Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Many different skeins existed, monastic orders Luastria drakes joined, dedicating their lives to Riasruo. Some served the poor, others helped the sick. The smallest, Wriavia’s, adjudicated any problems besetting the faith.

  The priestess let out a startled chirp when she noticed him. Her red silk robes, proclaiming her rank in the church, rustled as she flapped her wings. She was approaching her middle years, the dull-brown feathers of her face groomed, her yellow beak waxed to a gleam. She fixed piercing, golden eyes on Wriavia and clucked, “Who are you? How did you enter the temple?”

  “My apologies, priestess,” Wriavia said with deference, lowering his head. “I am Skein Wriavia of the Order of Adjudication.”

  “Really?” Wriavia heard the doubt filling the priestess’s song. “Dressed like . . . that?”

  “Yes, Priestess. I am on pressing business of the Synod and need parchment and pen.”

  “Priestess Srioatrii?” the acolyte chirped, a young, handsome hen in orange robes, her purple-black claws clicking against the stone floor.

  “Quiet,” chirped Srioatrii, her eyes still fixed on Wriavia. “Continue lighting the incense.”

  “Yes, Priestess.” The acolyte moved onto the next brazer, clutching a smoking brand with the distal feathers of her right wing. The prehensile feathers operated much like fingers of a Human or a Gezitziz, allowing the Luastria to manipulate the world around them with delicate precision.

  “Do you have any proof of your claims, Skein?”

  “I’m afraid I do not. My mission is of the greatest sensitivity.”

  “What mission could the Skein of Adjudication have here?”

  Wriavia’s gizzard twisted as he readied his lie. To the outside world, the Skein of Adjudication was the least needed of all the monastic order, a vestige clinging to the skies. Centuries ago, when the Age of Isolation ended, a myriad of sects, many embracing heresy, had sprouted like the chaotic coral on the side of a skyland. The Church created Wriavia’s skein to bridge the differences and convince them to bow down to the rightful voice of Riasruo—the Bishriarch. Sometimes those sects proved stubborn. Other ways of adjudicating the differences were discovered; the first assassinations needed. Now his order trained to eliminate those who threatened the harmony of the skies.

  “A heretical sect is rumored to be forming among the farmers of Southern Les,” Wriavia lied. “I was sent to ascertain the truth. I spent many weeks disguised as a merchant traveling among them, trying to win their confidence.”

  “Heretical sect?” Srioatrii gasped. “My acolytes have heard no such thing.”

  There were never enough priestesses or temples in the far-flung reaches of the skies. The Autonomy of Les-Vion and the Tribes of Zzuk had the smallest concentration of churches. Here, acolytes roamed between villages on circuits to preach, teach, and cleanse the sins of the common rabble.

  “This sect doesn’t trust Luastria priestesses. The Humans are growing . . . mistrustful of us. They are jealous of the Luastria’s exalted position in our Goddess’s feathery light.”

  Srioatrii’s head twitched from side to side, her talons clicking on the floor. “This is . . . disturbing.”

  “I need to write my findings to the Synod,” Wriavia continued. “I humbly request parchment and pen.”

  “Very well. Bwuoutria!”

  “Yes, Priestess,” the acolyte squawked.

  “Lead the skein to my study. When he has written the letter, head to the docks and find a ship to deliver it.”

  “Right away, Priestess.”

  Wriavia followed the slim acolyte from the Solar, ignoring her trilling, excited questions. In his mind, he’d already composed his humiliating letter. The acolyte ushered him into a small, round room with several perches for visitors before a wooden desk strewn with parchment. Shelves lined with religious manuscripts covered one wall while a window, looking out at the courtyard and several persimmon trees, pierced the other. Wriavia mounted the perch, stout wood thrusting up from a wide base. It had a thick dowel running horizontally through the top, allowing a Luastria’s feet to grip it in comfort. Wriavia folded his legs against his breast and shook his feathers as he settled himself. He’d missed having a proper perch in Shon.

  “Do you require anything else?” the acolyte asked.

  “Privacy. My words are for the Bishriarch and the Synod.”

  The chick left Wriavia to stare down at the blank, yellow-white parchment before him. His gizzard threatened to rebel and expunge his stone. A tremble shook through him. But Wriavia knew his duty and reached for the quill. As it scratched across the paper, painting the large, flowing letters of Luastria script, Wriavia planned his next step.

  I need to reach Tlele. The Dauntless will sail out of the port of Onhur. Hopefully, Vel will use the choking plague, but Briaris has Theisseg’s dark chance protecting him.

  As he wrote, he plotted how to destroy an Autonomy naval ship. Wriavia would not fail again.

  Chapter Three

  Isamoa 15th, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Ary’s eyes opened. Years of rising at dawn had conditioned him to rise at the same time. Work started early on the farm. After his pa’s death during the Cyclone seven years ago, Ary had filled his place. It had put a man’s strength on his frame.

  As he blinked away sleep, Ary’s thoughts drifted to his two younger siblings, Jhevon and Gretla. How were they coping with their ma’s death? A raw wound ached his heart. Ary had only found out about her death a week ago, the night before the Cyclone had attacked Camp Chubris. Ary’s emotions, a tangled mess worse than the most chaotic patch of coral, clogged his mind. His ma had spent the last seven years hating him. When his pa died, something inside her broke. Bitterness seeped into the cracks like sealing tar, filling her with vile hatred for Ary.

  There was a time when Ary thought she could love him again. Srias, one of his younger sisters, diligently worked to repair their ma in the weeks following the Cyclone. But the choking plague claimed his sister that winter, sparing him.

  I survived. Like I always do. Pa, Srias, Ahneil, the Sergeant Major, and all the rest that died last week . . .

  Ary’s ma always claimed that Theisseg had cursed him. When Srias succumbed to the plague and he recovered, it only cemented her madness. She was right . . . Theisseg touched me. That’s why I survived and Srias didn’t.

  He pushed back the fever-filled memory of Srias choking as she’d died beside him in their ma’s bed, his ten-year-old self vainly struggling to find the strength to seize her hand. He found it only after she’d died. He held her while the warmth bled out of her body and his ma howled her grief.

  Ary thought surviving forever broke his relationship with his ma. The day he left for Ahly to receive his Blessing and sign up for the naval draft, she’d disowned him and told him never to return. Only when the Navy drafted Chaylene and he had volunteered to serve with her, his ma had visited him, begging for his forgiveness.

  But I was too angry, Ary thought, castigating himself. Too stubborn to give it to her.

  Ary lost the chance to mend their relationship. He finally wrote her back, accepting her apology, but there was little chance his letter had reached her before her death. Ary held his wife tighter, staring at her ebony face relaxed in sleep, her blonde hair spilled in a mess about her face. I waited too long with ma, but not with you.

  He kissed her cheek.

  Chaylene stirred, shifting on their hay-stuffed mattress. She rolled over, mumbling, “Morning.”

  Her lips met his, so hot. She ignited Ary’s loins. He ran his hands along her body.

  Morning revelry’s blaring horns interrupted them. Chaylene groaned as she broke the kiss, head falling back on her pillow. “Come on, we have to get you a new coat before the ceremony.”

  Ary blinked then remembered it was Dawnsday, the start of a new week. Today was the mass funeral for all those who had perished fighting the Cyclone. Wriavia’s attack had ruined Ary’s only red coat. He owned spare trousers and shir
ts, but he needed his coat to be in uniform.

  “That’s gonna be Theisseg-damned hard to explain,” Ary muttered, staring at the tattered, blood-stained pile on the floor. He rolled out of bed and held the coat aloft before him. Four long slashes marred the back, the torn edges crusted and stiff with his blood. His back prickled.

  “Just tell the quartermaster you need a new one,” Chaylene said. She snagged her grass-stained coat. “I’ll need to take this down to the laundresses and have them attend to it while you get a new coat.”

  “Thanks for abandoning me,” he muttered.

  She patted his thick arm. “You’ll take care of it.” She giggled with girlish mirth. No longer did he feel like the wrong word would shatter their relationship; the fragility was mended.

  Ary’s eyes followed the sway of her naked rear as she padded to the table in the center of their room where a pitcher of water waited. She poured the liquid into a bowl and used a small cloth to sponge clean her body. Her smile grew as he watched her bathe.

  “Stop daydreaming over your wife,” she said when she’d finished. She tossed him the wet cloth. It smacked into his chest, sticking to him as water ran down his torso. “If we get this done fast, we can head into Shon and see if we can track down Wriavia.”

  “And do what?” Ary asked, feeling her eyes watching him as he washed his body. “You’re the one who calmed me down about it last night.”

  “We can’t kill him.” The viciousness he had witnessed in her eyes the night before returned. “But we can . . . learn about him. Gain intelligence.”

  “Scout?” Ary asked.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “Okay.”

  “And maybe an opportunity will open up.”

  Ary’s skin crawled at her almost casual tone. The woman before him was so different from the girl he knew. All the heat he’d felt last night left her, leaving her cold like hearthstones that hadn’t known a home’s fire in centuries. He hated that it didn’t trouble him as much as it should. They were discussing murder. Not defending themselves, but hunting down Wriavia. Without his anger howling through him . . .

  “Only if we can . . . get away with it.” His skin squirmed. Wriavia tried to kill us. He had to remember that. He focused on that, felt the first rumbling on his anger.

  “We should still go and confront him. And if he attacks us, well, it’ll be self-defense.”

  Ary nodded. “Only if he attacks us. The Dauntless sails tomorrow. He’ll have a hard time attacking us while we’re serving on a warship.”

  She reached for her linen chemise and then froze. She glanced at Ary, the harness melting away, revealing girlish fright. She swallowed. “I’m really urging us to murder him, aren’t I?”

  Ary nodded. As his anger swelled, her plan appealed to him. If Wriavia attacked first, preferably with witnesses around, well . . . it was simple. Direct. An enemy should be eliminated as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

  “I . . . I didn’t even hesitate. I’m just so furious at him. He attacked us, Ary. He would have killed us both.” She sank into a rickety chair. “What kind of person am I, Ary?”

  Ary took her hand and knelt before her. He kissed the tips of her fingers. “You’re protective, Lena. But he’s not innocent. He deserves to die, but the right way.”

  “Does he?” Her face tightened, lower lip quivering.

  “You’re a scout. A soldier. That’s all. You’ve been trained to kill the enemy.” He squeezed her fingers. “And Wriavia is the enemy.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay.” Her face relaxed. “Let’s hurry. I’ll get my coat washed and you go see the quartermasters.”

  He gave her fingers another kiss.

  The pair dressed, Ary in his spare blue trousers and a clean shirt, buttoned and tucked into his pants. Chaylene pulled on her light-blue jacket over her white linen uniform, her pants bloused into her black boots. She sheathed her knife into her boot as Ary wrapped his sword belt around his waist, shifting the metal sabre on his hip until it hung comfortably.

  Chaylene wrapped up his bloody clothes and said, “I’ll dispose of these.”

  The sun was clearing the skyland’s edge when they stepped outside, driving off the cold bite in the air. While the early autumn days were warm, winter fondled the night. Camp Chubris lay on the grassy bluffs of Southern Les, surrounded by a wooden palisade with smaller fences subdivided into four sections. Three of them were laid out identically, each one assigned to the crew of a different ship. The Dauntless’s crew was quartered in the southernmost camp. The buildings were all wooden and whitewashed. The large barracks, mess hall, and parade ground dominated the center. Spreading out from there was the row of cottages for married recruits and various warehouses and support buildings. The fourth section held the camp’s administration district, centered around the stone building where Admiral Dhamen, the camp’s superintendent, had his office. The rest held warehouses, quarters for civilian employees, and the docks.

  Ary and Chaylene separated when they reached the nearby parade ground before the barracks. She cut across it to head for where the laundresses worked while Ary headed for the quartermaster’s warehouse, the largest in their section of camp. Other recruits lounged around. Dawnsday was a normal free day from training, though since the Cyclone, the sailors were all on light duty. Most had suffered wounds in the fray, and everyone was grateful for the last five days of relaxed leisure after three months of near-constant training.

  “What a fine morning,” Estan said, strolling up to Ary from the three-story-tall barracks, his red coat buttoned up smartly. The slim Vaarckthian man grinned despite his stiff movement. His ebony skin held a darker hue than Chaylene’s, almost pure black. His short, curly hair, a contrasting red, marked his pure heritage. Estan was descended from the Vaarckthian governor of Elemy who had sided with the rebels against the Empire.

  “It is,” Ary nodded as Estan fell in alongside him.

  “And where are you off to in such a rush this morning?”

  “Quartermaster’s.”

  “I surmise it is about a new coat, since yours is curiously missing.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s good to see you are as loquacious as ever.”

  “What?” Ary blinked. Estan often seemed to forget that his companions didn’t have his education.

  “Garrulous,” suggested Estan.

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “He can never speak plainly,” Guts rumbled, the big marine striding up on the other side of Ary. He stood both taller and wider than Ary, the largest man serving on the Dauntless. Despite his girth, he moved with agile speed. A bandage covered his missing nose. The wound added a high-pitched whine to the man’s bass, but somehow didn’t distract from the open and friendly grin on his lips.

  “I was making a jest on our friend’s taciturn responses,” explained Estan.

  “I know that one,” Ary said. “You’ve called me taciturn before. It means . . . not talkative, right?”

  “Essentially.”

  “Ary, you bottle everything up,” Guts rumbled. “It’s why you’re in trouble with Chaylene. Estan and I were talking about it and . . .” The big man clamped his jaw shut, glancing at Ary. He cleared his throat before continuing, “I hope I didn’t . . . I mean, I know it’s not the only reason. There are those unfounded rumors about her and . . .”

  “Vel,” Ary growled, banked coals flaring to life inside him at the mention of his former friend. “And no, you didn’t upset me. In fact, me and Chaylene talked last night and . . . I think it’s fine.”

  “So you told her your secret?” asked Estan.

  Ary glanced at Estan, a prickle racing across his skin. He wanted to confide in the scholarly man. I’m sure Estan knows everything about the Stormtouched. Thick molasses seemed to coat his tongue, choking him off before he could utter even a single word.

  I can’t lose Chaylene.

  “I did,” Ary answered, heavy tongue slowing his words.

/>   “So . . . what’s your secret?” Guts asked, leaning in. “What were you so scared to tell your wife about?”

  “Guts,” Estan protested. “I do not think it is our concern. If it was, Ary would confide in us knowing he can trust his friends’ discretion.”

  Can I with this secret? The weight of his promise pressed on him, but he didn’t carry the burden alone any longer. It didn’t feel as heavy. His need to disclose it was dwindling.

  “Right, right.” Guts said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “Still, if you want to tell us . . .”

  “It’s nothing. I just . . . made a mistake,” Ary said. “And, um, Chaylene was more understanding about it than I thought she would be.”

  Guts let out a rumbling laugh. “You did something with Ahneil, didn’t you? I knew she trailed after you for a reason. Those Agerzak girls can go wild once they get a taste. I can tell you stories ‘bout some of the girls I knew back in Tlovis.”

  “Didn’t your girl toss you aside for your brother?” Ary asked. Guts hailed from the Fringe, his parents some of the many colonists who had settled the lands after the Autonomy conquered the skylands from the Agerzaks.

  “Like I said, they can be wild.” Guts grinned. “But she wasn’t wild enough to follow after me. My brother’s a downyheaded fool to fall for her.” He chuckled. “Storm it all, so was I. Learned my lesson the day of the draft. But it’s okay; I got Zori. She’s a far better fish to net than Keina ever was.”

  “Was that your secret, Ary?” Estan frowned. “That you and Ahneil . . .?”

  Ary’s cheeks burned. He almost blurted out no, but hesitated. Guts would keep prying for the secret, and this was innocuous enough. A Stormrider’s sword had killed Ahneil, so she couldn’t contradict his story. Better this lie than the truth and the quarantine. “Yeah. We . . . um . . . kissed once. It’s when I thought Chaylene and Vel were . . .”

  Guts nodded.

  “But Chaylene understood it was a mistake. I never loved Ahneil.” Ary swallowed. “I’ll trust you two won’t tell anyone. Chaylene doesn’t deserve more mud slung at her.”