by J M D Reid
“So Evtan and Twatrew do not have these anchors?”
Estan shook his head.
Chaylene swallowed. “So . . . what are these foci?”
Excitement clutched at Estan’s heart. He could feel the yearning in her question, the importance behind her innocuous words. “I think they’re the Sky Towers.”
Chaylene frowned.
“You would probably know them better as the Dawnspires.”
“Like the one by Camp Chubris?”
“Yes. Had we not stopped that Cyclone, Les, and perhaps more skylands, would have fallen.”
A tremble ran through Chaylene. “Riasruo shine your bright light upon us.”
“But the only problem with the theory is the Agerzaks.”
“How are they a problem?”
“One of the Sky Towers lies on Mupfen in the heart of the Petty Kingdoms. I’ve heard stories from a few scholars who tried to study Agerzak culture and legends. They speak of the original capital, founded by King Agerz, and that it was at Halkelf on Mupfen.”
“So if the Sky Towers are the foci, and the Stormriders are trying to pull the skylands down, why didn’t the Agerzaks destroy that one?” Chaylene asked.
“And more importantly, how did they break their connection with the Eye?” The truth of the Agerzaks must be learned. Are they the outlier of Stormrider behavior, or was Swuopii’s loss the anomaly? Did something go wrong with their first attempt at colonization?
“So what are the Stormriders’ motives?” Chaylene muttered. “Colonization or destruction?”
“I wish I knew.”
Chaylene nodded. She glanced to the left at the door that led to the officers’ cabins beneath the stern deck. Ary was emerging from his meeting. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.” She paused. “How many Sky Towers are there?”
“Twelve.”
Her eyes widened and her breath quickened.
Her reaction heartened Estan.
“Thank you for the talk, Estan.”
“Anytime.” As she left, he thought, I hope it will help you trust me.
*
Isamoa 22nd, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Chaylene woke up with a full bladder.
Ary snored softly beside her. She rolled off her hammock, the decking cool on her bare feet. After five days of sailing, the dark hold reeked of unwashed bodies. She breathed through her mouth as she threaded her way through the slumbering sailors. Sleep always came easy for the crew. Work never ended on the ship. Decks needed to be scrubbed, ropes braided, and maintenance performed. Every day, Chaylene and Velegrin had to muck out the menagerie and care for the four pegasi onboard.
Chaylene reached the jakes at the bow of the Dauntless beneath the main magazine. There were two compartments, one for men and one for women. The air whistled through holes cut in a wooden bench. She sat gingerly down on the rough wood—a splinter had taught her caution—and relieved herself.
Two days after their talk, she still puzzled over Estan’s words. Learning what the foci were was a start. The Dawnspires had to be them. The number correlated to the chains binding Theisseg to the Storm. Did the Stormriders mess up trying to free her and accidentally cause Swuopii to fall? Do they not care at all? Are they just trying to escape living beneath the Storm?
Her thoughts circled again and again. She didn’t feel any closer to understanding how any of it worked. She wanted to speak to Estan but understood Ary’s fear. The same negativity had almost stopped her from marrying Ary, dreading him enlisting in the Navy and dying.
When she’d finished passing her water, she hiked up her britches and exited the jakes. She found two sailors barring the hallway. Both had hungry grins. One had a bulbous nose so large it dominated his face; the other was lanky, his blond hair matted in a greasy tangle. Both were transfers from the Spirituous. The sourness of their sweat assaulted Chaylene’s nostrils.
“Yes?” she demanded, folding her arms before her.
“Me ‘n Voasin were wonderin’ if you needed some . . . companionship,” bulbous nose said. “Help douse that hot blood of yours.”
Chaylene’s anger boiled through her. She ground her teeth. “Return to your hammocks, sailors!”
“Now, we was just tryin’ to be friendly like,” Voasin said. “No need to act like a red snapper flew up your skirt.”
“No one’ll know,” bulbous nose added, reaching out to touch her cheek.
She caught his finger in a tight grip and bent it backward. As he grimaced, she hissed, “I am a married woman and a warrant officer, so mind your words with me, Sailor.”
“So what if you’re married?” asked Voasin, ignoring his wincing friend. “We know you’ve made a set of horns for your husband a few times. Why grub with that cook? He’ll just smear grease on you. We’ll take far better—”
Chaylene released the bulbous-nose sailor’s finger to jab Voasin hard into the chest. “Now you listen to me, Sailor. You say one more filthy word claiming I violated my marriage vows, and I’ll march both of you to the Bosun.”
The bulbous-nosed sailor, flexing his finger, muttered, “Real sorry, Warrant Officer.”
“Sorry,” Voasin said, looking away. “It’s just Vel . . . he was saying how friendly you could be. Just thought—”
“What has that slimy eel been saying about me?” she snarled, her back stiffening.
“Well . . .” Voasin rubbed his hand through his hair. “He claims that he bedded you a few times. Said you were real eager to . . . uh . . . be with him.”
Rage hardened her face into a mask of stone.
Voasin flinched. “But, I can see that it ain’t true. My apologies, Warrant Officer.”
“Back to your hammocks before I have the Bosun flog the pair of you,” Chaylene hissed. Damn that Vel. Is he that petty?
On her march back to her hammock, Chaylene barely remembered what had attracted her to Vel. Every day, he became more loathsome. Beneath his gorgeous face lurked something black and foul. Her skin crawled, itching for soapy water.
“Speak to me,” Ary muttered, trembling on his hammock. The rope ties creaked as he swayed. “Just tell me something useful!”
He’s dreaming of Theisseg again.
Fear seized her, banishing anger. Her guts went clammy; others might hear him. Chaylene sprang at her husband and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Wake up, Ary,” she hissed as she shook him. “Ary.”
He moaned words muffled by her hand. She shook harder, her heart pounding. She looked around the dark hold, tensing against someone waking up. Someone hearing his words. He groaned, his lips wet against her palm as he spoke to the Dark Goddess.
His eyes snapped open.
Chaylene sighed as an icy chill rippled across her flesh. She removed her hand. “So, anything . . .?”
Ary shook his head. “Just ranting. She . . . ignored me.”
“Okay.” Chaylene swallowed and opened her mouth to speak.
A man crept through the hold. Her face tightened as Voasin slinked to his bunk. She scowled at the man as she sank onto her hammock.
“Everything all right, Lena?” asked Ary.
“Fine,” she muttered.
His hand grasped hers. “You can tell me.”
“Just some . . .” She hesitated. What will Ary do if he learns Vel is claiming he bedded me? Chaylene knew her husband wouldn’t believe it, but his temper . . . “I stubbed my toe walking back from the jakes. Hurts bad.”
“Sorry,” Ary muttered. He leaned back on his hammock, his eyes closing. His hand felt so warm.
“Thanks,” she smiled. Her stomach twisted. I shouldn’t keep secrets. Look at all the harm they caused. But Ary was so protective of her. She loved him for that and feared what lengths his anger might drive him to do. The image of Ary almost throwing that sow Grabin over the side of the Xorlar months ago flitted through her mind. He solved problems with his fists. It would just get him flogged or worse. The price wasn’t worth the satisfaction of seeing Sharthamen or Vay or Ve
l, especially Vel, lying battered on the ground.
Will these rumors storm after me all my life?
Frustration swirled through her. They had no release. They stewed in her, pickling her insides sourer and sourer. She rolled onto her side, the hammock creaking and swaying. She stared at the dark form of her sleeping husband. She understood completely why he hadn’t told her the truth about her dreams. He hadn’t trusted her.
I wouldn’t have trusted me with it.
The fact he had still made her feel dizzy sometimes. It only added to her confusion. After she had come so close to trampling out the fires of their marriage, he’d entrusted the very coal of his life into her hands. She could have smothered it with a word to Captain Dhar, seen him imprisoned for the rest of his life. Then she wouldn’t be in danger from the assassin.
She hugged herself tighter. She missed Zori so much. Her friend would know what to say. She would untangle the emotions that had Chaylene all knotted up and confused about everything. They would hatch a way to smother these rumors with Ailsu . . .
Tears stung her eyes as she thought about poor Ailsuimnae. Chaylene had only had two female friends in her life, women with whom she could talk to about her emotions, about her desires, about her fears. One left behind at Camp Chubris. The other stolen away by the Stormriders.
The Dauntless creaked. She ground her teeth, closing her eyes. Four more years sleeping in hammocks in a hold full of unwashed bodies. Four more years of everyone around her thinking she was adulterous. That she wasn’t trustworthy.
That her husband was a fool for trusting her.
She ached for morning to arrive. They would arrive at Aldeyn Watch around noon tomorrow. To be away from the crew, from the rumors, and see Ary’s family felt like such a blessing to her. For once, she yearned for Isfe.
Chapter Eleven
Isamoa 23rd, 399 VF (1960 SR), Ianwoa, The Skyland of Ulanii
Archbishopress Uarioa, administrator of the Canton of Arthu, stared in disgust at the fuzzy down falling off her shoulder. The mottling was spreading faster. Her gizzard tightened and her clawed feet flexed on her perch. Every day, the disease claimed more and more of her feathers. Already her belly and chest looked plucked, her leather-brown skin visible. She feared the day it would reach her distal feathers, robbing her ability to manipulate the world with ease.
It wouldn’t be long before others witnessed her degenerative condition. Soon, the mottling would creep out of the concealment of her white robes. The disease knew no cure. In perhaps six months or a year, all her feathers would be gone.
I’ll be completely useless.
The end of her life would drift away with the feathers. She would have to retire her position and spend the rest of her days being cared for like a hatchling by resentful acolytes.
Uarioa tugged down her silk sleeve so it covered her shoulder. She fluttered her tail feathers to calm herself.
I’ll soon be denied that simple pleasure. She clucked in irritation, trying to banish those maudlin thoughts. What lay spread out upon her desk did not help.
The words scrawled in the angular style of cursive, popular in the Ethinski Union, hurt her eyes. It was small and compact. Despite the size of the Gezitziz, they possessed the dexterity to write with the same minuscule script as a Human or a Zalg. The Luastria were the most proficient race in all things but penmanship. While her kind produced beautiful calligraphy, their distal feathers didn’t afford them the same precision to write in tinier styles. It irked Uarioa that her kind was deficient in this one area when they surpassed the others in all forms of intellectual and artistic pursuits. No race possessed keener insight, more dexterity, or could sing with such heartbreaking purity.
Only a Luastria could fly without any Blessings. At least the ones without the mottlings.
Uarioa shook her head as she peered at the poem by Nzuuth sze Hyesk. The young Ethinski Stormtouched’s works had prompted a crisis in the church a century ago. The Skein of Adjudication infected her and her entire village with the choking plague to cleanse her taint from the skies. For the last three months, since Uarioa had learned another Stormtouched walked the skies, she couldn’t stop herself from reading the poetry. It was like prodding an ingrown feather despite the irritation it caused.
This book before her was the only copy that existed in the skies, the rest burned after Nzuuth’s death. The Synod kept it in their private library, forbidden to all but the Bishriarch and the fifteen archbishopresses. The heresy in it could not spread.
Riding tempest
Storming steeds
Howling madness
Gleaming blades
Riding tempest
Galloping fury
Rising death
Freedom gamble
Riding tempest
Staining sky
Armored martyrs
Cutting chains
Riding tempest
Storming steeds
Bringing death
Saving life
Uarioa’s eyes studied the poem, Reavers of the Tempest, trying to decipher every one of the two-word lines. The archbishopress was sure it spoke of the Stormriders in such glowing terms. Clearly, Her touched had poisoned Nzuuth. The young poet spread the secrets the Church had guarded since the end of the Dawn Empire, when they’d inherited the truth Iiwroa had concealed for the sake of the skies.
Every Stormtouched was a threat. They were all poisoned by Her, including this Briaris Jayne.
A peck rapped her office door.
“Enter,” Uarioa sighed, closing the book with a dexterous distal feather.
Aiobrii, the young acolyte who served Uarioa, entered. She ruffled her feathers beneath her orange robe. The hue gave her the appearance of a walking fire as she strutted to Uarioa’s desk.
“Yes?” the older hen asked.
“Archbishopress Iaiprii has called the Synod.”
Uarioa’s gizzard trembled about its stone. Iaiprii administrated the Canton of Les where Briaris Jayne trained in the Autonomy Navy. Please, let there be news. Let Briaris be dead. With Cyclones on the rise, a Stormtouched could not roam free.
Uarioa stepped off her perch with a cluck, her joints creaking. She felt her age, legs stiff from long hours of perching. Uarioa tottered past her acolyte and out of her office into the sandstone halls of the Grand Temple of Riasruo. Her claws clicked on the polished floors. Red dominated the tiled stones, but an intricate design of yellow, white, and orange sandstone added flair.
She stalked through the halls, her gait bow-legged. She passed fluted columns, tapered and carved to resemble dancing flames, supporting open hallways looking out upon green gardens. Acolytes perched in trees amid leaves turned autumnal oranges and reds. They sang as they watched the drake gardeners trim the bushes and rake the ground. Each male strutted as he worked, robes left half-open to flash scarlet feathers.
The acolytes squawked in alarm when Uarioa strode through the garden, but the archbishopress hardly cared at their impropriety. Young hens always chased the comely drakes; she’d done it herself before settling down with a good nest builder.
Aiobrii’s head, easily turned by a beautiful drake, fixed on a stunning gardener with his chest puffed out as he “raked” the leaves. The young acolyte stopped to trill out a song of appreciation.
“Aiobrii!” chirped the archbishopress, not hiding her irritation.
The chick squawked and flapped her wings, actually lifting up from the ground before landing hard. “Sorry, Archbishopress.”
Uarioa’s stiff stride carried her back into the temple interior, passing statuesque Tezlian guards. The crimson-scaled behemoths almost blended into the stone. Only their simple, white loincloths made the Ethinski Gezitziz stand out. Despite their ceremonial nature, they all stood with deadly seriousness, each raised from hatchlings to serve as the Grand Temple’s defenders. Two stood outside the synod itself, ignoring the flock of squawking acolytes, the secretaries of the other archbishopresses, filling the antech
amber with their inane speculation.
“Wait here, Aiobrii.” Uarioa paused. “And I mean that. Do not drift to the gardens to serenade.”
“Of course, Archbishopress,” chirped Aiobrii, her head scrunched down into her robe.
Nodding, Uarioa swept through the sandstone doors into the Synod. The Solar Disk, a perfectly circular table carved of yellow sandstone around which the fifteen archbishopresses met, dominated the room. Its simplicity belied the grandeur of its surroundings. Here, the Bishriarch, perching above, oversaw the administration of the Church and “spoke” for the Sun Goddess Herself.
At the center of the table, resting beneath a crystal dome, resided the Book of Iiwroa.
Uarioa tried not to look at the tome, which had shattered her faith in Riasruo. The truths it contained, though terrible to read, maintained life in the skies.
She circled the Solar Disk, many of the perches filled by her fellow archbishopresses. She inclined her head or gave a quick chirp of greeting on her way to her spot. She perched almost directly before the Bishriarch. Uarioa hated her place. She had to crane her stiff neck to look behind her while addressing the Bishriarch. But her Canton, covering the southern skies of the upstart Autonomy, was one of the least important. The revelation of a Stormtouched found on Vesche who went unnoticed for seven years had further drenched her feathers. She settled down on her spot, wings rustling as she sought a comfortable position.
“So, has Wriavia finally sent word?” demanded Archbishopress Rwiistrau. None in the room, save the Bishriarch herself, possessed more power than the administrator of the Canton of Ulanii. She fixed her beak at Archbishopress Iaiprii.
“Yes,” Iaiprii admitted. She perched a few spots away from Uarioa.
“Then tell us,” Jyaouswii cawed. The youngest member of the council flapped her wings hard, her fierce gaze locked on Iaiprii. “Is Briaris Jayne dead?”
Iaiprii clutched a folded letter to her chest. “I thought to wait on the Bishriarch before imparting the news.”
“Wise of you,” croaked the aged Bishriarch as she limped into the Synod, the doors closing behind her. Bishriarch Swuiuprii, Fourth of her Name, Song of the Sun, Spiritual Empress of the Dawn, surveyed the room. The years had bent and wizened her slender form. Rheum caked the feathers around her green eyes. Once, youth had invigorated her wings and beak, her vision as keen as any hatchlings. Age broke everything.
