knew, it upset her entire world. She clutched Ary as another wave of vertigo assaulted her. The Storm churned below. Theisseg’s prison boiled with anger. It covered the face of the entire world. Riasruo, the Sun Goddess and Theisseg’s benevolent sister, had lifted the skylands up above the raging maelstrom and rescued those people she cared for, leaving behind Theisseg’s foul servants, the Wrackthar, to live in a world engulfed by eternal darkness. The stories claimed Theisseg created the Storm for the Tyrant King Kaltein, an act of a petty man whose ambitions came to ruin.
“Who betrayed her?” she asked, trying to parse.
Ary’s forehead furrowed. “There’s a name she screams it’s . . . it’s . . .” He shook his head. “A strange name. Eerwow or Yeerwa or . . . or . . . It’s all so jumbled. She babbles and screams in pain. She begs me to free her. To end her pain. She shouts that the most.”
“Okay. So you just have to ask Her questions next time you dream.”