by J M D Reid
“Very well, Chaylene.”
“Zori says you didn’t come back to the barracks.” Chaylene arched her golden eyebrows. “I hope you didn’t propose to her.”
“No, no,” Estan’s cheeks reddened as he remembered the previous night. “We just . . . that is to say . . . I . . . well . . . I cannot find the words to describe it.”
“So it was like the color red?”
Estan nodded. “Indeed. Though, I suspect, you would understand.”
An earthy grin crossed Chaylene’s lips. “Maybe.”
“I didn’t even care about her occupation,” Estan continued.
“Occupation?” Chaylene’s smile faded. “What would . . . Oh, no. You didn’t fall for a harlot, Estan?”
He cleared his throat. “She’s, um, a barmaid.”
“A friendly barmaid?” Chaylene’s fingers tightened on his arm.
“That must be . . . interesting,” Ary said. He stared straight ahead.
“We had a frank conversation about her profession.” The heat grew in his cheeks, banishing the chilly breeze. “And, no, I did not pay for her company, Chaylene.”
“I never said you did. It’s just . . . she’s a . . . you know? That can’t be . . . healthy for your relationship.”
“It is fine,” Estan said, his words coming out stronger than he intended. “I am fond of her and her conversation.”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “Just her conversation? I mean, she’s not trying to take advantage of you, or anything?”
“Leave off, Lena,” Ary said. “He’s happy with her.”
“She is not attempting to take advantage of me,” Estan said. “So you may ease your concern.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know. My thanks, Chaylene.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way to the Last Port Tavern. There were a few sailors lounging and dicing inside. A bored barmaid leaned on a stool. When she noticed them, she slipped off her perch and sauntered over as they sat down at a round table in the corner, a generous space between them and the other patrons.
“What’cha want?” the barmaid asked, her slanted eyes glossy, her breath sour.
“Three plates of whatever stew you have cooking,” Estan said, “and a cup of tea.”
“Tea?” the barmaid asked with an arch to her eyebrows. “I would have thought the marine what got Esty polishin’ his sword would drink something . . . stouter. But I guess what they say about Vaarckthian men and their big weapons is true.”
Estan’s cheeks burned as a saucy glint appeared in the barmaid’s amber eyes. “Er, no, just tea.”
Ary chuckled while Chaylene gave the barmaid a cool look. The maid didn’t seem to notice or care as she asked, “And for the officers?”
“A glass of orange wine,” Chaylene ordered.
Ary gave his wife a strange look as he said, “Tankard of beer.”
The maid flounced off.
“Since when do you drink wine during the middle of the day?” Ary asked his wife.
Chaylene shrugged. “Is it any different than your beer?”
“I guess not.” Ary leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking, and unbuttoned his red coat. “So, Estan, what conversation will you and my wife have while I pretend to understand?”
“Actually, I was hoping for your participation in this conversation, Ary.” Estan swallowed, his hands balling up. “I—”
The maid sat down a flagon and a ceramic cup. “Here’s your drinks.” She patted Estan’s cheek. “The tea’ll be a bit.”
Estan nodded, trying to organize his thoughts. Both Ary and Chaylene looked at him, waiting for his topic. I don’t have to do this. We can talk about the Vaarckthian Emperors instead. So many fascinating topics in that area of history.
“Well, Estan?” Chaylene asked after she took a long drink of her wine.
“This is a delicate matter,” Estan said, lowering his voice and leaning over the table closer to them. “A whisper in the wrong ear could land all of us in a great deal of trouble.”
Ary’s brow furrowed and Chaylene’s eyes widened. She laid her hand over her husband’s. “You know. Right?”
Estan nodded. “I’ve had my suspicions since Ary recovered from his ‘illness.’”
Ary’s face grew grim, and his hand twitched. “And who do you plan on telling?”
“No one who wishes you harm, Ary. I could have told the investigator, but I did not.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Ary’s voice sounded stretched taut. “If you know what I am, why wouldn’t you turn me in? It’s your duty.”
“Because I am interested in what a . . .” Estan arched his eyebrows.
Ary’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment. When they opened, they bored into Estan’s. “Explain what I am.”
“You know what you are. And you have gained control over the Gifts She gave you.” Estan swallowed. “She speaks to you in your dreams, yes? Relays cryptic messages?”
“She wants me to free her even if it means causing what happened a thousand years ago.”
Estan nodded. “I had surmised as much. You are hardly the first person . . . touched. Stories have trickled out despite the Church’s repression.”
“What do you know about it?” Chaylene asked.
Estan cocked his head. “Have there been attempts on your husband’s life?”
Chaylene nodded. “By a Luastria.”
“I feared as much.” Estan leaned back in his chair for a moment. “My tutor proposed a theory about the Church. You see, there was an Ethinski poet named Nzuuth sze Hyesk. Despite her young age, she was gaining a reputation as a gifted poet. A hundred years ago, she, her family, and half her village died of a virulent strain of the choking plague. Then her poems were deemed heretical.”
“The poem you recited that day the Dauntless flew near the Dawnspire?” asked Ary.
Estan nodded. “One that held significance to you. It was an experiment I conducted to test how you’d react. It strengthened my hypothesis, but did not confirm it.”
“That’s what I see. Lighting flashing, the Goddess in pain. She’s always claiming she was betrayed.”
“By Kaltein?” Estan asked.
“Iiwroa,” Chaylene answered.
Her words blindsided him, a verbal punch catching him unaware and rattling his brain. “What? How could Iiwroa betray Her? They were enemies.”
Ary shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Nor does it make sense why the Dawnspires both hold up the skylands and are the restraints of Her prison,” Chaylene said. “What did you see at Isthia?”
Estan answered, “The Spire pulsed while you were near it.”
“I almost brought the skyland down.” Ary’s face paled and his hands shook, sloshing beer over the rim of his mug. It splashed foamy on his hand. “And who knows how many others. The Spire sang to me. It was Her prison. I could feel it, and . . . I wanted to free Her. It was like something . . . Something worked through me.”
“He began singing,” Chaylene added, her voice distant and small. “Wordless and . . . and beautiful. The skyland shook. I could feel it sinking, Estan. At least a half-dozen ropes in altitude.”
“I couldn’t stop,” Ary continued, his voice stretched even tighter. “I was in a trance. I . . .” He looked down at his mug. “I’m dangerous, Estan. Maybe the Autonomy’s right to quarantine people like me.”
Chaylene squeezed Ary’s hand then coughed, “Maid.”
A heartbeat later, the maid flounced up with smoky smiles for Estan, setting a battered teacup filled with a steaming brown liquid. “Here’s your tea. Anything . . . else?”
Estan shook his head, mind grappling with Ary’s mention of a Song.
“I can’t be allowed near a Dawnspire,” Ary said once the barmaid had returned to her stool.
Estan swallowed. “I had no idea. None of my tutor’s discoveries mentioned Songs.”
“Your tutor?” Chaylene frowned.
&nb
sp; “Fehun Rlarim educated me in my youth,” Estan said. “He was once a scholar at the College of Esoteric Philosophy at the University of Rlarshon, but he was expelled for his heretical study into banned literature, such as Nzuuth’s poems. My father hired him, not knowing of his past. He soon inducted me into his research. Together, we’ve endeavored to discover the secrets of the Storm, the Riders, and Her. When my father realized the topics we discussed, he fired Master Rlarim and nearly disowned me. He feared the taint of heresy staining his political career. When I was drafted a month later, he did not give me the funds to buy a commission.”
“I’m sorry,” Chaylene said. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
Estan shrugged. “It is no matter. Despite this, I have continued my research. Esty has a wealth of knowledge on Agerzak history and has cleared up many murky spots in our understanding of Stormrider behavior.”
“They’re the anomaly,” Chaylene stated. “Colonization is not the Stormriders’ goal, but the destruction of the Dawnspires.”
“That is what Esty’s confirmed for me.”
“So why does the Church want to keep this secret?” Ary demanded. “Why are they trying to kill me? Is it just because I am . . . touched?”
“They would not have branded Nzuuth’s poetry heretical if they did not have something to hide.” Estan sighed. “You must be careful. My master believes the Skein of Adjudication is a group of master assassins, killing all whom the Church finds dangerous.”
“I’ve never heard of that skein,” Ary frowned.
“They were more active in the century after the Vaarckthian Empire signed the Theological Treaty,” Chaylene explained. “During the Age of Isolation, many sects of Riasruo cropped up. The skein’s mission was to adjudicate their differences and form a harmony of belief.”
“And they did it through any means,” Estan added. “Including unleashing a plague.”
Ary’s fists tightened.
“Riasruo Above,” Chaylene whispered. She glanced at Ary.
Estan nodded. “Yes. There is no doubt in my mind that the assassin followed you to Onhur. He needs to kill you so badly, he infected our ship.”
“Wriavia,” Ary spat.
“Is that the assassin’s name?” Estan asked. “It is Jwauahwiian.”
“The candied fruit merchant,” Chaylene explained. “He attacked us before we left Camp Chubris. Almost killed us, but we drove him off.”
“Swooped right out of the air and slashed my legs. It’s why I needed a new uniform.”
“But you healed yourself?” Estan asked.
Ary’s eyebrows furrowed.
“You have what the Agerzaks call the Third Gift of Fleshknitting,” Estan explained. “It’s—”
“Estan!” a cheery voice called out.
Estan couldn’t stop the smile as Esty swayed across the tavern. She carried three bowls of stew, two in each hand and one held with the crook of her arm, her beaded hair clacking. Estan admired the interesting way her curves moved, last night burning fresh in his thoughts.
“Good day, Esty,” Estan said as he started to rise.
“Sit, sit,” she said as she set down the bowls before them. “Then I can do this.” She plopped herself on his lap and kissed him.
The topic of discussion vanished from Estan’s thoughts as he threw himself into a new avenue of study. Her lips had a sweetness that bewitched him. And her tongue possessed a nimbleness that stirred him.
Chaylene wore a wary smile when Estan was free to breathe again, but Ary’s grin was far more welcoming. He said, “So this is the . . . eh . . .?”
“The . . . harlot?” Chaylene asked.
Ary cleared his throat.
“I am.” Esty gave a nod and squirmed on Estan’s lap. “It’s not the proudest profession, but it has kept me fed.”
Chaylene finished off her glass of orange wine.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Esty said.
Chaylene’s brows furrowed. “I never said you were.”
“But those eyes . . . I can see the shadow about you. You defend your friends. It’s caused you pain . . . hasn’t it?”
Chaylene swirled her wine cup, eyes lowering.
“I’m sure you think the worst of women like me. I have done things I am not proud of, but Estan . . .” Her arm tightened about his neck.
Chaylene gave a nod of her head. “It’s . . .” Her words came out strangled. “I just don’t want you taking advantage of him. I . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”
Esty shook her head, her beaded braids cracking together by Estan’s ear. “I understand. I told you, I saw the shadow of your protectiveness.”
Estan stiffened as understanding rippled through him.
A brittleness entered Esty’s voice as she continued, “I’m glad Estan has friends like you out there. I . . . The future stretches out bloody before you all . . . So . . . so . . . Please . . .”
“Of course we’ll protect him,” Chaylene said, her words soft.
Ary nodded, his face somber. “He’s one of my marines.”
Estan cleared his throat. Winds carried this conversation in the wrong direction. He had to re-rig the sails and change their direction. “Esty instructed me on Her Blessings.”
Esty gave him a sharp look.
“It’s okay,” Estan said. “They will understand.”
Esty turned and studied Ary. “You’ve been touched by the Heart of the Storm.”
A wariness entered Chaylene’s eyes, hers and Ary’s backs stiffening. “Estan?”
“I did not tell her,” Estan said. “But, you can trust her. She’s . . .”
“Touched?” Ary asked, leaning forward.
“Gifted,” Esty said. She leaned closer to Ary, shifting on Estan’s lap. “I can see Dhessech’s pain in your eyes. What Gifts did she give you?”
Ary frowned. “Dhessech?”
“A corruption of Theisseg,” Estan explained. “Not uncommon. Over time, languages change. The sounds letters make can become weak or drift into other phonemes over time. The TH sound of Theisseg has softened in the Agerzak tongue to a DH sound while the clipped G has become the guttural CH. It also forms the basis for their word betrayed.”
“Interesting,” Chaylene said, her posture still tense.
“Indeed.”
“So what are your Gifts?” Esty asked. “Which of the five do you possess?”
“I really don’t know,” Ary admitted. Then he swallowed. “I don’t like to think about it.”
“She can be trusted,” Estan assured.
“You barely know her,” Chaylene snapped.
“She already has figured it out.”
“I have the Gifts as well.” Esty held out her hand. Fire ignited across her knuckles, the flame playful, dancing from one to the next.
“Theisseg’s scrawny feathers!” Ary cursed while Chaylene’s jaw dropped.
The fires snuffed out. “Can you control fire, Ary?”
Ary shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Our house almost burned down,” Chaylene said. “If Ary could do that, we wouldn’t have almost died.”
“Ary possesses the Third Gift of Fleshknitting,” Estan explained. “He healed the sick during the outbreak.”
“How marvelous,” Esty said, smiling. “I was beside myself with worry for Estan’s safety. I stared down into the Storm hoping to see signs he would be fine.”
“She’s a Stormwitch, too?” Chaylene asked.
“I am. I can see things. The Gift of Stormsight is rare.” Esty waved her hand and suddenly a crow appeared on the table.
Chaylene squeaked in surprise.
“Can you see through the crow, Ary?” Esty asked.
Ary frowned, his finger reaching out and touching the crow’s feathers. The bird didn’t flinch but merely stood there, head twitching, black eyes glossy and reflective. Estan studied it. Last night, he’d compared Esty’s skin to her illusionary doppelgange
r and couldn’t tell the difference between them.
“It’s woven of light,” Ary said, speaking slow, brow furrowed. “I can see the threads you used. It’s not really there, and yet I can feel it.”
“Can you weave light yourself?”
“No,” Ary answered.
“He has the First Gift of Stormsight.” Esty tapped the table. “You also have a third one. I would not be surprised if you had a Second Gift of Skydancing or Metalforging.”
“Skydancing?” Ary asked.
“That’s how the Agerzaks gallop across the skies,” Chaylene realized. “Right?”
“With the Second or Third Gift of Skydancing,” Esty nodded. “I have the First. It is not that useful.”
“I’ve fallen plenty of times,” Ary said, “but I’ve never walked the skies. I was using my Healing powers for years without realizing it.”
“I would wager it is Metalforging. With metal’s scarcity in your life until the Cyclone, you have not been around it.” Esty leaned back. “You have one of our greatswords.” She pointed at the blade leaning against the wall. It was in a half-sheath, most of the metal exposed. “There is a tiny nick in the tang. See if you can smooth it out.”
Ary reached over and touched the blade. Estan stared at the small imperfection. Ary’s forehead furrowed, his head cocking to the side. The pressure in Estan’s temple increased, blood pounding through his ear as he fixed on that notch. His vision shrank, darkness swallowing everything but—
The metal flowed like mercury in a barometer, the steel growing smooth, covering over the blemish like it had never existed at all.
“Second or maybe Third Gift,” Esty nodded.
“I’ve used this before,” Ary said, his voice distant. “During the Cyclone . . . there was a Stormrider. I swung my blade and cut right through his armor with ease. I felt the same heat.”
“Fascinating,” Estan said, pleased to finally have all of this in the open. He would learn so much from Ary. His excitement swelled as Ary discussed his dreams.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chaylene stalked the riotous market of Onhur, her eyes scanning around for any Luastria plumage. She carried a basket of woven straw slung in the crook of her elbow. It held a log of baked bread, three freshly caught mackerel, and a pair of lemons. She wanted to enjoy a normal dinner with Ary tonight.
