Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Uarioa’s robe rubbed against her featherless chest and belly.

  The archbishopresses watched in silence as the Bishriarch wheezed across the room to her perch. She didn’t fly to the exalted position, but climbed stairs made of thick dowels. Uarioa felt the labor of each of the old hen’s faltering steps. The Bishriarch persevered and reached the pinnacle.

  Uarioa craned her head, clucking her beak as the strain mounted in her neck. A dull ache spread across her shoulders and into her wings. The Bishriarch scanned the room, ruffling her feathers as she settled down into a comfortable perch. As she assumed her place, a majesty wreathed the Bishriarch, fueled by decades of holding her position. An inner strength shone brighter than the dimming light of her aged flesh.

  “Under the light of Riasruo’s sun and the guidance of the Synod of the Faithful Cantons,” the Bishriarch chirped out the ritual calling the Synod to session, “I am ready to impart the holy words and interpret our Goddess’s will. I call upon Archbishopress of Les to speak with piety.”

  “Thank you, gracious Bishriarch,” Iaiprii said, bowing her head.

  “Get on with it,” chirped Jyaouswii.

  Uarioa hated the position the arrogant hen bore. I will never understand the stupidity of the bishopresses of Mgeupro for electing the downy-headed chick to administer their Canton.

  “A letter arrived from Skein Wriavia today.”

  “Finally,” Jyaouswii said, rustling her feathers beneath her white robe.

  More archbishopresses glared at Jyaouswii. The hen did not seem to notice.

  “Will you hold in any further outbursts so I might read the letter?” asked Iaiprii, anger trilling her words to a screeching pitch.

  Jyaouswii gave a small incline of her head.

  Iaiprii glanced down at the letter and read:

  In Riasruo’s Shining Love I greet you, the Bishriarch of Riasruo and the Synod of the Faithful Cantons.

  I have no good news to report. I have failed to kill Briaris Jayne.

  Disappointed chirps echoed through the Synod. Uarioa’s gizzard churned.

  Worse, in a desperate attempt to adjudicate him last night, my identity was exposed. He knows a Luastria merchant has tried to kill him. He may deduce more, though there is no evidence I left behind that can soil the Church’s feathers.

  “I told you this was risky,” Saiuvii, Archbishopress of Vion, screeched. “If the Autonomy knows we tried to kill one of their sailors, we will have an entire nation breaking away from our power.”

  “And the Vaarckthian Empire will crush them and bring them back beneath our wings.” Jyaouswii tossed her head. “The Empire moves forward with their plans of reconquest.”

  “Futile plans of reconquest,” Saiuvii chirped back. “The Empire again underestimates the Autonomy.”

  “This bickering serves us little,” wheezed the Bishriarch. “Let Iaiprii finish reading her letter.”

  “Thank you, Bishriarch.” Iaiprii bowed again then continued.

  Briaris Jayne possesses foul Theisseg’s luck. He has survived fire, poison, a Cyclone, and my own claws.

  “There was a Cyclone?” Uarioa gasped. “Already? But it’s only been three months since the Rosy Prayer.”

  “Yes, on the . . .” Iaiprii scanned the letter. “On the Ninth of Isamoa.”

  Fourteen days ago . . .? Uarioa’s tail feathers twitched. No Cyclone has ever struck so soon after the Summer Solstice. They usually didn’t rise for at least two more months, coming nearer to the end of the year. Uarioa glanced at Iiwroa’s book, contemplating its final chapter. Is this the time to summon a new Golden Daughter?

  Iaiprii continued:

  I intend to sail to Onhur upon the Skyland of Tlele. The Dauntless, his ship, travels there to join the Autonomy’s Eastern Fleet. There, I will redouble my efforts to adjudicate Briaris and fulfill Riasruo’s will.

  I will accept any censor or punishment that the Synod decries.

  Your humble servant,

  Wriavia, Skein of Adjudication,

  Fifteenth of Isamoa, 399 VF

  “We should send another skein,” squawked Jyaouswii. “This Wriavia has clearly failed. He should be brought back, stripped of his feathers, and thrown from the side of the skyland!”

  “Wriavia is the most skilled assassin of his Skein,” Rwiistrau said, beak lifted high. “He has adjudicated several high-profile heretics without incident.”

  “By his own words, he caused an incident!” Jyaouswii fluttered her wings. “I put forth a motion that he is to be recalled and punished. Who will join me under the light of Riasruo?”

  She stood.

  Only one other archbishopress rose with her, Vriicuou of the Canton of Olvuirna. Jyaouswii’s head darted around, fixing every archbishopress with a flinty stare. Then she clucked her beak. “Fine.” She settled back down into her perch. “I withdraw my motion.”

  “I do like the idea of sending a second Skein to assist Wriavia,” Uarioa said. “He is skilled, but he was partially exposed.”

  “Yes, let’s double our chances of full exposure,” Saiuvii chirped. “It’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Your sarcasm does not help,” said Rwiistrau.

  “Since my wisdom is ignored, what recourse do I have but to expose the folly with which you all lead the Church?”

  “Please, share your . . . wisdom.”

  Saiuvii fixed Rwiistrau a sharp look before saying, “Let the Autonomy quarantine the young man. They understand that Stormtouched are . . . cursed and not to be trusted.”

  “He will be even harder to kill in their prison,” Rwiistrau said. “Alive, he can still talk. Still expose truths best forgotten.”

  “You think his jailers would understand or believe him?” Saiuvii asked. “That any would hear him and believe? Are you that desperate to clutch onto power, you would endanger our relationship with the Autonomy over such a small risk of exposure?”

  Rwiistrau’s feathers bristled. She rose, her chest swelling. Saiuvii faced the powerful hen with unflinching eyes. Rwiistrau’s beak opened and—

  A great, booming horn echoed through the Grand Temple.

  “What is that?” Jyaouswii chirped.

  Rwiistrau’s chest deflated. “The Tezlian Alarm.”

  The horn sounded again and again, swelling in volume. Uarioa’s perch vibrated to the deep thrum resounding through the room. Her head darted around, heat flaring through stiff muscles of her neck while her gizzard gripped its stone.

  “Send an acolyte to find out the source of the disturbance,” the Bishriarch commanded.

  “Do you think it is a fire in the city?” asked Jyaouswii. “Or did a ship crash?”

  “We’ll soon know,” Rwiistrau said.

  Hyaiuni, Archbishopress of the Tribes of Zzuk and the Principality of Wlensk, hurried to the doors. Only she stood lower in the hierarchy than Uarioa. The scrawny hen reached the door and pulled it open, clucking to those waiting outside.

  The horns kept blaring. Each wail fluttered Uarioa’s tail feathers. When was the alarm last sounded? When Emperor Zhnavth’s fleet sailed into Ianwoa two and a half centuries ago?

  “It must be a fire,” Jyaouswii clucked. “A big one.”

  “Then the city must see the Synod is calm and collected,” Rwiistrau said, her voice even. “Riasruo’s fire has come to cleanse our holy city.”

  “Already spinning the tragedy?” clucked Saiuvii.

  “Yes,” Rwiistrau answered, facing Saiuvii without flinching. “The flock must be led to safety.”

  Scaled footsteps boomed outside. A pair of Tezlian guards ducked low to enter the chamber. Their tongues flickered with agitation, breechcloths swaying between thighs thicker than Uarioa’s slender body.

  “Well?” sang Rwiistrau. “What is the disturbance?”

  “A Cyclone rises before the city, Archbishopress,” hissed one.

  “Impossible,” clucked Saiuvii. “There was a Cyclone only fourteen days ago. One could not follow in such a short time.”<
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  “No Cyclone has attacked Ulanii,” chirped Jyaouswii. “The Stormriders wouldn’t dare.”

  “They dared to attack the heart of the Dawn Empire, you stupid chick!” Rwiistrau rose. “We have long been prepared for this day. Guard, aide the Bishriarch.”

  The guards looked up to the Bishriarch. She inclined her head.

  Uarioa shifted on her perch. Her heart fluttered beneath her chest. She’d never felt her age more. Her Stormriders threatened the heart of the Church. A Sky Tower thrust up from the hills west of the city. The foci holding up Ulanii and the other skylands of the Theocracy. Clucks rose around the table.

  “What do we do?”

  “We have to evacuate.”

  “The Rosy Prayer has failed. She wants us dead for our betrayal!”

  “Yes,” Uarioa chirped.

  “Stop acting like a frightened flock of hens!” Rwiistrau shrill chirp cut through panicked songs. She strode to the doors. “Think and remember. Iiwroa prepared us.”

  Uarioa rose on trembling legs. Her gizzard stones rattled. Were the philosophers right? Are the Cyclones increasing at an ever greater pace until they overwhelm us?

  She glanced at the book. Is this the time?

  Uarioa joined the other archbishopresses trailing after Rwiistrau. The hen’s confidence dragged them all along. Only young Jyaouswii walked with grace. Uarioa tottered like the skies spun around her. They exited the Synod and pressed through the frightened flock of acolytes. They chirped like a nest of newly hatched chicks.

  “What is happening?”

  “Why is the alarm sounding?”

  “Is it really a Cyclone?” chirped Aiobrii, her liquid eyes finding Uarioa.

  “Riasruo shall send a miracle to save us,” Rwiistrau sang to the acolytes. “Sing out your prayers to our loving Goddess. Her feathery light shall strike down the heart of Theisseg’s darkness.”

  “Yes, pray, Aiobrii,” Uarioa said, brushing her wing feathers across her acolyte’s face as she passed. “Riasruo shall protect us.” Speaking the lie, giving hope, came easy.

  Rwiistrau led the archbishopresses and the Bishriarch, cradled in a guard’s thick arms, to the Grand Spire, the heart of the temple. Every summer solstice, the Bishriarch herself mounted the tower thrusting above the Great Temple to recreate the Dawn Empress’s climb up the lost Tower of Morning. There, she sang the Rosy Prayer, adding her voice to the thousands of other priestesses across the skies.

  The Crown was lost, a part of Uarioa, fleeing the terror of the Cyclone’s approach, thought. Does the Rosy Prayer even affect Her any longer? How else can Her servants attack more and more often?

  The stairs spiraled up and up. Fear dwindled before the throb in her hip joints. She flashed envious glances at the Bishriarch cradled in the scarlet arms of the guard. The stairs echoed with the gasps and wheezes of the aged hens. Uarioa’s tongue lolled out of her beak as she forced herself to take step after step.

  A distant roar growled through the tower, the sound louder than a drove of boars driven by herders.

  “Is that the Cyclone?” asked Jyaouswii.

  “They say it sounds like a hungry beast,” Saiuvii said, her chirps shrill.

  Uarioa’s heart fluttered. The ache fled as dread surged through her. She climbed faster, the seventh archbishopress to reach the apex. She sucked deep breaths through her beak as she turned to the east. The city of Ianwoa stretched out before her, built where the Pyoaria Hills rippled down to the skyland’s edge. The mighty Aiubwii River roared through the heart of the city, flowing from the distant Jyiarrii Mountains before plummeting off Ulanii and pouring into the Storm Below. The city followed the rise and fall of its many hills. The Great Temple was built on the highest point. From the pinnacle of the Grand Tower, the city appeared like blocks with which young hatchlings played.

  Then she spotted it. The Cyclone.

  She clucked a useless prayer as she witnessed the tempest rising out of the churning mass of the Storm Below. A vast wall of swirling darkness raced at the city. Lightning flashed in the interior, exposing striae of charcoal and ash. Clouds whipped past each other, circling about the heart of the vast maelstrom. In the streets, the citizens vanished into buildings. Ships fled the harbor, sailing over the city for the hills. No military vessels sallied forth to defend the skyland.

  No ships of war were permitted to dock at Ianwoa.

  That gave Uarioa little comfort. The Stormriders came to free Her. Uarioa could feel the crystal Sky Tower looming behind her.

  She cast her gaze to their only hope: the Sun Lance. A faceted ruby twice the size of a Gezitziz warrior set upon a plinth of yellow sun stone. Imbued with the power of a Song of Creation, warmth bled from the gem, a deep glow flickering in its depths. It was moved from the Tower of Sunset on Wlensk a thousand years ago to guard the Church and Iiwroa’s secrets, an artifact from ancient days. During the Wrackthar War, it was the only weapon that had held Kaltein’s armies back from destroying the Desperate Alliance, buying Iiwroa and her company time to reach Mount Wraiucwii.

  Uarioa had never witnessed its use, but had read about it in Iiwroa’s book. In theory, it held the energy to protect the city. If they could perform the Song. If the Bishriarch’s wizened body held the strength to wield Creation’s power and channel it through the resonance matrix of the massive gem.

  “I will lead the Song,” the Bishriarch said, standing at the tower’s edge. “I will need a Choir to support me.”

  The archbishopresses all nodded.

  The Bishriarch spread her wings, her white robes shining in the sun. She sang the Song of Enchantment. A pure, wordless melody flowed out of her. The ruby hummed, responding to the force of her harmony. Uarioa drew in her breath and opened herself up. She didn’t so much as sing as let the Music of Creation flow through her body. She added her own trilling voice to support the Bishriarch. Their chorus blended and merged together, weaving the power into a symphony.

  There were many Songs of Creation, from the Rosy Prayer to the Song of Imbuement used to bestow the Blessings. Few were known outside of the Synod. They were too powerful to be trusted. The Universe itself was created with them, and with them even mortals could accomplish miracles if they utilized the proper tools.

  The Sun Lance hummed, a rising cry of defiance screaming out against the Cyclone’s hungry growl. Ruby light flared across its faceted surface. The tower shook beneath Uarioa’s feet as she allowed Creation to flow through her voice and harmonize with the others. The Bishriarch guided their symphony. The Sun Lance’s pitch keened to higher registers. The sound stabbed Uarioa’s ears. The energy vibrated the hollow bones of her body. The Bishriarch’s song rose in volume and strength, clashing with the great roar of the Cyclone. The song swelled to its crescendo. The gem vibrated in its stand. Scarlet bathed the world.

  Uarioa swayed.

  The Sun Lance discharged its energy.

  White-hot light blazed past Uarioa. Heat washed over her. In a blink of an eye, a line linked tower and Cyclone. The air roiled and cracked like thunder. A searing sensation whipped at Uarioa’s body. Her robe flared. She raised her wings to shield her face, her chirps lost to the deafening booms.

  A great explosion clapped through the sky. Lightning erupted through the maelstrom, illuminating the whipping winds. The Sun Lance went quiet. The bright line snuffed out. The ruby groaned like cooling glass removed from the kiln. The wind died. The Bishriarch collapsed like a heap of old bones.

  Uarioa could not look away from the Cyclone.

  The dark clouds broke apart. They unfurled like bits of cotton thrown into the sky, expanding and diffusing into mist. It faded moment by moment, becoming the light gray of a rain cloud, then the haze of a misty morning. The Sun Lance had struck the Eye, destroying the engine powering the foul maelstrom. Glinting metal fell from the sky, the Stormriders plummeting dead, their lives tied to the Cyclone.

  With its destruction, they rained back to the foul ground below.

  “Hol
y Bishriarch,” Rwiistrau chirped in alarm. She knelt beside the wizened hen, shaking her body.

  Uarioa clucked in alarm. The Bishriarch did not answer. Her body lay on her side, beak open, her dark tongue thrust stiff. The claws of her right foot were curled tight, the left relaxed. The wind blew an errant feather across her downy face.

  The archbishopresses crowded around her.

  “S-she’s dead,” Rwiistrau chirped.

  “She guided the Church for more than fifty years.” Uarioa’s legs buckled. “She cannot be dead.” We need her guidance. “Not now. She’s the greatest of us.”

  “The flock still flies,” Rwiistrau sang, her voice brimming with confidence. “We shall lead the Faithful true.”

  Age sagged Uarioa’s body. She did not have the strength to stand. Every bit of her ached from channeling Creation. A dreadful certainty fell upon the archbishopress. We need Lanii to return. Uarioa shook. For a thousand years, the Synod agreed never to create another “daughter” of Riasruo. But now . . .

  The Song of Embodiment must be sung again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isamoa 23rd, 399 VF (1960 SR)

  Ary smiled as the skyland of Vesche’s northern coast slid by to the starboard of the Dauntless. An excited buzz, different from his charge, tingled across his skin. Ahead, the skyland jutted out towards the northeast, forming the Aychiox Peninsula. Which would make the green blotch the Snakewood, thought Ary. Isfe, and his family’s farm, lay beyond.

  “So that’s your home?” Guts asked. He leaned on the starboard gunwale beside Ary. He gazed out at the farmland leading up to the Snakewood. Orderly orchards of lemon and orange abutted pastures of grazing ostriches and fields of barley. Golden ospreys chased schools of greenish field guppies from the sprouting winter grains. It would be the second crop planted after the first harvest two months ago.

  Ary nodded. “Yep. I think that’s the Snakewood.”