“Do you feel better?” the man asked, and Rowen inwardly cringed. This man didn’t know he couldn’t talk. He nodded, unsure of how to communicate the problem. He wanted to thank him for taking him away from the village and saving his life, but there was no way to do it.
“I’m Kristoff. What’s your name?” The man spoke as though to a wounded animal, and Rowen realized that’s essentially what he was. He lay naked on a stone floor, covered in caked mud, which he presumed was for the burns. The man looked concerned, even more so when Rowen wouldn’t answer.
“Can you understand me?” he asked, brows furrowing. Rowen nodded once, holding his gaze, hoping Kristoff would understand.
“Will you tell me your name?” Kristoff pressed.
Rowen dropped his gaze. He moved his arm, the skin shrieking with pain as it left the cold floor, and pointed to his throat, giving a small shake of his head.
“More water will help.” Kristoff didn’t understand, and Rowen drank a bit more before shaking his head again and motioning once more to his throat. He drew a small X in the air above it, his hand shaking just from that small gesture.
Kristoff’s eyes widened. “You can’t speak at all?”
Rowen nodded once and then felt something, an emotion he couldn’t identify. Everyone in the village had known it, discovering it days after it happened, after his parents had lain, rotting, in his house until the heat spell broke, Rowen too weak to report their deaths and no one concerned enough to check. No one had spoken to him since except to command or tease or sacrifice, not until now. And now Kristoff, the man who had saved his life, who had flown in a storm, would know that speaking to him was pointless, and it would begin again. Pain blossomed in his chest. The reason for saving him didn’t matter. He was useless if he couldn’t communicate. He looked away, not wanting to see the disappointment on Kristoff’s face.
“Can you write?” Rowen shook his head. Only Alain and Erik had been able to write. Rowen had been destined to dig wells, as his parents had.
“Please, look at me.” He obeyed, finding a strange kindness in the other man’s features. “That doesn’t matter for now. I mean, I guess it does matter, your name is important, but….” He sighed, looking up as though for help. “I’m guessing you have questions that you can’t ask, so I’m going to explain things to you as best I can. Bear with me. I’ve never had an apprentice before.” He said the last almost to himself, and Rowen realized that Kristoff was nervous. “Can you, uh, answer a few yes or no questions for me first?”
Rowen blinked slowly, trying to figure out what he meant by apprentice. He nodded.
“Okay. How old are you? No, sorry…. Uh, are you twenty-one?” Rowen shook his head.
“Twenty?” Another head shake, until Kristoff reached his age of nineteen.
“Good, then,” Kristoff said with a smile. “I’m twenty-one. You’re quite close to my age.”
Rowen didn’t know what to make of being spoken to in such a friendly way. He found himself smiling back, despite the lingering pain and thirst.
“Have you ever heard of the Storm Lords?” Rowen narrowed his eyes, thinking. The old traditions, the storm dances and food offerings, were once meant to appease the Gods of Storms, or so his parents had told him. But they had fallen out of favor, until now. He shook his head. A no was closer to the truth.
“I should have expected not, so far south.” Kristoff sighed. “We’re not gods.” It was almost as if he had read his mind. “There are people, people like me, who can summon storms. Different types of storms too, like how some can summon snow and some can summon thunder.” He looked down at Rowen, who merely listened and thought quietly. It sounded… insane. But hadn’t he flown here with a man who had ridden on the winds of a storm?
“The heat spells… without us, they would continue, unabated. We use our powers to end them. Some call us gods, who know of us. We try to keep it secret. If too many people knew….”
Rowen knew all too well. If this was true, and these “Storm Lords” had come earlier, his parents would not be dead. Lucas would not be dead. His voice would be intact. He ached for an explanation for why they waited, why they let the heat spells go on for so long.
“Sometimes, when we bring the storms, we find people. People like you, who have the same powers we do, or at least the potential for them. You could be one of us. That’s how I noticed you there, before….”
Rowen met his blue-eyed gaze. It was troubled, unsure, and Rowen thought he knew why. If Kristoff hadn’t noticed him, Rowen would have died, suffocated or drowned in the storm.
“It takes time. Time to figure out what type of storms you can summon, and even more time to learn how to use the power. I was found when I was three. You are older, but in ten years’ time, you could be like me. Maybe sooner, if you learn quickly.”
Rowen just nodded to show he was listening. He didn’t understand.
“Once you are recovered, I will bring you to our island, if you agree. That will be the first part of your training. They can teach you to write there, you know. Then maybe I’ll learn your name, yeah?” He smiled, but Rowen suddenly didn’t feel like smiling back.
“Just rest for now. We can talk more… er, sorry.” Kristoff frowned at his lapse. “I’ll tell you more later, after you think it over some.” He left the cave, giving Rowen privacy.
Without Kristoff, he felt very alone. On the one hand, the man had saved him, spoken to him, and acted friendly, something Rowen hadn’t experienced in a long time. On the other… he intended to use him, to make Rowen just like him. One who would let people die in heat spells and storms.
What would he do if Rowen refused? Leave him, probably. Sacrifice him, just as the villagers had. Kindness only lasted so long as you were willing to cooperate with what someone else expected of you, and assumptions people made always seemed to cast him in a bad light when he couldn’t speak to his own defense.
He didn’t have a choice. Or did he? He thought harder. Just because Kristoff let people die didn’t mean he had to. If he learned to use these storm powers, perhaps he could do better. He would never let people die in heat spells, and controlled his storms so that nobody perished. Perhaps this wasn’t a trap after all, but a blessing. He could change things.
Rowen let himself ease into a pained sleep, content with his decision.
Chapter 3
KRISTOFF CURSED as he walked outside the cave, the sun shining down through the damp leaves. He had royally screwed up already.
When he had sensed the presence of another Storm Lord, at first he had thought Lissa had followed him, hoping to help with his work in dispelling a particularly nasty heat spell over the southwest region. When she hadn’t appeared, he had begun to get nervous as the sensation grew stronger and more warped, different from someone fully trained. More like the apprentices who lounged on the island, waiting to be taught their strength.
While he was more than powerful enough to accept an apprentice, the only Storm Lord who could summon a hurricane alone, he had never imagined it happening this soon. He was only twenty-one, and he couldn’t imagine separating a young child from their family to teach them their necessary abilities.
Finding what looked to be a grown man had shocked him, and it had only gotten worse from there. The youth had been exposed, tied up, and nearly dead from heat exhaustion. Kristoff had no idea why he had been left outside, obviously to die. For all Kristoff knew, he was a murderer or worse, rightfully condemned. He didn’t know much about the southwestern desert, as no Storm Lord had ever come from there, but he did know those who lived in the small villages there fiercely punished their criminals. Leaving him in a heat spell would be as effective a death sentence as any.
And then to learn he couldn’t speak or write. Kristoff couldn’t even learn anything about him other than his age. And nineteen was very old to begin training. It was unheard of.
Kristoff sighed, trying to dispel his doubt. The circumstances had been strange, but there wa
s no reason to judge the man yet. Kristoff had nothing to go on, no proof that the man had done something wrong, and he couldn’t speak to defend himself. It would be unfair to assume anything. On top of that, they simply could not afford to be picky. They needed all the help they could get if the heat spells were to be averted, saving lives. He must train him, or at least try.
If only he knew what to say. His muddled explanation had probably only confused the poor man more or convinced him that Kristoff was insane if he did not remember their flight. The man had been very ill then, after all, and had lain in the cave for three days without waking.
They would be wondering where Kristoff was, back at the island. But Kristoff knew he could not fly again without letting the other man regain his strength first.
He wished Talia was here. His mentor had trained him since he was three and had always seemed like she knew everything, explaining things to him with kindness and patience. When he had dispelled his first heat spell alone at seventeen, she had gratefully accepted him as a full Storm Lord and had receded from his life. She had never taught him how to teach others, though.
She probably trusted him to simply remember what she had taught. But this young man was nineteen, two years older than he had been when he completed his training. How was he supposed to act? Especially when the person he was training couldn’t communicate?
Calm down. He kicked a rock into the quick-flowing stream from which he had been getting the lifesaving water. He only had to explain things, and then for at least three years, the young man would attend classes with other new apprentices. Kristoff would only have to act as a mentor, not his sole teacher. They both would have other help.
And for now, it was not wise to leave someone alone who had come so close to heat death. Kristoff filled another canteen and headed back to the cave, vowing to act more like a Storm Lord should.
KRISTOFF FOUND him asleep, his breathing deep and slow. A hand on his forehead confirmed the presence of the low-grade fever that had persisted since the breaking of the raging fire that had seemed to consume him since arriving. The cold mud salve had eased most of that, but underneath the mud, his skin would be blistered and peeling, and it must be agonizingly painful. Kristoff wished him a restful sleep and contented himself with chores around the cave. He still didn’t know what to do about clothing. He couldn’t take him back to the island naked. He’d likely have to make something out of the fabric from his own clothes.
What had Talia done? Kristoff did not remember much of his first day on the island. She had found him at night, coming to his window. She had not asked him the way Kristoff had asked this young man. She had merely taken him, and he thought he had slept most of the way. He didn’t remember missing his parents, though he must have. He didn’t even know who his family was.
He fingered the stone around his neck. That he did remember. Every Storm Lord had something from their home, to remember where they had come from and why they were dedicating their lives to preserving the planet. He had picked it out from his room, though he didn’t remember why. But he valued it, in his own way. It was a marker from another life.
Would this one miss his family? He hadn’t seemed to care much about anything when he woke, but then again, he was still ill. That part, the reassurance, would probably come later. Kristoff had seen it done often enough with the younger apprentices, the pledge that here they were doing far more good for their family, the world, than they would be otherwise. It didn’t always work, especially with the younger ones, but time cured them best anyway.
The problem was the secrecy. Not even the most learned and knowledgeable cities knew the true details of the Storm Lords and what they did, what they fought for. Without them, heat spells would decimate the planet, overheating it to the point where no one could survive. Every year, they grew worse. If people knew….
Kristoff didn’t want to think about that. He should be focusing on his new apprentice, solving the problem of how to get him back.
And when he woke, how to communicate the importance of what Storm Lords did.
THE YOUNG man slept for most of the day, half waking once to drink, before finally coming around again in the evening. His startling green eyes—a rare color in the circles Kristoff was used to—roved the cave walls before settling again. He seemed warier than he had before, a bit more alert, his gaze shadowed less with pain.
Kristoff would be more sensitive this time. “Are you feeling better?” Kristoff asked. He nodded once, his gaze never leaving Kristoff’s face. Kristoff helped him to drink, and this time he let him drink more at once. For all the abuses he had suffered, he was young and strong and would recover quickly.
“I… apologize for before,” Kristoff said, setting the flask down. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, especially considering how unwell you are—were.” Kristoff caught himself, mentally cursing his own inexperience. How had Talia done it? “Let’s start from the beginning. I know you cannot speak or write, but I would still like to learn your name.”
The young man cocked his head, indicating his understandable confusion. “Maybe I could read your lips?” Kristoff asked. “Your voice may not work, but that doesn’t mean there’s no need to try and make yourself understood. And it is important to me that I learn your name.”
The young man thought it over for a moment, then nodded. Kristoff moved closer, leaning in so he could see better. The young man mouthed… something. Kristoff wasn’t sure, but he could tell an O was involved. He could see the man’s soft lips, still chapped and pale from lack of health, open, and his tongue was intact, meaning that the reason he couldn’t speak was not due to his tongue being cut out. Kristoff had been afraid that might have been the case.
He mouthed it again, Kristoff leaning down to see if he could hear anything. There was no voice, only the faintest aspiration as he tried to speak it, but Kristoff could tell some of the words from the shape of his mouth and tongue.
“Owen?” The boy stared, then gave a slight shake of his head, holding up one finger. Did that mean he was close? He mouthed it again, and then Kristoff caught it, the bunching of the tongue. “Rowen!” he exclaimed.
Rowen nodded, his face lighting up, and Kristoff felt a small moment of joy at seeing it. “Your name is Rowen,” he repeated, a bit surprised at their sudden successful communication. “Good.”
With that victory, Kristoff felt a bit more confident. “I’m going to take care of you until you’re strong enough to leave. I know you have questions, and I will do my best to explain everything I can about where you will be going. I want to tell you about where I’ll be taking you and about what Storm Lords do. My explanation before was all true, but… incomplete.” Rowen cocked his head, but despite it, Kristoff could tell he understood and was thinking quickly. He might not be able to speak, but he was easy to read.
Kristoff settled in to speak, leaning against the cool cave wall. He had rehearsed what he was going to say and hoped it would be intelligible and answer any questions Rowen could think of.
“There are several regions around the world, and all have people living on them. Some are like your village, with few people and led by one man. Others are huge kingdoms, with a ruling family who reigns over thousands of people over hundreds of miles.
“All of these places, no matter where they are, suffer from the same heat spells that your village did. No matter where in the world you go, there will always be heat spells at some time of year. They are unavoidable.”
A look of disappointment flitted across Rowen’s features, and Kristoff sympathized. Some new apprentices came in thinking that once they left their hometown, they would be escaping the heat spells forever.
“There are people like me called Storm Lords. We have the power to influence the weather, bringing on moisture and wind. We do this for the sole purpose of breaking these heat spells so that they do not get to the point where they kill anyone.”
Rowen frowned, his features suddenly harsh, and Kristoff felt a chill b
ut continued.
“Without us, the heat spells would kill, do not doubt it. Temperatures in the most extreme cases can get up to 110 degrees and stay there until we end it. And without us, they would not end.” Rowen looked more and more troubled as he spoke, and Kristoff wished he knew what the man wanted to ask. “Every year the heat spells get more intense, harder to disperse, and become more frequent. We are constantly seeking those like you, who have the potential to bring on the heat-breaking storms. We theorize that without people like us, the planet would turn into a wasteland.”
Kristoff paused, taking a breath. This was a strange case, but he knew this was usually the part that someone would protest against.
“We need you, Rowen. I know you may have family, or people you care about, at home, but what you do as a Storm Lord is far more important. You have a choice, and if you refuse we must respect it, but I beg you to join with us.” Kristoff waited, surprised at how quickly his heart was racing.
Rowen didn’t pause to think. He just nodded.
More than a little taken aback, Kristoff fell into silence. Usually he would have to explain the consequences of refusing, which meant constant contact with a Storm Lord in case their powers manifested on their own—which they almost always did, sometimes bringing calamity down on their loved ones when storms blew in out of nowhere. “So… you wish to join up with us?”
Rowen nodded again. He seemed deep in thought, but not reticent. Almost sad.
“Good. So that leaves me with the explanation of what you should expect, but we can leave that for another day.” Kristoff relaxed slightly. “For now, let’s focus on getting you better. We should expect to leave in a matter of days.” Rowen nodded again, and Kristoff didn’t know whether to feel relieved or troubled at how easily things had gone.
The Storm Lords Page 2
