Stormlord rising s-2

by Glenda Larke

  "That's it!" Taquar said, gasping. "Makes it easier."

  It was true. The set of Taquar's shoulders relaxed, his breathing steadied. The vapor eased out of the Giving Sea at a faster pace. The cloud thickened, billowed larger. It took time, but finally Jasper could feel the weight of its water.

  But even so, he thought bleakly, people are going to die all over the Quartern. Taquar hasn't as much power as Granthon, even when Granthon was at his most ill. He swore under his breath, all the worst epithets he had learned down on Level Thirty-six.

  Still, it was a start. It was a cloud. It held water and he could send it high enough over the Warthago to bring rain to the mother wells of one of the cities.

  And, sunblast it, it meant he had to stay in Scarcleft Hall.

  Then he smiled, a grim smile of determination. He had been Taquar's prisoner once, but this time things would be different.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Breccia Hall, Level 2 Kaneth is alive.

  Ryka was consumed by the thought. He was alive. Injured, but standing. They had thrown him onto a pyre and burned his face, yet he was still alive. Dear Watergiver. She stopped that thought, fought her nausea, quelled the bile in her throat. Don't think about that. He was here, that was all that mattered.

  Kaneth-his name an anguished whisper in her head-we can get out of here, the two of us. And we can kill Ravard and Davim before we leave. After all, Kaneth was a more powerful rainlord than she was, and a fine swordsman, too. If the Reduner sandmaster and his heir were dead, that would leave their forces in disarray, surely.

  Leaning against the balcony railing, she willed him to look up. Please, love, see: I'm here. You always said you knew when I was near; you sensed my water.

  It was one of the quirky oddities of his unpredictable power, and she was the only person he could recognize that way. The ability to identify people by their water was supposed to be a stormlord skill, and Kaneth was no stormlord.

  But he didn't look her way. No, of course he wouldn't. He's too afraid to give away his identity. Her next thought horrified her. But Ravard said the burned man can't remember who he is. What if that's true? For a moment she was back in the Breccia waterhall. A spear had creased Kaneth's head. He'd staggered and fallen, dragging her with him into the cistern. So much blood… He'd been conscious for a bit, then he'd drifted away to some place and she hadn't been able to call him back. For a moment she was paralyzed with pain and grief and worry.

  Get a hold of yourself, Ry. You need to eat to restore your power. She had to eat a lot. Drained by the battle, without food and rest, she wouldn't have sensed even a cistern two paces away. Ravenous, she left the balcony to fetch some food from the reception room.

  She stuffed a slice of bab bread into her mouth, all of it at once, then followed it with a piece of unidentifiable meat and a boiled egg. Piling more food into a bowl, she carried it out to the balcony. Overlooking the forecourt once more, she continued to eat greedily as she watched what was happening below.

  When several more men were killed with casual efficiency because they refused to swear fealty, she almost vomited all she had eaten. Kaneth hardly seemed to notice. He swayed slightly as he stood, and several times Elmar reached out to steady him. Ryka's heart plummeted.

  He looks ill, she thought. And so hurt.

  She forced herself to eat more even though her appetite had gone. Gradually, she felt the dim stirrings of her power within her once more. Not enough to kill a man, but she thought she could move a drop of water. When they were all students at Breccia Academy, much of the flirting had involved moving drops of water. He would recognize that, surely, and think of her?

  She separated a drop out from the onyx carafe on her food tray and sent it down into the forecourt. Carefully, she manoeuvred it to trickle down Kaneth's face, the unburned side, just as she had done so often when she had been a cheeky academy student and he an exasperated senior. He batted absently at his face, as if brushing away an insect. When his fingers came away wet, he looked at them absently and wiped them down his tunic.

  Ryka winced. No… make it not true. He must remember. He must. She brought out another drop from the jar. This time she danced it right in front of his eyes. At first he didn't seem to notice, then he caught the drop in his fingers, but made no move to look around. Instead, he rubbed his forehead the way he always did when something puzzled him.

  Thank the Sunlord, no one noticed. They all had their own problems. But, agonized, she wondered how he could be so… so… unlike himself.

  The last of the slaves swore their fealty, Davim disappeared inside the hall once more and Ravard gave orders to the guards. The slaves were marched out of the courtyard in the direction of the pede stables and all was quiet in the courtyard again.

  Ryka returned inside and began to pace. She tried the outer door once more. Barred on the outside, of course. She raged with frustration, desperate to build her power and let it fly, to do something, anything.

  Kaneth was acting a part. Of course he was. He had to be. If they thought he was half-senseless, they wouldn't fear him, even if they found out he was a rainlord. He was waiting for the best moment to kill Davim and his immediate underlings, that was all.

  And yet her fears niggled. Maybe he was as sick as he appeared. Maybe he couldn't remember who he was. Maybe he didn't remember her.

  She paced some more, swallowing her fury at her situation, battling her frustration. The woman delivered another meal in the late afternoon. The guard accompanying her, a man Ryka had not seen before, let the servant into the room and then leaned against the doorway, watching. He was a gaunt man with bushy eyebrows as red as his skin; elderly, but a warrior nonetheless, with scars on his face and several fingers missing on his left hand.

  She inclined her head respectfully in his direction and, using the Quartern language, asked him what his name was. He just stared at her.

  "You are the son of a whore and you have the prick of a wilted sand-leech," she said with a pleasant smile. The woman's eyes went wide with horror, but the Reduner didn't react. Still smiling, Ryka spoke to the woman, waving a hand at the food as if she was merely thanking her for bringing the meal. "Don't worry, he doesn't understand. Can you tell me where the Breccians intended for slavery are being kept? The men and the boys?"

  The woman paled, but fortunately did not look guiltily at the guard as Ryka had feared she might. "The pede stables," she said, as she stacked up the empty dishes from the morning's meal. "They took all the pedes away and they're using the stable to keep people." She glanced at the guard then, to see if he objected to the conversation, but he was gazing around the room, his look one of scornful contempt. "They're being taken to the dunes tomorrow morning. Early, like. The kitchens have to prepare food for the journey."

  "Are the stables guarded?"

  "'Course." She looked at Ryka, and the desolation in her gaze was almost beyond fear, or grief. "They say-they say all the rainlords are dead. The Cloudmaster and Stormlord Jasper, too. They even killed the priests. There's no hope for us. We either die now, or thirst to death later." She ducked her head and turned away. The guard didn't react.

  Ryka, sick at heart, said nothing. She was one person, one rainlord.

  Watergiver forgive me. What can we do? I can't save everybody; not even Kaneth and I together can do that.

  She turned her back as the woman and guard left.

  She ate again, forcing the food down, even though her anxiety made her nauseous. Her power was nearly wholly restored, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Come on, Ryka; you pride yourself on your mind. You need a plan, and you need it quickly.

  Ravard had given her three nights to sleep alone. Could she trust him? He'd made a promise and something told her he took his promises seriously. He'd told her he preferred an acquiescent woman in his bed and she had no reason-yet-to think he lied. She was reasonably certain he would not come to Nealrith's quarters until the three nig
hts were up.

  She had to use the time alone to escape. Or at the very least, to arrange an escape. Leaving the room would not be difficult. She could tear bedding to make a rope from the balcony to the ground, for instance-but to remain unseen? The courtyard was never empty of Reduners.

  She could entice the guard outside her room to enter, kill him, and escape that way. A better solution, perhaps, but there would be no going back from that. If she used her water skills, the Reduners would know they had a rainlord in their midst. They wouldn't know who, so they might well kill all the Breccians in the hall just to make certain they had eliminated all possibilities. If she didn't use her water-powers, she might die in a fight.

  Once free of the room, she would still have to enter the stables, presumably by killing more guards. Then free Kaneth. Elmar, too; he would be an asset in any escape. But how would they get out of Breccia Hall? Through one of the water tunnels? What if Kaneth was too sick to use his powers? And she was one of the weakest ever to be granted the title of rainlord. Yet she had to do something. She couldn't allow them to move Kaneth to the Red Quarter. In his condition, he might die. Unless he was faking it…

  She grunted in exasperation. How could she plan anything when she knew so little about what was happening outside Nealrith's apartment?

  Restlessly she prowled the rooms, seeking ideas or a fresh perspective. Just as the sun set, she realized she had overlooked the obvious. The room above had a small projecting balcony. She could climb to it by standing on the balustrade of her own balcony, with a good likelihood no one in the courtyard below would notice in the dark. She had no idea who was sleeping up there, if anyone, but she did know most Reduners did not favor sleeping indoors, enclosed by walls. From the room above, she might be able to make her way through Breccia Hall, using her water-sense to avoid meeting Reduner guards as she went.

  While trying to picture what she knew of the layout of the hall, she heard the door of Nealrith's bedroom opening, the one she had guessed led to Laisa's rooms. A moment later Kher Ravard was striding across the reception room toward her. His eyes flashed with anger; his whole stance radiated suppressed rage.

  She took a hurried step backward.

  His anger, though, was not directed at her. He said, "Came t'tell you we leave for the dunes t'morrow morning." He grabbed her arm and pulled her into Laisa's room, his grip more urgent than rough. "Choose some clothes. Whatever you need. Bundle them up and I'll see they are put in a pede pannier."

  She found herself gaping at him, and quickly closed her mouth. "Reduners are abandoning the city?" she asked. Already? Her heart lurched with hope. Holy Watergiver, it can't be that Taquar or one of the other cities has come to our aid, can it?

  His lip curled in sardonic amusement. "Hardly. Just me and the men of my tribe. My father has ordered us t'take the new slaves for Dune Watergatherer back t'our dune."

  "Oh." She kept her face a blank mask, but her feelings roiled-horror and hope entwined as she struggled to think how she could use this. "The men I saw in the courtyard today?" she asked.

  "Them, plus some women. The sandmaster is humiliating me by sending me home," he added bitterly, "as you'll doubtless be glad t'hear." He grimaced. "'Cause I didn't kill you when he ordered it. He let me keep you, but a Master Son's defiance, however small, must be seen t'be punished." He shrugged. "So Tribemaster Ravard is dismissed back to the dunes t'think on his lack of respect for the sandmaster. You cost me a cut to my pride, city-woman."

  She snorted. "You have plenty left, Reduner."

  He leaned against the bedpost, indicated the curtained wardrobes along one side of the room, and folded his arms. "Choose."

  She pulled back the curtains and was faced with an array of silken dresses, many of them either embroidered or sewn with jeweled trimming. She sighed. Definitely Laisa's, and a complete contrast to anything Ryka Feldspar liked to wear. She abandoned the first cupboard and looked at the next. These were more to her taste-traveling clothes: trousers and tunics. There was also a fine cloak lined with the fur of the red desert fox. She selected that and chose a number of the other outfits, grateful she and Laisa were not too different in size. And the fine cloth was beautiful, the weave tight enough to keep out the dust and the sand-ticks.

  "Take some of the dresses, too," he said when he saw what she was choosing.

  "They aren't my kind of clothes."

  "Maybe not, but I like them."

  "Then you wear them!"

  "You test my patience, woman!"

  "And you mine, if it comes to that."

  He flushed angrily and came across to her, seizing her by the chin and forcing her to look him in the eye. "Don't ever forget, Garnet, I'm the conqueror here, and you the conquered. I give the orders; you obey."

  She returned his stare, unblinking. "You can't intimidate me, Ravard." A lie uttered in defiance, but she sensed it would be a mistake to give any appearance of total submission to this man with his odd mix of wilful youth and cruel warrior.

  "Oh yes, I can," he snapped. "You wouldn't like the slave women's meddle, believe me. A different warrior every night? Two or three at a time, perhaps?"

  "You can't fool me, Ravard. There is no way you can send me to the slave women's meddle now. Your men would laugh at you-a leader who accepted a humiliating punishment for a woman who wasn't even worth keeping?"

  He glared at her and she glared back, stare for stare. Suddenly he started to laugh. "Gods, but you are a woman! Did your husband know what he had, I wonder? Let me tell you something, sweetling; you're mine when your three nights are up, and I'll never let you go for any man. Not even my father. But if you mock me, I'll make you regret it. I'll see you naked and beaten raw while the whole tribe watches, till you have no pride under that tough skin of yours. Now, choose four of those dresses."

  Without a word, she turned back to the first of the cupboards and began to hunt out dresses which were neither too revealing nor too impractical.

  "And call me Kher," he added as an afterthought.

  I have to think of a way to kill him. But not yet. Now is not the time. She cursed silently. "As you wish, Kher," she said meekly, with just enough sweetness in her tone to have him wonder if she was making fun of him. She held up one of the dresses against herself. "I had not thought dunesmen dressed their women in city finery."

  "We're not barbarians, as ignorant as Gibber washfolk!"

  "No? Yet you come into our land and destroy and thieve like the barbarian tribes of our histories. I see little difference."

  "We're a cultured people, with a love of the beautiful. As you'll see soon."

  Ryka almost threw up her hands in despair to mock him, just stopping herself in time. Watergiver help me, she thought. He is so damnably young, a puffed-up sandgrouse cockerel, full of a cockerel's pride… And dangerous, nonetheless.

  "You will need sandals and undergarments. If this woman's do not fit you, tell me, and I will get others."

  With heavy distaste, she continued to search through Laisa's things. When she unearthed some jewelry, Ravard insisted she take that as well. She spared a wry thought for how much that would enrage Laisa if she knew.

  When the pile of selected items was large enough, he gave a nod of satisfaction. "We breakfast before dawn t'morrow and head out before first ray. Choose something t'wear from this pile, and take the cloak as well."

  She pawed through the selection, looking for the most practical and least attractive of the traveling clothes. Damn Laisa, she couldn't have an ill-made garment in her whole wardrobe, could she? How the sweet waters do I calm down the passions of this silly man if I have to dress like a snuggery girl? Even as the thought crossed her mind, she shivered in a mixture of exasperation and fear. The trouble was, he was far from a boy in stature and body, and he had the power of a Master Son. She would have to deal with that. Oh, Beryll, maybe yours was the easier route…

  No. Never think that. You have a son to think of!

  "So, you're taking all
those slaves who were down in the courtyard this morning," she remarked, pulling out a traveling tunic. "What was so special about that burnt man?" Her tone was casual, but her heart thundered so loudly she wondered he did not hear it. "The injured one."

  "Him? Ah, just a whim of the shamans. They think he's some kind of reincarnation of a mythical hero. He's as dumb as a neutered pede, but strong. Fortunately he hasn't the wits t'be disloyal."

  That, she thought with grim satisfaction, is what you think. Back in Nealrith's room and alone again, Ryka pondered her decision to seek out Kaneth that night. Their best opportunity to escape would be once they had left the city. There would be pedes they could use, and with the power of two rainlords and any other slaves willing to flee, their chances of success were high.

  But what if she was kept apart from the others? What if Kaneth and Elmar didn't know she was part of the caravan? Best to let them know beforehand. She would try to reach the stables.

  She slept a little in the earlier part of the night, and then followed her plan to climb up to the balcony above. First she tried to sense the air to see if there was any living water in the room above, but could find none. All was quiet in the courtyard below as well.

  Hauling herself up was harder than she had thought it would be. She blessed the training Kaneth had insisted she undertake to strengthen her arms and shoulders after they had realized war with the Reduners was a likelihood, but still it took three attempts before she succeeded in scrambling to safety one floor up. Once there, she found the shutters were latched from the inside. She had expected that might be the case and had come prepared. It was the work of moments to slip the broken sword tip through the gap between the closed doors and flip the latch.

  The room beyond was small and pokey and dark. She paused on the threshold, tasting the air with her water-sense. There was no one there.

  Leaving the shutters open for light, she crossed to the door on the other side. It gave out onto a passage so narrow and dark she guessed this was part of the servants' quarters. No light, no sound. Still no one around. Making a guess at the best direction to head in, she felt her way along. The passage led to another, slightly wider, and a faint light ahead proved to come from an oil lamp at the head of a set of rough stone stairs heading downward. Definitely servants' stairs.