by J M D Reid
A new sensation rippled down Estan’s skin. While his courage always failed him in approaching those friendly maids, or any other pretty girl, his curiosity itched for satisfaction. Her behavior needed an explanation.
He marched onto the jetty. His boots thudded. She knelt, unconcerned, her beaded braids clacking together as his stride shook the pier. He reached her side and peered down at the roiling gray-black clouds. His stomach tightened as a wave of vertigo beset him, the surface of the Storm suddenly leaping up at him. As he swayed, he became acutely aware of the jetty’s lack of railing.
He swallowed and pressed on with the same curiosity that had attracted him to Ary months ago. “It is fascinating the way the Storm’s chaotic patterns shift and merge.”
“Yes, it is,” the young woman answered without pausing her contemplation.
So she is paying attention. She just doesn’t care that I approached. “Are you following in the footsteps of Ievtha Kneuvzick?”
“And who is Ievtha Kneuvzick?” The girl’s voice possessed a smoky quality that reminded Estan of the perfection of her bosom.
He adjusted his trousers and answered, “A scholar who developed the Theorem of Chaotic Systems. She sought to predict the patterns of the Storm through complex mathematics.”
“She tried to bring order to the Storm?” the woman asked as she looked up. The thick epicanthic folds of her upper eyelids caused her amber eyes to appear slanted instead of round. “How utterly pointless.”
“So you have heard of the Theorem of Chaotic Systems?” Estan asked, nodding his head in approval.
The woman shook her head, her beads clattering louder. “Why else would you try and predict the Storm? People make predictions to bring order to the chaos of life. Many find it comforting to make all around them appear purposeful instead of accepting the truth that it is random.”
Estan blinked. He knelt down beside her. “What an astute observation.”
The woman giggled, something utterly girlish and at odds with her mature confidence. “I like how you talk. There’s . . . thought behind your words. You don’t spout them in any direction like a wind howling into a house and swirling all about. You . . . direct them.”
“The curse of an education, miss . . .?”
She threw her head back as peals of mirth rang from her lips. Her bosom heaved in interesting ways, attracting Estan’s studious gaze. When her delight died down, she said, “I’m no miss. I’m just Esty.”
“I’m Estan. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He reached out and clasped her hand.
Esty’s slanted eyes widened as she stared down at their grip. Her fingers were warm and delicate on his. Then she smiled and said, “Yes, a pleasure to meet you.” She pulled her hand away and leaned backward, resting her palms on the pier, her bosom straining in her dress. “So . . . what was it about me that attracted your attention? My charming wit?” She arched an eyebrow. “Or was it . . . something else?”
Estan’s cheeks warmed and he ached to adjust his trousers again. “Er, I noticed your . . . posture and your intent study of the Storm.”
Her eyes flicked down. “Yes, it must have been quite the arresting sight.”
Estan floundered, beset by summer winds from all direction. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Did she want him to comment on her mammaries, or to pretend he hadn’t been ogling them? Why did she speak with such heat in her voice? He swallowed, his mouth barren of water. Confused, he retreated into the familiar. “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you looking at the Storm?”
“I was divining.”
An eagerness seized Estan. “You’re a Stormwitch?”
“Maybe.” Her smile was beguiling. “For the right amount, I’ll tell you all my secrets.”
Estan nodded eagerly, a new lust rising in him. “I would be honored to be tutored by you. I have long desired to make study of the Agerzaks and their customs.”
“Tutored?” She arched an eyebrow. “I like that.” She stood. “Well, Estan, let’s go to my room, and I’ll give you quite the education.”
“Excellent,” Estan said and scrambled to his feet. “If you will lead on, miss.”
“Just Esty,” she reminded him, entwining her arm around his. Her touch fluttered Estan’s heart. “Remember?”
He swallowed, his throat as rough as sand. Such excitement beat through him, almost like the exhilaration of battle, but different. It lacked the clammy dread writhing through his guts. He had the chance to study the Agerzaks. Few scholars ever made the attempt. The insular people, so he’d heard, hated the other races and killed most foreigners who ventured into the petty kingdoms. Even those who had lived for two generations under the Autonomy’s rule eschewed speaking about their customs. Worse, the Church had declared the Agerzaks’ religion pagan and blasphemous to study. From what Estan had noted among the Agerzaks who served in the Navy, they rejected their people’s traditions, instead embracing Riasruo’s teachings. They either never learned about Theisseg’s Blessings, or feigned ignorance. But if Esty truly was a Stormwitch, she would know things.
If he could pay for her knowledge and learn about the Agerzaks’ beliefs . . .
Questions tumbled through Estan’s mind as they walked. Does a Stormwitch’s powers derive from one of Theisseg’s Blessings? Or is their ability to glimpse the future just superstition, like solarmancers or other soothsayers who prey on the gullible?
Estan went over all he knew of Theisseg’s Blessings, organizing his thoughts in preparation to ask her questions. It was well documented that Agerzaks could walk across the sky like it was ground and fashion crude engines to impart the ability to their mounts. Sailors also reported that a few Agerzaks could summon fire, often setting sails ablaze from a distance to slow a ship as the raiders charged in.
That’s two. What are the others? Do they only have two? Or does Theisseg grant four like Riasruo? More?
Esty led them to the Last Port Tavern near the docks. Guts, Vay, Zeirie, and Messiench had been drinking here the night before, Vay boasting loudly that morning about the friendliness of the Agerzak maids.
“Er, I thought we were going to your home?” he said as she led him inside.
She gave him a puzzled look. “I rent a room above.”
“Ah, yes, I suppose it must be cheap and . . .” A flush warmed his cheeks. “I do not mean to imply you are poor or lacking in means.”
Her amused smile caused his words to trail off. She squeezed his hand and led him inside.
This early, the tavern stood nearly empty with only a few Agerzak whitebeards drinking ale and cackling in Agerzese. Esty laughed at one comment; the man’s accent was so thick, Estan didn’t understand it. Her response came out fast in the harsh language, the consonants almost clipping together. He’d never had a chance to practice his Agerzese with a real Agerzak. He wished he had.
She said something about teaching, he thought.
They reached stairs at the far end that led to a hallway running across the second floor. Estan’s heart pounded as she opened the door. A nervous writhe washed through him at the prospect of being alone with her. He swallowed as she pulled him into her small room. A narrow bed—covered by faded, flowery sheets—rested beneath the window. A chest of drawers, battered by time, sat at the end of the bed with a chipped vase full of white star lilies, the seven petals thrust out into thin arms with feather tassels at the end, standing on it. Next to the vase was an alabaster hand mirror covered in a leather sheath.
“Here we are.” She sat down on the bed, her bosom heaving in her dress, and patted the sheet beside her.
He sat down, hands gripping his knees.
A languorous smile spread on her lips. “That’ll be a ruby.”
Estan fished into his pocket and produced several coins. She snagged the red porcelain one, leaving behind the sapphire pennies, and slipped it into her skirt’s pocket.
“So tell me about being a Stormwitch,” Estan said, his eagerness spilling out of him. �
��How does it work?”
Esty blinked. “You want to . . . talk?”
“Why else did we . . .?” His cheeks warmed greater than before. Contextual clues fell into place. “Ah, I see. Yes, I just want to talk. I mean, I’m not saying you’re not attractive, because you are. You’re very attractive, it’s just that . . . I’ve always wanted to learn about Agerzak culture, and Stormwitches are so fascinating. Are you like other soothsayers, such as the solarmancers, who claim to see things looking at the sun, or do you actually receive visions?”
Esty let out another girlish giggle, appropriate for her true age, near his own, than the more mature woman she acted. “I’ve never been paid to just talk talk. Yes, I see visions. I am a Stormwitch.” She lifted her head high. “Though, the ability is properly called Stormsight.”
Estan nodded. “Yes. An apt name if you see visions in the Storm.”
Esty took a deep breath. “I assume I can trust your discretion. Your eagerness doesn’t seem . . . ill-intentioned. But the priestesses at the temple call what I am blasphemous. Even other Agerzaks are starting to . . . look down on those of us who haven’t converted.”
“Religion has ever stifled the progress of knowledge,” Estan said. “Nothing can be held blasphemous or sacred out of custom. Every belief must be examined and discarded if it holds back the philosophical pursuit of truth. Everything must be understood, or we shall be doomed to ignorance.”
Esty placed her hand over Estan’s, ivory against his ebony. “I like that.” She drew in another deep breath. “I possess the Third Gift of Stormsight, the Second Gift of Firedrinking, and the First Gift of Skydancing. You would call them Blessings.”
A tremble raced through Estan. “Truly? The Church condemns any who would possess Theisseg’s Blessings. Why would you confide in me?”
“Maybe I saw this moment gazing into the Storm. Maybe I peered into your eyes and witnessed an earnest quest for knowledge.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Or maybe I’m just tired of holding my secrets in my heart.”
“How did you get them? There must be a . . . a priestess to Theisseg on Tlele. I would sorely love to meet one.”
“We do not have a religion. We do not worship Dhessech. We pity Her.”
“Dhessech?” Estan let the word roll off his tongue. “That sounds much like dhessenth.”
“You speak Agerzese?”
“Not as fluently as I hoped. I had trouble understanding your accent.”
“The words do sound similar.” Esty shrugged. “I could not tell you if Dhessech comes from our word for betrayal, or if it is a corruption of Theisseg. We do not worship the Eye of the Storm, but we do use Her power.” She lifted up her hand. Flames danced on her fingertips. The air wavered above the slender tongues, though no smoke issued forth. Estan reached out; the heat lapping at his fingers seared hotter than a candle’s.
He jerked his fingers back.
“You do not burn?” he asked, fanning his digits. “Does the Blessing protect you from fire?”
She nodded her head. “The First Gift of Firedrinking grants you immunity to fire and control over its color.” The flames danced from orange to green to purple to blue before sizzling out. “The Second Gift allows me to conjure it.”
“And does the Third Gift allow you to hurl it?”
“How did you know?”
“Deductive reasoning. I imagine Third Gifts are as rare as Riasruo’s Major Blessings. And the reports of fire being thrown by pirates are rare. What do you call the Gift raiders use?”
“You need at least the Second Gift of Skydancing to gallop across the skies.” Esty sighed, glancing out of the window. “They can dance as far above the ground as they want. I can only go up about fifty ropes with the First Gift.”
“So there must be ground beneath them? Even if that ground is located beneath the Storm?”
“So the bards say. They preserve our history in song, singing it to us and giving out the Gift to those that seek them out.”
“And Stormsight lets you see the future?”
“I glimpse future events played out in my mind. It’s . . . fuzzy. Hard to understand. Like a shadow can be distorted by the angle of the light source, making it appear strange or different from the shape casting it. That’s what the future is like.”
“And what did you hope to see in the future today?”
Her smile was playful. “If I told you all my secrets, then you would grow bored of me and not come back.”
Estan swallowed. “You want me to come back?”
“Being paid to talk is far more enjoyable than what I’m usually paid to do. Though . . .” Her smile turned smoky. “For another ruby . . .”
Estan’s crotch grew tight as his eyes drank in her full figure. He cleared his throat. “So what else can Stormsight give you? I assume seeing the future is the Third Gift.”
“It’s also the rarest Gift. With it I can bend light, shape it, and weave it into things that are not real.”
Estan gaped. “What? How does that work with seeing the future?”
“I see the future in the light pulsing within the Storm. Those dark clouds brim with it. That’s why I gaze down into them. The light reflects on the future, and I see the shadows that are cast.”
“Amazing!”
She looked down at her hands. “You really think that?”
Estan nodded. “This is fascinating.” He seized her hands, squeezing them tight. “What is the last power?”
“You only want to know of one more?”
“There’s more?”
“Five. Fleshknitting and Metalforging. Fleshknitting heals injuries. The First Gift only allows you to heal minor wounds, but you’ll have no scars. The Second Gift will allow you survive from anything that doesn’t kill you outright. You can’t regrow missing body parts, but it does make you hard to poison. The healing isn’t instantaneous, and can be slow if you don’t focus it.”
Estan’s eyes widened. “Does the Third Gift allow the healing of others?”
“Deductive reasoning again?”
“Major Blessings are an external extension of the power. I have Moderate Lighting. I can discharge it at a touch, but if I possessed Major, I could fire it like a bolt of lightning. Major Wind conjures breezes that can propel our ships. Major Mist creates fog banks.”
“Yes. It is much more difficult than healing yourself. It also binds their flesh on some level. A bit of the Fleshknitter is left in the person they healed. A bond of sorts between their souls can form, particularly if they are close. I have been told that someone healed many times, or from a grievous injury, can feel the Fleshknitter like an itch in the back of their mind. They often can sense when the Fleshknitter approaches or point in the exact direction they lie. And it works the other way, as well.”
“Fascinating.” Estan’s mind reeled. Questions brimmed inside of him. He had to know more. “So Metalforging, I surmise, involves metal?”
Esty clapped her hands together. “Very astute, scholar Estan. I do not know why you need me.” Her smile grew beguiling, removing any sting from her mocking words. “It allows the manipulation of metals. In the free kingdoms, they are highly prized, especially one possessing the Third Gift. They can draw the minute bits of metal out of the soil, accumulating enough material over time to form new greatswords.”
“Astounding!” Then her words struck him with their full import. “There is metal in the soil?”
Esty laughed and poked him in the chest. “There is metal in you. Why else does blood taste metallic?”
Estan’s brow furrowed as he struggled to remember what blood tasted like. “It . . . does?”
“Yeah, that tang to it beneath the saltiness,” she said. “That’s metal. It’s not a great amount. But metal is present in the soil in amounts so small we can’t even see them. Little grains of iron and copper, tin and nickel, and more.”
“But how does it get . . .” Estan’s brow furrowed. “Plants devour soil. That is why farmers have to
fertilize fields. The plants must ingest the metal, and we ingest the plants.”
“You never stop questioning, do you?”
“Never.” Estan groaned. “What I would give to have a hundred afternoons to question you. The Agerzaks are a great mystery, but your race does not like to speak of it to outsiders. Any who might have powers hide them in the Fringe, and your brethren to the north are barbaric.”
“Barbaric?”
He swallowed. “I do not mean to imply that you are, just that . . .” He floundered again. How does Ary talk to Chaylene all the time without feeling like he’s drowning in molasses?
“I understand what you mean.” Her expression darkened. “I am all too aware of the cruelties of my kin. The Sons of Agerz have known only fighting since we rose to the skies.”
“You are Wrackthar, yes?” His heart beat faster. “Your ancestors invaded upon a Cyclone and drove out the inhabitants who lived on these skylands?”
“Drove out . . . That hardly describes the brutality of it. We threw them from the skylands. We butchered the old, crushed nests of Luastria eggs, tossed Human mothers screaming into the Storm with babes clutched to their breasts. We despoiled cities, tore them down, and soaked every field in skyer blood.
“My mother sang me all the songs.”
“She was a bard?”
“And a whore.” She said it with such matter-of-fact frankness, not flinching from it. “Her husband was hung when a Vionese plantation owner accused him of theft and rebellion. She had no other way to feed herself and my half-brother, so she turned to whoring. I grew up in the brothel listening to her sing the songs.”
“Can you sing me one?”
She hesitated. “It won’t sound as . . . good in Vionese. I’m no bard that can make the translation into pleasing verses.”
“That’s fine.”
Her voice rang out clear:
When Agerz was a boy of ten,
His mother, clad in iron bonds,
Bade her son a fond farewell.
Agerz yearned to weep for grief
