The Storm Lords

by Ravon Silvius

  At least he was with Rowen now. That was probably a good sign.

  “C’mon, Rowen.” Volkes pulled him by the arm, interrupting his thoughts before they could make him desire Volkes all over again. “Do you know how to swim?”

  Rowen shook his head, his eyes widening at the thought of immersing himself in such a large body of water. It made the stream he had bathed in with Kristoff look like nothing, and the waves made it worse.

  No one in his village swam. No one would waste water that way.

  “I’ll show you.” Volkes walked into the water, dragging him by the arm. The water swirled in blue and white foam around his ankles, and Rowen dug his heels into the shifting sand, his heart pounding. The stream with Kristoff had not had waves that tried to tug him farther in with every swell.

  “C’mon.” Volkes tugged harder, nearly making Rowen stumble. “It’s safe, trust me.”

  Rowen shook his head, taking a step back.

  Volkes’s eyes narrowed. “C’mon, are you frightened? Didn’t you at least bathe in that desert of yours?” He snorted. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. You’re going to be a Storm Lord. You can’t be scared of ocean water.”

  Rowen shook his head again, eyes wide. He couldn’t swim. He didn’t want to risk being dragged away.

  Volkes rolled his eyes. “Look.” He ran out farther and dove, submerging himself completely in the water. Rowen’s skin crawled at the cold as another wave rushed past his ankles, and he took another step back, heart racing. Where was Volkes?

  A few moments later Volkes surfaced with a splash, his head small among the bobbing waves. “See?” he shouted. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Rowen stayed still. The wet sand was cold beneath his feet, and he couldn’t muster the will to walk any farther toward the water.

  “Damn, if you’re scared of a little water, I can’t imagine you ever learning to fly,” Volkes said, swimming closer and sending small geysers of ocean water around his knees as he stamped toward Rowen. “You’re really going to just stand here the whole time?”

  Rowen paused, then nodded.

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to swim out to Trader’s Island. See?” He pointed to a tiny dash of green in the distance. “I’ll see you back at the house tonight. If you decide to man up, you can meet me out there.” The words stung, and Rowen frowned. Volkes just smirked. “If you make it out there, I’ll make it worth your while.” He leaned down and tilted Rowen’s chin up with a forceful hand, then shoved his tongue in Rowen’s mouth. Heat mingled with shock flashed through Rowen, and he gasped when Volkes let him go.

  “See you,” Volkes said. He ran out, cold water splashing Rowen’s skin, and then dove into the waves. Within moments he was nothing more than an addition to the white foam and then a small shape out on the ocean.

  For a moment, with the taste of Volkes’s lips fresh on his tongue, Rowen considered joining him. But logic stopped him.

  He still couldn’t swim. Volkes hadn’t even tried to teach him. And Kristoff wasn’t here.

  He was alone again. The realization bit harder than he thought it would.

  He watched the waves rise and swell, and then finally left the beach. The sand had heated in the morning sun, and he stepped carefully, smiling when he saw a younger boy dashing into the water to avoid burning his feet. It was hot, but it did not compare to the searing sands of his village in summer.

  He walked without purpose for a time, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the island without the pressing need to be anywhere. In the back of his mind, he wanted to enjoy it while he could. If Kristoff believed the villagers and thought he was a murderer….

  No. Rowen shoved down the lead ball of fear. He had to focus on other things.

  People walked or ran past him, and he smiled at an old couple who waved as he walked by. He turned down a floral path and stopped in surprise as something enormous took up the skyline.

  His path had taken him near the beach again, but this time enormous wooden crafts, like huts spired with white cloth, filled the sky. Wooden planks stretched from their bases to the sand, where people proudly displayed all sorts of wares and others flocked around wooden stalls. These must be the Darsean traders Volkes had talked about. The crafts… they must be ships. The ones the Darseans sailed around the world on.

  Rowen stared as he drew closer to the displays. Wooden booths were set up in a ring around the beach, and people milled around them. A group of men pointed at a display of glass bottles filled with liquid, much like the one he and Volkes had drunk from yesterday.

  “Try it,” a man urged, his strong voice carrying over the crowd. “Firewater, from the southernmost reaches of Pearlen.”

  “Beads!” a woman called. Her skin was dark, like Sharon’s. “Beads of jade, from old worlds lost to the heat!” Women crowded around her stall, where she displayed colorful glass and jewelry that shone in the morning sun.

  Rowen moved through the pushing crowds, taking in the sights. The traders displayed things as precious as gold and silver to strange contraptions made of metal that moved on their own when you wound them. Colorful fabrics hung from ropes, and an earthy scent led Rowen past strips of salted meat. Behind it all, two enormous ships bobbed in the waves, bigger than his house. On those, Rowen wouldn’t need to learn to fly like a Storm Lord. No wonder the Darseans had all these wonderful things. He wondered how often they came and left the island, these giant houses that floated on the sea.

  He finally stopped when he saw a stall on the fringes of the clearing. Instead of objects or food or drink, there was just color on canvas.

  A red, scorched desert stretched into the distance below an empty blue sky. Rowen walked closer, staring. The dirt swirled in the dry breeze, but of course it was just the stroke of a brush.

  “You like it?” A man stood from his chair, moving toward Rowen. “This is an old painting, by my grandfather.”

  Rowen nodded. When he stayed quiet, the man added, “It depicts the southern wastes. No one lives there, now.”

  Rowen almost shook his head. This was home. His old home. Until now, he hadn’t realized he missed it.

  That was foolish, he knew. They had sacrificed him, left him for dead. His parents were gone, and so was Lucas. There was nothing there for him. His future was here.

  But his fear of what Kristoff might discover brought back the memories. He could still remember the dry air, the swirling dirt soft under his feet, and the times he and his father had taken shelter from the baking noon sun in the tunnels, drinking handfuls of water from a new well they had found.

  “Are you going to buy?” the man said, his voice gentle.

  Rowen shook his head. He moved away, face hot.

  “Hey now, wait. It’s all right.” The man waved him back, sitting back down in his chair with a thump. “No need to worry. You can look all you like. A fan of art?” Rowen gave a careful nod, and the man swept out an arm, indicating the other paintings that ringed the stall. “These are paintings of our travels. They’ll give you a tour of the world, the world we see on our ships.”

  Rowen pointed at the ship behind him, and the man nodded. “Yes, that’s them. We Darseans come in and out of the port here all the time.”

  Rowen filed that information away and walked closer, peering at the paintings. A wall of water rained from a cliff. The ocean stretched ahead, the night sky and stars reflected in the water. People in impossibly complicated fancy clothes strolled through a town square. Buildings towered over streets of mixed stone, and people rode strange four-legged creatures. A group of people slit the throat of a huge furry animal with knives that looked like the one in Volkes’s room.

  He had never seen art like this. Drawing, writing… only the village elder could do it. His father had drawn maps in the dirt, simple things that marked where water could be found, and he had done the same. He could draw easy objects, like the pit seeds. But these, the mass of colors and the snapshots of the world they showed….r />
  Rowen finally realized just how little he knew.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked. “It’s not often I get someone so appreciative.”

  Rowen turned, his stomach tightening with anxiety. He tapped his throat, then shook his head.

  The man drew down his eyebrows. “Lost your voice?”

  When Rowen nodded, the man shrugged. “That’s too bad. My name is Jameson. Here.” He turned, grabbing a collection of blank papers bound with string and a charcoal stick and handed them both to Rowen. “What’s your name? I always like to know people who appreciate good work.”

  Rowen’s fingers shook as he took the stick, his mind flicking over his lessons. He could do this. He had done it before, in class, ignoring the snickers of one of the younger students who always thought it was hilarious that a grown man couldn’t write or read.

  He traced out the letters as his teacher had shown him. He thought they looked wrong, childish and not at all like the flowing letters other students could make. But it was his name. He pointed to it, looking up and nodding.

  “Rowen, eh?” Jameson said, looking over his shoulder. “You keep that sketchbook, Rowen. You in training to be a Storm Lord late in life, huh?”

  Instead of nodding, Rowen pressed the charcoal to the paper, reviewing his lessons as he wrote. Yes. His stomach flipped in excitement at the sight of his own writing. He could communicate! Or was starting to, anyway.

  “Excellent. Maybe in a few years you’ll have your own paintings to show me. Storm Lords travel all over the world too, though they prefer to fly rather than take our ships.” Jameson clapped him on the back. “Show me a picture of something we Darseans can’t get to.”

  With a trembling hand, Rowen wrote out thank yu. I wil. It looked wrong, and he knew it, but the man nodded in understanding anyway.

  If he could write… he could explain to Kristoff. The villagers were wrong.

  HE SAT on the couch in the house that afternoon, the sheaf of papers on his lap and the charcoal stick in hand. Volkes hadn’t returned, and the only candle burned low in the corner. He was tired, but he had to practice his letters. He was so close to being… not normal, but able to communicate. He just needed more practice.

  But instead of letters, as he drew the charcoal over the paper he found himself imagining scenes, likes the ones in the paintings.

  He imagined Lucas. The young blacksmith’s son, blond hair bright in the unrelenting sun as he lifted and carried rock that his father somehow made metal out of. He had delivered pans to Rowen’s parents. He had been so different from Volkes, despite how similar they looked. Lucas was kind—he would never have left Rowen on the beach alone.

  The charcoal wouldn’t create the wondrous colors of the paintings he had seen, but the image in his mind began to form on the paper. Lucas, at his door with a smile, a silver pan for collecting water in his arms. Behind him, small in the distance, he drew the scrub brush. Then a frown covered his face when he remembered the bitter taste of the pit seeds on his tongue, and he scrubbed away the marks with the back of his hand.

  “Hey, don’t erase it!” He jumped, turning in his chair. Elise stood over him, her eyes wide. “Is that Volkes?”

  Rowen’s face heated. It wasn’t just him who thought they looked alike. He shook his head.

  “It looks kind of like him but younger.” Elise narrowed her eyes. “You’re a really good artist, Rowen! I didn’t know you could draw!”

  Rowen shrugged. Elise scooted a chair across the floor and sat down next to him, peering over his shoulder. “If it’s not Volkes, is it someone you know?” Rowen didn’t know how to answer that. “Is it someone from home?” He gave a small nod.

  “Aw….” Her smile shrank a bit. “I’m from Linland, but I was really young when they found me. I don’t really remember anyone from my home. I remember snow, though.” Rowen tilted his head, then reached over to pat her on the shoulder, a consoling tap.

  “It’s okay.” The moment of gloom vanished as fast as it had come upon her. “You’re lucky to remember. You know what it is we’re saving. All I really know is the Storm Lords’ island.”

  Rowen stifled a grimace. He wouldn’t call himself lucky. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t remember home at all.

  The lead ball of fear returned to his stomach when he remembered that Kristoff would visit there. No, it was getting late—he might even be getting back by now. And he’d want answers.

  He turned the page of the sketchbook. He never should have drawn that in the first place. Instead he looked to Elise, then back to the paper and drew the letter A, then back to Elise and raised his eyebrows. He needed to practice more. He was so close to trusting himself to write clearly.

  “You want my help?” When he nodded, Elise grinned. “Sure thing. We’ll have you writing messages in no time at all!”

  Rowen bent his head, writing carefully. Thank yu.

  Elise clapped. “See!”

  Rowen smiled. He had to write to Kristoff.

  Chapter 15

  AS MUCH as he wanted to go to Rowen, the first place Kristoff stopped was the governor’s office.

  “Kristoff?” Lissa jolted her head up from the sheaves of paper on her desk, pencil in hand. “I didn’t expect you. Were you out working?”

  “No, well, I wasn’t clearing a heat spell…. I need to see the governor,” Kristoff said. Lissa paused at his tone, meeting Kristoff’s eyes for a moment before she headed to Lorana’s office. She beckoned when she returned. “She’ll see you now. Is there something wrong?”

  Kristoff shook his head and walked past her, closing the office door behind him.

  Lorana, seated at her desk by an enormous window overlooking the ocean, waved for him to take a seat. “Report, Storm Lord,” she said. “Something going on with your apprentice?” She raised an eyebrow, probably expecting him to tell her Rowen was failing.

  Kristoff ground his back teeth together, resisting the urge to tap his foot. This was his governor and the leader of all the Storm Lords. He took a breath, then spat it out. “The heat spells over the southwest are far worse than we think. People are… people have died. We don’t act fast enough. We didn’t act fast enough last time.”

  Lorana closed her eyes as if pained. “I know.”

  “You know?” Kristoff boomed, leaping up from his seat. “You know people died because we were too slow?”

  Lorana’s eyes narrowed. “Kristoff, you may be powerful and have a student of your own, but you’re only twenty-one. Barely removed from your training. Before you shout, listen to me.”

  Kristoff stood, anger and shock simmering on his skin. The sight of the graves wouldn’t leave his mind.

  Lorana’s voice was smooth. “There are currently seventy-five Storm Lords residing on this island. Of those, only fifteen have the power to dispel moderate heat spells on their own. The others require various amounts of help. Of those fifteen who can dispel alone, all have innate talents—lightning, or working with frozen air, or working in dry air, or only being able to work with ocean water of a certain temperature.” She lifted a hand. “You, for example, have the power create hurricanes, but are not nearly as effective in cold climates.”

  Kristoff nodded. He could see where this was going.

  “I have to prioritize. And sometimes, dispelling a heat spell over a city of a hundred thousand is more important than dispelling one over a village of three hundred.” She closed her eyes again for a moment as though the words hurt. They probably did. “Furthermore, the heat in the southwestern wastes is approaching uncontrollable levels. In two dozen years, maybe fewer, I predict that region will be lost.”

  Lost. “Like the regions lost already? Like Darsea?” Kristoff’s heart twisted for Rowen. What would it be like, to be completely alone, a refugee from a dead people? The Darseans had fled from their homes ages ago. Darsea was… in the south. “The heat is spreading, isn’t it?”

  “It is best that the people there realize that fact and leave,
rather than relying on us,” Lorana finished, meeting Kristoff’s eyes. “Now if you still want to shout at me, you may.”

  Kristoff realized then how many gray hairs Lorana had and how wrinkled the skin around her eyes was. “Do all Storm Lords know?”

  “They all figure it out. They have to. I am surprised you hadn’t yet, Kristoff. The world is dying, and we’re its last line of defense. We’re fighting a war against the environment, and in war… we lose people. We have to make hard choices. Sometimes that means delaying saving a village to save a city. Sometimes that means letting nature take its course and giving the people there reason to leave before it’s too late.” She sighed. “That village should have migrated north years ago.”

  Kristoff wanted to shout at her, to argue, to repeat the same points he had before. But it was pointless. He knew better than anyone how hard everyone worked and how common heat spells were. Even on the island, resources had to be conserved. No one who wasn’t a Storm Lord or born to one could live here. That was why Rowen was being threatened with being sent back.

  And there were so few students. If things went on like this, they would lose—not just one region, but the world.

  “I’m sorry for this, Kristoff. But we must keep working.”

  Kristoff just turned and left the room without being told.

  He had been an idiot. Dazzled by his own power, he had been convinced he was a hero, a savior. A god, like the villagers had called him. But he was just another man using whatever talents he could to stave off nature, the same as any well-digger. And he could fail. He had failed that village, for three weeks, while people died. He had failed it before, and Rowen’s parents had died.

  No wonder Rowen hadn’t seemed to trust him when he had said they saved towns and villages before death could occur. Rowen would despise him, and all of them.